Miss Katie's Rosewood (11 page)

W
e had been on the train probably about half an hour, talking and looking out the windows and going back to our letters. We were sitting with our letters in our laps when we heard the door open behind us and the conductor came along asking for people's tickets. Katie folded the pages in her hand and we both pulled out our tickets to get them ready
.

The conductor reached us, looking at both of us with a stern expression
.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, looking down at me
.

“I have . . . here's my ticket,” I said nervously. The look on his face was enough to make anyone nervous!

He took it and clicked it with a little metal thing in his hand, glanced at Katie, took her ticket and did the same, then looked back at me
.

“Get your things, girl,” he said, “and come with me.”

“That's all right,” I said, misunderstanding him at first. “I am fine here.”

“I should say you are!” he said. “But you aren't staying here. Now I said come with me!”

“Why, where are you going?” I asked
.

“You can't sit here. This carriage is for whites only. You'll have to sit in the colored car at the back of the train.”

Katie and I glanced at each other. Neither of us knew what to do
.

Finally Katie stood up and picked up her carpetbag and satchel
.

“Let's go, Mayme,” she said. “I'll come with you. That will be the simplest thing to do.”

She stepped out into the aisle where the conductor was waiting
.

“I'm sorry, miss,” he said to Katie. “I cannot allow you to do that. No coloreds in the white car, no whites in the colored car.”

“But we have the same tickets,” said Katie
.

“That doesn't matter, miss.—Now, girl,” he said, looking at me again, “come with me now before I have to forcibly remove you.”

“It's all right,” I said, looking at Katie. “I'll be fine.”

I got my things and stepped out to go with the man
.

“Well, it's not all right with me,” insisted Katie. “You can't do this,” she said, continuing to argue with the man. “We have the same tickets. There's no slavery anymore, or haven't you heard? You can't treat her this way!”

By now other passengers were looking at us and it was becoming a scene
.

“Sit down, lady!” yelled a man several seats away. “The nigger girl doesn't belong here.”

“That's right, miss,” said the conductor. “Now if you don't sit down and behave yourself, I'll put both of you off at the next stop.”

I could tell that Katie was irate, but finally saw that there was nothing she could do. I looked at her and smiled and tried to reassure her that I didn't mind
.

She sat down, still fuming, and I followed the conductor along the narrow aisle. I glanced back as the conductor opened the door at the back of the car. I smiled again. Katie tried to smile too, then I saw her pull out her letter and start to read again
.

I looked away at the last instant, but the terrible bang of the trapdoor opening, and the gasps of the onlookers as the poor man's body fell through the scaffolding and the rope yanked taut on his neck . . . they are sights and sounds too horrible to speak of, yet ones that will remain with me forever
.

That he may have deserved it according to the law is not sufficient to quiet the unrest of watching a man die and knowing that I was personally responsible. Not solely responsible, of course. I recognize the intellectual arguments that can be marshaled against my feelings of guilt when they surface as they often do. But such arguments do not meet the agonies of such a memory. Certainly I am comforted by his change of heart at the end. As he was at peace in death, I too am at peace, though the memory of his death remains a burden that I carry with me daily . . . and one I carry alone
.

Later that day, Detective Heyes came to our house
and asked for me. He handed me back my New Testament, a watch, and a worn and folded letter that Teague had saved for years. He said that Teague had asked him to get them to me. The letter was from his mother, from years before, and it broke my heart every time I read it. But when I was up to it, I went to visit her, told her my story, and tried to offer her what comfort I could
.

You once asked me how a minister's son turned out to be a sheriff's deputy. So when you told me that you were coming to Philadelphia and I realized there was a good chance that we might be able to see one another again, I thought it time that I told you the whole story. You deserved to know. Whether you will want to see me after learning everything I have told you . . . that will be up to you. My mind will be relieved just to know that at last I have answered your question thoroughly, and you know most of what there is to know about me
.

In a way, however, this is only the beginning of the story, though the most important part. I suppose you could say that my part of the story began in the cell of Damon Teague, or at least the part of the story about how the experience affected me . . . and changed me. I
hadn't really considered my feelings much until the man was jailed. I was so young, just seventeen when my sister was shot. That is an age when hate can flourish if given the chance, and as I have said, I allowed it to grow in me. I can now look back and truly thank God, not that my sister was killed or anything like that, but thank Him for using the entire experience to expose those flaws in my own character that I was unaware of, to confront me, I suppose I should say, with my own sin. That is not a pleasant confrontation for any man or woman. But I am grateful for it. Because it enabled me to begin looking with truer perspective into my own life and, I hope, to begin growing in some small measure toward the Christlikeness that is the only goal and objective of the Christian life. I feel I am finally beginning to understand a little of what being a Christian really means—which is nothing more nor less than allowing God to make us more like Jesus himself. Had all these things not happened, who knows how long I may have continued in my blind self-righteousness? I might indeed have become a minister of renown, but if I had never truly known myself, what would it have been for? Only so much wood, hay, and stubble
.

Please do not misunderstand me—I love and respect my father more than words can say. I attribute none of these deficiencies that I discovered in myself to him. I believe his call to the pastorate was genuine and I believe his ministry to have been an enormously fruitful one. But I realized that as things stood at that point in my life, I had serious reservations about following in his footsteps. I saw something when I looked into Teague's eyes that day that changed my whole perception of the Christian message. I came to realize that perhaps the gospel as normally perceived was no longer one I could devote my life to. In those moments I saw, I felt, the enormity of God's love and infinite forgiveness. I realized that I did not
want to preach that the Son came to save us from the wrath of the Father. Heaven forbid such a thing to be true! But that changed perspective was not one that I felt would find a welcome home within the organized church. It seemed to me that I could do more good out in the world where a message proclaiming the goodness of God, rather than His vindictiveness against sin, would be welcome. Even among my own family, when I attempted to tell them what I had experienced in Teague's cell that day, the first response was one of suspicion. The truth of an infinitely forgiving Father, I am discovering, to my surprise and dismay, is not a welcome message among Christians. Yet out among the Damon Teagues of the world, among those who know something about sin firsthand, it is a message that gives hope and enables many to respond to God as I believe He truly is
.

I know this has been a terribly long letter. I did not really set out to pen my autobiography when I put the Dear Katie on the first page! I only wanted you to know the struggle I have been through, and why. I still wrestle with much of what I have told you. The man's face still haunts me. I still miss my sister. Many what ifs remain
.

All these events I have recounted at last led me to the decision not to pursue the ministry, at least for the present. In a decision that my mother and father had a very difficult time with, I decided to join the army for what remained of the war, but on the Union side. I went north to Philadelphia and volunteered my services to watch and guard and take care of the prisoners. I knew I could not fight, on either side. Nor did I feel called to become a chaplain. But I hoped I might be able to help in some way with those who had been captured. Probably my experience with Teague in the Baltimore jail had more than a little to do with it
.

When later Detective Heyes left the Baltimore police
department and ran for sheriff in Ellicott City, I was stunned when he asked if I would be his deputy. By that time the war was over and I was home again with my family and working at insignificant jobs, still pondering what I wanted to do with myself. His offer sent me into a new round of prayer and reflection. I had to reevaluate my future and my ministerial vow all over again. As I did I began to see that God needed people in many walks of life, not just in the pulpit . . . even in the office of a small-town sheriff. So I accepted his offer
.

That was about a year before I first met you and your uncles. After several years in Ellicott City, Sheriff Heyes decided to take the job in Hanover as assistant sheriff for York County, just north of the Pennsylvania border, as I told you about, and I decided to accompany him and remain his deputy. I thank God that I have never had to kill, and I hope I have done some good
.

It is all right with me if you show what I have written to Mayme. I know how close you two are
.

Perhaps I should be embarrassed to have gone on for so long with this autobiography. But truthfully, if feels so good to have told you all that. Whatever your response, I feel an enormous sense of relief. I thank you for being a patient and, I hope, understanding listener
.

Yours faithfully,

Rob Paxton