28

COTTON PICKING

THERE WAS AN ORDERLY SYSTEM to follow, and Lilly caught on quickly. Each row of cotton plants stretched for many yards. The divided rows were in sectors for the initial count of heads. Five slaves per row until the ground foreman made shift changes. Each foreman was in charge of directing twenty-five slaves. She fell into a single file as the men, women, and children spaced themselves according to regiment and the silent roll call of their assigned foreman. Slaves who demonstrated reliability became foreman under the overseer, but if something went wrong among the twenty-five slaves, he was whipped as well. After the morning head count, each unit of five slaves found a row with four or five cotton plants between each picker. Whenever the overseer blew the whistle, each foreman took a head count. His regiment of five dumped their shoulder cloth bags of cotton into a large bin, to be measured and weighed later. If the quota was not met, then that regiment of slaves stayed until it was.

A young girl about Lilly’s age turned to speak when they got out of earshot of the overseer.

“Jez do like me. I show ya.” Her eyes were blank. “Jez don’ let the cotton bite ya. Don’ move on ’til ya clean da bush.”

“Thank you. I’ll be watching you today.” Lilly examined the plant that was nearly as tall and wide as a girl her age. It was loaded with sturdy, sprouted dark brown pods bursting with a pucker of white cotton. She plucked the small wad of cotton with little effort. Although the pod looked harmless, she discovered that the razor-sharp edges of the stem caused needle cuts on her fingers if she wasn’t careful. The first time getting stuck, she cried out, “Ouch!”

The girl turned to give a stern look of disapproval. Sucking the blood on her delicate fingers kept the white cotton from getting spoiled. Some of the slaves sang songs similar in theme to those she heard on Sunday. Trying to figure out the hidden meaning behind the words kept her from falling back into self-pity.

Lilly cleaned the cotton off her bush but noticed that the girl in front of her had moved onto three more plants, leaving a large gap in the lineup. She feared the overseer would figure out she was a beginner cotton-picker by her lapse in time. Just as she pondered this, a woman with a baby strapped to her back guided her to another loaded plant across the aisle. “Jez keep movin,’ don’ stop for nothin’.”

“Thank you,” Lilly whispered, wondering when it was time to return home. It seemed like she’d been picking cotton for hours, and her stomach began to growl again. She often lifted her hat to wipe her sweating brow. The brim kept the sun from beating down on her face, but her arms were getting sunburned. There were many moments she was tempted to slip off to the brook about an acre away from her row. By the time the sun reached high overhead, her thirst became unbearable. She often had to sit in the shade to keep from passing out from heatstroke. While sitting in the shade, a man about thirty years of age saddled up beside her. He began picking cotton from the bush next to her.

“We gots to get ya out of here. The Lord tell me to help ya. I’m a free slave, but my wife ain’t. I stay jez to keep my family together. My name is Isaiah. Don’ tell Aunt Minnie I comes to help ya.”

He quickly departed as fast as he arrived.

She assumed he was referring to the old woman who had taken her in. So that’s her name. She felt a flutter of hope rise within her heart.

The day grew to an end as the sun began to set. Her last bag of cotton was only half full. She had picked eighteen bags throughout the day with very little blood on the cotton.

* * *

Early the next morning. she awakened to Minnie screeching in a muffled rage. Lilly’s mind was still in a dreamlike state, so it was a few moments before she realized why the woman was provoked.

The five bags of corn were gone.

“Dem thieves done did it again.”

Lilly watched the woman by the light of a small flickering candle. The fire in the chimney had become glowing ashes. The old woman’s shadow moved about as she ranted while preparing a boiled potato for breakfast. The horn of the overseer had not gone off, so it was till dark. “Can’t keep nuthin’ round here cuz of dem thieves. Call demselves church people, do they?”

Lilly remembered the day Lady Genevieve vented the same rage over the missing bloodstone ring. She pulled the thin blanket up around her neck and closed her eyes. For a brief second, she could smell Moxie’s biscuits. Tears formed. It wasn’t the absence of familiar food or the chronic gnawing in her hungry stomach. She felt homesick for Katelyn’s tender kindness. It was the closest thing she ever felt of a mother’s affection. Her mother, the mystery woman ashamed of her baby’s dark complexion, had sent her away with strangers to live in a foreign land. Lilly was now a slave, and there was nothing she could do about it.

The bitter old woman shuffled about by the heat of the chimney, mumbling. Lilly wrapped the blanket about her shoulders and left the shack to go to the woods for the morning ritual. Her arms still stung from sunburn, and her back was stiff from picking in the blistering heat. Her fingers were swollen from the needle pricks. Her feet and ankles were tender from sun poisoning. Coming from the woods, she caught a glimpse of the morning star peeping across the horizon like a purple glimmer of hope. She wondered how she would make it another day in the field without getting caught. It was then that she heard the wagon and the two horses from the path behind her.

Isaiah pulled up beside her. In a hushed tone, the dark, muscular man commanded, “Climb on, child.” Lilly wasted no time. It would be the break of dawn within minutes, and the overseer would sound his horn for the slaves to awaken to another day in hell.