CHAPTER 3

The New Slaves

A small fire lay smouldering on the hearth in Jim’s cabin, although the night was warm and sultry. Through the open doorway, the old voice of the head of the house drifted out into the stillness.

“That’s old Jim, either praying or reading the Bible,” explained the master, as he stopped at a respectful distance with the new arrivals, that he was escorting in to old Jim. After listening a second, he knew that it was scripture reading, as the splash, splashing of the churn dasher became audible to his ear. Another sound came from inside the cabin, but not the sound of voices. There was a rhythmical tearing sound, as if someone was gently but firmly rending into shreds a piece of old linen; the sound of Carolina’s cotton cards, as she pulled the wiry teeth of the cards through the cotton. The change in the rhythm was the sudden swift backward motion, as she deftly fashioned the carded tufts into rolls for the spinning wheel.

The old voice droned on, and the newcomers advanced forward preparing to step upon the threshold, when there came a sharp detonation of the snapping together of the opened pages of the book. Jim had finished. The churning was finished, for the time being. The carding ceased.

None of the slaves could remember of a time when they had not been called into the “family altar,” as that was the custom of the good people. Big, little, old, and young were instructed to kneel while old Jim prayed. Nothing could interrupt these lengthy prayers, so all became as comfortable as possible, on both knees, with elbows propped on the seats of the cowhide bottomed chairs. Perhaps the reason Jim was so unmindful of the discomfort of the others, his own old knees were protected by the thickness of the sheep skin rug on which he knelt.

The outsiders stopped again, and the tired travel-weary man seated himself on the edge of the gallery.

Rachel looked in on the scene in astonishment. The light glistened on the old darkey’s black bald pate, rimmed with a white ring of wool, which looked very like one of the playful pickaninnies had snitched it from the pile of Carolina’s cotton rolls and draped it turban-wise around his head.

There were fifteen or twenty persons kneeling there, but all were not listening to Jim’s prayer. Out of the corners of their eyes, many cast furtive glances out the open door to where the strange pale woman stood, bathed in the light of the full moon. It seemed that old Jim would never finish and let them up to satisfy their curiosity. When he did finally finish, all leaped to their feet in a glad cry, for there entering the doorway ahead of the stranger was their beloved master.

“Uncle Jim, a new slave woman, and her family,” explained the master. “This is Rachel.” Jim bowed stiffly from the waist, but he did not utter one word of greeting. None of the others could find anything to say. The silence was embarrassing.

Rachel gave an exploring look around, and observed the big eyes, filled with awe, big mouths open in surprise and wonder, as this was to them a strange sight. Many questions were darting through their minds, but they could not ask. Was this a white woman? Beside them with their black skins and short kinky hair, which was whitened by the cotton fuzz settled upon them, she appeared to be. But then white women were not sold as slaves to live among negroes in their quarters. Excitement and curiosity caused these simple people to forget their manners.

“Now, Carolina, this woman is tired and hungry, and the little ones have taggered out. Until we can find a place for her, she is to stay with you and Jim in this cabin. Feed them, and bed them down,” instructed the master.

“Yes, sir,” replied Carolina. Rachel was not welcome, but there was no protest.

“Where are the others? Abed?” “Oh, no sir, dey is still havin’ pray’r, I go see. I spec dey is,” answered a young buck, who was anxious to relieve such a situation, and also to be the first to spread the news further among the negroes that a strange white female had come to live with them.

“Oh, no, never mind, just wondered what you’ve all been doing since I’ve been gone. No stock lost in the flood?” he asked.

A lantern was lighted by a young negro, who kneeling on the hearth, lighted a broomstraw by poking the end to a red coal.

“Les all go see de new hosses,” he said starting at a rush out the door. All the males followed, racing toward the hitching post at the entrance.

It was not comfortable to be left in the company of this stranger who sat down before the fire, tight-lipped and sullen. The other women eased out and left, one by one, until only Carolina and old Jim were alone with Rachel and the children. Conversation was hard to make. There was not much said, until after the sleeping black child had been aroused and fed, and the tension began to wear between the two women.

Jim usually had ready conversation and many wise remarks, but he too was over-awed by this strange green-eyed person, who did not “belong.” So he pretended to be busy with punching up the fire. Now and then he would shake his old head sadly without a word, as he watched the woman and baby eat the roasted sweet potatoes which Carolina raked from the ashes.

“We’ll hav’ mo’ grub t’morrow,” she promised by way of conversation. There was no comment.

Finally, “Whar youall frum?” asked Jim.

“Geo’gie,” answered the stranger. No words added. A lapse of silence. Then Jim ventured, “You got a husbin’?” There was no reply. The woman shook her head. Old Jim also shook his head, and rolled his eyes in Carolina’s direction, as if to say, “I thought so.” Another embarrassing silence. Then, “He daid?” There was no answer.

Carolina tactfully turned Jim’s questioning aside with an offer to fix the babies to bed for the night. She decided to offer conversation of her own as none was forthcoming from her imposing guest.

Aside to the stranger, she whispered, “I’se in fambly way.” For an answer Rachel gave her a friendly understanding smile.

“I’se carryin’ dis chile fer Mis’ ’lizbeth,” Carolina confided proudly, placing her hands tenderly across her enlarged abdomen. “Ever year I has a chile, an’ long fo’ he born, I knows who’s to be de one he’s to ’blong to, ’cause ole Marst John want two for each ob he fambly frum me, and soon as dey weaned, I’se happy to see dem go. Doe sometimes dey gits up a argument ober my chillun, an’ to settle it fair, Marst John won’t let neider one uv de argufiers hav’ him. Den we jes keeps him here on de plan’a’shun wid us all.”

Rachel did not answer, or express any of her own sentiment. She shrugged her shoulders in disgust, and stood up, ready to lie down with the babies.

Soon there were sound snores coming from the bed over in the back corner of the room, where Carolina had invited her to sleep the first night in the quarters.

Old Jim held down the corner by the fireplace, continuing to punch the fire occasionally. Carolina hitched up her chair closer to his in order that they might talk in low tones about this thing the good master had done to them.

“Dat’s a no good sum’p’n, dat’s what. A mixed-blood. Dey’ll be trouble acomin’ up fum dis. You mark my words,” prophesied the old man. “Now, what did he do dat fer?” Carolina shook her head, but old Jim spoke his mind without fear of the woman’s hearing, the gourd-sawing sounds reassuring him that the sleeper was not playing ’possum.

“Huh! She think she bettern’ us. De way she draw up her shoulders, and shiver lack, jes lack a rabbit ware arunning ober de groun’ whars to be her grave. Huh! When you wuz a tryin’ to talk wid ’er. No good! Dat’s what. No good! Huh!”

“Well, dat’s maybe why he lef her here wid us,” replied Carolina. “Maybe dat’s why he didn’ take her on down to Aunt Sis’ house, an’ leave her wid dem. He knowed you’d pray an’ preach, an’ preach an’ pray bout her sins,” said the granddaughter.

“An’ dat I will. Mo’nin’ come I go down an’ hav’ ole Missus turn to de place in de good Book, whar it say, ‘No mixin’ up and a whole lot mo’, an’ I’ll read it ever night fore pray’r til she see she got ta do sum’p’n,” promised old Jim.

Morning found Jim up early, slowly plodding up the path to the big house. Under his arm he carried a book, which had its old backs carefully covered by a piece of faded blue brocade, hand-stitched along the edges with a coarse piece of homespun thread, exactly like that with which the bone buttons were sewn on the coat which he wore.

Jim had, in his younger days worn the full uniform which his master had discarded from the War of 1812, but now the breeches were replaced by a pair from the hand loom of his granddaughter, of coarse dyed homespun. But the coat was still perfectly good, faded a little, until it was no longer bluish-gray, but was grayish-black. The white bands crossing upon the breast were no longer white but were a shade lighter than the material of the coat, which came together with a tight closing at the waist, securely fastened by a bright square nail. Of course, there were a few moth holes, and the tails, or skirts, and the sleeves were frayed at the edges, but there was still plenty of warmth left in it for a morning when Jim was on the dewey path, before the sun had time to up and warm his old bones. The distance was less than a quarter of a mile, but by the time the decrepit one entered the gate, the dew-dampened soil picked up along the path had dried to a dust which covered his bare calloused old feet, turning them into the same shade of gray as the coloring of his coat.

He stood before the doorway of the kitchen, bowing, old mis-shapened, sweat-stiffened hat in his hand, as he awaited the mistress to come in answer to his summons.

The master came instead. Good mornings were exchanged, and Jim was welcomed in. He was invited to sit beside the fire, but the offer was declined, and he stood resting his hand on the back of the chair, twirling his old hat with the other hand, hesitant to bring up the subject of his visit.

“Not on your way to preach, this morning, Jim?” asked the master, noticing the familiar book under his arm, and grinning broadly.

“No suh,” began Jim, fumbling with the book’s covering. “I fetched it along fer de Missus to turn me down de coan’er uv some special pages I needs to read.” “Oh, I see,” replied his master, “but the mistress is sick abed this morning, and will not be up.”

“I knowed it! I knowed it!” cried old Jim. “I could feel it in my very bones! Las’ night when dat pale yaller woman wuz a rollin’ dem eyes, an’ a lookin’ lak a witch, I knowed she gwin a bring us bad luck!” Once started, Jim kept pouring out his opinion of the new woman to his master. “No good can come frum nothin’, an’ dat’s what she is, a no good mix-up. An’ you know, dis mo’nin’ she ’low she war’n’t no nigger much atall. She say she part Injun, an’ her Pa a white man, an’ dat chile is white as you,” continued the exasperated negro, without fear of offending by the comparison.

“Well, whatever she is, she is my slave, and you will have to help me to manage her, Jim,” replied the master, humoring his old servant.

“Dat I will. I’se gonna rain fire an’ brimstone down on her haid, out’n dis book,” declared Jim, shaking the book to add emphasis to his statement. “Dat’s what I wants to find, whar dat piece say fer ever thing to stay de same as is, widout no mixin’ up.”

“Oh, you mean about cattle and such—,” and before the reply was finished, Jim put in, “an’ bout ’dultry, an’ witches an’ all dat, and a heap mo’.”

Soon Jim was back on the path with passages from the Book of Exodus, Deuteronomy, and Leviticus turned down. So many times he had heard these passages read, he needed only to find the place, and then he read to suit himself, not being able to actually read more than a few simple words, but that was enough to suffice, as he knew most of the rest “by heart,” and his people always got the kind of lecture they needed.

His favorite sermon was taken from the nineteenth chapter of Leviticus.

21—“Ye shall keep my statutes. Thou shalt not let thy cattle gender with a diverse kind; thou shalt not sow thy field with mingled seed; neither shall a garment of linen and woolen come upon thee.

22—And whosoever lieth carnally with a bondwoman, betrothed to an husband, and not at all redeemed, nor freedom given her, she shall be scourged; they shall not be put to death, because she was not free.

23—And he shall bring his trespass offering unto the Lord.”

But instead of helping the unfortunate woman, Jim’s frank statements regarding his opinion of mixed people drove Rachel into seclusion. And soon there was open antagonism existing between them, with the pale one delighting in doing the things forbidden by the righteous one, especially delighting in informing the old negro that the child which she would bear would also be white.

“Huh! If’n hits a sin to mix up stock, den how much mo’ hit mus’ be a sin to mix up peoples,” reasoned old Jim. “Here dis woman say she don’t know what all she is, an’ she don’t wanna ’soshate wid us all, an’ here she lives, all by her sef in a cabin, cause she ain’t got no place. De white folks won’t have er, an’ she don’ want de niggers, an’ dey don’ want her, so dare!” he spread his black hands, palms upward, in dismay. “Dat proves hits a sin fer de races to mix up. De good Lo’d sho didn’t aim to hav’ no sech colors, er he’d a made he sef a in-be-twixt color to start wid.”

All his people nodded agreement. Their views were entirely in accord with Uncle Jim’s, and with this new woman, they were ill at ease. So for a long time, Rachel was left out of the heart of things, for she did not “belong,” but the white folks in the big house were very pleased with their new possession, as Rachel was extraordinarily intelligent and industrious, and was anxious to please. Soon she became the favorite household help.

“C’lamity sho to fall on dis house,” predicted Jim. “Dat woman is a witch. She’s de one whats havin’ to do wid so many deaths in our fambly ob white folks. ’Fore she come here wid dem conjure powers, all our folks wuz happy, an’ now dey dyin’ lak flies in a pile. Soon de graveyard yander at dem big walnuts won’t be big ’nough to hole us all.”

Jim was honest in his belief that the green-eyed Mulatto was partly responsible for the deaths in the Knight family. Many of the old ones died that same year, and by the end of the Civil War, which was then brewing, all of the first family by that name were buried beneath the walnuts.