ANTHONY WAS LATE getting himself and his charges to the Hiring Ground. That was because Simon had a stomach upset. Often, when Simon became fearful of what might happen to him, he would get cramps in his stomach.
“I cain’t go no farther widout resting,” Simon told Anthony. “I sure cain’t.”
“We got another hour before we stop,” Anthony said, quietly but firmly. They’d been going five hours. Later he would be sorry he’d said that. He knew all of them, Whittom and Efrum and Luther, and himself, too, had been as tired as they could be. But he had not reckoned Simon to be as sick as he was.
Knew he was small, Anthony thought later, but he allus so full of sayings and tells and riddling… .
Simon had got cramps that doubled him over. At first the boys thought he was pretending.
“Get on up, yo black thang thar,” Efrum said, teasing. “You some white skillet now, come be Missy Pale, gone sleep ’n’ snore all the day clean long.”
Simon made a fist and swatted Efrum for calling him Missy and pale. Then he gagged and brought up green bile. They watched him grow sicker under the sun, not knowing what to do.
“Some shade,” Anthony said finally. “Let’s get ’im under the trees.”
“Some water,” Luther said. “I’ll fetch it.” He got fresh water from the stream not a half a mile away. He trotted there and back, never once complaining.
They each tried to do as much as they could for Simon. “I coulda stopped awhile,” Anthony muttered. He had his hand across his eyes. “Worrying about ole Mars—who care, him?”
“It all right,” Simon said, hardly above a whisper. Though he was feeling sick, he was more frightened of whatever was to come. “Y’ all go ahead. I be right chere. You tell Mars come get me. It don’t matter none.”
He knew they couldn’t leave him. To leave a fellow, a slave on the road, meant a certain lashing for all of them, the leader and the followers. Simon would fare worst of all. Nobody cared much about a slave who often was sick. And Simon was born frail—everyone knew that. If Anthony and the others left him, Mars would say he runned away; he had the run-off sickness, and would get whipped too hard, too long. He might even die.
An hour or so later, Simon was rested enough for them to go on. One time Anthony carried him on his back. Then Luther did the same, carrying Simon piggyback awhile.
Luther and Anthony took turns. It was almost fun. Simon wasn’t so very heavy. Whittom and Efrum joined the turn taking, until Simon felt better and said, “I ain’t that sick.” Then they stopped awhile. They were all tired out; and they were hours late, anyway.
They arrived at the Hiring Ground at dusk. Simon was still feeling poorly, so they helped him along, keeping a watchful eye out for Mars Charles Suttle, too. At length they found him in a tavern with the other masters. Anthony went in alone. The others waited outside by the door.
Anthony dropped to one knee before Mars Charles. He swept the cap off his head and bowed.
“Ah, boy!” Mars Suttle said. “Where you been at all this day? You boys been playin’ about, I suspect. I ought to whip you!” This last was said for the benefit of the men with Mars Charles. Owners from the estates near Suttle’s, they knew he would not lay a hand on his top boy.
Anthony, still on his knee, shook his head. He did not look up, did not speak, but remained motionless, as he knew this was what Mars Charles wanted. He knew that Mars would be looking around proudly at his friends.
I his most prized, other than his breeders, Anthony thought. Got to be just right, all times, ’cause of bein’ the leader of Jims, me, and for Simon’s sake. Buckra folks always do like me, ’cause I ain’t talk back, I ain’t run.
Mars Charles slapped him smartly on his head. Anthony rose and stood at attention before him with his eyes still downcast. He held his cap against his chest, his free hand straight at his sides. His position there before the master was one of a careful, respectful slave, bright but not so much so as to threaten the master’s wisdom. A leader boy, one who could control others of his kind, but one who dared never challenge his owner. Both master and slave overplayed this for the benefit of those watching closely.
“Anytime you be wantin’ to sell that boy, you lemme know,” said an owner. It was Mars Archibald Davenport. Anthony knew the voice. “You got tight discipline there—all yours Jims the same?” he questioned.
“They all right, with my hand over Tony’s on ’em,” Mars Charles said. “An’ I ain’ sellin’ Tony anytime soon,” he added, chuckling. He grabbed Anthony by the neck and held him up in an arm lock. He commenced rubbing Anthony’s head with his knuckles so fast and hard that the heat burned Anthony’s scalp.
“Huh! How’s that, huh? Lemme heah ya holler, boy!” Mars Charles said.
“Ow! Ooow!” Anthony hollered. The owners laughed uproariously. So did Mars Charles, eyeing his friends to gauge the effect. Anthony looked so comical, like a ragamuffin, like something rubbery brown and on a string. He knew how to make himself go limp and take the burning sensation. He knew how helpless and stupid he must look.
The next moment Mars Charles flung him as hard as he could toward the doorway. Anthony slipped and almost fell but quickly righted himself. He hadn’t expected to be manhandled just then and had not been ready. Mars Charles yelled at him crossly, “You wait outside for me. And all my Jims better be waitin’ with you, too!”
Outside, Anthony trembled with fury in the circle of his friends. They’d heard Mars hollering. Now they looked away from Anthony as he fought with himself to control his pain and humiliation. They knew it was one thing to be the leader of them, and another to be able to stand the abuse. In a way, Anthony stood in front of them on that score. And he made it easy for them all by shouldering the burden himself.
Simon was seated on the pathway, his back to the wall of the tavern, away from the front. He had his eyes closed. The others were close around him. Whittom had some scraps of food.
“Trying to get him eat somethin’, but he won’t have it,” Whittom said. “Say it’s rotten. It look all right to this here hongry boy.”
“ ’Tis rotten—can smell it,” Anthony said quietly, resentment at Mars still in his voice. “Got to get Simon on his feet now,” he added. “Mars want us by the door when he come out. Y’all be ready for anythin’. Don’t know what’s got in him. Most likely, all so many slaves and buckras together. He showing off.”
“Lorda mercy,” Efrum said. “Do he plan to sell us all?”
“Ain’t gone sell us ’less cause it our own selfs,” Anthony said. “He gone rent us, hire us out. That’s why Simon got to stand up and look strong as he can. Simon? Get up now.”
Sweat beaded Simon’s forehead as he made the effort to rise. The others helped him.
“Good,” Anthony said. “You sweat and you fever fall off, too.”
“Oh,” Simon murmured. “Oh. Oh.”
“You sick agin?” Luther asked anxiously.
They walked back toward the doorway. Laughter floated out. It was getting dark. They were all hungry, beaten by the long march to town.
Eventually, Mars Charles came out. He simply strode away, and they knew to follow at a distance. He had not looked at a one of them.
Anthony led the Jims after their owner.
Mars Charles led them near the Hiring Ground. He spun around once, seeing that they followed. He pointed to the ground. Then he disappeared in the throngs of people.
“Come on,” Anthony said softly to his charges. When they reached the approximate spot where Mars Suttle had last stood, Anthony stopped.
“What,” Whittom said.
“Just listen,” Anthony said. “That’s why Mars Charles have me stop right chere where he pointed. You can hear it.”
They listened. They could hear a babbling a ways off, like the rise and fall of wind and rain mixed. It made Anthony smile sadly to himself. He breathed deeply and almost cried out. But he held himself in.
“Come on,” he said hollowly.
“Is it ev’body?” asked Efrum.
“Sure does sound like it,” said Anthony.
It wasn’t long before they came upon everybody. The sight of it caused small Simon to catch his breath. It was as if Anthony read his mind. “You stay close to me,” he told them, “else somebody be gettin’ all mixed up with everybody and I never will find you in time for hirin’.”
“Sure is a lot of us,” Efrum said. It was true. Hundreds were present at the Hiring Ground. Slave men, women, and children. Black as night, some, and others brown as cinnamon and tan as oak. Lighter, even, light as the first pale hue of dawn. All these were the blacks, everyone. There were women in missy dresses and bonnets, worn for so many weeks that they were filthy and ruined, rotting off them. There were children in sack cloth, without shoes, shivering. There were men in long shirts and nothing more but their broken brogans and hand-me-down planters’ hats. There were men in rags and masters’ undergarments. A ruffled, filthy shirt here. A torn velvet coat, sleeveless, there. There were groups of twenty and thirty lying in heaps, exhausted and starving from their long journey, for the masters generally provided no food and no shelter.
They, the slaves, gathered as a comfort to one another. For safety, because they knew they were lost and they could find themselves only in the presence of one another. And tomorrow they would be lost and alone again.
They would eat, they would share, they would buy and barter as best they could. They would try to keep warm. Those close to the cook fires that sprang up all around would move back after a while so others could eat or get warmed. When they dozed, they did so with one eye open.
They cried, laughed softly, prayed, sang the sorrow songs. They would eat and sleep right there, together in the open, all the whole crowd of them.
Anthony picked his way through. Efrum, Simon, Whittom, and Luther followed. They found a tight space where they could stop. They put Simon between Anthony and Whittom. For the first time they truly rested. A black man came with a ratty, holey blanket. “Who wants it?” he said. “Ain’t be much.”
Simon looked at it longingly. His face shone in the growing light of fires. “He do,” Anthony said, pointing to Simon. “How much?”
“Ain’t be much,” said the man. “That cap on you head. And that cap on he head.” He pointed at Luther.
Luther looked down at his hands. Anthony knew he would hate giving up his fine cap. “Be too much,” Anthony said quietly, firmly. He dismissed the man by gazing out over the mass of folks.
“Ain’t much,” said the man. He stood there a long while, but wouldn’t give in. “One cap,” Anthony said, with calm assurance.
“Two,” said the man. He waited.
They were all still. Next to him, Anthony felt Simon control his shivering. Good ole Simon!
Then it was over. The man snatched Anthony’s cap and flung the blanket. He walked away. They wrapped the blanket around Simon.
They lay down. No food, not if they wanted something for the morning. They lay close. The Jims slept. Anthony lay there; he too slept finally. Dreamed he saw Jesus. Mamaw was holding the Christ child in her arms, beckoning Anthony to come join them. They were in the great forest. The baby Jesus smiled, climbed down to walk. He led Anthony and Mamaw to freedom.