Together is All We Need (5 page)

Mrs. Hammond, of course, made it clear that she had suspected the truth all along.

R
UMORS
S
PREAD
7

W
E SAW NO MORE OF
B
URCHARD
C
LAIRBORNE
after that—for a while at least. And during those first few days we didn't know that Mrs. Hammond was busy spreading news about ‘‘little Kathleen Clairborne and that darkie girl of hers'' all over town. We didn't know it in fact until Jeremiah's next visit.

‘‘The two of you's 'bout the mos' famous people in all Greens Crossing!'' he said with a big grin as he walked up to where I was working.

‘‘What do you mean?'' I asked.

‘‘What you mean what do I mean? Jus' dat everyone's talkin' 'bout you, dat's all.''

‘‘They're talking about us!'' exclaimed Katie, walking over from the washtub. ‘‘
Who's
talking about us?''

‘‘Everybody . . . mostly dat grouchy storekeeper lady. She been spreadin' news all roun'bout ob you two bein' all alone wiff a couple strays. I kep' yer secret fer more'n a year, but dat busybody's spreadin' it everywhere!''

‘‘Oh no!'' exclaimed Katie.

‘‘But how did she find out?'' I said.

Katie and I looked at each other. We always seemed to think alike and both realized the answer at the same time.

‘‘Uncle Burchard!'' said Katie.

Immediately we knew that the biggest danger wasn't to us.

‘‘What are they saying, Jeremiah,'' began Katie in a lower voice, ‘‘about the others? Do they know about Aleta and Emma? I've got to know.''

‘‘Dat dey do, Miz Kathleen,'' replied Jeremiah. ‘‘Not by name dat I heard. But dey's sayin' you got a white kid an' a dimwitted colored girl an' her baby wiff you.''

‘‘Oh no!'' said Katie a second time.

I wish Emma hadn't heard. But she had ears too big for her own good sometimes. She'd been so used to being called names—I reckon all black folks are used to that, but that doesn't mean it sometimes doesn't hurt—that she didn't even seem to notice what he'd said about a dimwitted colored girl. But she had heard well enough that folks were talking about us . . . all of us.

‘‘Dey know 'bout me an' William!'' she shrieked, running toward where we were talking. ‘‘Dey know my baby's here! He's gwine fin' out! It'll be da death ob me fo' sho'!''

And we had to admit that whatever Katie's troubles and mine, they weren't so bad as Emma's. What were we going to do to keep her safe? We had Henry and Jeremiah to help us, and maybe, if it came to that, Katie's uncle Burchard too, for that matter. Not that he'd lift a finger for Emma. But knowing another white man was around might make William McSimmons think twice before he tried to do something bad. He couldn't just come and kill us all without
someone
finding out.

Although maybe he could, for all I knew. Killing blacks wasn't regarded as much of a crime. There were blacks being killed all over the South as a result of the resentment and hatred that sprung up after the war. No one around Greens Crossing would likely raise a ruckus if one little black baby was dropped in the river in a sack full of rocks . . . or if Emma and I disappeared one day and were never heard from again.

Now more than ever Katie and I began desperately watching the road in hopes of seeing Mr. Daniels riding back to Rosewood.

By now it was getting close to three weeks since he'd left. But still there was no sign of him.

N
EW
B
OARDER AT
R
OSEWOOD
8

L
UCKILY FOR ALL OF US, BY THE TIME THE NEWS
from Mrs. Hammond's wagging tongue widened to encompass the McSimmons plantation, the rumors had changed enough to make them hardly recognizable. And Mistress McSimmons did her business at Oakwood and rarely went into Greens Crossing where she might have heard more.

As it was, when William McSimmons' wife caught wind of what was being said, she heard nothing about the Clairborne estate, only rumors of a fatherless colored baby being hid somewhere with a houseful of urchins, mostly black, who had managed to keep from being detected, some said, since the war.

Thinking that her troubles from her husband's promiscuity were behind her, and probably made worse by the fact that she had yet been unable to give him a child herself, Mrs. McSimmons went into a rage at the news. She took it out on the nearest and most convenient person she could, whom she still suspected of knowing more about the affair than she let on, and whom too she never once suspected of having the gumption to resist her.

The tirade so caught Josepha off guard at first that she hardly knew its cause. She had heard the rumors too and of course
did
know more than she was telling. But why Mistress McSimmons would direct such venom toward her, she didn't understand.

‘‘No need ter git riled at me,'' Josepha said in an irritable voice. ‘‘I don' know nuthin'. Why wud I know what you's talkin' 'bout?''

‘‘You fat old sow!'' the lady shrieked. ‘‘I'll teach you to talk back to your betters! Maybe the sting of the whip will put some respect into you, and loosen that lying tongue of yours!''

Three quick strides took her to the wall where her husband's riding whip hung. She grabbed it and turned on Josepha.

Josepha had had her fair share of whippings during her forty years or more as a slave. But she had not felt the lash since learning that she was a free woman. As a result it stung all the more keenly.

Three or four sharp blows to her arms, shoulders, and back were sufficient to rouse all the proud indignation of her race against its oppressors.

She put up her hand, trying to ward off the blows and grab at the whip.

‘‘How dare you raise your hand against me!'' cried Mrs. McSimmons, preparing to begin a new volley more violent than the first. But suddenly Josepha stepped toward her, fire in her eyes, and latched on to the lady's wrist with fingers as strong as a vise. Her hand stopped the whip in midair and shocked her mistress into a fuming silence.

‘‘I don' hab ter take dis no mo!'' huffed Josepha. ‘‘You may be white an' I may be black, you may be thin an' I may be fat like you say. But I's a person ob God's makin' jes' like you, an' you ain't got no right ter—''

‘‘How
dare
you talk to me in such a tone!'' cried Mrs. McSimmons in a white wrath, struggling with all her might to free her arm from Josepha's hold.

‘‘An' how dare you whip me like I wuz one ob yer barn dogs!'' retorted Josepha, continuing to hold her fast, for she was easily the stronger of the two by at least double. ‘‘I's a free woman, I ain't yo slave. I can come an' go when I like an' I ain't gotter put up wiff no whippin' jes' 'cuz you married a low-down man what can't keep his trousers on. Miz Mayme'll gib me work too, so I think I'll jes' be movin' on. Effen she can' pay me, she ain't likely ter let me starve neither an' it'll be a sight better'n puttin' up wiff da evil mischief ob a lady like you. So I'll thank you ter gib me da week's pay I gots comin' ter me an'—''

‘‘You swine!'' seethed the woman through clenched teeth. ‘‘You'll get not a cent if you desert me without notice!''

‘‘Well, den . . . no matter. I's leavin' anyway,'' said Josepha.

Still holding the lady's wrist with one hand, she now reached up with her other and twisted the whip away from her, then released her and walked to the door and threw it out into the dirt. She then turned, went to her room trembling but with head high, and packed her few belongings and put them in a pillow slip. Three minutes later she was walking out the same door for good, leaving Mistress McSimmons in stunned silence behind her.

Josepha had no more idea where Katie and I lived than did her now former mistress. But she was familiar with Henry from an occasional delivery he had made through the years to the McSimmons plantation. She knew that he worked at the livery at Greens Crossing and was more likely than anyone she could think of to have caught wind of where a black girl calling herself
Mayme
might have got to.

Three hours after Josepha's unceremonious departure from the only home she had ever really known, Henry looked up from his work and saw the large black woman ambling wearily in his direction. He set down his pitchfork and waited.

‘‘You be Henry, effen I'm not mistaken,'' she said, puffing from her long walk.

‘‘Dat I is,'' said Henry.

‘‘I'm Josepha,'' said Josepha, ‘‘from da McSimmons place.''

‘‘I knows who you is,'' chuckled Henry. ‘‘I seen you dere many er time. But wha'chu doin' so far from home, an' on what looks ter be sech tired feet?''

‘‘Ain't my home no mo,'' said Josepha. ‘‘I's a free woman, so I dun lef '. I ain't gotter take dat kin' er treatment no mo from nobody. An' now I'm lookin' fer Miz Mayme, an' I'm hopin' you might be familiar 'nuff wiff her ter be able ter direc' me ter where I kin fin' her.''

Henry chuckled again. ‘‘I reckon I kin do dat all right,'' he said. ‘‘Why I might jes' take you dere myse'f, effen you ain't in too much a hurry. Hit's a longer walk den I think you wants ter make, an' effen you kin wait till I'm dun here, I'll fetch you dere in dat nice buckboard ober dere dat I's repairin' fer Mr. Thurston. I reckon hit's 'bout ready fer me ter take ter him, an' Rosewood's right on da way. I don' think he'll min' a passenger ridin' 'long wiff me.''

Just as the sun was going down that evening, we heard the sound of a horse and wagon approaching. Now that everyone knew about us, it didn't seem to matter making preparations to fool people anymore. It didn't matter anyway because we saw soon enough that it was Henry. But never could anything have surprised me as much as to see Josepha's plump frame sitting there beside him!

Henry reined in as I ran toward the buckboard. It took a little while for Josepha to get down to the ground, even with Henry's help. One look at her face told me she was exhausted.

‘‘Mayme, chil'!'' she said, taking me in her arms. When I stepped back a minute later I saw that she was crying.

‘‘What is it, Josepha?'' I said.

‘‘I lef', Mayme,'' she said. ‘‘I dun lef' Mistress McSimmons. She's a bad woman an' I finally jes' lef'. I didn't know where ter go 'cept ter you.''

‘‘Oh, Josepha . . . I'm sorry.'' I embraced her again, feeling how strange it was for me, just a girl—though I guess I was almost eighteen by now—to give comfort to someone so much older, especially this lady who had given comfort to me as a child and who I always saw as such a tower of strength among the slaves.

‘‘Does you think yer mistress'll hab room fer an' ol' black woman sumwheres?''

Just then Katie ran out of the house.

‘‘We've always got room,'' I said, ‘‘—especially for you! Don't we, Katie?'' I added, turning to Katie as she ran up.

‘‘Of course!'' exclaimed Katie. ‘‘You are welcome here. I'll hurry back in and start preparing one of the rooms immediately.''

‘‘What dat she say?'' said Josepha in surprise as she watched Katie go. ‘‘She can't be fixin' no room fer me! She's da mistress!''

‘‘Things are different here, Josepha,'' I laughed. ‘‘There's no black or white, no mistress or slaves. We're not even hired coloreds because there's no money either. I'm sorry, but Katie won't be able to pay you any more than she does me. But we're a family and we've got enough to eat. We've learned that being together is all we need, and being a family is the most important thing of all. I reckon that's a sight better than money. We're happy to have you.''

‘‘Den let's go an' help Miz Katie wif dat gettin' ready. I still don' like the idea ob her white han's waitin' on me nohow.''

Henry and I got Josepha inside and sitting down in a chair with a glass of cold water. I could tell Henry wanted to say something to me. He and I stepped back outside for a minute.

‘‘Any word yet from Mr. Daniels?'' he asked in a quiet voice.

‘‘No, Henry,'' I said, shaking my head. ‘‘We haven't heard a thing.''

S
EARCH FOR THE
D
EED
9

A
FTER A GOOD NIGHT'S SLEEP
, J
OSEPHA WAS ALMOST
back to herself, though her feet and legs were sore for several more days. She'd walked a long way for a woman her size! The morning after her arrival with Henry, she was bustling about in the kitchen, singing and waiting on everybody like she'd been at Rosewood for years. Having a family to be mammy to made her happier than just about anything. Even Aleta took to her cheerful spirit almost immediately, and by that afternoon was following her around like a puppy dog asking ten questions a minute.

But Josepha's appearance had put Emma in a state of panic.

‘‘If she's here, dey'll foller her an' fin' me shure!'' she said to Katie, half wailing in despair.

‘‘Dey ain't nobody gwine hurt you, Emma, chil','' said Josepha. ‘‘Dat mistress, she don' know where I's gone, an' ol' Uncle Henry, he ain't gwine tell.''

And after a day or two of reassuring talk from Katie and me, Emma gradually calmed down, like she usually did. But as confident as were Josepha's assurances, Katie and I knew how unlikely it was that a black man everyone knew and a huge black woman they didn't, riding through town in a white man's buckboard, would have escaped notice. We knew one person especially who was bound to have noticed! How long it would take for Mrs. McSimmons to initiate inquiries, we didn't know, but once she did, it wouldn't take long for her to put two and two together, especially if she got curious about Josepha's blurting of my name and put it together with Emma's disappearance and all the rest of what happened.