Never Too Late (5 page)

Seffie tried to do as he said and slowly Jack began to turn in a wide circle back to where Mose stood.

“He's doin' it, Mose!” Seffie cried. “He's doin' jes' like you said!”

“You's ridin' him an' now you's turnin' him. I tol' you you cud do it!—Now let's take him into da ribber.”

He took hold of the reins in front again. “Come on,
Jack,” he said, leading him back toward the water's edge.

“I don't think I kin do dat!” said Seffie.

“Shore you kin. Look how you's ridin'. We'll jes' get him down in da water an' den you kin slide right off.”

“Oh, Mose, but—”

Already Jack's slowly clomping hooves had begun to splash into the edge of the river. With Mose in front slowly pulling him forward, he didn't hesitate but came straight in. Soon he was up to his knees, then the underside of his belly. Seffie's feet and the bottom of her dress were wet by then, but still Mose continued to lead Jack toward the middle of the river, himself submerged up to his waist.

“Mose, it's gettin' too deep!” cried Seffie.

“Jes' a little more . . . so's I kin git on—okay, now, Seffie, you kin slide off.”

“It looks too deep!”

“No, look—I'm standin' right here an' it ain't even past my chest.”

“But you's taller den me!”

“Jump, Seffie!”

Grimacing in fear, Seffie swung one leg over Jack's back, then closed her eyes and slid down into the slowmoving current with a cry.

“Mose, help me, I'm—”

But already Mose had her by the hand. He steadied her until her feet found the sandy bottom.

“Can you make it back to the shore, Seffie?” he said.

“I think so. I kin walk now,” she said, steadying herself as she slowly inched her way into shallower water.

“Good, den I's gwine git back on Jack!—Come on, Jack!” cried Mose. “You an' me's gwine cross dis ol'
ribber, an' wiff me on yo back!”

Seffie reached the shore and walked dripping out on the dry riverbank. She sighed deeply and sat down to watch as Mose half swam, half scampered onto Jack's back in the middle of the river, then rode him out into the deeper waters where the horse had to swim. She smiled as she watched Mose yelling with glee, as much for the satisfaction she felt for what she had managed to do herself as for the fun her friend was obviously having.

Another year passed. Mose began to take on the appearance of a strong teenage boy. Seffie grew a little stouter without adding enough height to compensate for it, and slowly her face became that of a girl poised at the edge of coming womanhood. Few took notice of the change for few took notice of her at all. After Grace died, she had become just one of the kitchen girls. She knew what to do with food, and for her white masters, that was all that mattered. She was not the kind of girl the master took notice of to try to get married off young. As long as she did what she was told and caused no trouble, life went on and no one noticed as she began to fill out in the places a woman does.

Still, at fifteen and twelve, Mose and Seffie remained best friends. By then Seffie was comfortable on a horse's back, and twice they had taken a long ride together on one-eyed Jack when they were both excused from work at the same time.

A C
UP OF
S
UGAR AND
T
WO
S
WEET
B
ISCUITS

6

T
HE END OF THE SUMMER GRADUALLY CAME ON
and the trees began to turn color and the crops ripened. An occasional fragrant nip could be felt in the air, hinting that autumn was coming and that winter was waiting behind it.

Harvest was near. And with harvest would come feasting and celebration and dancing and music. Even the slaves, if they were lucky, might come in for their share of the fun. They would never, of course, be invited to the big house, or to its expansive gardens or even close enough to
look
at the white folks' merrymaking. And the hired orchestra would certainly not play any Negro music. But slaves needed no orchestra to make music. Their mouths and the feelings in their hearts, along with an occasional fiddle, were all the instruments they needed.

But though their music could be made anytime and anywhere, the news that the master and mistress were planning a gay evening of music and dancing and eating also
infected the community of slaves with anticipation of an evening of fun of their own. They would be given half a day off besides to prepare their own harvest feast.

For the week leading up to the harvest celebration, the wind steadily picked up. By week's end it was blowing a gale. But it was a warm wind, fragrant off the Gulf, and no rain seemed in sight. So no one minded too much. As the night of celebration drew near, the chief concern was that the outside lanterns be tied down securely.

The animals were fidgety from the wind, but they would be all safely inside their pens, corrals, stables, and barns by the time the guests began to arrive.

All the slave ladies not engaged at the big house were busy all afternoon talking gaily as they plucked chickens and shucked ear after ear of corn and cut up potatoes and okra and carrots and mixed up biscuits for dumplings. The men sat around on the porches with pipes and harmonicas and stories. For on a day like this even a slave, if he was of the right temperament, might think even in the midst of suffering, that life could be a good and precious thing. The slaves had each other, they had family, they had their dignity and self-respect, and no white master could take those away.

For most, that is. Family had already been taken away from a few.

Fifteen-year-old Mose usually slept in a cabin of single men. Seffie spent her nights on a pad in a corner of Mammy's small room off the kitchen of the big house.

“Hey, Mose, boy,” called out a woman as she walked out onto the porch of one of the slave cabins, wiping her hands on her dirty apron.

“Yes'm,” said Mose, running toward her from where he was playing with a group of younger slave boys.

“Run up ter da big house an' fetch me some sugar in dis,” said the woman, handing him a cup. “Go to da back kitchen, you knows where I mean?”

“Yes'm—da small brown door.”

“Dat's it. Don' let mistress or none er her folk see you. You jes' ax fo Mammy. We ain't ter be axin' fo nuthin', but Mammy'll gib it ter you—you tell her Mabel sent you ter fetch it.”

Mose was off in a flash. As he approached the kitchen he stuffed the cup into his shirt in case one of the white ladies opened the door.

He knocked, and a minute later a plump black girl answered.

“Hi, Seffie,” he said.

“Mose, whatchu doin' here?”

“I was sent ter ax Mammy fo somethin'.”

“Fo what?”

“Some sugar,” said Mose, pulling out the cup. “But none er da mistress's folk is ter know.”

“Who dat at da door, Seffie, chil'?” came a voice from inside the kitchen. Seconds later a large black form filled the entryway.

“It's Mose, Mammy.”

“I kin see dat well enuff.”

“He wants some sugar.”

“Keep yo voice down, chil'!” scolded Mammy, glancing behind her.

“Mabel sent me ter see you,” said Mose.

Mammy glanced about again, then took the cup from his hand.

“Don't you say nuthin', Seffie,” she said. “Now git back ter yo dough—you wait dere, Mose.”

Seffie returned to the kitchen as Mammy closed the door.

Two or three minutes later it opened again.

“Dere's Mabel's sugar,” said Mammy. “Now you skedaddle on back down dere afore anyone sees you.”

“Yes'm,” said Mose, taking the cup from her hand.

He turned and ran off as the door closed behind him.

“Mose . . . wait!” he heard a voice behind him.

He stopped and turned back. There was Seffie running toward him. She reached him and glanced back nervously. In her hand she clutched a cloth napkin.

“Here, Mose,” she said. “I brung you dese. Dey's sweet biscuits.”

Mose's eyes widened at the sight. He took the two biscuits in his free hand.

“Dey's still warm!”

“I jes' took 'em out ob da oven.”

“Did you make 'em?”

“Dat I did.”

Mose didn't even wait but bit off a third of the first one as they stood talking.

“Dat's good, Seffie! Whateber you makes is always da bes'!”

“I gots ter git back or Mammy'll box my ears.”

She stuffed the empty napkin in her dress and ran off.

“Thanks, Seffie!” called Mose after her. “Dey's real good!”

He turned back toward the slave village and continued on, munching on his snack and in no hurry to deliver Mabel her cup of sugar. The best way not to have to share his unexpected treat was to make sure it was gone before he got back.

M
INUET

7

T
HE EVENING CAME ON AND THE GUESTS BEGAN TO
arrive from neighboring towns and plantations.

A lull came in the wind and a great calm descended. From far away in the slave village the faint music of a fiddle and clapping hands could be heard as darkness descended. In the gardens of the big house, however, the refined music of the small orchestra began to lure the ladies in their colorful dresses with strains of minuet and a selection of Mozart country dances.

Once dinner was past and all the dishes washed and dried and put away, Mammy told the girls who were helping her that they could go down to the village if they wanted, though by then it was after ten and the night starting to get a little chilly.

Seffie was already sleepy but she didn't want to miss out on anything. She followed the three or four other kitchen girls, all older than she was, through the night. Gradually the sounds of refined white music and culture faded behind them and the familiar sounds of slave voices
and laughter and fiddling and singing in rich Negro harmony grew louder and louder, until they were in the midst of their own people again. A large bonfire was burning.

Seffie hung back and watched, terrified by the mere sight of the fire in the center of the gathering. Mesmerized and afraid of the fire at the same time, she was also captivated by the music and dancing and laughter from the community of slaves of which she was a part. They were a people for whom happiness and celebration came easy even in the midst of their poverty.

“Hi, Seffie, whatchu doin' here?” said a voice at the girl's side. It was Mose.

“Mammy let us come when da dishes wuz all done,” said Seffie. “But I's gettin' sleepy.”

“Dem biscuits shore wuz good.”

“I wuz gwine bring you anudder one. But dey wuz all gone.”

“Dat's all right. I had plenty ter eat anyway.”

“You should see an' hear dem up at da big house. All da ladies is wearin' pretty fancy dresses an' da dancin' an' music is so fine.” She brushed some flour from her plaid dress with its two big pockets.

“Dere's dancin' down here too,” said Mose.

“It's different up at da big house.”

“What kind er dancin' dey doin'? Ain't dey dancin' like dis here?” asked Mose, glancing toward the fire where fifteen or twenty men and women were stirring up the dust with their high-stepping feet in rhythm to the fiddle and the clapping of the onlookers.

“No, it ain't nuthin' like dat. Dey's all slow an' graceful-like, an' dere ain't no stompin' or laughin'. Da
men dey reach up dere hands an' da ladies take dem all dainty-like wiff dere fingers, an' da only soun' 'cept da music you kin hear is dem wide fancy dresses swishin' as dey twirl roun' 'bout. It's a mighty fine sight.”

“Let's go look—I want ter see it,” said Mose. “Come, show me.”

Already he had taken several steps away from the crowd gathered about the bonfire.