Never Too Late (16 page)

“But you seem ter know how ter do most anythin',” said Josepha.

“After I left Mississippi, lookin' fo Jeremiah an' his mama, I done lots er jobs. Whatever I cud do so I cud eat, I done it. So I reckon I learned ter do a heap a things.”

“How'd you git separated from dem? Wuz dat when you got yo freedom?”

Henry smiled sadly. “Dey wuz sent away just before. So when I got da chance ter be free, I took it an' went lookin' for dem.”

“You always live down dere in Mississippi?”

A faraway look came into Henry's eye.

“Yep, I always did,” he said slowly and with a faint smile. “My papa wuz a big strong man, muscular wiff big shoulders. He had nuthin' ob my build. His father had come from France as a free black man hired ter a Frenchman—dat wuz before France sol' Louisiana an' all up da Mississippi ter dis country like dey dun.”

“So wuz yo people all free?”

“My papa wuz free like his father,” said Henry. “My papa worked on da ribber, I think he might eben er had his own boat—a small boat, jes' a one-man steamer. He took freight up an' down between New Orleans an' Memphis. I don't know effen it wuz his own boat er not.”

“An' yo mama?”

“My mama wuz a slave girl in Mississippi on a farm where da ribber ran alongside it. An' when my papa wuz dere, dat's where he'd stay. The owner ob da boat or, ef it wuz my papa's boat, da man he had bought it from, it wuz his brother's farm, so papa'd stay dere though he wuzn't one er der slaves. Dat be where he met my mama an' dey wuz married an' I wuz born. Since chilluns foller dere mother, I wuz a slave too. Dat wuz papa's home whenever he wuzn't on da ribber. He always wuz gwine git enuff saved ter buy our freedom. But den dere wuz an explosion
ob da steam boiler, an' his boat went down an' wuz los', an' papa along wiff it.”

“How old wuz you?” asked Josepha.

“ 'Bout eleben. But I always loved da ribber cuz it reminded me ob my daddy. I wuz baptized in dat ol' Mississippi too.”

“How old wuz you den?”

“I reckon I wuz nine er ten.”

“Dat's mighty young ter git saved.”

“I didn't say dat's when I got saved, I said dat's when I wuz baptized.”

“I don't rightly unnerstan' what you's getting' at,” said Josepha.

“Jes' dat gettin' baptized ain't necessarily da same as gettin' saved. Gettin' baptized happens only once—or I reckon fo mos' folks it happens only once. But I always figgered learnin' to walk wiff da Master wuz a mite mo complicated den what can jes' happen in a few seconds. Always seemed mo like a lifetime thing ter me.”

“You sometimes got a mighty peculiar way er sayin' things, Henry Patterson!” said Josepha.

“I been tol' dat a time er two!” laughed Henry

Josepha thought a minute.

“Maybe dat's true all right,” she said. “Dat wuz good when dat Rev. Smithers, or whatever his name wuz, wuz here an' wuz baptizin' folks an' all. I'm glad for dem, but I reckon what's going on here at Rosewood's more like what Jesus had in mind den all dat.”

“Yep,” said Henry, a smile spreading over his face, “it's mo 'bout what kind er person you is inside den all dat hands in da air an' singin' an' yellin'. None er dat makes
you a better person when you walk away from da river an' da preachin's done.”

“I reckon you's right 'bout dat,” said Josepha.

“You 'member how da preachers used ter come roun' an' all the black folks'd go an' he'd git 'em all worked up an' then ask who wanted ter git saved?”

Josepha laughed. “I 'member all right. An' everybody'd call out,
Amen, brother.”

“I never did any ob dat,” said Henry. “I figgered bein' saved wuz somethin' a mite longer lastin' den dat. It's one thing to pray and say
Amen
, it's anudder to start walkin' and livin' like Jesus. Dat's a fearsome thing—a lifetime thing. I reckon I'm still workin' my way tards bein' who da Lord wants me to be.”

“What you mean, who da Lord wants you to be?” asked Josepha. “You's a Christian, ain't you?”

“I reckon I's a Christian, all right,” said Henry. “'Cause I believe, an' dat's a fact. But I ain't altogether rid er my sin quite yet. The Lord's got a heap er work lef' ter do in me. So let's jes' say dat me an' da Lord's workin' on it.”

Josepha shook her head. “I don't know ef I hab any idea what you mean. You make it soun' like you's
half
saved or somethin'. What ef you die—you gotta go ter da one place er da other. So a body's either gotter be saved or he ain't saved—don't seem like dere's no in between 'bout it.”

“Well, sometimes I wonder effen it might be a mite mo' complicated den dat,” said Henry. “What about dose folks dat are on dere way tards Him but aren't quite dere yet? Don' you eber hab a hard time believin' dat God's gwine send 'em ter hell jes' 'cause dey didn't git quite enuff
time ter come ter believin' in Him?”

“I don't know. All I want ter know is when did you believe in da Lord Jesus?”

“That's a mite easier ter answer,” replied Henry. “I always believed. My mama was a good woman an' she taught me 'bout God an' obeyin' Jesus from afore I kin remember. But den I got older an' I reckon I got a mite ornery 'bout my belief.”

“What dat supposed ter mean?”

“Jes' dat I din't know when ter keep my mouf shut 'bout it. Faith is mostly a private thing, it seems ter me, but sometimes it takes a while ter learn dat. I wuz a mite outspoken. I riled white folks, an' I don' know dat dere wuz any cause ter do dat.”

“How you rile 'em?”

“I always tried ter obey da gospels. Dat's what my mama taught me. So when da Lord said ter call no man
Master
, I wudn't call no white man Master dis or Master dat, but only
Mister
. Dat made 'em mad.”

“Dat don't soun' wrong ter me. But I neber saw da point er rilin' a white man.”

“Maybe you's right,” nodded Henry. “But a man's gotter stan' up fo what he believes come what may. But den maybe I cud er still obeyed wiffout bein' proud spirited 'bout it.”

“You
wuz proud spirited? Why you ain't got a proud bone in yo body, Henry Patterson.”

“Don't be too sure er dat, Josepha. My pa was proud er bein' free, an' my mama wuz real proud ob bein' married ter a free man. I figger da kind er pride dey had wuz da good kind. But den maybe it came down ter me an' I
turned it into da bad kind. I know lots 'bout pride cuz it's been a companion er mine fo many a year, an' I knows it when I sees it. We all's got a heap er pride, an' we all's gotter learn how ter deal wiff it da only way it kin be dealt wiff.”

“An' what's dat.”

“Ter kill it. An' I ask you, which is worse—ter call anudder man
Master
, or ter be proud an' ter look down on somebody else in yo heart? Seems ter me da pride's da worse ob da two.”

“I neber thought 'bout all dat,” said Josepha. “Seems like dat's carryin' religion a mite far ter me. Whoeber said we wuz supposed ter be perfect?”

“You askin' da question?” said Henry.

“I reckon I is.”

“Den I'll answer it—da Lord himself said we wuz ter be perfect.”

“But nobody kin do what
He
says. He's different.”

“He's different, all right, but we gots ter try ter do what He says. Dere ain't nuthin' else we's supposed ter be doin' in dis life but learnin' how ter do what He says.”

Josepha shook her head. “Still seems ter me dat dat's carryin' it a mite far.”

“Ef we don't carry it all da way, den what good is what we believe? Seems like we gotter carry it all da way, or else it don't mean much.”

“Most folks don't do dat.”

“Yer right,” said Henry. “Most folks don't.”

It was quiet a minute. Henry swallowed the last of the lemonade in his glass, then stood.

“I reckon it's time I wuz gettin' back ter work,” he said.
“Thanks fo da sandwich an' lemonade.”

He climbed back up the ladder.

“What 'bout you?” Henry asked as he went back to the board they had hoisted up. “Why did you want to get free?”

“I don't know,” she answered. “Dere jes' came a day when I heard 'bout dat unnergroun' railroad, an' I figgered, why shouldn't I git on board an' find some freedom fo myself jes' like other coloreds wuz doin'? So I did. I didn't git ter da Norf, but I got dis far.”

Henry pounded a few nails but then paused again, asked another question or two, and then sat back and listened with interest as Josepha told him of the adventure of her travels, and how she had ended up at the McSimmons plantation.

“Dat's some story, all right,” said Henry when she had finished. “I heard 'bout dat railroad, but I ain't never met anybody dat actually did it. Muster taken some courage soun's ter me.”

“I neber thought dat I had no courage,” said Josepha. “I jes' wanted ter go, so I went.”

“Well, I's mighty glad you did, 'cause we's all glad you wound up here.”

C
ATCHING
S
UPPER

23

T
HE ROOF WAS FINISHED IN A COUPLE OF WEEKS
, then Henry moved down to begin working on the new walls inside the cabin.

When Josepha next came to the cabin with her basket, Henry had just walked outside and was wiping his face. It was a hot day without a breath of wind.

“How do, Josepha,” he said.

“I brung you somethin' ter eat.”

“I see dat, but you know what I wuz jes' thinkin'? I wuz thinkin' 'bout dat ribber an' dis hot sun. An' den I got ter thinkin' how good some fresh fish would taste tonight, cooked up da way you does. How 'bout you an' me go catch us some fish!”

“I ain't no fisherwoman!” laughed Josepha.

“Who says?”

“I says.”

“Well, den you kin jes' come an' keep me company. We'll take dat basket an' set it down an' enjoy whatever's
inside it wiff our feet in da ribber an' a line out catchin' us tonight's supper!”

Without waiting for her to say anything further, Henry hurried to his cabin and returned a few minutes later with two poles, a little bag of tackle, and a big grin on his face.

“Come on, Josepha,” he said, “I'll show you da bes' fishin' hole fo miles.”

They reached the river. Henry stopped, set down his things, stooped down and took off his boots and socks, then ran down the slight slope to the river till his feet were wet.

“Ah, dat's what I wanted ter feel!”

“Dis ain't da fishin' hole you meant?” said Josepha.

“No, I jes' wanted ter git my feet in dis water! Come on—set dat basket down an' come git a little wet. Come on!”

Josepha hesitated only a moment, then set down the basket, took off her boots, and ambled down the bank. Soon she and Henry were laughing and kicking water at each other like two children, their trousers and dress getting wet.

“Won't we scare da fish?” said Josepha.

“Nah, we's plenty downribber from where we's goin'. Dey won't git no hint we's aroun' till we yank 'em up outta da water. Come on, let's git our things an' head upribber. It's only 'bout a quarter mile is all.”

Josepha was quiet as they walked upriver, carrying their shoes and staying close to the bank. Her mind went back to the last time she had played in a river with a friend. That time it wasn't fishing but riding a horse. Suddenly she felt tears in her eyes. She still missed Mose and his happy smile. Being with Henry brought out memories that she
had tried to keep hidden and tucked away.

By the time they reached the fishing hole ten or twelve minutes later, Josepha was puffing from the walk and both were perspiring freely.

“It's too hot fo dis!” she sighed. “I need ter git in dat water again.”

“We'll go down ter da edge ob da ribber dis time,” said Henry, “nice an' slow so we don't stir up da water. We'll git a coupla hooks out in dat deep green pond yonder an' den see what you got in dis basket er yours.”

They sat down at the water's edge, feet in the cool water.

Josepha sighed with satisfied relief. Such physical activity and the long walk were not her favorite pastimes. Henry busied himself getting the two poles and bait ready. Several minutes later he tossed their two lines out into the middle where the current was slow and wound around a large rock, where the shade and deep hole he knew from experience usually drew the fish on a hot day like this.

“Now you git us somethin' ter eat,” he said, “den I'll hand you dis pole.”