Which Way Freedom (3 page)

Obi welcomed the smell of hay and animals in the cool darkness of the barn. Over the years this had become his own private place. He put the mules in their stalls. Jason brought in the cows and then clambered up the ladder and threw down hay for the mules. “When you think we goin' to Master Phillips?” he called down to Obi.

“Don't know.” Obi hoped Jason wouldn't bother him with a lot of questions.

“Guess Master Phillips get them Yankees for killin' Tyler …”

“Guess so,” Obi said as he placed a bundle of leaves under the work table. “When you done feedin' the mules, make sure all the pigs in the pen an' the chickens inside their coop.”

“Obi, what you think the—”

“Quit all that talkin' an' tend to your work,” Obi said.

Jason finished feeding the animals in silence and ran out of the barn. Obi hadn't meant to be nasty to Jason, but he wanted to think about Tyler's death and the war. He understood none of it except that Yankees were killing the people who held him in bondage. Maybe this was a good time to try to get to the island.

A half hour later, Jason walked slowly back into the barn. “All the pigs an' chickens in,” he said.

“Put up the harnesses an' straighten them tools. Then we wash.”

Jason quietly did as he was told, standing on the milking stool Obi had made for him so that he could hang the harnesses on their hooks. He stepped off the stool and rested the pitchforks against the wall near the spare ax handles.

“If we carry the leaves to plantation tomorrow mornin', I ask Master can you come,” Obi said.

Jason grinned and almost tripped over the milking stool.

“Don't run your mouth. Easter tell us what she find out 'bout Tyler when we eat.”

After they finished their chores, they went to the shed behind the barn and washed themselves in the tin tub. When they were done, they carried the tub to the creek near the oak grove to fill again so they'd have water for the following day.

When the tub was full, Obi hesitated. He couldn't see it in the darkness, but Buka's shack was only a few feet away.

He said to Jason, “I goin' to see Buka. Keep watch for me. You see Wilson or Master, then sing that song you was singin' today an' I come back.”

Obi didn't expect that anyone would come looking for him—the family should be eating by now—but as Obi and Jason lifted the tub out of the creek, they were both startled by the sound of someone stepping on twigs and dried leaves. Master John walked over to them. “I was lookin' for you. Carry that water back and then clean me and Master Wilson's boots.”

“Yes, suh,” Obi said.

Jennings started to walk away and then turned around. “Don't none of you leave this farm 'less I write you a pass. And you stay away from that old man, Obi.”

Obi almost asked him, “Which old man?” hardly believing that he was talking about Buka. He could understand why Jennings wouldn't want him to be with Buka if there was work to do, but otherwise he had never stopped Obi from going. Sometimes on Sundays he would even let Obi fish with Buka all day. Master John turned and stomped off quickly. The twigs and branches crunched noisily under his feet.

“Why he angry?” Jason whispered loudly as they lifted the tub again.

“Hush.” Obi wondered the same thing. Master John wasn't
a jovial man, but Obi had never known him to be angry for no reason. They carried the tub back to the shed, sloshing water as they went along.

When they returned to the barn, two pairs of boots had been placed near the barn door.

“Why Master don't want you to see Buka?” Jason asked.

“Don't know.” Obi pulled the milking stool from under the hayloft and picked up one of the worn black boots. “Bring my cleanin' rags an' stop askin' me questions I can't answer!”

Obi was glad when Easter finally called them to eat. Maybe she found out something that would explain Master John's new rules.

Jason and Obi carried the cleaned and polished boots to the house and left them outside each man's bedroom door. Martha and the two men were in the sitting room. The smell of savory stew came from the large kitchen where Easter tended to the cooking. Lately, Easter did more cooking than Martha. During the winter months, she and Obi were hired out to the Phillips plantation, where Easter worked with the cooks. As she grew more experienced, Martha depended on her to do a lot of the cooking and baking on the farm. Obi worked with the Phillips's carpenter. The money they earned helped the Jennings family live through the winter.

The adults had finished eating their dinner, and now the children ate what was left over. Easter spooned stew onto each wooden plate. Obi took three battered tin cups from the fireplace and filled them with milk. Jason sat quietly at the oak table. They could hear Wilson's and John's voices in the sitting room but couldn't tell what they were saying.

Obi scooped a spoonful of the thick stew as Easter sat across from him and Jason. Easter bowed her head and reached for their hands, but Obi pulled his away and started eating. Easter's voice was soft as a feather as she said the grace. Jason lowered his head, but his eyes were wide open, staring hungrily at the food.

When Easter finished she said, “Obi, Mistress say we have to thank God for this food.”

“What I have to be thankful for?” He took another spoonful of stew.

“Least we eat the same food Master an' Mistress do. Master Phillips give his people a peck of corn an' some salt pork for the whole week.”

“I should get more than this, hard as I work today.” He took a long drink of milk. “Now tell me what you hear about Tyler.”

She leaned closer to Obi. “Mistress tell me the whole story,”' she whispered. “Was a big battle in a place called Virginny. They bring he back in a box this mornin'. Mistress say nobody know whether it really Tyler in there. Say they put a body in a box an' send it home to Master Phillips because Tyler was a officer.”

Jason listened so intently that he stopped eating. “Why they kilt Master Tyler? He bad?”

“Hush,” Easter and Obi said to Jason at the same time. Obi recalled how proud and handsome Tyler had looked sitting on his horse.

Easter took a bite of stew and continued her story. “Mistress say most of them what die they bury right where they fall.”

“What happen to Jeremiah?” Obi asked.

“Mistress ain't say. Guess one of them cannonball get him too. Mistress seem spooked—like somethin' scarin' her.”

“Maybe Master John scare of somethin' too,” Obi said and told her that they were ordered not to leave the farm without a pass.

Easter rested her spoon on the plate. “Somethin's terrible wrong. Master evil as a buzzard when he come inside. Say somethin' to Mistress about the war startin' for real. An' Yankees—just a hollerin' about Yankees. Act like Wilson. He quiet when I walk in. Won't say nothin' in front of me.”

Jason picked up his cup and drank down the milk. “Maybe they scare Yankee get them too,” he said quietly.

“Hush, boy,” Easter said. “What you know about such things?”

They finished their meal in silence, listening to the muffled voices of the men. After they cleaned the kitchen, Obi went back to the barn. He decided not to try to see Buk that night but to wait until the next day.

Obi was sorry Tyler had to die, but he was glad for his funeral. He, Easter, and Jason would be alone while the Jennings went to the plantation. He'd been in the field since sunrise and was relieved when, at ten o'clock, he saw John Jennings mount his horse. Martha and Wilson climbed into the wagon. Both men wore black frock coats. Martha wore her black bonnet and dress. Wilson had on the slouch hat he always wore.

After the adults left, Easter and Jason walked out to the field where Obi worked. Jason carried some water.

“Wilson make a fuss this mornin',” Easter said. “Say we poor farmers. No need for him to go to the funeral. Too much work to do.”

Obi dipped his cup in the bucket. “He want to stay here to bother us.”

Easter squinted her eyes in the sun's glare. “Wilson say Mistress should go an' he an' Master stay an' work. Master say if they don't go an' show they sorry Tyler dead, Master Phillips never buy a pea or a ear of corn from them again.”

“I wish they stay the whole day,” Obi said. He called to Jason, who had taken the mule and started working the rows of tobacco. Easter's eyes curled up at the corners as she smiled. “Jason actin' like a little man today,” she said.

“I goin' to see Buka. You stay by the creek. Anyone come, start singin',” Obi said as Jason ran to him.

Easter frowned. “You shouldn't, Obi. You know what Master say last night. Suppose you not here when they come back?”

Obi pulled his straw hat over his eyes. “They not comin' back for a while. I not stayin' long.”

Buka's shack looked like a box with a smokestack on top. Inside, the only furniture he had was a small, rough table. The pallet he slept on was near the wall.

The old man sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, a cup of meal coffee in his hand. Buka used to hunt and fish and grow a few vegetables. During the cropping season, the Phillips plantation, and even some of the smaller planters, had used him as a field hand. He would do the work in exchange for food and clothing.

For the past year, however, Obi noticed that a change had come over Buka. He seemed to shrivel up like a prune, his shoulders becoming round and his eyes red and weak looking. He didn't fish or hunt anymore and rarely walked farther than the creek.

Buka knew almost everyone in the county. When Charles Graves, his most recent master, had died, Buka was the eldest slave in the estate. He'd told Obi that story also.

“When they put me on the auction block, I make myself look sick an' older than I already was. Slump my shoulder like so.”

He'd hunch his shoulders and Obi would laugh. “Then I had my head like so, like my eyelid can't raise.” He'd turn his head to one side and barely open his eyes.

“Then I curl all my finger like I have the rheumatism bad. No one buy me. An' that's the story of how old Buka free to this day.”

Buka was old then but still strong enough to go from farm to farm, doing odd jobs in the county. He'd even worked for John Jennings during tobacco-cropping season.

Obi loved that time, with Buka telling stories while they picked tobacco leaves. Back then, there was no Wilson around to bother them.

Now that Buka was very old and weak, slaves from the neighboring farms and plantations visited him, bringing him food and news.

To the whites, he was merely an old slave who'd outlived his usefulness. To the blacks, he was an African elder deserving respect for having lived so long and survived so much.

Obi sat in front of Buka and handed him a piece of corn bread he'd saved from breakfast. Buka looked away from the fireplace.

“What's troublin' you?” Buka asked. He offered Obi a cup of meal coffee. Obi disliked the bland liquid because he knew the taste of real coffee, but he took the cup so that Buka wouldn't be offended.

“You know Tyler dead?”

“I know. The funeral today. Three people come yesterday to tell me.”

“What you think about this war? You think it time for me to go to the island, look for my ma?”

Buka stared into the darkened fireplace again.

“I remember the time you decide you goin' to the island. Your Mistress send you to deliver a message to Mistress Phillips. You deliver the message an' then decide you runnin' away to the island.”

Obi sighed. “Yes, I remember.” He was impatient for an answer, but he knew Buka rarely gave a simple yes or no.

“Good thing I catch you walkin' down that road—you goin' west and the island be east.” He chuckled. “You have to know whether the road you choose is the right one.”

He turned away from the fireplace and faced Obi. “S'pose she ain't there no more?”

“Then I keep goin' to Mexico,” Obi said softly. “This way I don't be thinkin' she still there waitin'.”

“You can't do nothin' without careful plan. That's how you be on the wrong road before. I hear Jeremiah put the box on the horse and point the horse south. He ride north. People say you go to the Yankee an' you be free.”

Obi jumped up like a rabbit. “It true, Buka?”

Buka shrugged his frail shoulders. “Is only what I hear.
But while the white men in confusion, this may be the best time to run.”

Obi was both frightened and excited by the idea. He sat down in front of Buka again and told him how John Jennings was becoming like Wilson.

“Course they alike,” Buka said. “They brothers. Same as them North men an' these whites down here.”

“But they killin' each other,” Obi said.

“Brothers do that sometime. They's a lot of funerals 'cause of that Virginny battle. Tyler Phillips ain't the only one bury today.”

Absentmindedly, Obi watched a spider building a web in the corner over the fireplace. “I want run now, Buka. 'Specially since Wilson home for good.”

“We have to make careful plan. Go back. I come to the barn tonight. Don't make nobody suspicious.”

Obi left the shack and picked his way quickly over the small stones and brambles beside the creek. He stopped to take a drink of water. Suddenly, he felt happy and excited. The blue, cloudless sky and the cold, fresh water added to his joy. It was a perfect day—perfect for a picnic! He'd get Easter and Jason and they'd pick some peaches and get the rest of the corn bread. They'd have a feast and wash it all down with clabber, a kind of milk they sometimes drank that had a thick, rich curd. Then they'd rest in the shade of the oak grove.

He was still thinking about the picnic when he walked into the yard. Wilson faced him there with his thick, black belt wrapped around his fist. “Where you been?” he yelled.