Freed Slaves. [2,500] Freedom is often a matter of perspective. (standard:drama, 2479 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 02 2020	Views/Reads: 1417/973	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Near the end of the American Civil War, a master shoots himself as Northerners free his slaves. This is that story in the voice of the longtime family cook.

Hearing a cock crow, I turn over, face forced into a feather-pillow. The
urge to sleep is almost overpowering. I feel my years, getting up there 
and going on seventy. Years of rising before sunup to fix Master's 
breakfast, finishing after supper -- and after sundown. 

My mate Peter, lying next to me, can sleep until well after the sun
rises. He's a blacksmith at the plantation. Even the field slaves have 
another hour or two of slumber after I gotta rise. 

I cook for the Master and his family. At least I'm thankful Master James
lets me feed my own family from his leftovers, and I purely make sure 
they's plenty of leftovers. 

Nothing for it. I have to rise and get ready for another day. Master
lets me have two extra quarts of lamp oil a month for myself, cause of 
getting up early. I hate to use it, though, since Ethel, my friend, 
needs it more for her six kids. I dress in the dark. Gotta hurry. It's 
a bit lighter outside as I tromp over toward the big house. 

My young assistant, Mary, is usually late. I have to stop in at the
girls' shack to wake her, then hurry over to heat up the cookstove. 
Nobody done bothered to fill the wood box last night. I banked the fire 
a'fore I left. There's enough wood chips and small bits to at least get 
it going while I go out back and carry enough wood in to last for 
breakfast. 

Throwing a few of the driest chunks in first, I stir it with a poker
then throw in a half-cup of bacon grease to produce a roaring blaze. I 
notice Mary isn't here yet, and have to go out to wake her again. 

On my way, I detour to the chicken coop to collect eggs, something Mary
should have done on her way in. Once the biscuits are mixed and in the 
oven and hotcake batter made, I go down to the root-cellar to cut us 
some smoked-ham slices. Bringing them back upstairs, I put them on to 
fry. 

About that time Mary comes in, wiping sleep out of her eyes with the
back of a hand, yawns, says hello, and gets the common silver out to 
set the Master's table. Master James keeps the good stuff locked up for 
special occasions. 

Mary's job is to serve the family and help me out. Maybe I'll have a
break after breakfast while she cleans up by herself? After all, I am 
getting up in years and she was late. 

*** 

I stand in the doorway to the kitchen, looking out at the dining room,
waiting. Mary stands beside me. I notice her apron. How she gets it 
dirty setting the table, I have no idea -- but she does. 

"You done gets you'self back in that kitchen, girl, and change that rag.
I mean now, girl," I order her. 

She pouts, as though that'll work on me, and goes back inside. 

The Master's family is also waiting, fidgeting at the breakfast table
while waiting for Master James to give his signal. The last one to get 
to the table is usually little Mistress Ann. She's got a clubfoot. Both 
slow moving because of that, and by nature, the little girl likes to 
take her time getting dressed and using the chamber pot. 

Master James has almost finished his first cigar of the morning. When it
gets down to the last inch -- and he puts it down in the ashtray -- 
I'll have Mary bring in the meal. It's a morning ritual, one I've 
performed for most of fifty years. 

Oh no, I think, seeing Mistress Ann's unclad feet. The little girl has
come down without her slippers again. Of course her mother notices 
right away, probably from the sound on the bare wood floor. 

“Brenda, go up and get Ann's slippers.” The dreaded words that send me
across the house and up two flights of stairs. 

“Yes'm. Right away, ma'am.” I hurry upstairs to retrieve Mistress Ann


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