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"King flea," Champ Noland said, and a few of the men
laughed at the outlandish idea.

"So now you want us to call you King John?" Billy
Branches, slave Number Thirty-nine, asked.

"I's jes' talkin' 'bout tall right now," John said. "Fas jes'
sayin' that if a flea could be tall den why cain't I be?"

"But dat flea you supposin' was taller den the othah fleas," said Number Seventy-five, also known as Black
Tom. "I see a lotta men here taller den you."

John's eyes got big and then he rolled them around the
room to check out Black Tom's claim. He looked so foolish
that many of the men started laughing. I felt a grin come
across my own face.

I had only been out in the slave quarters for a few
weeks. In that time I had never heard general laughter
among the men. Sometimes, before we were chained to
our bunks, the men would gather under lamplight and talk
in low tones about mundane events of the day. But hearing
John brought lightness to our hearts.

"I don't like to conta'dict you, suh," John replied after
rolling his eyes some more. "But I done spied around my
self 'n I do believe that I am the tallest person hereabouts."

John's outlandish claim brought loud protests from
the men.

"Dat nigger's crazy," one voice shouted.

"Dat's a lie!" another indignant man said.

There was a great deal of shouting but as angry as the
sounded they were still having a good time.

"So says you," John said in response to the doubting mob
of slaves. "But let me pose you dis . . ." He held up one fin
ger and the whole room went silent. "If you sees a wood
barrel stand up to here . . ." he held his hand at the level of
his diaphragm "... would you call dat a tall barrel?"

"No," somebody said. "Dat's jes' a regular barrel. It'a
have to be up to here to call it tall."

The man, Number Nineteen, held his hand shoulder
high to show what he meant.

A few of the men grumbled their agreement with Nine
teen.

"All right den," Tall John said. "Now what if you see a
blade'a grass come all the way up to my chest? Wouldn't
you call dat a tall blade'a grass?"

"Sure it is," a voice from the back said.

"Uh-huh," Champ Noland agreed.

A few of the others had to admit what John said was true.

"Now look here," John said then.

He went to stand next to Champ Noland, who was the
tallest and broadest man on the whole plantation.

John came up to about the middle of Champ's neck but
he was so skinny that it would have taken four of him to
match the big man's girth. Everybody in the room could
see that Champ was more like a squat barrel where John
was tall like a blade of grass.

The men broke out laughing and I was proud that I was
the one who found Tall John and brought him into our
midst.

But even then I wondered at the many faces of my new
friend. In front of the master he was a cowering slave want
ing nothing but the master's approval. With Albert and the rest of the slaves he was a wise-cracking joker outthinking
us but at the same time making us laugh. When we were
alone he sounded like an educated white person from
some far-off city like Atlanta or Charleston. But not only
that
when we were together John acted as if we were al
ways meant to be friends.

When we were walking toward the slave quarters after see
ing Tobias, John had said to me, "I'm glad that we found each other at last, Forty-seven."

"How do you know my name, boy?" I'd replied.

"I've known who you were since before you born, son.
All this time I've been doing your job. Pretty soon now I
think you'll be doing mine."

"Well," I'd said, "seein' that we's both slaves I guess
one thing's the same as t'other."

John laughed out loud and slapped my arm. Then we
got to the slave quarters, where he told us about the barrel
and the blade of grass.

"Okay," Albert said, finally, after much laughter about
John's riddle-like argument. "Time to hit the hay. I'm gonna
move Champ over to bunk with Thirty-two and I'm gonna
put Number Twelve and Forty-seven in the same cot."
"Why you wanna do that?" Seven, who we also knew as
Charlie Baylor, asked. "Forty-seven and this new boy is small. It'a make more sense to put them with big men like
me so we could have some room when we tryin' t'sleep."

"Sleep is the last thing you need, Charlie Baylor. Every
time I sen' some'un to look for you they find you nappin'
under some cotton bush."

The slaves all laughed then. I could see in Charlie's face
that he didn't like being made fun of but I also knew that
Mud Albert was free to say anything he wanted as long as
Champ Noland was there to back him up.

So John and I were given the lower bunk nearest Mud Al
bert's brass bed. Champ went around chaining everybody
to the bolts in the floor. After a while Mr. Stewart came in
to check our chains. All he did was go to the foot of each
cot and shake the chains. He didn't even notice that there
was a new boy in the cabin.

After Mr. Stewart was gone Albert snuffed out the
lanterns and so there was only one candle for light. He
took this candle and came to sit next to our bunk.
"Tall John is it?" he asked my friend.
"You bettah believe it, brothah," John replied. His smil
ing teeth flashed in the flickering light.

"You evah hear tell of the one dey call High John the
Conqueror?" Albert asked.

"You mean the trickster from Africa who makes fun'a
the mastah an' who means to free alia the slaves an' bring'em
back home?" John answered and asked.

"That's the one. They say that High John was sent by
ancient African gods to bring us slaves back home to where
our mothers' is still waitin' for us," Albert said. "If'n I put
high in yo' name instead'a tall dat might jes' be you."

"I haven't come here to free the slaves, Mud Albert,"
John said, no longer joking or making light. "I came here to
find Forty-seven. He has more interest in freeing slaves
than do I."

These words made Albert bend forward and peer closely
at my new friend.

"Be careful, boy," Albert said then. "You might think you so skinny dat you kin slip through any crack but you
can get cut down by the reaper jes' like all the rest."

"I heah ya, boss," John replied, once again smiling and
cracking wise.

"This ain't no foolin', boy," Albert said in his most seri
ous tone. "These white folks'll kill a smart-mouf nigger
like you an' then sit down to Sunday suppah."

The smile on John's face faded then. But he didn't look
scared. It was more like he felt sorry for Albert's fear.

Albert walked over to his bed then. I saw his dark form for a moment and then he blew out the candle, making the
room pitch black. After that the men all fell asleep quickly.
They were tired from their labors and the cabin was soon
filled with the sounds of snores and heavy breathing. In only
a few minutes it seemed that I was the only one left awake.

I should have been asleep too. I had worked hard that
day too. But I was wide awake because of Tall John. Every
day before in the slave quarters was the same. Up before
dawn. Work, work, work and then work harder. And then
back to the bunk, where sleep came down like a hammer.
We never laughed before sleep or had conversations with Master on a country path.

John was something new and this lit a fire in my mind
that would not go out.

I wanted to talk to John but I knew that you never woke
up a sleeping slave. Slaves needed their rest. The reason
they called us lazy was that we worked so hard and we
never got enough sleep so we were always tired.

I looked at the sky through the cracks in the ceiling, wondering when sleep would come.

At that moment I heard a silvery musical note. It
sounded like a tiny bell and lasted for two breaths. Then
John propped himself up on one elbow. He was awake too.
"Let me see your hands," he said.
I did as he bade me, happy that he wanted to talk. I had
never met a colored person who talked like he did. Not
even the manservant, Fred Chocolate, was as well spoken
or articulate as the new boy. Tall John even put Master To
bias to shame with his silver tongue.

I held my hands out in the darkness, palms up.
John traced his slender fingers across my palms and
down my wrists.

"The infection is bad," he whispered. "If it isn't taken
care of you'll die."

"But I don't want the horse doctor to cut off my hands."

"He won't." John let go of my wrists and moved to get

out of the cot.

"Don't," I said. "If Mud Albert sees you, you be in

trouble."

"Don't worry, Forty-seven. Everybody on the entire
plantation will sleep until morning. A gunshot wouldn't
waken them from their beds."

Upon saying these words John reached into his pocket
and came out with a metal tube that looked something like
a tin cigar. There were red and green and blue beads up
and down the sides of the tube that shone almost as if
there was a tiny candle behind each one. On the top was a black button like a brimless hat.

"Did you hear a tiny chime?" he asked me. "I sho did."

"That was my little sleep machine here."
Then John hunched over toward our chains and I
pulled down under my shirt. Slaves didn't have blankets
in the summertime. If it got cold you just had to use what
ever you had to wear to keep you warm; that and your

bedmate.

It was never comfortable in the slave quarters; I had al
ways known that. Flimsy walls that let in the winds, chig-gers and fleas and ticks biting all the time; no water from
the time you went to sleep until the next day when you
took your first break from picking cotton. If you were sick
the slave boss called you lazy. If you were scared they
made fun of you and then whipped you so that you'd be
more afraid of them. We were fed sour grain boiled with bitter greens. If there was meat it was half rotten and field slaves never got milk.

Some of the slaves that had come from Africa, or had
been around those that did, knew how to steal blood from cows and weren't afraid to eat fat worms and other bugs.
But no matter what we did our lot was a hard one. Our
hearts and souls were forged in the furnace of slavery and
we were made so strong that we dragged the entire nation
on our skinny backs.

I felt the manacle around my ankle give. Then John
jumped out of bed and lit one of the oil lanterns, illumi
nating the room of sleeping men.

"What you doin', niggah?" I said to the boy called Tall John.

"Neither nigger nor master be," he said. "Get up,
Forty-seven, and fight for your life."

Slowly I raised up and looked around. All of the men
were sleeping in the cabin. But it was more than just a bunch of men sleeping. It was like in the late fall when
Mud Albert would take his secret fermenting jug from its hiding place in the barn and him and Mama Flore would
drink from it and fall unconscious just like as if somebody
had hit them in the head with a rifle butt.