The Soldier's Lady (27 page)

“Look, mister,” said Micah, still not intimidated. “I
offered you my apology. I am truly sorry. There is no need to make more of this than is necessary.”

“You're telling me what's necessary? You're nothing but a stupid, filthy nigger!”

He took a menacing step toward Micah. The rage in his eyes was more from Micah's calm demeanor and refined speech than from anything that had happened. It grated on his own ignorance and arrogance that a black man sounded more educated—and with a Northern accent besides!—than he.

But now Henry stepped up from the street and between them.

“He din't mean no harm, Mister Steeves,” he said. “Like he said, he din't know no better. I'll hab a talk wiff him an' he'll show more respeck in da future.”

But by now both Steeves were itching for a fight. Dwight shoved Henry rudely.

“Get out of my way, Patterson!” he shouted. “You mind your own affairs.”

Henry stumbled a step or two back but recovered his balance. Angered himself by now, Jeremiah took a step forward and Deke Steeves appeared eager to meet him with his fists clenched.

“We's jes' be on our way,” said Henry. “Come on, boys. An' we be wishin' you a good day, Mister Steeves. Come on, son,” he said to Jeremiah.

But Dwight Steeves stepped forward and roughly grabbed Henry by the shoulder and restrained him.

“You hold on, Patterson!” he said. “I ain't through with you. You'll go when I tell you to go.”

He lifted his other arm to strike Henry with the back of
his hand. But Micah leapt forward, grabbed his wrist in midair and held it fast. With almost the same motion he took hold of Steeves' other hand and pulled it from Henry's shoulder. Henry stepped back. Slowly Micah released his grip of Steeves' wrist, and Steeves found himself standing eye to eye with a young black man who was stronger than he had thought and who refused to be bullied.

“You will
not
lay another hand on that man,” said Micah, his eyes boring straight into those of Dwight Steeves. His voice was soft, calm, and full of a confidence Steeves had never before heard from a black man. It was the voice of command.

For several seconds they stood a foot apart, eye to eye. What Micah silently said with his eyes was even more powerful than the words he had spoken with his lips. For once in his life, though his whole body was quivering in white wrath, the wind had been taken out of Dwight Steeves' bluster. His mouth hung open, yet he found himself speechless. The venom in his own heart had been countered by neither hatred nor fear, but by some strange power he had never encountered before. It rendered him, for the moment, powerless.

Micah turned, nodded to Henry and Jeremiah, then led them along the boardwalk and into Mrs. Hammond's store. When they came out a minute or two later, the two Steeves were nowhere to be seen.

W
EED
J
ENKINS

25

A
BOUT A WEEK AFTER THE INCIDENT IN TOWN,
Weed Jenkins approached Rosewood. As he had intended, Jeremiah and Henry were both in town. He had no intention of being seen, but if someone should accidentally spot him, he hoped he would not be recognized. It was not easy for a six-foot, two-inch young man of lanky and somewhat ungainly build to creep without being seen into the precincts of a plantation like Rosewood with so many people about. But young Jenkins managed to accomplish it. His first responsibility was simply to figure out how many people were there and who they were. All he knew for sure was that his father was looking for a baby or some kid. He didn't know which. He didn't know what for, either.

He heard a mixture of voices as he crept, crouching as low as his height would permit, within the rows of corn between the barn and the woods. The stalks were only about three or three-and-a-half feet high, and it was no easy task to keep from being seen. But slowly he inched closer. By the time he reached the end of the field, the back
of the barn was only fifty or seventy-five yards away. He heard the voices clearly now, but they were on the opposite side, between the barn and the house. The coast looked clear.

Weed stood up amid the corn stalks that only came up to his waist, looked around one final time, then made a dash for it. Twenty seconds later he was standing against the back wall of the barn, catching his breath. Other than the grunting of a few pigs nearby, no alarm sounded. It didn't appear that he'd been seen. He crept along the wall to the open end of the horse stables, turned the corner into the cool overhang of the barn's roof, climbed a couple of stall fences, and within another minute was safely inside the barn. He waited until his eyes were accustomed to the dim light, then tried to get his bearings.

It was wash day at Rosewood, and on this day everyone was helping. Josepha and Katie were at the great washtub, pounding and stirring the contents with two great wooden paddles, and Emma and I were taking the shirts and dresses and trousers and blankets out of the pot one at a time, rinsing them in a tub of clean water, then ringing them out and hanging them on the line. Uncle Ward and my papa were sitting on the porch talking, without even pretending to help. Even if they had tried, Josepha would have run them off, saying that washing clothes was woman's work. But the mood between us all was lighthearted. The day was warm, and it
seemed like wash day always brought out mischief of some kind. But the mischief this day brought was not what we could have imagined.

William was scampering around playfully between all of us, running up onto the porch with something to tell one of the men, then back toward the rest of us, time and again. There was never any lack of energy around Rosewood with William at the age he was! I paused at the clothesline, stretched my body a few seconds, and glanced around. I hadn't seen Micah for several minutes.

“Emma, have you seen Micah?” I asked. But before she could reply, William came running toward us.

“What dat, Mama?” cried William, running up to Emma at the end of the line.

“Dat's yer uncle Templeton's trousers.”

“Why's you hangin' dem up like dat, Mama?”

“Cuz dey's all wet, and dey's gotter dry in da sun.”

But already William had turned on his heels and was running off toward the house.

“William,” Emma called after him. “Don't be pesterin' Uncle Templeton an' Uncle Ward.”

But her words fell on his back as he ran toward the porch to tell Papa that his trousers were all wet!

From the darkness of the barn, Weed Jenkins' eyes had opened wide at the word “William” from Emma's lips. He stood against the near wall, one eye peering through a halfinch
crack of light between the boards, looking out at the commotion and trying to make sense of wash day at Rosewood. He recognized everyone but Josepha, Emma, and Uncle Ward. The white Clairborne girl and the black girl had been involved in the ruckus in town last year with Deke Steeves and Jesse Earl and the fool Patterson nigger kid.

One of the men on the porch was the one who had broken the thing up. He had heard his father talking about the Daniels brothers, and that must be them. He hadn't been able to see too much through the hood on his head that night he was out here with the men. But he had seen the same three that night too, before he had hauled Patterson out of this same barn where he stood now. But the fat colored lady and the scrawny, good-looking nigger girl—he'd never seen them before.

And a colored kid! Just what his father had sent him to find!

A colored kid called William whose mother's name was Emma.

Suddenly Weed Jenkins' eyes shot open even wider.

William!

When he'd asked why he needed to know who was at Rosewood, all his pa had said was that somebody important needed the information for personal reasons.

There was only one important man around here who everybody had been talking about for a month—William McSimmons . . .
William
McSimmons!

He now remembered that he had seen William Mc-Simmons walking into his father's office several days ago!

Weed Jenkins was nobody's dummy. The pieces suddenly
began to fit together as to why his father had sent him here. But almost the same instant as his brain began to try to piece together what this information might mean, he felt a hand clamp down suddenly on the blade of his shoulder and a voice sounded at his ear.

“I'd like to know what you're up to, son,” it said.

When Micah walked out of the barn toward us, half dragging, half leading a lanky young white man two or three inches taller than himself, all of us stopped what we were doing in an instant and stared at them. But it was only for a second or two. We hadn't had any danger around Rosewood for so long we'd become maybe a little too careless. Suddenly the sight of a stranger in our midst, being pulled out of the barn by Micah with a serious look on his face, reminded us very quickly that we still had to do our best to keep Emma and William from being found out. But it looked like it might be too late for that!

“William!” cried Emma. “Git yo'self into da house!”

“Why, Mama?”

“Git, William!” said Emma sternly, dropping the shirt in her hands and running for the house herself, chasing William in front of her like she was trying to herd a chicken back into its pen.

Papa and Uncle Ward slowly stood as the kitchen door banged shut behind Emma.

“Any of you know why this young man would be
standing inside the barn staring at you all?” asked Micah, coming toward us with his prisoner in tow.

Papa and Uncle Ward glanced at each other with a look of question, then slowly came down the stairs off the porch. Josepha and Katie set down their wash paddles, and I draped a dress over the line. We all three made our way toward the house too. Whatever was going on, it would probably be best for us not to be around.