Which Way Freedom (4 page)

When the war came along I was a grown man, and I
went off to serve because Old Master was too old to
go,
but he had to send somebody anyways.

George Kye, ex-slave From
Voices from Slavery

Obi's first instinct was to run, but he hesitated when he saw Jason sobbing nearby, curled up in a ball on the ground. Easter was still in the field. Wilson grabbed Obi by the neck of his shirt. “Where you been?” he yelled again.

“Went to check on a sow I thought was loose, suh,” he said, avoiding Wilson's eyes.

“You lyin'!” The muscles in Wilson's thick neck stood out as if they would burst through his skin. Obi could have kicked himself for not guessing that Wilson wouldn't stay at the funeral.

Still clutching him, Wilson drew back his free hand and snapped the strap across Obi's leg. Obi grabbed Wilson's shoulder, digging his fingers in the back of his neck. Jason still sobbing, scrambled up from the ground. Stumbling frantically into the wheelbarrow, he sent it toppling over. Wilson ripped Obi's shirt down the front as Obi jerked away from him, trying to grab Wilson's upraised hand. Obi couldn't get a grip on him, and Wilson lashed the strap across Obi's cheek.

Wilson drew back his hand to hit Obi again but stopped short at the sound of horses' hooves in the yard.

“Mornin', sir,” a voice said.

Wilson loosened his grip. Obi, breathing heavily, backed away from Wilson and almost fell on top of Jason, who was still sprawled over the wheelbarrow. Jason sat up, his face wet and dirty. They stared at the two soldiers.

Both soldiers wore the same grey tunics and soft forage caps. One of them had a smooth, boyish face. The other looked older and wore a thick, black mustache. The one with the mustache dismounted. “I'm Captain Clark. How're y'all this mornin'?” he asked brightly.

“Mornin',” Wilson mumbled. There was a bright red spot on his neck where Obi had grabbed him. He gave Obi a warning look. Jason wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, and Obi still trembled as he glared at the red blotch on Wilson's neck.

“This the Jennings farm?” the captain asked.

“Yes,” Wilson answered. He tried to fold his belt in his hand.

The captain rubbed his mustache. “These some difficult times, sir,” he said. “People 'round here been good about helpin' us.” He glanced at Obi and Jason. “How many Negroes y'all have?”

Wilson pointed to Obi. “He the only field hand. The other two is children. That runt and a gal.”

The captain rubbed his mustache again, while the other soldier, still astride his horse, took notes in a small book.

“Seems to be a sufficient farm,” Captain Clark said.

“It'll do,” Wilson frowned. “Barely scratchin' a livin' out of it.”

“How many acres?”

Wilson spread his stout legs as if he were balancing himself on a ship. “Twenty. Who wants all this information?”

“The government. Because of the war, everybody's had to help.”

“I hope y'all ain't lookin' for no man old as me to go marchin' off to war,” Wilson said.

The captain smiled slightly and rubbed his mustache again. “Well, sir, not exactly. People are aidin' us whichever way they can. And that's why we ask questions. So's we don't ask for what people can't give, sir. You have a wife and children?”

Obi slowly grew calmer as he listened to Wilson answer the captain's questions.

“We need soldiers, provisions, slaves—whatever can be spared.” The captain stared at Obi.

“We can't spare nothin',” Wilson said loudly.

Captain Clark walked toward Obi. “You don't mind, sir, if I take a look at him?” he said.

“Suit yourself,” Wilson answered and put his belt around his waist.

The captain put his hand on Obi's shoulder. “Open your mouth,” he said curtly.

Obi opened his mouth and the captain checked his gums and teeth for signs of disease. He pulled up Obi's ripped shirt, inspecting his skin for open sores, then squeezed Obi's arms and legs.

The inspection reminded Obi of the way John Jennings checked mules before he bought them.

Captain Clark turned to the other soldier. “Clean, healthy, strong, prime. About fifteen or sixteen,” he said. The soldier wrote quickly.

Wilson seemed ready to explode. He leaned into the captain's face. “He's the only field hand we got. How we go in' to get our crop in? How we goin' to live through the winter, Captain?” he shouted.

The captain sighed, lowering his voice as Wilson spoke louder.

“We're all fightin' the same cause. People been donatin' their slaves.”

“I ain't got a hundred slaves. We ain't no rich slaveholders!” he yelled.

“We're fightin' so you keep what you have. We don't want you to lose none of this.” He waved his hands toward the fields.

Wilson stared at Jason, whose round eyes were still fearful. “That one is useless. You take him,” he said, pointing at Obi, “and we done for. We don't have no one else in the field.” No sooner had the words left Wilson's mouth than Easter walked into the yard leading the mule.

“She's in the field,” the captain said firmly.

“She ain't no real hand. Not much better in the field than the runt.”

Easter looked at Obi.

“Don't stand there with your mouth open,” Wilson said to her. “Empty them sacks and get back to work.”

Captain Clark watched as Easter went into the barn, still leading the mule. “Sir, we're all makin' sacrifices. Some are givin' their lives. We're only askin' for one nigger to serve a year.” He smiled sweetly at Wilson. “We have to build breastworks near Charleston. Takes a lot of manpower to put up those walls. He'll be goin' to Charleston, sir, but he's still your property.”

Obi's heart raced. He thought about Tyler, who was dead, and Jeremiah, who was probably dead also. He looked down at his bare feet, not wanting anyone to guess his thoughts.
It time to run now.

The captain mounted his horse. “We'll return in three weeks, sir. Give you time to get your croppin' done.”

Obi kept his face down. When they came back in three weeks, he'd be gone.

“Guess we ain't got no say in the matter!” Wilson said angrily, raising his voice.

The captain ignored his comment. “What else you grow besides tobacco?”

The other soldier pulled out his notebook again.

“Tobacco's our big crop.”

“Maybe you could also spare a hog or two and a few bushels of corn, peas—whatever—for our sons? The boys
are sacrificin' their lives.” He saluted Wilson. “Three weeks sir.”

They rode out of the yard. Easter, looking frightened left the barn.

Obi clenched his fist, expecting Wilson to fly into a rage again. He knew he'd have to pay for what he'd done, but a part of him was glad that he'd tried to fight back.

Wilson kept his belt around his waist. “Get back in that field,” he yelled at Easter. Then, turning to Obi, he said stonily, “You let that gal work alone. You crop in Master John's field.”

Jason gazed at Wilson in fear as if he were expecting to be hit again.

“You collect the firewood,” he said to the small boy gruffly.

Obi's head pounded as he, Wilson, and Easter walked back to the fields. Wilson swaggered a few feet ahead of them. Glancing at the cool, green oak grove, Obi felt as if he had the great iron shackles around his ankles again—like those he'd worn when they came off the boats in Charleston Harbor.

The sun burned directly overhead. Normally it would be about time for their midday meal. This usually consisted of whatever was left over from the previous evening's meal, and they'd eat right out in the field.

But Obi knew now that Wilson wouldn't let them stop working long enough to drink a cup of water. Easter, walking close to him, held his hand. Obi knew she had a million questions to ask, but Wilson was close enough to hear anything they said.

“I tell you later what happen,” he whispered to her as they parted. She and Wilson cropped in the same field.
Makin' sure she don't take a minute rest,
Obi told himself. When he reached the farthest field, he sat down among the tall tobacco stalks, knowing that Wilson couldn't see him. He held his throbbing head for a few moments before beginning work. When he felt a little better, he worked
steadily, leading his mule back and forth along the rows of wide green leaves.

As soon as his sacks were full, he led the mule out of the field and saw Easter in the distance working side by side with Wilson. While Obi emptied the leaves in the barn, he heard John and Martha's wagon rattle into the yard. He was relieved that they were back.

He also heard Wilson calling to his brother. Instead of rushing back out into the hot sun, Obi took a few minutes to bundle a pile of leaves. Wilson came into the yard and started talking, but Obi couldn't tell what he was saying.

After tying the leaves, Obi left the barn. Wilson and Master John were waiting for him. Martha Jennings, in her somber black dress and bonnet, stood behind the men. Her long, thin face looked weary and blank.

Jason, staggering under an armful of wood, stumbled into the yard. He almost dropped the wood when he saw Martha. “Mistress, I—”

She put her finger to her lips. “Take that wood in the shed and go bring Easter here,” Jennings ordered. “And bring me some rope.”

Jason walked unsteadily around the barn to the shed and then ran off for Easter. Obi started to lead the mule back to the field. “You wait here!” Master John said sternly. Jennings's high, sharp cheekbones protruded out of his face like two pieces of granite.

Obi's hands became wet and clammy. He tried to form the words in his head so that he could tell his side of the story—mainly, that he grabbed Wilson without even thinking.

He didn't look at Wilson standing next to his brother, but he caught Martha's eyes for a moment. Though she didn't say anything, a softness in her look told him that
she
understood how he felt.

When Easter and Jason walked into the yard, Master John glared at the three of them. Jason handed him the rope. “When I tell y'all to stay on this land, I mean it!”

“I wasn't doin' nothin' wrong, Master John,” Obi protested. His wide nostrils flared slightly.

“You wasn't workin' when you was supposed to, and you put a hand on my brother. Some would beat you to an inch of your life for that. Some would even kill you,” he said, never taking his eyes off Obi.

Wilson started removing his belt as John turned to him. “Twenty-five lashes. Give the other two five apiece.”

Easter and Martha both gasped, and Jason looked as if he were ready to fly out of the yard.

Martha stepped up to her husband, clutching his arm. “Give them extra work, or don't feed them tonight, but don't beat on them,” she pleaded.

He pulled his arm away from her. “Hush, woman. You the one who spoiled them.”

Martha clenched her teeth and walked quickly into the house, slamming the door behind her. Wilson grinned with narrowed eyes at Obi. “Take your shirt off and stand under that tree.”

Obi silently obeyed him and stepped under the beautiful magnolia. Master John tied Obi's hands around the tree. Jason was already sobbing as he buried his head against Easter's thigh. Easter put her arms around him and stared into space.

Wilson raised his arm. “This is what happens when you put your hands on a white man.” The cracking sound the belt made when it hit Obi's flesh seemed to echo throughout the farm. Obi bit his lips until they bled, but he would not cry out. He wanted to scream—the way his mother had screamed—but each time the belt cut his flesh, he kept one thought in mind:
I put a mark on you too, Wilson.

Easter heard the lashes but never watched. She gazed at the blue sky and tried to listen to the songs of the brownish-gray mockingbirds. Jason kept his head buried in her dress.

When Wilson finished, Master John untied Obi. He slid slowly to the ground.

Easter made a movement toward him, but Wilson grabbed
her by the wrist. He whacked her five times on her legs with the belt. Her eyes filled with tears that spilled over, but she made no sound. Jason also took five lashes, with his arms wrapped around Easter's small waist and his face hidden against her stomach.

Obi watched Wilson beating them. His inability to help Easter and Jason hurt him more than his own lashing.

“These is war times and people is dyin'. I ain't goin' to have y'all comin' and goin' as you please,” Master John warned. “Everybody git back to work. Jason, you better stop crying 'fore I give you somethin' to cry about. You go in the field with Easter and Obi. And you work. Don't want to see you just totin' water all day.”

Wilson had a satisfied look on his face. He watched as Easter helped Obi to his feet and the three children trudged to the fields.

Jason clung tightly to Easter's hand as they walked. The sun burned into the welts that were beginning to rise on Obi's back. When they were hidden among the tall tobacco stalks, Obi sat on the ground and Easter sank to her knees and looked at his bleeding back.

She embraced him around his waist, and he buried his face in her neck. They both cried. Jason stood next to them, patting Obi's shoulders tenderly and sniffling loudly. They stayed there for a time, drawing comfort from one another.

Then the stalks parted and the three of them jumped. Martha, face drawn and her lips set in a thin line, handed Easter clean rags and a bucket of water.

She wore her field dress and the bonnet that she wore while she worked.

“Mistress, why Master let Wilson beat us?” Easter asked tearfully.

“Git to work before Wilson comes,” Martha said. “We'll talk later.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” Obi said softly as she left.