Read Online All God's Dangers by Theodore Rosengarten - Free Book Online Page B

Clay—he was a big man, big farmer—they furnished everything he neededfor his hands and they had a mortgage on everything
he
had. Mr. Clay was a regular farmin man and they was holdin books against him for what he owed em—Davis and Podell, in Opelika. And when they put Mr. Clay in jail, here come Davis and Podell and got him out.
    He lingered along, lingered along, and when my daddy got into it with Mr. Albee, Mr. Clay needed hands down at his place, so he went to Beaufort and bought my daddy out. But I have heard several of em say that it didn’t cost Mr. Clay a penny; he just got him out. They runs a friendship business amongst the white race here. When he called on the jail and got my daddy out, then my daddy had to move up there on his place as a cropper, workin on halves. And when my daddy got up there he couldn’t do nothin but what the man who so-called paid to get him out of jail said do.
    Mr. Clay put my daddy to plowin with a squad of plow hands. He had one hand up there, colored, on his place and my daddy made the second colored fellow. George Porter and his mother and sisters—didn’t one of them women have a man in that crowd—George Porter was old lady Nancy Porter’s son, and they was workin there with Mr. Clay, old lady Nancy Porter’s son and her daughters and also old lady Nancy herself was able to work. Put em all to work. And Mr. Clay’s own boys was plowin on the premises. This crop over here went for my daddy’s and over yonder was George Porter’s and over yonder still was Mr. Clay’s that was worked by his boys; but everybody floated through and through the field and kept up one big crop.
    Mr. Clay was known—my daddy was scared, too—he was known to take it all, the whole crop. My daddy caught on to what was goin to happen. Mr. Clay didn’t feed us on nothin but sorghum syrup and corn meal. I was big enough to work then, I was about fourteen years old and I made a hand choppin and hoein cotton. My daddy plowed, George Porter plowed, and Mr. Clay’s two boys plowed, Floyd Clay and Matthew Clay. Mr. Clay had white and colored plowin together and he got it all. My daddy was sharp enough to catch on; he knowed he weren’t goin to get nothin for his labor, just somethin to keep us alive while he was workin for nothin.
    So my daddy looked for a way to get away from there. He knowed Mr. Clay done killed old man Henry Kirkland and shot old man Henry’s youngest son. My daddy weren’t lookin for that kindof trouble so he waited and he studied his points. He really was scared to ask the white man for anything, he plumb dreaded him. Mr. Clay would come to the field a many a time, sit down on a terrace and talk about killin old man Henry Kirkland—that worried Mr. Clay, seemed to eat away at his mind.
    We moved up there in winter, started to work and worked until the crop was laid by. Then my daddy made Mr. Clay a offer. It was the best thing he could do because he weren’t goin to get none of that crop nohow. My daddy was a basketmaker just like I am; he learnt me the trade, whipped me up about it too. So, he got on the good side of Mr. Clay and told him how many baskets he’d make for him to gather that crop—picked cotton in baskets in them days—how many baskets he’d make for him to get away from there if he could. In fact of the business, make him all the baskets he wanted if he’d just discharge him and let him move back down to where he come off of Mr. Todd’s place. Mr. Clay accepted the offer. My daddy moved on out before the crop was gathered and he got down to where he wanted to be and he made so many baskets it was trouble to count em. And he carried em from down there on Sitimachas Creek up to Mr. Clay. Mr. Clay took em all but my daddy got away from there then.
    So Mr. Clay got all my daddy’s work that year for nothin and got the baskets too he needed to gather his crop. My