Read Online The Ballad of Lucy Whipple by Karen Cushman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Cushman
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that?" and "Couldn't she tell what a villain he was?"
Sometimes we shared my noon dinner, but he'd never eat bacon or salt beef. "Give me hog and hominy, and I'll live on hominy," he said. "Pigs is living critters treated like things, the way I was, and I'll not be eatin' 'em."
I finally got up the courage to ask the question Mama had failed to answer satisfactorily. Why are some people brown Joe?"
"Good Lord saw fit, and I figure I don't need a better reason than that."
Seemed like that was all the answer I was going to get. How did you come here? No other people like you around"
Joe wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve. "I spent all my born days on Mr. Sawyers place in Virginia, jist Sawyer and the missus and me and four other slaves. I never can remember anyone of my own. Mr. Sawyer, he decides that farm ain't enough for him, and he brung us out west. Near the Big Muddy, Mrs. Sawyer says, 'John, I ain't going a step farther and set fire to the wagon." Joe scooped up a mess of muddy water in his pan. "Lord, what a stubborn lady. They hadn't settled the dispute when she up and died of camp fever." He whirled the pan so that the water and lighter particles splashed out. "So Mr. Sawyer bought another wagon and we come to Paddy's Bar, miners like thousands of others. At least we five were. Since Mrs. Sawyer died, Mr. Sawyer took to drink and jist sat and waved his rifle about and beat us if he thought there wasn't enough dust at the end of the day." Joe picked through the muck left at the bottom of the pan, looking for bits of color. Nothing in that pan. He stooped and scooped up another.
"One day a scraggly old fella on a mule says, 'Why do you take it? No slavery in California, you know.' I didn't know if he was right or he was wrong, but I saw this as my chance to take off, saying to Mr. Sawyer, 'You can shoot me, but you can't own me no more.' Mr. Sawyer, he was too dumb and too drunk to know was this true or not, just fell off his horse, so I left. Took nothing but this here pan and a pick and a bedroll; figured he owed me for all my free labor."
Joe stood up straight and stretched, then stooped down to scoop again. "I ain't found much since, just work tired-out claims others have abandoned. But what I find is mine. The belly that gets hungry is mine and the shoulders that ache are mine and the hands that bleed are mine and no other man's. I ain't no slave out here. While I'm on my own, I'm as good as free, and being free is everything."
His story sounded to me like one of Amos Frogge's ballads—coming across the country by wagon, escaping from a drunken master, fleeing alone into the wilderness to search for gold, living as a runaway slave.
One thing I didn't understand. "What's it mean being a slave?" I knew about slaves in ancient Rome, but somehow I didn't think Mr. Sawyer planned to feed Joe to the lions.
"A slave is a fella who belongs body and soul to another fella and has to do what he is told and go where he is bid and gets beat if he don't do it fast enough or good enough."
"Like being a child," I said.
"Nowhere near, missy. Chil'ren is loved and taken care of. A slave don't even own his own life or his wife or babies. A slave is a thing, like an axe or a bucket. Can be bought or sold or killed, whatever his owner wants. Ain't no light thing for a man to be a slave." He threw his pan high into the air and caught it with a grunt. "And I ain't one, not out here."
As the nights began to grow cold, I worried for Joe, sleeping in his bedroll on the shores of Ranger Creek and living on nuts and wild greens.
"Mama, with winter coming, we're going to have some empty beds, aren't we?"
"I reckon, but not too many, I hope," said Mama, who was chopping potatoes and onions for rabbit hash.
"Couldn't we rent one to my friend Joe? I know he could pay. He's had some luck washing for color."
"Who's Joe?"
"The brown man I told you about, at Ranger Creek."
Mama stopped chopping for a minute.
"Lucy," she
Sometimes we shared my noon dinner, but he'd never eat bacon or salt beef. "Give me hog and hominy, and I'll live on hominy," he said. "Pigs is living critters treated like things, the way I was, and I'll not be eatin' 'em."
I finally got up the courage to ask the question Mama had failed to answer satisfactorily. Why are some people brown Joe?"
"Good Lord saw fit, and I figure I don't need a better reason than that."
Seemed like that was all the answer I was going to get. How did you come here? No other people like you around"
Joe wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve. "I spent all my born days on Mr. Sawyers place in Virginia, jist Sawyer and the missus and me and four other slaves. I never can remember anyone of my own. Mr. Sawyer, he decides that farm ain't enough for him, and he brung us out west. Near the Big Muddy, Mrs. Sawyer says, 'John, I ain't going a step farther and set fire to the wagon." Joe scooped up a mess of muddy water in his pan. "Lord, what a stubborn lady. They hadn't settled the dispute when she up and died of camp fever." He whirled the pan so that the water and lighter particles splashed out. "So Mr. Sawyer bought another wagon and we come to Paddy's Bar, miners like thousands of others. At least we five were. Since Mrs. Sawyer died, Mr. Sawyer took to drink and jist sat and waved his rifle about and beat us if he thought there wasn't enough dust at the end of the day." Joe picked through the muck left at the bottom of the pan, looking for bits of color. Nothing in that pan. He stooped and scooped up another.
"One day a scraggly old fella on a mule says, 'Why do you take it? No slavery in California, you know.' I didn't know if he was right or he was wrong, but I saw this as my chance to take off, saying to Mr. Sawyer, 'You can shoot me, but you can't own me no more.' Mr. Sawyer, he was too dumb and too drunk to know was this true or not, just fell off his horse, so I left. Took nothing but this here pan and a pick and a bedroll; figured he owed me for all my free labor."
Joe stood up straight and stretched, then stooped down to scoop again. "I ain't found much since, just work tired-out claims others have abandoned. But what I find is mine. The belly that gets hungry is mine and the shoulders that ache are mine and the hands that bleed are mine and no other man's. I ain't no slave out here. While I'm on my own, I'm as good as free, and being free is everything."
His story sounded to me like one of Amos Frogge's ballads—coming across the country by wagon, escaping from a drunken master, fleeing alone into the wilderness to search for gold, living as a runaway slave.
One thing I didn't understand. "What's it mean being a slave?" I knew about slaves in ancient Rome, but somehow I didn't think Mr. Sawyer planned to feed Joe to the lions.
"A slave is a fella who belongs body and soul to another fella and has to do what he is told and go where he is bid and gets beat if he don't do it fast enough or good enough."
"Like being a child," I said.
"Nowhere near, missy. Chil'ren is loved and taken care of. A slave don't even own his own life or his wife or babies. A slave is a thing, like an axe or a bucket. Can be bought or sold or killed, whatever his owner wants. Ain't no light thing for a man to be a slave." He threw his pan high into the air and caught it with a grunt. "And I ain't one, not out here."
As the nights began to grow cold, I worried for Joe, sleeping in his bedroll on the shores of Ranger Creek and living on nuts and wild greens.
"Mama, with winter coming, we're going to have some empty beds, aren't we?"
"I reckon, but not too many, I hope," said Mama, who was chopping potatoes and onions for rabbit hash.
"Couldn't we rent one to my friend Joe? I know he could pay. He's had some luck washing for color."
"Who's Joe?"
"The brown man I told you about, at Ranger Creek."
Mama stopped chopping for a minute.
"Lucy," she
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