Which Way Freedom (2 page)

The children were the only slaves the Jennings owned and were their most valuable property—worth more than the mules and the mare. Wilson was part owner of the farm too, but up until recently, he'd hardly ever been around. He'd left years ago and came back only for rare visits.

John Jennings would tell people that his brother was a soldier of fortune. “Makin' money through adventuresome activity,” he would say. Wilson had worked on merchant ships and sometimes on slavers. It was Wilson who had brought Obi, Easter, and Jason's mother, now dead, to the farm. He came home permanently when the Civil War began.

The children fared better than many other slaves. They ate the same rice, grits, beef, pork, vegetables, and salt fish the family did. They weren't beaten and were given warm clothes in the winter. The Jennings had no children of their own. John, a lanky, quiet man, wasn't comfortable in the role of master the way his brother was. He refused to “rule by the lash,” and he once told Wilson as much.

Lately, however, though he hated to admit it to his brother, John Jennings recognized that having two healthy, young slaves like Easter and Obi was a sound investment. Even Jason might be worth some money one day.

Martha did not approve of the idea of owning other people, but she had to keep her feelings to herself. Every time she saw a group of slaves chained together, being shipped from the Charleston slave market to some other part of the state, she'd say to herself,
We're goin' to pay for this sin one day.

Still, Obi had often thought of running away to find his mother. Time had blurred the image of her face from his mind, but he'd never forgotten her name—or the sounds of her screams when he was sold away. He also remembered being in a dark place and a man who held his hand. Most of all, he remembered how much he had missed her. Sometimes he heard her cries when birds screeched or the wind howled during a storm.

Obi's mother had been a slave on a large rice plantation on one of the Sea islands off the South Carolina coast. Obi dreamed of returning to the island, finding her, and escaping with her to Mexico, though he hadn't the faintest idea of where Mexico might be. It was merely the name of a place he'd heard that slaves ran to.

Making plans for running was a secret game that Obi played with his friend Buka. Buka was an old African who lived by the creek where the farm ended. The children of his last master didn't want him—said he was too old and difficult. “I so old, no one want to buy or sell my hide,” he'd tell Obi.

For Obi, Buka was a living adventure who loved to talk and tell stories. Most of the tales were about running away and about his memories of Africa. “We was growin' rice in Africa too. That's why these Carolina slavers like to steal us coastal Africans,” he'd say.

The most important story Buka told was Obi's family history, as Buka called it.

“Your mother tall with skin like a beautiful dark night. She eyes sit deep inside she face like yours. She cry fierce when the man take you from her to put you on the boat.

“Since I being sold with you an' the others, I tell her that I take care of you. I put my arms around you because you yellin' to wake the dead too. As we walk on the boat, the last thing she cry to you is, ‘Remember your mama's name. Your mama name Lorena.' You still cling to me when we reach the slave pen at the Charleston market. You was six or seven years old.

“Then that ship captain buy you an' take you to his house in Charleston. Master Graves buy me an' bring me to this area.

“The last thing I say to you when we separate is ‘Remember your mama name/When Wilson bring you to the farm three years later, I know it you because you have your mama face, an' I never forget she face.

“I say to you, ‘What your mama's name?' You say, ‘Lorena.'”

Obi remembered the rest of the story himself. He remembered cleaning and working on the captain's ship when it was in port and the black cook in the captain's house who beat Obi every time the captain's wife beat her—which was often.

He remembered the day Wilson and the captain argued over money. The captain pointed to Obi and said, “Take the nigger in payment, and that's more than you deserve.”

“Here the water, Obi,” Jason said, interrupting his thoughts. Obi dipped the tin cup and drank the cold, sweet water down quickly. He dipped the cup again.

Jason wiped his small face with his shirttail. His thin, bare feet were almost indistinguishable from the soil.

“When you take the tobacco to Master Phillips, I come too?”

“It ain't up to me no more.”

There was nothing Jason liked better than going to the Phillips plantation, where there were children his age. The plantation was a mile west of the farm. Many of the small farmers in the county sold their crops to the Phillips plantation, with its large number of acres and slaves. John Jennings had his tobacco cured and separated according to quality at the plantation before selling it at the market.

“I ask Mistress,” Jason said. “She let me go.”

“She can't say if you go neither. You ask Wilson or Master John.”

“I ‘fraid of Wilson.”

Obi drank more water. “Stay out he way.”

Jason kicked the dirt.

“You ain't no more baby,” Obi said. “You finish shellin' the peas?”

“No,” Jason mumbled.

Obi grabbed Jason's ear and the boy cried out. “Is
that
I mean!” said Obi. “You ain't finish your task an' you askin' to go to plantation. You know Wilson gonna take that up with you. I keep tellin' you, do your task so he don't bother you!”

Jason picked up the bucket. “Mistress won't let him beat me,” he whined.

Obi bent down and started pulling the bottom leaves from the stalk of a plant. “What she do? Wilson catch you when she ain't lookin'.”

Obi knew that Jason was probably right. As long as John and Martha were there, Wilson wouldn't beat them—but he wanted Jason to learn how to protect himself. “Stop lettin' Wilson catch you with your britches down, Jason.”

“Ain't got no britches.” Jason's eyes were teary. His long shirt was made of sacking and stopped at his skinny knees. Obi stifled a laugh.

“Finish shellin' an' go help Easter. I ask Wilson or Master if you can come with me if I go tomorrow mornin'.”

Jason's little face lit up. “You think they be more soldiers there?”

“I don't know. Get on to your task now.”

“Thank you, Obi,” Jason sang out as he ran, swinging the bucket and tripping over his own feet.

Last month, when Obi and Jason were at the plantation, they saw Tyler, the eldest Phillips son, ride off to join the Confederate Army. Obi remembered how handsome Tyler had looked sitting on his horse with a finely crafted saber gleaming at his side. “Be back for supper—this won't take long,” he had said cheerfully as he waved to the house servants. They had gathered in the yard to see their young master off.

Jeremiah, one of the Phillips's slaves, had ridden off with
him. The saber and Jeremiah were gifts to Tyler from his father. That night Obi had gone to Buka's shack. “You think this war be good or bad for us?” he had asked him.

“I don't know,” Buka had said. “We have to watch a wait. North an' South fight, but these white men still be brothers.”

Obi worked faster now, even though the sun felt as if it were burning a hole in his back. If he could get a good portion of his field done, he'd be able to help Easter so she'd have a sizeable crop picked before sundown.

An hour later, he looked over at the girl. She didn't seem to be making much progress. His heart sank when he turned and saw Wilson walking toward the fields, pulling his wide, black slouch hat over his eyes. He was of medium height but thick and muscular.

Peace gone now,
Obi said to himself and sighed.

“This all you git done?” Wilson said loudly as he approached Obi. “We ain't goin' to be doin' this come next month.”

“It be done ‘fore then,” Obi said quietly as he continued working.

“I know it'll be done. I'm makin' sure of that.” His face was red and coarse from his days on the sea, and now the Carolina sun.

“And what's wrong with that gal?” He stared in Easter's direction. “She sick or somethin'?” The veins in Wilson's temple throbbed.

Obi knew that an answer wasn't expected of him.
Working best she can. Just a girl. Ain't no mule,
he thought.

Wilson strode as if he were balancing himself on a ship's deck, heading toward the field where Easter worked. Obi took his mule back to the barn so he could empty the sacks now filled with tobacco leaves. He piled the leaves on top of the others that had to be bundled. A little later he trudged back to the fields. Instead of going to his field, however, he walked hesitantly over to Wilson and Easter. Easter looked helpless as Wilson pointed to the leaves.

“Gal, I'll wrap my belt ‘round your legs and have you runnin' through these leaves like a jack rabbit if you don't stop playin',” he yelled at her.

Her full bottom lip trembled as she stared at the ground. Obi wanted to fling Wilson to the other end of the field.

“What do you want?” Wilson shouted when he saw Obi watching them.

“I help her, suh,” Obi said.

“You got your own work!” The veins in his temple looked as if they might burst.

“I do mine an' help her. The crop be in ‘fore month end, sure.”

Wilson stuck his stubby finger in Obi's face. “This is July twenty-fifth. You've got six days. I don't care what my brother says. That crop ain't in, your hide goin' to be tanned good. Hers too.” He stared from one to the other. “Remember this. War or no war, they're still buyin' and sellin' black tails in the Charleston market. Git rid of y'all and buy me some real hands.”

He walked away from them. Easter's small shoulders slumped. She was short and slender, and her thick braids were covered with a piece of blue cloth to protect her head from the sun. “He mean as a snake,” she said, near tears. Her hands were black and gummy like Obi's from the tobacco leaves. A smudge streaked across one of her brown cheeks. Her lively eyes often curled easily into a smile when she laughed, but now they looked tired and frightened.

“He ain't sellin' or beatin' nobody. I never let him beat you. Master John wouldn't let him either. Just evil ‘cause he have to work like us,” Obi said.

“Obi, you touch him, he try an' kill you.”

“No he won't. Give me a lash or two,” he said, smiling. “Then Master John stop him.”

“I don't like talk of sellin',” she said, frowning. “We always been together. You, me, an' Jason.” She yanked a leaf off the stalk. “An' why he so set about the crop bein' in 'fore August?”

“I been wonderin' the same thing,” Obi answered. He brushed the back of his hand lightly over the two lines that appeared on her forehead whenever she was worried. “Stop botherin' you self. Wilson just like a barkin' dog. Ain't gonna bite,” he said bravely.

Easter flexed her tired fingers. “Master John never drive us to finish croppin' 'fore August.”

Jason, struggling across the field with another bucket of water, headed for John and Martha. When he finished with them, he brought Easter and Obi their water.

“You finish that shellin'?” Obi asked him.

He nodded. “I help you an' Easter now.”

Easter smiled at Jason. “Sing us a song. Make time go fast.”

Jason sang a song he'd learned from the children on the Phillips plantation as he pulled the leaves from a stalk. His voice was high-pitched and clear. Easter picked up the tune and soon had the words. Obi never sang, but a peacefulness came over him as he listened to their young voices.

They worked continuously for the next two hours until Obi stopped. “Go get us some water,” he called to Jason, motioning to Easter to come and sit beside him. They watched Jason run to the well in the yard close to the house. Wilson came out of the barn and called Jason to him.

“Get no water now,” Obi muttered in disgust. Jason was walking over to Wilson when Jessie, the overseer from the Phillips plantation, rode into the yard.

“Wonder what happen?” Easter asked.

Obi and Easter watched in silence as Jessie climbed off his horse and tied it to a tree. He and Wilson spoke for a minute, then they both walked quickly to the field where John and Martha were still working.

Jason raced toward Obi and Easter. “Tyler dead!” he yelled from the hedges where the field began. “Overseer say Yankees kilt him!”

If there is no struggle there is no progress.

Frederick Douglass, abolitionist, ex-slave
From a speech given at Canandaigua, New York
August 4, 1857

When Jason reached them, Easter bent down and peered closely into his eyes. “What else you hear them say?”

“Nothin'. Just what I tell you. What's a Yankee?” His brown eyes were wide with wonder.

Easter straightened up, adjusting her head wrap. “Ain't quite sure, but I think a person from the North. I find out tonight from Mistress.” Since Easter and Jason slept in the house, she knew everything that happened or was about to happen. Obi slept in the hayloft in the barn.

Obi turned to Jason. “Get that water 'fore Wilson find somethin' else for you to do.” He and Easter sat on the ground waiting for Jason to come back.

“I wonder if Buka know about Tyler?” Obi said.

“People been sneakin' in an' out the shack all day bringin' the news. You know he know.”

When the red sun slid behind the oak grove, Martha Jennings called Easter to help her prepare supper. “I take the mules back,” Obi told her. “You go on to Mistress.”

Obi led the mules to the barn while Jason went to bring
in the cows from the pasture that spread out behind the house. As Obi neared the barn, John Jennings came in behind him. He left his mule so that Obi could empty his and Martha's sacks and finish bundling the leaves.