All aboard, p.11
All Aboard, page 11
“We did something like that back in Yazoo.”
“Our laundry is boiled in a big pot, beaten to remove some of the soap, and then boiled again before we hangs the clothes out to dry. You’ll catch on real quick.”
Before she left Bessie on her own, Big Aunty gave her young student some sage advice. “So, you got caught stealin’. Since you new here, you should have known you was gonna be watched like a hawk. Missus gonna keep a close eye on you. You can’t continue to mess up. I’d hate to see you put out there in the field. Massa complaining now ’bout he ain’t got ’nuff cotton pickers. Is that what you want?”
“No, ma’am, I sho’ don’t want to pick no cotton if I don’t have to.”
“Now show me where you put yo’ food. Let’s see how we can do somethin’ a little better.”
Bessie showed Big Aunty where she had tucked the bits of food in her clothing. She pointed to an apron pocket and to the front opening of her coarse cotton blouse.
“Bessie, gal, you have to remember that the Missus frowns on us taking food from the kitchen. Don’t know why she so stubborn ’bout that. She wants us to feed all the leftovers to Bunny and the rest of those mangy hounds. So now we have to find a way to take some of this food to our shacks at night without gettin’ caught.”
Bessie nodded her head in agreement.
“Bessie, gal, you got a lot to learn ’bout how to survive in the Big House. And I’m jus’ the one to show you. Bring me one of yo’ skirts tomorra, and I’ll sew some pockets on the inside. No one be the wiser.”
“I’m obliged, Big Aunty.”
“Now, let’s all get back to work. We don’t want to stir the Missus up anymore today.”
COTTON IS KING!
The [cotton] rows was a mile long, and
no matter how much grass was in them,
if you leave one sprig on your row, they
beats you nearly to death. Lots of time,
they weighs the cotton by candlelight.
—Wes Brady, age unknown
Marshall, Texas
It was another hot, muggy summer’s night. After the evening meal, Odie left the Big House and headed to the hounds’ pen to spend some time with his buddy, Billy Bob. The two of them tended to the hounds but mainly enjoyed one another’s company at the close of each day. Their small talk had a calming effect on both of them. It somehow had a way of erasing some of the harshness of plantation life.
“Heard tell your pa got some visitors tonight. How come you ain’t there, learning all you can ’bout how to run this place?”
Odie kicked a rock and thought about his answer. “I don’t know which direction my life is headed, Billy Bob. Don’t know if I want to be a slave owner. There’s a lot to deal with—slaves and cotton.”
“What? You know how much money you can make offa niggas and cotton? Hell, even I know cotton is king in Mississippi. You sitting on a gold mine, Odie.” Billy Bob thought about his friend’s indecision and a moment later asked, “What you plan on doing with yourself, Odie?”
“Don’t rightly know. I been thinking about going to school to be a lawyer, maybe. That way, I could help other people.”
“What you wanna do that for? Help yourself. You can make a heap of money off the backs of these slaves. You can get rich offa cotton.” Billy Bob thought a moment. “I been around you long enough to know you. I understand, Odie. You ain’t got no heart to keep niggas in line. Everybody ain’t cut out to tame niggas.”
They could hear the sound of a male slave screaming for mercy, coming from behind the gin house. The sobbing continued throughout their conversation. The screams eventually turn to spasmodic sobbing.
“It’s a tough job, Odie. I understand. Does your pa know your plans?”
“Whatever decision I make won’t sit well with Pa. I can’t do nothing to please him anyway. All he thinks about is getting more cotton picked so he can get more money from them fellas over in Great Britain. That’s all he talks about—Great Britain and shipping his cotton overseas.”
“I would think your pa wants his only son to follow in his footsteps or maybe do something, least ways, to help his business. Hey, I’m thinking maybe your pa might accept you being a lawyer if you can show him how much you could help him with his cotton.”
“You might be on to something, Billy Bob. One of the fellas visiting Pa tonight is a lawyer. He came with Pa’s friend, Mr. Jeb. I think I’ll join ’em in the parlor for Pa’s monthly business meeting. Who knows? Maybe that lawyer fella can show me a thing or two. Worth a try. See you in the morning.”
“See you, Odie. Good luck with your pa.”
Odie approached the Big House with all sorts of thoughts running through his head. Would his father welcome him and his plans of being a lawyer, or would he, once again, embarrass him in front of guests? He had to take the chance.
The lights were bright in the parlor. He could see the flickering light from the fireplace. As he stepped onto the porch, he could see the wall sconces around the room, filled with brightly glowing candles.
The visitors’ horses had been watered and waited patiently for their owners in an enclosed area on the side of the Big House.
As Odie opened the front door, he heard his pa yelling at the top of his lungs. He didn’t know if he should interrupt the meeting with his presence or quietly go away. Odie always felt his father’s annoyance whenever he tried to join him in any type of business meeting. Odie listened for a while, standing quietly in the foyer near the parlor door.
“Civil War! Don’t say such a thing! Ain’t no way in hell New York, Boston, Rhode Island—all them New England states—gonna get involved in no Civil War! They need cotton as much as Mississippi needs cotton. Hell, them folks in New York done bought up all the Indian land and brought their own slaves with ’em to pick the damn cotton!”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. McMyers, New England has 50 percent of the textile factories here in America and 75 percent of the millions of spindles in operation. That goes for looms too.” Attorney Parson picked up a sheet of paper full of figures. He adjusted his spectacles. “These figures don’t lie. Massachusetts alone has 30 percent of all spindles. Let me see … yes, Rhode Island has another 18 percent. New England mills consume over two hundred million pounds of cotton a year. It appears to me, Mr. McMyers, that New England’s economy is so tied up in the textile industry that they need cotton and niggas to pick it as much as the South. I cannot foresee a Civil War. Why would they cut their own throats? They’ve got too much at stake.”
Big Aunty entered the foyer carrying a tray of coffee and her famous apple-and-cinnamon muffins. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Odie standing outside the parlor door. Odie put his forefinger to his lips as a sign for her to keep quiet. She understood. Big Aunty smiled and entered the parlor. She put her tray down on a nearby table and went back to the door to close it. As she closed the door, she winked at Odie.
Odie leaned in closer to the door to hear exactly what was going on.
“Just leave that where it is, Big Aunty. No need to serve us. We got a lot of ground to cover tonight. We’ll serve ourselves.”
“Yes suh, Massa.”
The room was quiet until Big Aunty left. As soon as she closed the door, the clamor continued.
“Hell, them scoundrels from up North came down here and just took over everything! They bought land from the Choctaw and the Chickasaw. That American Land Company and that New York Land Company will come over to our side. They’ve invested too much in cotton to give up their holdings. It’s safe to say there will be no Civil War. What you thinking, Jeb?”
“Well, Odell, it seems to me that New York has financial and commercial dealings with the production of cotton. We—and I’m talking about the South and the North—will continue to meet the demands for cotton by them textile factories over in Europe. If it does come to war, which I doubt, we will figure something out.”
“The problem I’m having this year, Jeb, is my cotton count. My numbers are way too low. Look at these figures.”
There was a moment of silence. Odie wasn’t sure if this was the best time to enter the meeting. He waited.
“My figures are down, which means I can’t buy me no more slaves, which means I can’t buy me no more land, which means I can’t grow me no more cotton. I don’t know what to do. I’m in a real fix.”
“You’re not the only planter going through this, Odell.”
“Them folks from New York and such done come down here and made a killing. They bought up a lot of land and got slaves to grow and pick the cotton. Now they’re rich. Looks like I’m gonna fall by the wayside like a bunch of other planters down here. I just can’t compete, Jeb. Hell, if push comes to shove, and there is a war, Mississippi and other cotton states could secede from the Union and form our own country—or expand to the south in Mexico and Cuba.”
“Listen to me, Odell. Listen to me good. The South supplies damn near 75 percent of all the cotton that goes over to Britain. Cotton accounts for over half of all our exports. Over half. This gives us the ability to borrow money from them folks overseas. Think about what I’m saying. Mississippi is now the largest cotton-producing state in America. To reap the benefits, Odell, you need to get you some money to buy more land so you can produce more cotton. You and your boy ought to do just fine in this family business. Cotton is king around here. Next year, you must bring your cotton count up. That way, you can borrow the money you need to purchase more land. The future is what you make it.”
Odie, still standing awkwardly outside the parlor door, decided it was as good a time as any to enter. He took a deep breath and turned the door knob.
The three men watched Odie as he entered, uninvited, into his father’s world. Jeb and his attorney friend, Mr. Parson, both stood to greet Odie. Odell half-heartedly made the introductions as they extended their hands.
“Jeb, you know Odie. Attorney Parson, this is my son, Odie. Don’t mind him. He leans more towards the abolitionists’ side.”
“Nice to see you again, Odie.”
“Same here, Mr. Jeb.”
“So young man, you have different thoughts on this cotton business than your father?”
“Well, I think maybe I’d be more suited to raising horses than cotton. I work with horses every day, and I kinda like it. Besides, I don’t want to deal with cotton and all that comes with it.”
“Pardon him, gentlemen. My son is soft-hearted when it comes to niggas—”
“I understand you paid for them, Pa, but they are still human. I don’t see ’em as … property. It’s kinda hard when you grow up playing with someone and, all of a sudden, when you turn a certain age, you are no longer friends. You are master and slave.”
Jeb and Odell gave a little chuckle.
“Where is your heart, young man?”
“Well, Mr. Parson, I think maybe I’d like to go to school and maybe be a lawyer or something like that.”
“If you decide to study to become a lawyer, you could help your pa here on his plantation. He’s gonna need some legal advice if he wants to increase his land holdings and his slave population.”
“That kinda stuff don’t interest him,” Odell said. “He don’t see things the way I see ’em.”
“Come over here, son. Let’s see if we can clear some things up for you. This here is your pa’s cotton plantation record.” Attorney Parson opened a huge brown-leather ledger. Odie had seen his pa scribble in this book many times, but he was never given the privilege to look through it. Odell kept this ledger on a special shelf above all the other books in his library.
“This ledger is actually your pa’s account book for this year. Here are the pages dedicated to the pounds of cotton produced per slave per bale of cotton.”
Odie was delighted that someone was taking the time to explain the business side to him. As he scanned the pages, he saw familiar names in the book and could see just how much each slave had produced.
“Here is the column for gross and net value of production.”
Odie took in all of this new information, studying the figures.
“It’s all here—the number of bales with the weights recorded before shipping.”
Odell frowned as he watched his son inspecting his world.
“Now if you look over here,” Attorney Parson went on, “towards the back of the ledger, you can see there’s also recorded the births and deaths of your pa’s slaves.” Attorney Parson studied the names and reasons for the deaths to get a clear picture of Odell’s predicament. Odie studied this information as well.
“Looks like to me, Mr. McMyers, that you had a very high number of infant deaths this past year. My, my.”
“Well, that’s because—you know, stillbirths, miscarriages, congestion, jaundice, rickets. You know how these slaves are.”
“What do you make of this situation, young man? Take your time.” Attorney Parson allowed Odie to analyze the three pages of deaths.
After a moment, Odie spoke, still studying the pages. “Looks like most of the deaths are among the babies. And half these babies died during the first year of their lives. They died from measles, dysentery, cholera—we know that’s caused by contaminated water. Some died from malaria, more rickets, pleurisy, diphtheria, whooping cough, and tetanus. That’s an awful lot of babies dying.”
Odie watched his father’s face turn red and his lips form a thin, grim line. His knew his father hated being embarrassed.
Odell started to pet Bunny for comfort. Odie turned back to the pages, reviewing the figures.
“Correct, Odie. Mr. McMyers, you cannot afford to lose all those lives. You cannot destroy … property like that. Not if you have your mind set on being a major cotton supplier.”
Odell was enraged. He had never been reprimanded by anyone in front of his son. He quickly retrieved his ledger and slammed it shut. “That will be all, Odie! It’s getting late. Jeb and Mr. Parson, I’m not going to hold you much longer. Let’s get my paperwork in order before you leave. I’ll see you next week in Yazoo, Jeb.” Odell looked over at Odie with raised eyebrows.
Odie knew that was his signal to leave. He obediently got up and headed for the door.
“I like how you think, young man,” Parson said. “Here, take my card. The next time you’re in Yazoo, stop by my office if you’re serious about learning the law. Maybe I can help you.”
Odie’s face lit up as he accepted the card. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate this. Thank you kindly. I will pay you a call. Thank you.” Odie turned to make his exit. “Good night, Mr. Jeb. Good night, Pa.”
Mr. Jeb responded, “Good night, son.”
Odell remained silent as he stroked his precious Bunny, who was asleep.
Odie closed the door to the parlor with a smile on his face. He had not felt this good in years. Before going upstairs to his room, he wanted to share this special moment with someone. But who?
He peeked into the kitchen to see Big Aunty finishing up her chores for the night. He gave her a big smile and approached her, with Attorney Parson’s card in his hand. It was as if he had received an A for good work in school.
Big Aunty couldn’t read the card, but she understood its significance. Odie squeezed her hand, catching Big Aunty off guard. Odie had never demonstrated any kind of feelings around her. She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. With a quizzical look on her face, she watched him hurry out of the kitchen.
Odie skipped the stairs two at a time as he headed upstairs to his room. At least now he had something to hope for.
DON’T FORGIT
’BOUT US, LAWD
All the hands took dinner in the field in
buckets, and the overseer give them fifteen
minutes to git dinner. He’d start cuffin’
some of them over the head when it was
time to stop eatin’ and go back to work.
—Wes Brady, age unknown
Marshall Texas
It was Thursday evening; the workday was finally over. Ruth stood before her fireplace preparing two hoecakes—one for her supper and one for her meal in the field the following day. She had some bacon fat and some potatoes cooking in the old pot that hung over the stove. She had Big Aunty to thank for her food this evening, since she wouldn’t get any supplies until Sunday morning.
The door swung open, and in walked Big Aunty, followed by R. C. and Lil Jesse. Big Aunty carried two bags with her.
“I shoulda tapped at yo’ door, but I jus’ forgot. We got to hurry things up, Ruth. We ain’t got much time. R. C. been warned today that somethin’ bad gon’ happen to him. Ol’ Cyrus been huffin’ and puffin’ all day. Hear tell Massa mad at Ol’ Cyrus ’cause we behind in our cotton count for this time of year. The books don’t lie, he said. These boys got to run in three days—no mo’ time left. I’m gon’ preach Sunday. That’s the day they runnin’. Come hell or high water, they runnin’ Sunday.”
Ruth examined R. C.’s swollen face. “Y’all might need to run ’fore then.”
“Look here, everybody. Massa gonna be gone fo’ two days. Heard him tell the Missus he got business in Yazoo. Got family there.”
“Why don’t they run while Massa gone?”
“Bad time to run. Everybody be on alert when Massa gone. Can’t afford to lose no mo’ niggas. Ol’ Cyrus gonna sho’ ’nuff be on the lookout for niggas tryin’ to run. Buck and all his crew gon’ be on the lookout. Massa leavin’ tomorra mornin’. He’s gon’ be in Yazoo ’til Sat’day night. We got to make our move Sunday when Massa back. Heard tell Massa left Odie in charge. What good that gon’ do; I don’t know. Speakin’ of Odie, did you talk to him?”
“He didn’t want no parts of me. Still mad about Lila.”
