The Emancipation of Robert Sadler (3 page)

“Yoll eat aplenty, Robert,” my sister Margie told me. “It'll be a long time before we see cookies agin!” I took two cookies and some lemonade and brought them home to Ella.

“Ella, how long you gonna lay up in that bed?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, Mama's daid now.”

“I know it. What're you fixin to do?”

I looked at her face and was startled to see how thin it had become. She was small for her age to begin with, but now she looked so tiny and so helpless. I felt panic rise within me.

“Ella!” I shouted.

“What you shoutin on, Robert?”

“Are you gonna die, Ella? Are you gonna die?”

Ella's condition didn't get any better. Margie gave her what was left of Mama's cabbage juice tonic; she made a paste of hot clay and cabbage leaves and spread it on her, but she didn't get well. Soon she couldn't eat anything, and it was only one month after my mother died that Ella was dead, too.

All I had in the whole world was gone—Mama, the light of our life, and now my only friend, Ella.

Father worked extra jobs as a basket maker and a blacksmith, but every cent he made he spent on liquor, and there were days when there was not a crumb of food in the house. One day Margie and I were coming back from the mill with the sack of cornmeal in the back of the buggy, and we saw an old apple core on the side of the road. I held the reins and Margie made a dive for the apple core, and we ate it right there. The rest of the way home we looked hungrily for more apple cores.

Margie and Pearl were good to me. They played with me, talked to me, put me to sleep in the bed with them, and tried to show me love. Margie brought singing back into the cabin, and at night we would sing around the fire; or else, lying in the bed, we'd sing to the moon peeking through the boards of the roof.

Father was home less and less. Whenever we did see him he would be drunk. Then one day he came home and announced that he was fixing to take himself a new wife, so that spring Father, Pearl, Margie, and I left our little cabin and moved to the north side of Anderson to live in our new mama's home. It was a little nicer than our cabin, but it, too, was unpainted and had no finished ceiling, floor coverings, window glass, or screens, and the yard was grey dirt. Standing beside the porch were two boys, younger than us. The thing that interested me the most was that both children were fat. If they were fat, then maybe we would get some good food to eat.

“Them's Rosie's chillren,” Father told us. “Yor new brothers.”

Our life in Rosie's shanty with her two children was not what we expected. Rosie hated us. She pulled Margie's hair, screamed at Pearl, and would hit us at any time. While she ate at the one table in the house with her own children, we had to eat our food on our laps in the corner. She said there wasn't room for us.

The hopes of getting good food or enough to eat were quickly squelched. We got only what they didn't want. Some days we would get just one bowl of grits. We were hungrier at our stepmother's house than we had been before.

One night when Rosie had cooked up some chicken backs and corn bread for a church dinner, Margie and Pearl ran into the kitchen, tossed some pieces of chicken into their aprons, and ran out again. We ate the chicken backs behind the shed, bones and all. Rosie threw a fit and told Father that night that we were thieves. We were outside, but we could hear her screaming at Father about us.

“Lazy, thas what! Don't do no work! Now they stealin food as well. Since you brought them three no-accounts into mah house, it's been jes trouble.”

We were certain that Father wouldn't listen to her lies. He knew we were good children and hard workers, and surely he would figure out that we took the food because she wasn't feeding us.

But when he called us in to him, we could see right away he had sided with Rosie. One by one he whupped us with the buggy trace for stealing.

It got worse. Father began staying out all night drinking. When he'd come home, he'd be so drunk that he would sleep all day. He started keeping company with other women, and Rosie took her fury out on us. She would beat us for no reason whatsoever.

“They don't mind me nohow, Jim, hear? They don't mind me nohow! They good-for-nothin no-accounts, each one of em, them two girls and that useless boy.”

As he listened to Rosie's lying accusations, Father began to form a plan in his mind. It was plowing time. One terrible day he came into the room where my sisters and I slept together and woke us up, ordering us to get into the wagon outside. We quickly scrambled out of bed into the cool morning air and climbed into the wagon, never dreaming what was in store for us. In fact, we thought it was a special treat to be receiving any attention from Father. Maybe we were going to town to pick up seed; maybe we were going to the blacksmith's where Father worked. We were so glad to be getting away from Rosie and her two boys that we didn't really care where we were going.

Little was said during our ride down the Abbeville Road, through Anderson and on south. The morning air was cool and damp, and my sisters and I huddled together in the corner of the wagon, bouncing against the rough boards as we rolled across the deep ruts and holes in the road. Wherever Father was going, he was mighty intent on it. His face was grim and his back stiff and straight, like he maybe needed to belch.

Soon we passed the cabin where all of us had been born. I held my breath as I looked at the old deserted shanty. Margie and Pearl looked as though they might cry, but they held their chins stiff. The door of the shanty was open, and inside it was dark and empty. How I longed to jump from the wagon and run down the path into Mama's arms. If only Ella's little round face would appear from around the side of the sloping porch, and I could run to her and squeal and laugh again and then sit at Mama's knee and hear her sing to us. As we passed over the top of the hill, I began to cry. Pearl pinched my arm in case Father would turn and give me a lick for crying.

We bumped along the road without a word for more than an hour. Finally Pearl said to Father, “Where we goin?” He sat almost motionless on the small seat at the front of the wagon. He did not so much as whisk a hair at her question. His silence meant don't ask questions.

We grew hungry as the morning wore on, and a little sore from the bumpy ride. Still, we said nothing as we watched the South Carolina countryside slowly pass by us, the heat rising up from the earth like hot fingers. Finally, we left the main road and turned into a long driveway. On top of a hill was a large, beautiful house, the biggest I had ever seen. I wondered why Father was turning in here. It wasn't the home of anybody we knew, and obviously it belonged to a white man. We saw several shanties near the back of the property like our cabin. Father halted the mule, got out of the wagon, and started for the back door.

“Why we stoppin here? Who lives in that big house?” I asked. Margie and Pearl didn't answer, for those same questions were in their minds.

The dogs in the yard barked as Father made his way to the back door. He took off his large brimmed hat and held it in his hand. He looked tall and shabby standing there on the step; his black hair and the dark skin of his face shone in the early morning sun. Soon the door was opened by a white man as tall as Father. They talked for a while and then Father turned and pointed to us. He turned several times, pointing to us, and then he and the white man went inside the house. When they came out, Father ordered us to get out of the wagon. Margie and Pearl jumped down first and then helped me down. We stood in our bare feet on the cold ground staring at the white man, Mr. Tom Billings, a cotton farmer.

“Y'say the boy is only five years old?” the man asked.

“Yessuh. Five years old, suh,” my father answered.

“Hmmm . . . I don't like em so young.”

“Take em all or take none,” my father said.

The man narrowed his eyes, then said, “OK, I'll take em.”

“Git over there by the house and stand still!” he ordered us roughly. We did as we were told and when we turned around, Father was in the wagon and spiraling it back the way we had come. I called out to him, but he didn't turn his head. Then Pearl called, “Father, wait! Don't leave us!” and she ran after the wagon. It was no use. Father didn't even look at her. His fierce gaze was on the road ahead of him, and he didn't pay any mind to our cries and pleas.

The wagon disappeared down the driveway and onto the main road. Pearl and Margie and I stood trembling against the side of the house, our feet digging into the cold earth. It was spring of 1917 and my sisters and I had just been sold as slaves.

Margie and Pearl held onto my hands so tight it hurt. When I looked up at them, they were both crying. The white man stood in front of us, looking at us with cold, hard eyes. Then, without a word, he disappeared into the kitchen. In a moment a large black woman hurried out of the door and bustled over to where we were cowering against the side of the house. She reached for our hands and said in a soft voice, “You chillren come along.” Hesitantly, we followed her. The sun was shining hot overhead, and I could hear the sound of birds twittering in the trees.

“My name is Sarah, what's yours?” the soft-spoken woman asked. Margie told her our names, and in the clamoring heat, I began to shiver and tremble. Pearl put her arms around me and held me against her knees.

“You'll help me with the washing,” Sarah told my sisters. “And what's this?” she said, looking at me. “How old is this here child?”

“Five years, Ma'am,” Margie answered.

“Can't he talk?”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Margie said.

“Well?” She looked at me, waiting, like I was supposed to say something. I couldn't get my mouth to open. She bent down and put her face next to mine. “Chile, can you sweep with a broom?” I nodded dumbly.

“Yes, Ma'am, he can sweep, sure enough,” Margie said. Sarah straightened, handed me a broom, and explained that the porch had to be swept and kept clean every day. Then she took my sisters with her inside the house. Margie squeezed my hand. “We'll be back, Robert, hear?”

I watched them leave me, and then standing alone on the large wooden porch, I began to cry. I was afraid I'd get a whupping for not doing what I was told, but I was too scared to move. When I turned around, a blond-haired young lady dressed in a pink and white dress was standing in the doorway. I stared at her, frightened, and she stared back at me, amused.

“Who are you?” she asked.

I tried to answer, but no words came out.

“Well, I hope you can work better'n you can talk,” she said with a little giggle as she brushed past me and out the door.

I watched her through my tears and saw her climb into a buggy drawn by a fine brown horse that a black man was driving. Where was my father? Why did he leave us here?

After what seemed like hours, Margie and Pearl came through the porch following Sarah. They carried large bundles of laundry in their arms. I cried out in relief when I saw them, but when Margie saw that I hadn't swept yet, she snapped, “Get busy, hear? Sweep this porch!” They followed Sarah out into the backyard, and I could see them as they pounded the clothes with the paddle on the three-legged battling bench.

Margie's sharp words had their effect on me, and I held onto the crooked handle of the big straw broom like it was a person. I began sweeping, pushing the broom back and forth like Mama taught me. I could hear her soft voice, “Ain't nobody knows the corners of a house like a old broom,” and she'd laugh.

“Do that mean the broom be smarter 'n people, Mama?”

“Law, child. I spect so!” and she'd laugh again. I hurriedly swept the porch so I could join my sisters in the yard. The washing would take most of the morning and early afternoon to finish. The dirt had to be paddled out of the clothes and then they were boiled in soapy water in the big black iron pots. I'd get to stir the clothes with a big stick. Then they had to be wrenched three times and finally hung up on the clotheslines to dry. Back home Mama hung our clothes on the brush outside our cabin to dry so I got used to the smell of chokecherry and dogwood against my skin.

Later I saw the blond-haired young lady again, and I stared at her with wonder. I had never seen a sight like her before. Sarah saw me and pulled me around facing the other direction.

“What you starin at, boy?”

“Nothunma'am.”

“Keep it that-a-way, hear?”

“Yezmam.”

The day continued and so did my confusion. That night, huddled between my sisters on the floor of Sarah's cabin, we all cried ourselves to sleep.

The days wore on. I cried a lot and kept waiting for Father to come for us. It was cotton planting time, and almost all of the slaves were working in the fields. Margie and Pearl were taking care of the slaves' young children as well as helping Sarah in the Big House. I was given jobs such as sweeping, carrying trash, feeding chickens, chasing cows, and kitchen work.

I discovered who the lady in the pink and white dress was. She was Miss Billie, Tom Billings's fifteen-year-old daughter. She took a liking to my sister Pearl, who was thirteen. She had Pearl comb her hair and tend to her wardrobe and personal needs. If it weren't for her, Margie and Pearl would have been sent to the fields to work, and I'd have been all alone in the Big House.

One day Pearl was heating irons on the stove to iron Miss Billie's dresses, and I was standing nearby watching her.

“How old is Robert?” Miss Billie asked Pearl. “He was five June last, Ma'am.”

Miss Billie's eyes grew wide. “He's young to be separated from his mama, isn't he?”

“His mama be dead, Ma'am.”

“But he has a daddy—?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Miss Billie stared at me and I shrank back. I had learned not to stare at white people.

“Do you like it here, boy?” she asked me.

I didn't know what to answer. If I said no, I might get a whupping. I stared back at her, speechless. Then I began to cry.

“Oh, he must miss his mama!” Miss Billie exclaimed. Pearl didn't say a word.

Miss Billie reached her hand out to me and said, “Come here, honey.” She took my hand and walked me into a long, narrow pantry where she opened a big jar and gave me a chocolate cookie with pink frosting.

“Thenkyoumam,” I mumbled, and took a small bite. I had never tasted anything so delicious in my whole life.

As the weeks passed, Miss Billie grew more and more distressed at my being there and often would complain to her father. “It ain't right!” she would tell him. Finally she threatened to run away if he would not take me back to my home. He told her to hush up and mind herself. Margie and Pearl were horrified at the idea of our being separated, but they said nothing.

The Billings family had few guests; but one day in early summer, some of their friends from Hartwell, Georgia, came to visit. The house slaves had been busy preparing for their arrival—scrubbing, polishing, waxing, and washing. The grounds were cleaned, mowed, and trimmed. When their horse pulled the buggy up in the driveway, a Negro man stood waiting to help them and tend to the horse. As I watched them enter the house in a flurry of chatter and excitement, I didn't realize that these jolly people would bring another tragedy into my life.

Margie, who was just fourteen, had been a hard worker both inside and outside the house. She was strong and they worked her like a mule. She worked from sunup until sundown without a complaint. She was working in the Big House while the visitors from Hartwell were staying there. Mrs. Billings, a large, stern-faced woman, boasted about her new servants to the visitors. She called for Margie and showed them what a fine buy her husband had made when he purchased her.

“Can't read or write,” she boasted. “That's how to keep em. She's a mighty strong one, too.”

“And who is the little niggerboy?” the plump, jowly friend asked.

“Tell her your name, boy,” Mrs. Billings ordered.

“. . . Wobber.”

Mrs. Billings jolted upright, enraged. “Robert
what,
boy?”

“Wobber Sadder,” I mumbled.

Mrs. Billings's face went red. I had humiliated her in front of the people she was trying to impress. She called us out of the room, excusing herself to her guests. On the other side of the door, she bent down and hissed, “You say
Ma'am
when you talk to me, boy!” She grabbed me by the ear. “I ought to have you whupped to teach yoll a lesson! Now
how
do you talk to me?”

“. . . Ma'am, Ma'am,” I stammered.

“Didn't yor mama teach you yor manners?”

“No, Ma'am, yezmam.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is this here chile ignornt, Margie?”

“Yezmam, but I'll teach him, Ma'am.”

“I don't think so, girl. Now git out, both of you!”

“Yes, Miz Billings, Ma'am,” Margie said, taking me by the hand.

After we had left the room, Mrs. Billings sold Margie to her lady friend. The next morning after our breakfast of molasses drizzled over corn bread in Miss Sarah's shanty, Margie was called to the Big House. Pearl and I went with her. We played a little game as we walked in the early morning light up the damp path. Walk two steps, hop one step, jump two steps, hop one step.

When we got to the clearing, we saw the buggy hitched up and the visitors climbing into it. Then Mr. Billings called Margie. “You belong to these people now, girl. Git in,” he ordered, and he pointed to the back of the buggy. Margie cried out in alarm. “Lord, have mercy!”

“Git in, I said!”

We followed Margie to the edge of the buggy. Her eyes were wide with fright. She reached down to hug me.

“Take care of Pearl, Robert honey; she ain't as strong as me.” Her voice was all broken up.

Pearl and I began to cry. “No! No!” Pearl screamed. “Don't take my sister! Don't take her!”

I felt a hard blow across my head and shoulders, and I fell tumbling to the ground. I looked up in time to see Mr. Billings push Pearl back as she, too, rolled to the ground.

The buggy jerked forward, and soon it was moving down the driveway. Margie's face was pale with pain. “Please, Robert . . .” I heard her call, “Please be a good boy. . . .” When she saw our sister sobbing and running after her, she cried, “Pearl! Pearl! No!” The lady in the front of the buggy turned and ordered, “Hush up now! Hush up, hear?”

“Git back to the kitchen, girl,” Mr. Billings told Pearl. “Understand I cain't be feeding three more mouths, got enough to take care of as tis. And you, boy, git over here and sweep up this here yard!”

In the weeks that followed I received many slaps for crying. Master Billings often whupped me with a peach tree switch. It stung terrible. I could hardly do the tasks I was given. Something else happened to me which added to my misery. I had trouble talking and pronouncing words. I couldn't speak right, but up until the day I arrived at the Billings Plantation I was hardly aware of it. Nobody had ever made anything of it before and so it didn't bother me. Now, however, I completely lost my speech. I could not form any words at all, and when I did try to talk, it came out all garbled and nobody could understand me. I became the “backward nigger boy,” and it made Mr. Billings angry just to look at me. He lost good money when he took me on with my sisters.

Billie Billings continued to beg her father for my release. It seemed to cause her particular distress to see a five-year-old boy cowering in corners and crying all the time, even though I was a slave boy and hardly worth her attention.

Pearl was working in the kitchen all the time now, where she remained all during the summer months. She worked from sunup until late at night, and I was able to be with her most of the time. I was glad she wasn't sent to the fields. Nearly every night I'd fall asleep on the floor waiting for her. She'd carry my sleeping body home to Miss Sarah's shanty and then she'd go back to work.

Pearl was a frail girl in the first place, and now she seemed to be more thin and more worn looking. One morning when she was cleaning the kitchen after the white people's breakfast, Miss Billie came in, looked at her, and said, “Pearl, you set down a spell; you look plumb tuckered!”

“Thank you, Miss Billie, Ma'am,” Pearl answered, “but ah's fine, jes fine.”

Master Billings happened to overhear Miss Billie's words, and he burst into the kitchen and yelled at Pearl. “You get busy, you hear? Don't you pay no mind to settin!” He ordered Miss Billie to her room, and we could hear their voices in hot argument as Pearl trembled and worked and I helped her in the kitchen. We were scared, because when Miss Billie fought with her father about us it made him so angry we feared he'd whup us in revenge.

I hated him so much I was afraid my heart might stop beating. I wanted desperately to tell Pearl how much I hated him, but I couldn't form the words in my mouth. It was as though I had a clump of weeds growing on my tongue and there was no room for words to get out.
Hate. Hate. I hate! I hate! I hate!
If only I could say it.

Pearl rarely sang to me or held me anymore. It seemed I was more often in her way than anything else. “Robert, bring this inside,” “Robert, sweep the porch,” or “Robert, wash this”—never “Robert, honey, come here and let me love you,” like she used to.

One hot afternoon when she was preparing the food for the white folks' dinner, she told me to bring a bowl of fresh fruit to the dining room table. I picked it up and it was heavy. “Don't drop it, hear?” she snapped at me. The minute she said the words, my hands slipped and the bowl of fruit fell to the floor. Glass shattered and the fruit rolled in all directions. Pearl flew at me and hit me hard upside the head. I was so stunned and hurt, I wailed helplessly. Then I ran out of the kitchen and across the yard and hid behind the smokehouse. I heard Miss Sarah calling me. “Robert, Robert! Where are you, boy?” I held my breath. I heard her mutter, “Poor chile is dumb, can't talk. They done beat the sense out of him.”

Pearl didn't get back to the shanty until almost dawn. I had been waiting all night for her. She lay down on the floor beside me, and without a word turned to face the wall. Her body shook badly and I reached out for her. “Peh, Peh—” I called, pulling her arm. She did not turn around to me, and I could hear her softly crying until she finally fell asleep.

I could not understand Pearl's coldness toward me. It hurt and confused me. A few days later Miss Sarah took me to her knee and said, “Honey, don't you fret yourself over Sister, hear? She be wanting you to grow up now so's you can learn how to take care of yorself. She be afraid you gonna stay a baby, an if she be sent away, what'd happen to you?”