Never Too Late (12 page)

“Is Josepha here yet!” came a moan.

“She's here, chil'. She jes' came in.”

Josepha walked into the cabin dimly lit with a half dozen candles.

“Hey dere, how's you feelin', Lemuela?”

“Not so good. It hurts, Josepha!” whispered the girl.

“I reckon dat's all right. Hit always does, da way I hear it.”

Josepha sat down beside the bed, where some of the women were sponging the expectant mother's face and forehead. Hazel and the older women were busy with hot rags and towels to soothe and warm and dull the pain as Lemuela's child struggled to enter the world of men.

But the birth was slow and difficult. The labor continued for hours. The exhaustion was clearly evident on the poor girl's face. Most of those in attendance had been through it themselves, but this was taking longer than any of theirs. Some of the women began to fear for the mother's life.

Lemuela herself must have been thinking the same thing. With sweat pouring off her forehead and dripping down her cheeks, she motioned with a weary hand for Josepha.

Josepha came. Lemuela pulled her ear down close to her mouth.

“Tell them all to go away,” she whispered, “—just for a minute . . . all but you . . . I want you to stay.”

Wondering what it was all about, Josepha rose from the bedside and conveyed the request. Bewildered, Hazel and the others retreated just outside the door.

“I'm afraid, Josepha,” said the girl. “Promise me, if something happens to me—”

“Ain't nothing going to happen to you, dearie—” began Josepha.

“But if it does,” interrupted Lemuela, “promise me that you'll look after my little girl.”

“I will.”

“I know it's a girl . . . I can tell . . . promise me you'll take good care of her.”

“I will, sweetie, of course I will.”

“Hazel's old, and she's a dear, but she's too old to take care of a baby.”

“You can rest easy . . . we'll all look after you and your child.”

“But if I die—”

“Oh, sweetie, you're—”

“Please . . . make sure she has a good life—as good a life as a slave can have.”

“I'll do my best. And maybe she won't always be a slave.”

Hardly hearing the prophetic statement, Lemuela smiled and laid her head back down on the pillow, at peace for the moment, whatever should happen. Gradually the other women returned.

An hour later a little girl was born. The minute she appeared Josepha suspected the reason for Lemuela's silence—the father of her daughter was surely white.

But though Lemuela's life was never really in any danger and she fully recovered, Josepha never forgot her promise. As the girl grew, Josepha's secret devotion to the daughter grew equal to her devotion to the mother.

Much to Hazel's joy, the new mother became Lemuela Jukes two years later when she became the wife of Wayne and Hazel's son. She gave the old couple four grandchildren before Hazel died of influenza one particularly bad winter. The growing family continued to live in the cabin with Grandpapa Wayne, though as the years went by, being field slaves, Lemuela's children did not see as much
of Josepha in the big house as she might have wished.

Josepha continued to work in the McSimmons kitchen. As she had foreseen, the younger sons of the plantation owner grew to become wild, with a mean streak not to be found in the father.

A day came in the mid 1850s when Josepha heard a knock on the front door. Both master and mistress were out. She went to answer it. A tall, thin black man she had never seen before stood on the porch.

“Mornin' ter you, ma'am,” he said, smiling and tipping his hat.

Josepha stood staring. She had never been called
ma'am
in her life!

“I's new ter dis area,” he said, “an' I's lookin' fo work.”

In the distance Josepha saw the master and his thirteen-year-old son walking toward the barn.

“Mister McSimmons, suh,” she called, descending the steps past her visitor. “Dis man says he's lookin' fo work.”

Master McSimmons turned and approached.

“What do you mean looking for work?” said the McSimmons boy. “He's just a nigger like you. We don't pay niggers to work. We tell them what to do and they do it.”

“Shut up, William,” said the father. “You're not as smart as you think you are.—What are you, a freedman?” he asked, walking toward the house where the black man still stood.

“Yes, suh,” he answered.

“You from the North?”

“No, suh. I's from down Mississippi way. I earned my freedom, suh.”

“I see. Well, I'm sorry but I've got all the help I need.”

“I's good wiff horses, suh.”

McSimmons nodded and scratched his chin for a moment.

“Hmm . . . all right,” he said, “—tell you what . . . let me think on it a spell. Then you come back and see me in a week or so. I'm not promising anything, mind you. I'm just saying come back and see me just in case.”

“Yes, suh. I'll do dat, suh.”

The master and his son turned away and continued on toward the barn. Josepha stood staring after them. The moment they were out of sight she turned and motioned for their visitor to follow. She led him around the house toward the side entrance to the kitchen, where she walked in, gesturing for him to follow. He did so.

“Sit down ober dere at da table,” she said as she immediately began gathering a plate and putting things on it. “By da looks ob it, you could use somefin' ter eat.”

The man chuckled. “Hit's true,” he said. “I been travelin' a long time. Sometimes hit's a mighty long time between meals.”

“Well then, you eat as much as you kin,” said Josepha, setting a plate of sliced bread in front of him. Butter, cheese, milk, and a generous slice of apple pie followed.

“Dis is mighty kind er you.”

“I knows what it's like ter be on da move an' be hungry.”

“How's dat?” he asked as he spread a slice of bread with butter.

Briefly Josepha told him her story. Before long the two were talking and laughing like old friends. After twenty or thirty minutes, Josepha's ears perked up. “Dat's da mistress's voice. You bes' be gettin' on, I reckon.”

“I's much obliged ter you,” said the black man rising from the table. “By da way, I's Henry Patterson.”

“An' I's Josepha Black.”

“Pleased ter make yo acquaintance. I reckon I's be seein' you agin when I come back ter see ef yo master's got work fo me.”

“He won't. Dat jes' his way er gittin' rid ob folks. He figgers nobody'll wait aroun' a week. But tell you what—you say you's good wiff horses?”

“Dat I is.”

“Den you go ter da nex' town—hit's called Greens Crossin'. Dere's a coupla white men dere dat dey says is more den usually kind ter coloreds. One ob dem's a man called Mister Watson at da mill, an' da other's at da livery . . . I forgot his name. But maybe one er dem's got work. Can't say fo sho.”

“I'm obliged ter you, Miz Black.”

“Good day ter you, Mister Patterson.”

T
ERROR

18

J
OSEPHA DIDN'T SEE THE FREEDMAN AGAIN THAT
next week. Whether he had taken her advice and what might have been the result, she did not know.

When another new black face appeared at the McSimmons plantation, young William McSimmons showed a much different reaction. By then twenty-two years old and home from the war convalescing from a leg wound and subsequent infection, he lost no time turning the charm toward an unusually pretty new young house slave. He was good-looking enough to turn her head at the same time.

Josepha knew it was trouble from the beginning. She tried to befriend the new girl. Josepha knew what it was like to be alone in the world. But at the age of seventeen, the dim-witted girl was not ready to grow and change, and Josepha feared what the result would be. She did what she could for the foolish girl, but she could not prevent her sneaking out at night.

Mistress McSimmons had died, struck down by a rare form of malaria, and the master was allowing his eldest son
more and more leeway about the place than was good for him. The loss of his wife had been hard on Mr. McSimmons, and most of his slaves felt a sympathy for him. He had also lost one of his sons to the war. They were especially concerned that his grief might cause him to turn over the affairs of the plantation to the son who was his namesake when and if the war with the North ever ended.

As it turned out, their fears were not completely unfounded. The younger McSimmons had been seeing the daughter of a wealthy plantation owner from Charlotte, who had named his daughter after the fair city. At about the same time as his tryst with the new slave girl named Emma, the announcement was made of William and Charlotte's engagement.

The moment she laid eyes on the future Mrs. McSimmons, Josepha knew that the new mistress would have no soft spot in her heart for slaves.

When the young McSimmons heir led his betrothed into the kitchen one day on the way to the parlor, where a sumptuous tea had been spread, she paused and glanced around at the assembled black staff.

“Can these darkies cook?” she asked, disdain dripping from her voice.

“As well as any, I suppose,” laughed her husband-to-be.

“Well, I can see right now that there will have to be some changes around here—clean aprons for one thing, and everyone with matching dresses. It looks like a hodgepodge. I take pride in my kitchen. And that stack of pans over there—why haven't they been cleaned?”

The slave women and girls glanced around at one
another, too intimidated by the woman's forcefulness to speak.

“We's been gettin' da bakin' done, miss,” said Josepha at last. “Den we's wash up.”

“Well, I don't like an unsightly kitchen,” she snapped back, taking the opportunity to send her eyes up and down Josepha's large frame. “I also don't like the idea of a slave eating us out of house and home. You'll have to find somewhere else to spend your time when I entertain. I can't have someone of your size serving my guests.”

“Yes'm,” mumbled Josepha, duly humiliated by the lady's tongue.

As the master's son and his bride-to-be continued into the parlor, Josepha realized that hard times lay ahead for herself and the rest of the McSimmons slaves.

But before the wedding came a day no one who lived through it would ever forget.

The war was over, and roving bands of angry Southern soldiers were all around in the weeks following the surrender of the South.

Josepha was in the kitchen with the rest of the house slaves working on preparations for the day's dinner when they all heard what sounded like a dozen horses thundering toward the plantation in the distance. Josepha paused and listened. A grave expression came over her face.

The master had gone into town for the morning and none of the other men were at the house. She shuddered momentarily at the sound, realizing that something wasn't right.

Explosions of gunfire followed a few seconds later.
Then Josepha really knew that something was wrong.

Shouts and more gunfire had stilled everyone else in the kitchen. The commotion was coming from the direction of the slave village. They continued to listen with dread.

“Come wiff me!” shouted Josepha, leading the others to the cellar door and pulling it open.

“Inter da cellar, all ob you!” she cried. “I don't know what's goin' on, but it ain't good. Git goin'—down dem stairs!”

The girls and women scurried down through the black hole, even more terrified now to hear the fear in Josepha's voice.

Josepha glanced back into the kitchen where one girl still stood.

“Emma, you fool chil', git ober here!” she cried. “Else we'll jes' leab you dere all alone. Git ober here!”

By now Emma was six or seven months along with young William's child, and because she was still skinny as a rail, her pregnancy was easily noticeable. At last she came and began awkwardly inching down the narrow stairs, crying and babbling incoherently.

Finally Josepha followed. The stairs creaked under her weight. She hoped the stairs did not collapse beneath her. She pulled the door shut behind them, hoping nobody would think to look down here. They were left in total darkness, a few whimpering, the newcomer Emma talking to herself.

They stayed there the better part of an hour in complete blackness and silence until Josepha judged that whatever had been going on must be done with. She was almost afraid to go up and look, but she knew she had to.

She rose to her feet, felt for the steps, made her way back up them till she felt the door. She pushed it open.

Light flooded the cellar. She poked her head out, then stepped slowly out into the room and walked into the kitchen, listening intently.