Mind Of A Slave

Strange

I WAIT FOR him to respond, but instead of his voice, I hear birds chirping in the trees. I hear the murmur of other voices around us.

He doesn't have anything to say because he knows I'm right.

If life continues this way we're going to die.

"Wait," Amos says, "There are still soldiers here. We can talk to 'em. We can make 'em help us."

"How?" I ask him, but he doesn't hear me. He's already on his feet. He runs to the bottom of the Plantation and because I love him and I want to protect him, I find myself running at his heels.

I follow him to the gates, where a group of soldiers stand together. They look up as we near them, with what I read as surprise on their faces.

"Hello," Amos says. He doesn't sound shy or nervous. He is bold, daring, as he always has been.

The men exchange glances. One of them coughs. Another laughs. Finally one speaks. He is very tall and his skin is as white as the coded paper I have in my pocket. He is so pale that he seems to reflect the sunlight. His watery brown eyes are surrounded by saggy pink skin and his lips are thin and dry.

"What do you want?" he says. I am conscious of the rifle that hangs from his belt and the steely look in his eyes. He looks cruel, like he would kill a man without a second thought, and he would not feel guilty afterwards.

"We was wonderin' when we's gone get food," Amos says.

The man laughs. His teeth are yellow. "What do you mean, boy? You get food when you work."

"But there ain't no work for us to do."

"Well, that's not my problem. You need to find yourself some work."

"You gotta help us."

The man's fingers move to the trigger of his gun. "Help you?" He says as if the idea is absurd.

"Yes, sir," Amos says.

The man rocks onto his heels, shaking with laughter. He stumbles backwards. The other men steady him, but they're laughing too. They're all laughing at us. They're guns hang unheeded at their sides.

"We gone go," I say. I pull Amos away from them.

"No," Amos says, yanking his arm out of my grasp. "Wait."

He walks closer to them and puts his hands on his hips. He stands, his chin raised, with the confidence of a white man.

If the men are shocked by Amos's attitude, they do not express it. They look down on him like he's dirt, like he's something gross that was stuck to their shoes. They want to get rid of him, throw him out like garbage. Their mouths don't tell him this but their eyes do. They wince as he steps nearer.

"You gotta go, boy," one of them says.

But Amos doesn't go.

"How come you ain't helpin' us slaves?" He asks. He's trying to remain calm, but deep inside I know his composure is burning in a flame of rage. "You come here an' free us 'cause the Union don't agree wid slavery, but now you ain't treatin' us no better 'an Noah were."

The men take their time to reply. They look at Amos carefully, maliciously. The three of them are one force that threatens to crush him.

They take a step at the same time, all of them, towards Amos, increasing his awareness of their power and capabilities. Their capabilities to kill him.

"We're here to fight. We're here to win the war," one man hisses. "We were sent here to free the slaves, not to give them whatever they want. We have done our duty, now we don't care what you do, so long as you stay out of our way. We have given you the freedom I'm sure you've always wanted. You should be thanking us for that, not begging for more help that you don't deserve." He slides a bullet into his rifle, lifts his arm, points it at Amos, his finger hovering over the trigger.

"Now go," he snarls, "before I have to shoot you."

I look at the tip of the gun, bare inches away from Amos's face. It is black and shiny. It glints in the sunlight.

It is strange how such a small weapon can cause such great damage.

It is strange how Amos doesn't seem scared.

It is strange how he doesn't move, doesn't react.

It is strange, yet it makes sense to me.