Never Too Late (11 page)

“Yes, suh.”

“I could send you back. They would probably whip you. They might even kill you.”

Seffie's eyes widened. She began to tremble.

“Or I might take you into Charlotte and sell you.—You ever been married?”

“No, suh.”

“You want to be?” asked the master, chewing off another third of the biscuit.

“No, suh.”

“Why not?”

“Don't know, suh.”

“I thought all girls wanted to be married.”

Seffie stood staring but said nothing.

“Hazel and Wayne here, they got a boy who needs another wife. You met Hank?”

“Yes, suh.”

“He's a nice boy.”

“Yes, suh.”

“Most slave owners want their coloreds to make lots of babies.”

“Yes, suh.”

Suddenly he paused. An odd look spread over his face, as if he had just thought of something. He glanced down at the biscuit in his hand, slowly took another bite, and began to munch on it.

He stopped.

“Who made this?” he said, gesturing toward the two women with what was left of the piece of biscuit between his fingers. “You make this, Hazel?”

“No, suh. She did. She been helpin' me wiff da cookin'.”

The master popped the remaining bite in his mouth, again nodding with thoughtful expression.

“Has she now . . . hmm, that's mighty interesting.”

He rose, grabbed another biscuit from the plate on the table, and turned toward the door.

“Get her bathed, Hazel,” he said, “then bring her up to the big house with her things by the middle of the afternoon.”

“She don't got no things, Master McSimmons. She
come wiff nuthin' but what she had on.”

“Oh . . . right, of course. Well, get her bathed regardless, and then bring her along. Put her in a clean dress if you can find one to fit her. If not, we'll get her something up there.”

He walked out of the cabin, leaving the three black slaves staring after him.

M
ORE
B
ISCUITS AND A
N
EW
J
OB

16

W
HETHER
S
EFFIE WAS BEING TESTED IN THE
mistress's kitchen later that day, or whether both master and mistress had become bored, if not outright dissatisfied, with their present cook's offerings, she was immediately put to work that same afternoon.

“I want you to,” began the mistress the moment she appeared, “—what is your name again?”

“Seffie, missus,” replied Seffie, intimidated by being in the big house around people she had never seen before and still having no idea why she had been summoned.

“That sounds like a nickname.”

“Yes'm.”

“I do not call my kitchen and house slaves by nicknames. What is your given name?”

“Josepha, missus . . . Josepha Black.”

“Very well, Josepha—I want you to make a batch of those biscuits my husband was raving about for our supper this evening.”

“Yes'm,” said Seffie, so overjoyed with relief by the request that she almost broke into a smile.

“Can you bake a pie?”

“Yes'm.”

“What kind?”

“Anythin' dat you got fruit fo, missus.”

“Good. Then along with the biscuits, make two apple pies—we should have plenty of apples—and we will see how you get along with that.”

“Yes'm.”

It took Mrs. McSimmons no longer than it had her husband, after tasting Seffie's biscuits that evening, to realize that the runaway with the broken ankle had been a cook somewhere before. The apple pies after supper, eggs and bacon and grits for the following morning's breakfast along with the first truly delicious cup of coffee the master had tasted in months, fresh bread and a pot of beans with ham for dinner, and within twenty-four hours Seffie's move to the big house was settled.

She was provided new clothes, a place to sleep with the other house slaves, and in the weeks that followed, as her ankle gradually healed and gained strength, was given more and more duties about the place. Within a year the former cook had been sold and Seffie was in charge of the McSimmons kitchen. There was no more talk of marrying her off, or of making much of an attempt to learn where she might have come from. Louisiana was a long way from North Carolina, reasoned McSimmons. He would never be able to learn anything about her anyway, so why not make the best of it and give her a better home than she would
probably have most other places? He would have to keep an eye on her, of course, to make sure the freedom bug didn't bite again. But that shouldn't be too difficult.

As for Seffie, she was so happy just to be back in the familiar environment of a kitchen, especially where her efforts seemed to be appreciated, that the thought of running away again scarcely occurred to her. The long journey on the Underground Railroad, though she came to look back on it with a certain fondness as the great adventure of her life, had been more taxing than she thought she could ever endure again. Being captured and so badly hurt sobered her about the reality of the danger. She realized how lucky she had been to make it this far.

And the fact was, she was happier in a kitchen than anywhere. Even if she made it to the North, where would she go, what would she do? Maybe she didn't need to be free. Working in the kitchen of the big house wasn't so bad. Maybe it was all someone like her ought to expect.

Three years went by. Seffie, who now went by her given name, Josepha, turned thirty and was mostly content with her lot in life. Master and Mrs. McSimmons' two sons grew into rambunctious youngsters with more energy than was good for them. They gave every appearance of becoming typical sons of the new South, with disgust for the race of blacks, which their parents, though slave owners, attempted to treat with at least some measure of courtesy. By the time the older boy, his father's namesake, was six, he spoke to his father's slaves with a contempt and rudeness that made some of the older slaves shudder to think what it would be like if he ever took over the plantation.

A new slave girl arrived at the McSimmons plantation.
She was uncommonly pretty and refined. No one knew where she had come from and she kept to herself. She was downcast and did not look altogether well. She seemed out of place and unaccustomed to the hard work. It was not until later that the other slaves learned she had never been a slave before, that she was an educated free black born in the North, who had secretly been sold without realizing what was happening to her. She found herself trapped, not even exactly sure where she was, with no way to escape.

Not many weeks passed since her arrival before some of the women recognized another cause for her weakness and downcast spirits. Her midsection was growing and it was not from eating too much. She was obviously pregnant and had probably been forced to leave someone she was in love with. She never uttered a word about her past, and no one ever learned the circumstances of her being so strangely sold or of the man she had been forced to leave with only his child growing within her as a reminder of the love they had shared.

She was brought to the big house two months after her arrival when her condition had become obvious. The mistress expressed surprise, though her husband seemed to take the news as if it was expected.

Josepha recognized the look on the girl's face. She had no doubt worn a similar look when she had first arrived as a runaway—an expression of aloneness, uncertainty, and fear. Her heart went out to the girl, who was probably nine or ten years younger than she was. She knew what it was like to be torn away from those you loved and suddenly to find yourself among strangers. She herself had been seven—not so long ago that she would have forgotten.

She had vowed to herself long ago that she would not allow herself to have another friend, to be close to anyone again. What good came of loving? Only pain. Ever since being torn from her mama, and then Grace dying, and then her loss of Mose, she had protected herself from the pain that came of loving. It hurt too much to love. She determined never to open her heart again.

But this young girl carrying an unborn child
needed
a friend.

Maybe she needed
her
. Maybe it wasn't her own pain she should be thinking of now. She was older and had gotten over her pain. But this poor thing was in the midst of her loss right now. One look on her face said that she was suffering the loss of a friend too, a man, her love, the father of her child. She herself would never have a man to love, Josepha thought. It was too late for that. She was not the kind of woman a man looked at. The time for loving a man had passed her by. But she could still be a friend to this lost young girl in need.

“Whatchu want me ter do wiff her, missus?” asked Hazel.

“Whatever you people do with young pregnant women,” replied Mrs. McSimmons. “Take care of her until the child is born. She looks too weak to get much work out of.—What do you want to do with her, William?” she said, turning to her husband.

“You're right, she looks too frail to put to work. We'll get our value out of her later. I'm not worried about that.”

“Should we keep her up here?”

“No, we don't need any more coloreds in the house just now. They're already overrunning the place. Keep her with
the single women where she's been. But she doesn't need to go out into the fields. Have her help with the cooking and washing and with the children till her time comes.”

Hazel and the new girl turned to leave the house. Josepha caught her eyes and smiled. The girl returned it with a feeble smile of her own.

Later that day Josepha left the big house with a basket of fresh bread and walked down to the slave village. She went first to the cabin that had been her temporary home after her own arrival. Hazel and her new young ward sat inside at the table together.

“Josepha, darlin', whatchu doin' here?” said Hazel, greeting her warmly.

“I brung some fresh bread. I thought maybe our new frien' here might like some.”

She walked to the table and set the basket down, then took a chair with the other two women.

“I's Josepha,” she said, smiling again at the newcomer. “Sometimes it seems like I been here all my life, but I ain't been here so long dat I don't recollect what it wuz like comin' here an' bein' all alone. Hazel here took care ob me an' I know she will you too, ain't dat right, Hazel?”

“Dat's right,” nodded the old woman, whose skin was even more wrinkled than when Josepha had first made her acquaintance.

“But effen you eber need somethin' an' Hazel ain't dere, you jes' come up ter da big house an' ask fo Josepha.”

“Thank you,” smiled the girl. “You're very kind.”

“Now you eat some er dis bread while it's still warm, 'cause we gotta keep you strong 'cause by da look ob it, you's gwine be bringin' somebody new into dis worl'. So
we gots ter keep you bof strong, ain't dat right, Hazel?”

Hazel nodded.

Before another hour had passed, the two young women, though separated by ten years in age, and though their arrivals were separated by five or six years, had already discovered many things they had in common—one of which, though neither let the other find out, was that they could talk white man's talk if they had wanted to—and were on their way to becoming fast friends.

N
EW
L
IFE

17

M
ONTHS PASSED. THE TIME DREW NEAR
.

As a warm August evening grew late, and dusk gave way to night, a knock came on the door of the big house. There stood a slave boy of six or seven.

“I wuz sent ter fetch Josepha,” he said. “Hazel says dat she needs ter come quick. Hazel says ter tell her dat hit's time.”

Josepha was hurrying down to the slave village within two minutes.

She found Hazel and five or six of the women in the single women's house where the birthing was already under way. A cry of pain sounded just as she walked in.