Miss Katie's Rosewood (17 page)
Read Miss Katie's Rosewood Online
Authors: Michael Phillips
Tags: #FIC042030, #FIC042000, #FIC026000
“Why not?” she said, laughing. “You've been to Rosewood once before.”
“I didn't think that's how things were done in the South.”
“We're not really Southerners.”
“Your tongue sure had me fooled!”
“You know what I mean. My mother's people, Aunt Nelda and my two unclesâthey were all raised here, in
Pennsylvania. But I didn't think much about it until recently.”
“ReallyâI didn't know that. Where?”
“I'm not sure exactly. Out in the country somewhere. My grandparents or their parentsâit gets confusing, you knowâhad a farm someplace. I think they were Quakers, but my mother and aunt and uncles weren't. Pennsylvania's the state that was settled by Quakers, isn't it?”
“That's what the history books say.”
“But no matter where my people came from . . . and even though I
sound
Southern, you could still have come for a visit.”
Again it was quiet for several seconds.
“I suppose the real reason I didn't,” said Rob, “was that I wasn't sure what you would think . . . you know about everything that happened.”
Katie drew in a deep breath. Her heart was starting to pound a little faster than normal.
“I . . . I would have loved a visit,” she said softly, desperately trying to keep her voice from quivering.
“And I had to tell you about my sister and Damon Teague,” Rob went on. “I felt . . . I don't know, almost like I was keeping secrets from you. We had written so many times, but I had never had the courage to tell you everything. I was so worried after my letter that you might not understand.”
“I hope I do, Rob . . . I
think
I do.”
“I think you do too, and it means more to me than I can say. So many of these things are spiritual burdens that I have to carry alone. Just to know someone else shares a burden like that, and understands as much as anyone can understand what is in another person's heart . . . just that alone eases the burden of it tremendously. I've really not had anyone to share it with. Some of my ideas seem foreign and strange to people in my dad's church. I know maybe I'm wrong about some
things. I'm still young and growing. But it is hard having no one to talk to about what I'm thinking and feeling. I don't feel that I am carrying what I have to carry alone anymore.”
“I . . . I will try to carry it with you, Rob,” said Katie. “That is . . . if you want me to.”
“There is nothing I want so much.”
They reached the house and went inside. By now it was dark and the night was growing cold. Rob said his good-byes to Katie's aunt, and then departed for his hotel in the city.
“I will send you word the instant I learn anything,” he said, as he and Katie parted on the porch. Then he descended the steps and disappeared into the night.
Katie waited until she could no longer hear his retreating footsteps, then returned inside, brushing her hand at both eyes as she went.
F
ATEFUL
V
ISIT
26
W
HEN THE VISITOR TO ARRIVE AT
R
OSEWOOD WAS
invited into the house for a serious talk with Ward and Templeton Daniels, it was a conversation that would, in the months that followed, change the lives of everyone in the Rosewood family forever.
Their visitor from town sat down. They offered him a cup of coffee, but after a brief sip and nearly imperceptible grimace, he set the cup aside.
“So, those two girls of yours are gone, eh?” he said.
“Yeah, and it's too quiet around here!” laughed Templeton.
Behind them the door opened.
They glanced up to see Josepha walk in, followed by Henry.
“Are we glad to see you!” said Templeton. “We need a fresh pot of coffee. We've been drinking what's left from breakfast and it's not too good.”
“Hello, Henry,” said Mr. Watson.
“You didn't gib Mr. Watson my ol' stale cold coffee,” asked Josepha, glancing at the cup in front of their guest as she walked toward the cook stove.
Ward nodded. “It was all we had.”
“Well, you jes' wait a minute or two till I put on a new
pot.âYou din't by chance bring no mail from town fo us from dem two girls?” she asked, turning toward Mr. Watson.
“No, I'm sorry, Josepha,” he replied. “I didn't think to check.”
“Still no word yet!” she said, half to herself. “It been too long. Dey shoulda wrote by now.”
“I'm sure they're fine,” said Templeton. “Probably just busy, that's all. They're probably having such a good time trying on store-bought hats and dresses that they just forgot to telegraph us.”
“I still think it's been too long. I don't like it.”
“From that look on your face, Herb,” said Ward, “I'd say you got something serious on your mind.”
Herb Watson tried to laugh with him, but without much humor in his tone.
“I suppose you're right,” he said.
“Anything you got to say, you can say to us all.”
Watson nodded. He might as well just get down to the business of his call.
“I'd hoped, as much as I didn't want to do it, that letting your boy go,” he said, glancing in Henry's direction, “would take care of things. But I'm still getting pressure. And unfortunately, with the law on their side . . .”
He did not finish. Except for Josepha at the stove, the kitchen fell silent.
“Come on, Herb, out with it,” said Templeton at length. Just give it to us straight.”
Watson sighed.
“I guess what I'm trying to say is that maybe it would be better for everybody if you'd get your lumber and supplies elsewhereâjust for a while, until things settle down.”
“You don't want to sell to us?”
“Come on, you know it's not like that. But I'm being pressured, and . . . well, why should we intentionally alienate them? There are other places.”
“What about our cotton, Herb?” asked Ward.
“I don't knowâthat's still several months off. It's only Mayâlet's worry about that when the time comes. But there's talk you shouldn't get the same price as the other farmers.”
“How can they do that?” asked Ward. “You set the prices.”
“Only partly, depending on what I'm going to be paid by the consolidator in Charlotte. Then I judge according to quality. They figure theirs is better cottonâat least that's the excuse they use.”
“But it's a lie, Herb. You know that our cotton is as good as anyone's.”
“Well, that's true. But their kind can do anything they want. I can't very well let them put me out of business. That'll just hurt everybody.”
“What happened?” asked Templeton in a more serious tone than was generally his custom.
“One of Sam's cronies saw Henry coming in a week or two ago, for that order of lumber of yours. More threats started immediately.”
“Like what?”
“Nothing serious, but they made it plain enough what they think of my doing business with coloreds and those that harbor them. It was made clear enough that it wouldn't go well for me if I didn't put a stop to it.”
“Is that all, Herb?”
Watson sighed. He was a tolerant man. This went against everything he believed in. When he finally spoke, it was with a sad voice of resignation.
“Well, you'd better be prepared for a low yield on your crop, that's all,” he said slowly. “The likelihood is that you're not going to get but half what you're expecting, maybe even less. They're going to be watching.”
The brothers looked at each other with expressions of concern and surprise.
“If we don't sell this fall's crop of ours, and for a top price, we'll never meet our taxes,” said Templeton. “We were short last year and they gave us a year's extension. But they won't look kindly on us being short again.”
“Yeah, I know that. But I don't know what else to do. They could ruin me if I don't go along. They could burn me out and ruin all the other growers too.”
“We're going to have a good year, Herb. We got ten acres more planted than last year.”
Ward shook his head and drew in a deep breath. “They're trying to squeeze us out,” he said. “It's beginning to look, after all we've put into this place, like they might finally do it.”
“I'm sorry, boys,” said Watson. “I'll think on it and see if there isn't something I can come up with.”
He rose to leave.
“Don't you want a cup er hot coffee?” asked Josepha.
“Thanks, but I've got to be getting back. Sorry to put you to the trouble, but this wasn't a very pleasant errand. I feel like a scoundrel having to say what I did.”
“It's not your fault, Herb,” said Ward.
“By the way,” Watson said, “how is your boy doing, Henry?”
“Doing good,” answered Henry. “Though he ain't much ob a letter writer.”
“He's found himself work in Delaware,” added Templeton. “He's making pretty good money, trying to save enough to marry that daughter of mine.”
“I'm glad to hear it. Give him my regards when you write to him.”
“We'll do that.”
“Sometimes I think we all ought to pack up and join him,” sighed Ward. “Probably save everybody a lot of trouble.”
“We can't give in, Ward,” said Templeton. We've got to fight this. We've weathered plenty of crisis times before now.”
“We always had the cotton to bail us out. And I'm not sure it's worth it if it gets someone killed.”
“Well, thanks for letting us know, Herb,” said Templeton. “I'm sorry our troubles keep landing on you.”
“Nothing's landed on me yet. I just hope we can figure out a way to keep this mess from landing on everybody.”
As Herb Watson headed back to town, and Henry and Josepha made their way back to their own house, the two brothers sat back down in the kitchen that had once been so full of life and activity. The whole house seemed far too big, far too silent, and far too empty for just the two of them. It seemed deserted.
More had changed around here than just the attitude throughout the South toward Negroes. Rosewood had changed too. They weren't so sure they liked it.
I T
AKE
M
ATTERS
I
NTO
M
Y
O
WN
H
ANDS
27
B
y the second night since we had been taken from the railroad car, the men especially were getting restless. I had the feeling they'd try something before long. But they were worried about the women and children and the guns. I lay awake thinking about the weather vane. About halfway through the night I remembered why it was so familiar to me. I remembered it from Josepha's stories about the Underground Railroad. Josepha hadn't got this far north, of course, but she said the places where they'd stop and get help used horse weather vanes like that for a sign. They marked the homes of white religious people who talked old-fashioned and who'd sometimes help runaway slaves
.
We weren't runaway slaves, but we were sure in trouble. I wondered if blacks could still get help at those kinds of places
.
It was the middle of the night. In the distance I heard two of the men with guns whispering to each other. If I could just get close enough to hear!
Their backs were turned. They couldn't see me. I
tried to roll toward them, moving slowly so that if they looked in my direction it would look like I was asleep inside my blanket. I had to scrunch my way around some of the others who were sleeping. But eventually I worked my way close enough, an inch or two at a time, where I could lay pretending to be asleep and make out about half of what they were saying
.
“. . . three more days . . .”
“. . . ship waiting?”
“. . . think any of the men'll cause trouble?”
“. . . might have to kill one or two . . . shut the rest of them up . . .”
“. . . old woman . . . won't bring much anyway.”
“. . . much you think we'll get . . .”
“. . . close to three, maybe four thousand.”
The other whistled under his breath
.
“. . . desperate for workers. . . . last load . . . came away with a thousand . . . just my share.”
“. . . get to the river . . . safe then . . . barge down to coast . . .”
I couldn't be positive, but that sure sounded like they were taking us someplace . . . and planning to sell us. I could barely breatheâslavery was supposed to be over! I couldn't believe that I'd heard what I had just heard!
We had to do something! But what could I do? I was just one girl
.
Now I really couldn't sleep!
I thought about trying to wake up one of the men. But whatever I thought of to do reminded me what they'd said about killing a few of us. If they heard me talking in the middle of the night to anyone, they would be suspicious and might do anything. So what should I do?
The two men finally got up and wandered around a
bit, keeping guard and checking the horses, and the night grew silent. I suppose I dozed a little, and by morning I had come up with a daring scheme
.
I had to try to escape and get help!
The way I figured it, if I didn't, nobody would because nobody else likely knew what I had overheard. And I couldn't talk to any of the other people about it without possibly getting us all in trouble. If I acted on my own, at least if anything went wrong, it would only go wrong for me
.
Whether all Negroes looked alike to whites I didn't know, but the big mean-looking black man who was with the kidnappers . . . I knew we didn't all look alike to him. He'd looked at me a time or two in a way I didn't like. So he knew my face, that's for sure. How could I get away without him noticing that I was gone?
Morning came, everyone stirred and began getting up, going to the woods, eating more of the stale bread, wandering back and forth from the stream. The three men watched as we went, but not so close that they saw every move we made, especially as people went into the woods to do their necessaries. Nobody talked much, because the men were listening too. Knowing that the men might shoot if anyone started something, I couldn't imagine any way for all of us to escape together, or to get the guns from all three of them at once without something going wrong
.
But one person might be able to escape. So that's what I had in mind to try to doâescape myself and then worry about how to get help or rescue the others after I was out of danger
.
I went slowly to the stream with a group of others, pretending to be sleepy and not paying attention to anything. But out of the corner of my eye I was watching the big black man. I knelt down, washed my face,
took a long drink, then got up. The man wasn't looking right then, so I followed a group of three or four women toward the trees. But I continued to keep the three guards or kidnappers or whoever they were in sight without it being too obvious. Gradually I went a little further from the others into the woods. Then I hid behind a tree that was just about as wide as me. I stayed there till I heard the other women go back. I waited a little more, then snuck a look around the edge of the trunk. The black man was talking to somebody
.
Hurriedly I darted a few steps further back among the trees until I found another trunk to get behind. I kept doing that until I was far enough away that I couldn't even see anyone or the wagons. By then I knew that they couldn't see me and that I was safe unless I made a noise or unless the mean-looking black man realized I was missing and came looking for me. If that happened, I'd be in big trouble!
So I crept back through the woods as fast as I dared, without stepping on twigs or making any sound. I got so far away that I could barely hear their voices in the distance. Then I stopped and waited. I was safe for now, unless any of them came looking for me
.
Several minutes went by . . . then five . . . then ten
.
I heard a faint yell that sounded like a driver calling to horses. Then I thought I heard the sound of wagon wheels grinding and wagons clattering into motion
.
Gradually everything became silent. Had they really left without me? The old woman would know I was missing because we had talked quite a bit during the two days. I just hoped she didn't say anything about my not being there
.
I waited another ten minutes or so, listening for any hint of noise. Then I crept out of the woods and into a field
.
There wasn't a person or wagon or anything to be seen. They were gone and I was alone and I didn't know where
.
