“He’d rather whip a man to death than eat breakfast. And if you run away, you better hope you make it, ’cause you won’t be worth nothing if they bring you back.”
Joe thanked the man and went to sit with the other new turpentiners who had come from the prison. One of them was Little Willie, who had stood next to Joe when the schoolteacher was lynched. Little Willie, a runt of a man, had been sentenced to five years of hard labor for killing a dog that was the property of a wealthy farmer. The farmer sicked the dog on Little Willie every time he passed. “And one day, I fixed up not to take it again, and I kicked that dog till I broke his neck,” Little Willie told Joe.
As the two men sat near the fire, shivering, because it was cold in the woods and neither had a coat or a blanket, Little Willie said he’d rather die than spend his sentence in the turpentine camp.
“You’ve got to bear it,” Joe told him.
“I can’t suck sorrow for five years. Maybe I’ll run away.”
Joe shook his head. “Where’d you go? They’ve got dogs to track you down. You’ll never make it, never under God’s kingdom.”
“I’ll just go where they can’t ever find me.”
Joe looked out for Little Willie, because the small man was treated mean, but there wasn’t much Joe could do. Oh, he might threaten another black turpentiner for bothering Little Willie, but he couldn’t do anything when the bully was a white man. One guard dropped an ax on Little Willie’s foot and nearly cut off his toes. Another knocked his tin plate of food to the ground. His shoes were stolen. He was whipped for not working hard enough. Little Willie turned morose, and there was a gleam of madness in his eyes, so Joe wasn’t surprised when one morning the man wasn’t there.
Guards went after him with dogs, and in less than a day, he was brought back, beaten and trussed up like a pig, thrown onto the ground as a lesson to the other prisoners. The white men joyed in the prisoners’ fear.
After the others turned away from Little Willie, Joe crept up to him and held him while he sipped a cup of water. “There wasn’t anyplace to go,” the man said through broken teeth.
The next day when the turpentiners returned from work, Little Willie was gone, and one of the men who had been there a long time told Joe that most likely Little Willie had been thrown into a swamp to drown, if he wasn’t dead already. “You dare not talk about it,” he said.
Those two years in the turpentine camp were a plague of misery for Joe, but he lived through them, which was something to be grateful for, since many of the prisoners didn’t make it. They were killed in fights with the other turpentiners, knifed by the women, beaten to death by the guards, or died from the poor food and brutal working conditions. Joe had a deep scar across his cheek, where a guard had cut him after Joe refused to kneel down for a whipping. “I only get on my knees to pray,” he’d said, and the guard went after him with both the knife and a whip. The black man learned meekness from that encounter, and during the rest of his stay at the camp, he was whipped no more than the other prisoners.
When he was released, Joe returned to his parents’ farm, a wiser young man now, but one devoid of hope for his future. He figured he wasn’t going to have anything, so nothing could hurt him. But Joe was wrong. He knew it when he met Orange, a good-sized gal of seventeen with smooth skin and fancy hair—red hair. Joe knew the first time he saw her at the church that he had to have her and that in the end he’d be hurt in some way.
Orange was a quiet woman, serious, with a fierce desire to learn, and she reawakened that same yearning in Joe. Teaching him appealed to her, and when Joe called on Orange, the two sat outside on a log with a ragged primer she’d picked up somewhere, and she helped him with the words. She opened an arithmetic book, and discovered that Joe could figure.
Joe thanked the man and went to sit with the other new turpentiners who had come from the prison. One of them was Little Willie, who had stood next to Joe when the schoolteacher was lynched. Little Willie, a runt of a man, had been sentenced to five years of hard labor for killing a dog that was the property of a wealthy farmer. The farmer sicked the dog on Little Willie every time he passed. “And one day, I fixed up not to take it again, and I kicked that dog till I broke his neck,” Little Willie told Joe.
As the two men sat near the fire, shivering, because it was cold in the woods and neither had a coat or a blanket, Little Willie said he’d rather die than spend his sentence in the turpentine camp.
“You’ve got to bear it,” Joe told him.
“I can’t suck sorrow for five years. Maybe I’ll run away.”
Joe shook his head. “Where’d you go? They’ve got dogs to track you down. You’ll never make it, never under God’s kingdom.”
“I’ll just go where they can’t ever find me.”
Joe looked out for Little Willie, because the small man was treated mean, but there wasn’t much Joe could do. Oh, he might threaten another black turpentiner for bothering Little Willie, but he couldn’t do anything when the bully was a white man. One guard dropped an ax on Little Willie’s foot and nearly cut off his toes. Another knocked his tin plate of food to the ground. His shoes were stolen. He was whipped for not working hard enough. Little Willie turned morose, and there was a gleam of madness in his eyes, so Joe wasn’t surprised when one morning the man wasn’t there.
Guards went after him with dogs, and in less than a day, he was brought back, beaten and trussed up like a pig, thrown onto the ground as a lesson to the other prisoners. The white men joyed in the prisoners’ fear.
After the others turned away from Little Willie, Joe crept up to him and held him while he sipped a cup of water. “There wasn’t anyplace to go,” the man said through broken teeth.
The next day when the turpentiners returned from work, Little Willie was gone, and one of the men who had been there a long time told Joe that most likely Little Willie had been thrown into a swamp to drown, if he wasn’t dead already. “You dare not talk about it,” he said.
Those two years in the turpentine camp were a plague of misery for Joe, but he lived through them, which was something to be grateful for, since many of the prisoners didn’t make it. They were killed in fights with the other turpentiners, knifed by the women, beaten to death by the guards, or died from the poor food and brutal working conditions. Joe had a deep scar across his cheek, where a guard had cut him after Joe refused to kneel down for a whipping. “I only get on my knees to pray,” he’d said, and the guard went after him with both the knife and a whip. The black man learned meekness from that encounter, and during the rest of his stay at the camp, he was whipped no more than the other prisoners.
When he was released, Joe returned to his parents’ farm, a wiser young man now, but one devoid of hope for his future. He figured he wasn’t going to have anything, so nothing could hurt him. But Joe was wrong. He knew it when he met Orange, a good-sized gal of seventeen with smooth skin and fancy hair—red hair. Joe knew the first time he saw her at the church that he had to have her and that in the end he’d be hurt in some way.
Orange was a quiet woman, serious, with a fierce desire to learn, and she reawakened that same yearning in Joe. Teaching him appealed to her, and when Joe called on Orange, the two sat outside on a log with a ragged primer she’d picked up somewhere, and she helped him with the words. She opened an arithmetic book, and discovered that Joe could figure.
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