Never Too Late (4 page)

Mercifully she had been attached to the kitchen after Grace's death, mainly to wash dishes. So she had not had to endure the fields under the hot sun, but had recently grown accustomed to the hot, sweaty, endless, thankless work of a kitchen slave, laboring so that a privileged few might never have to lift a finger for any provision they might want. Now at the mere age of ten, her intuition with food and baking had already begun to manifest itself. She was occasionally told to make a batch of bread or mix up a fresh pot of soup on her own. Neither her white master, nor any of his family, nor the Negro house mammy had yet been disappointed.

She reached the garden, opened the wire gate, went inside, and proceeded to gather the vegetables she had been sent for.

Twenty minutes later she left by the same gate, closed it carefully, and headed back toward the house. She was not exactly a dreamy sort of girl, though she often gave the impression of being lost in faraway thoughts, for she said but little. The fact was, she had never recovered from being cruelly ripped away from her family at the tender age of seven, nor the death of her young mistress a few years later. Since then her life had been a dull, mechanical tedium of work for which she had little interest, among people she did not care about and would never care about and who did not care for her. Some were kinder than others. But no one really cared who she was or where she came from or probably whether she lived or died. To care brought pain in the
life of the slave. Though she had not stopped to think about it, and was too young to do so anyway, the pain she had already suffered had scarred her too deeply to care much about anything. So she kept to herself. Even the threat of the whip, which she had felt at her previous home, was not sufficient to arouse her from lethargy. She had been torn from her mother. Death had torn her from Grace.

She cared for nothing anymore . . . except her one friend.

Lost in the uncaring boredom of hour that followed hour, day that followed day, she did not hear the pounding hooves coming toward her. Even had she glanced up and seen the horse, she would not have known it to be a runaway from the stables, and no sense of danger would immediately have registered itself in her brain.

But at length she did hear the pounding, paused, and glanced toward the sound. A horse was coming straight for her along the narrow road from the house to the field. Behind it ran three or four men, yelling. Maybe they were yelling at her—she couldn't tell.

Her legs froze in panic. It was the same fear she felt when getting a whipping or being on the slave block. Her mouth went dry and she might as well have been mute, for she could not utter a word.

By now the words coming from the men were plain enough.

“Get away . . . get out of the way . . . get off the road!” they continued to shout at her.

But she could run no more than she could speak. She was frozen to the spot as the huge black horse with fire in his eyes charged straight toward her. Ever since that day
after the fire, fear had been capable of paralyzing her into a statue of stone.

The basket fell from her fingers to the ground. But still she stood unmoving.

From out of the corner of her eye there was a swift movement. She was not even capable of turning toward it, yet was somehow vaguely aware of it. A figure was sprinting at a speed unseen on the plantation before that minute. He was just a boy, but he was running faster than any of the men about the place, white or black, could have run.

When the horse, wild-eyed and as heedless of its danger as the girl of hers, was nearly upon her and seemed sure to trample her under his pounding hooves, from across the meadow flew a black blur diagonally between them. He did not even slow as he slammed into the girl and knocked her to the ground and off to one side of the path. A second later the horse thundered by, crushing the basket and vegetables under his mighty hooves.

The men came charging up and ran past, shouting out a few derisive words as they passed at the girl who had nearly gotten herself killed. But they were soon gone, for they cared more for the horse than they did her.

The boy stood, then pulled her back to her feet.

“Why didn't you git outta da way, Seffie?” he asked. “Dat blamed horse coulda killed you.”

“I don't know,” she said. “I jes' saw it an' got plumb scared. When I gits scared, sometimes I can't move.”

“It's a good thing I saw you when I did.”

“Thank you, Mose. You saved me, like you always does. I don't know what I'd do ef you didn't always take care ob me.”

“You take care ob yo'self jes' fine, Seffie!” laughed Mose. “You take care ob yo'self in da kitchen.”

“Dat's different. In dere I knows what I's doing. Dat reminds me—I brought you something, in case I saw you.”

She dug her hand into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a handful of pecan nuts.

“De're shelled an' everythin', Mose.”

“Thanks, Seffie!” said the boy. “Dey really all fo me?”

“I brought dem fo you.”

“Wuz you s'posed to?”

“I don't know. I just did. Dere wuz a whole bowlful ob dem. Dere can't be no harm in you havin' a few.”

“Thanks, Seffie,” said Mose again, biting into a large pecan with eyes full of satisfaction.

“Oh, but look at my basket and the vegetables! They'll scold me somethin' awful.”

“I'll tell 'em what happened an' 'bout da horse an' everythin'. Meantime, let's pick up dose things an' git a few fresh carrots and beans for dose da horse trampled an' den I'll go back to da house wiff you. Ain't dat much harm dun dat I kin see.”

But Seffie didn't want Mose to go in and tell what happened for fear of what might happen to him. So she went in alone. Seffie got no whipping, just a scolding for being late with the vegetables and for breaking the basket. They all knew the sadness she felt after Grace died and had been patiently waiting for her to get her spirit back. She said nothing about Mose's part in the incident, and it was soon forgotten by all but the two friends.

O
NE
-E
YED
J
ACK

5

A
YEAR LATER, ONE OF THOSE HOT SUMMER DAYS
came when it didn't seem that anyone had energy to lift a finger, much less a cotton hoe. It happened also to be a Sunday, so the slaves were free to do as they pleased and most of them, especially all the children, wound up down at the river trying to cool off. By midafternoon the shouts and laughter from the swimming hole were gradually fading to sounds of exhaustion from hours of continuous play.

Mose, meanwhile, after a swim with the others, was on the back of an old plough horse that had nearly outlived his working life. The overseer let Mose ride him when neither was wanted for anything else. Mose had shown himself useful with horses and had turned into one of the main young stable hands. On this day Mose was trying to get old one-eyed Jack, so called because he was blind in one eye, to swim across the river with him on his back, something neither had ever done before. But Jack would not take a step beyond the water's edge despite Mose's yells and kicks and threats and promises, not a word of which the horse understood anyway.

“Whatchu doin', Mose?” asked eleven-year-old Seffie, walking along the river's edge, her bare feet up to her ankles in the water. She had lapsed almost completely back into the slave talk of her childhood. The looks she'd had from the other slaves in the kitchen told her clearly enough that they didn't take to an uppity slave any more than whites did. It was different when she was with Grace. But that was over now, and it was time she acted like a slave along with the rest of them.

“Tryin' to git dis blamed horse ter take me across ober ter da other side,” said Mose in frustration.

“Why won't he go?”

“I don't know—he's jes' an ornery cuss, I reckon.—Why ain't you swimmin' wiff da others?”

“I don't know—I's too fat ter swim.”

“Whatchu sayin'? Anybody kin swim, an' you ain't fat anyway.”

“Well, why ain't you swimmin', den?”

“I wuz. See . . . I's all wet. But den I thought ob ridin' Jack across da ribber, but I can't.—Hey, I got me an idea,” said Mose excitedly. He threw one leg over Jack's back and jumped to the ground.

“You git up on him, Seffie,” he said. “Den I'll pull him across wiff da reins. Den when he's deep enuff, you jump off an' I'll jump on.”

“I can't ride no horse, Mose. I never been on a horse's back. An' I can't swim neither.”

“Ain't nuthin' ter either ob 'em. You jes' git up an' sit on his back. You jes' sit dere.”

“What'll I hang on to effen you's got da reins?”

“His mane. Jes' hang on to his hair.”

“I don't know, Mose . . . I's kinda skeered ter git up dat high. What ef he runs or somethin'?”

“He won't, cuz I got da reins.”

“But what about da swimmin'? You ain't really gwine make me git off him where da water's deep, is you?”

“How 'bout ef you get off where you kin stan' up on da bottom.”

“But not too deep? I'd be skeered ter git too deep.”

“Not too deep, den.—Come on, den . . . git up on Jack's back.”

“But, Mose, I don't know how.”

“Here, jes' take hold up here—grab a fistful ob his mane an' da reins . . . dat's it. I's keep hold ob his bit.”

“But how I git all da way up dere? I can't jump up dat high!”

“Here, I'll kneel down . . . now put yo foot on my knee, dat's it . . . now give a jump up an' git across his back wiff yo belly.”

Timidly Seffie tried to do as he said. But she only succeeded in reaching halfway up Jack's flank before sliding back down to the ground. The horse gave a little snort and shuffled his feet about in the dirt.

“I can't do it, Mose! He's too high!”

“You kin do it, Seffie. Come on—you jes' gotta jump harder off my knee an' pull yo'self up. Try it agin . . . dis time I'll give you a shove.”

“Oh, Mose . . . do I have to?”

“Come on, Seffie—you kin do it. Anybody kin ride a horse.”

With a groan, Seffie approached again, reached up to clutch the reins and mane in a single mass, then stepped on
Mose's knee and lunged upward. At the same moment, Mose stood and shoved at her rump, pushing her up over the top of Jack's back.

“Ow!” she cried. “What do I do now!”

“Swing one leg over and sit up.”

Awkwardly she did so. A few seconds later she was seated atop Jack's back, beaming in triumph, though still holding on to hair and leather for dear life.

“Dat's it, Seffie! I knew you cud do it!” said Mose. “Now let me hab da reins, while you keep hold er Jack's mane.”

Gently he reached up and eased the reins from her.

“You want ter take jes' a little ride first,” Mose said, “afore we go into the ribber—jes' ter see what it's like?”

“Do you think I kin do it?”

“Shore, ain't nuthin' ter it. Jes' sit there . . . lean forward a bit an' keep yo knees in tight against Jack's back . . . an' keep hangin' on. I'll lead him myself.”

Slowly Mose walked to the front where Jack could see him, then with reins in hand gently pulled him away from the water and along the edge of the river.

A little cry went up from behind. Mose turned to his rider with a grin.

“You's doin' it, Seffie! You's ridin' a horse. I told you dere wuzn't nuthin' to it!”

“It's a mite fearsome, Mose! What ef he kicks or runs or somethin'?”

“Den I reckon you'd fall off. But he ain't gwine do dat. He's jes' an old tired horse who don't want ter do nuthin' but walk real slow.”

On they walked, as Mose said, very slow. Gradually
Seffie became more comfortable with the movement beneath her.

“Now, Seffie,” said Mose, “I's gwine han' you da reins.”

“No—I can't do dat!” yelled Seffie in terror.

“You kin . . . here!”

Her eyes wide in fear, Seffie took the two leather straps from him as he held them up to her.

“You stay close, Mose—don't you go no place!”

“I's right here where Jack can keep an eye on me—wiff his good eye, dat is. I jes' keep walkin' an' he'll keep follerin'.”

They continued on another few steps.

“Dere, you see, Seffie—you's ridin' all alone. Keep da reins loose, don't pull 'em back or Jack'll get skittish. Jes' hold 'em loose an' let him walk.”

Slowly Mose stood aside and let Jack continue on with Seffie on his back.

“Mose!” she called.

“I's right here. You's doin' jes' fine.”

“How I git him ter turn!”

“Jes' real gently swing dem reins ter one side. Don't pull on 'em—keep 'em loose like I said, but jes' ease 'em against his neck to one side.”