9.
I haven't washed in two weeks. It's been ten days since Master Ramier went to war, and Noah took command of the farm. Ten days have passed since Amos left. And fourteen days since the time I last saw him.
Sweat glues clots of mud to my tangled hair. The skin on my arms and legs is dry and scaly.
I eat whenever there is food available to keep up my strength.
But as the days crawl by I get significantly weaker. We all do.
Noah is harsher than Master Ramier. Crueler. One morning an old man named Sippis collapsed in the fields. Noah dragged him away and we never saw him again.
I take a trip to the bath house one night. I just sit in the cold water, having not bothered to heat it up, for hours. I use as little energy as I can to wash my body and hair. When I get out, I'm freezing. I change into my second pair of cleaner clothes and return to the cabin not long before dawn.
I am unable to sleep at night, and I know that the lack of rest in affecting me. Each day I grow more and more tired. I can't help thinking about Amos. I plead with an unknown God that he is safe. That he will come back soon, unhurt. And I worry for Mama, also. Every one of us has to work in the fields during the harvest. It is hard labour and Mama is so fragile. She is not strong, like me or Beckey. I can see her slowly breaking down. And I dread the day when she will disintegrate under Noah's control.
A tropical storm hits Louisiana on Saturday. We don't work much, probably because Noah doesn't fancy the idea of riding through the downpour while he orders us around.
The rain is relentless as it seems to have no plans of stopping throughout Sunday.
In the morning we salvage what we can from the flooded vegetable patch and divide the food up between us. We remain inside, after that, and only leave occasionally, when roaming between the cabins.
After lunch, Mama and I hurry to the cabin at the end of the row of housing. I push the door and it swings open easily. We are ushered into the warmth.
The cabin is much bigger than ours, probably holding around twelve or thirteen people. Rickety tables have been pushed aside and a man stands on a stool in the corner, strumming a ukelele. People clap their hands enthusiastically. Others dance around the room.
I let myself become immersed in the hubbub of cheerful music and voices.
I spot Beckey talking excitedly to Agnes. She walks over to the man with the instrument and begins to sing.
When the Sun comes back
And the first quail calls
Follow the Drinking Gourd,
For the old man is a-waiting for to carry you to freedom
If you follow the Drinking Gourd
Her voice is hearty and soon others have joined in. People laugh. The dancing continues. Mama's lips move as she mumbles the words, and the music and the laughing and singing causes me to smile broadly, forgetting Amos and the war for a few happy moments.
I hum and tap my foot in time with the beat.
The riverbank makes a very good road.
The dead trees will show you the way.
Left foot, peg foot, travelling on,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
The lyrics are familiar but I can't recall when I'd heard them.
The river ends between two hills
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
There's another river on the other side
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
When the great big river meets the little river
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
For the old man is a-waiting for to carry to freedom
If you follow the Drinking Gourd.
The song ends and a man shouts, "Good ol' Peg Leg Joe!" And suddenly I remember. A couple years ago, one of Papa's friends at Mr Walter's place related the story of Peg Leg Joe and the Drinking Gourd. Peg Leg Joe was a one-legged sailor who worked at various jobs on Southern plantations. He became friendly with the slaves at each of his jobs and taught them the words to the song 'Follow the Drinking Gourd'. One of the slave-men at Mr Walter's had met Peg Leg Joe somewhere in Florida, and Joe had told him that he was traveling around the South, and knew of a route that slaves could take to escape to Ohio. He told tales of men and women successfully crossing the Ohio river during Winter, when it was frozen.
Maybe Patrick heard this story. Maybe he's on his way down the Tennessee river at this moment.
But he wouldn't have left for Ohio. Not in the Summer, when the only way to cross was to swim or make a raft and hope to drift in the right direction.
Thinking of Patrick takes my thoughts back to Amos. I wonder what he's doing now. I hope he's not hurt. He can't be hurt. He mustn't be hurt.
I plead with him in my mind, plead with him not to do anything foolish.
Plead with him to be careful.
Plead with him to be an obedient slave for once.
YOU ARE READING
Mind Of A Slave
Historical Fiction"The life we're living is the easiest of the difficult." Cass Jinney Jackson is a Louisianan slave girl. She has recently moved to a plantation near the woods, but her life there is far from ordinary. Growing up as the civil war rages on, she finds...
