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: 1420/973	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.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

her slippers, puffing all the way. The girl will be chastised by her 
mother, Mistress Janis, but it's the slave who has to get the slippers 
and put them on her feet when I get back. All that running and kneeling 
will ruin me yet. But, no meal and no chance of rest until I get back 
down there to shod those little toes. 

Thankfully, the rest of the meal goes without trouble. My rest period
seems to go by in moments and I'm, all too soon, starting on the next 
meal. 

*** 

I have to go out to the little shed to get fresh wine for the Master.
They trust me with the key because they know I don't drink, myself. 
What they don't know is that I hide a half-jug behind an unused 
horse-trough outside to take to Peter later. On the way, I can see the 
Master and his wife taking it easy on the front porch, being fanned by 
two of the house-slaves. Damn, But I'm tired and envy them their 
leisure. 

Finally, after I help serve and clean up after supper, I bank the fire
on the cook stove and plod wearily back to my shack. 

Peter is still busy. One of the work wagons has busted an axle. Luckily
for me, that'll probably mean he'll be too tired to pester me tonight. 

Gratefully, I sit in my very-own armchair, a discard from the big house.
There are small perks from working there. For a slave, I have it 
comfortable. Besides discarded furniture, the mistress has the people 
doctor take care of my aches and pains. Most slaves get a veterinarian, 
him being cheaper. Peter and myself get to eat the finest foods, and 
the Master often gives me real whiskey for Peter. 

We're valuable to him. While he doesn't take a lot of notice of the
welfare of the field workers, we and the house servants are well took 
care of. The mistress often buys new furniture and clothing and we 
privileged slaves get the pick of the old stuff before it filters down 
to the others. 

Also, in a few more years both Peter and myself can look forward to a
comfortable retirement. The Master never sells worn-out house-slaves, 
simply letting us live out our last years in peace. 

Taking care of older hard-working slaves is a family tradition in my
Master's family, even common laborers as an incentive to work hard. 
Retired house slaves are considered, in many ways, as a part of his 
family. Yes, sir, two or three more years and I can sit on my porch and 
take it easy, Peter by my side. 

I sit outside to avoid heat inside the shack, resting from a day's work
and listening to distant cannon fire. In the summer, it's a tossup. 
Stay inside and sweat to avoid the skeeters, or go outside for the 
breeze and get eaten to the quick. 

The noise and fighting does seem to be getting closer, up near
Appomattox it sounds like. On our plantation, we give little thought to 
the war. I consider it none of my business what those white folks do. 
Let them kill each other, I think. It don't matter to me none. 

*** 

A month or so later, I'm in the kitchen. The mistress and children are
away -- visiting for a while, is what I was told. With only the Master 
to take care of, the work is easier. I have to constantly shoo 
houseboys out of the kitchen where they come to pester Mary. When the 
entire family is here, they wouldn't dare. 

And now I gotta keep the pantry door locked. One afternoon, I found Mary
and that noxious Elmer in there, making like rabbits. 

The Master seems worried about the war. He didn't even come down to
breakfast this morning, having a ham sandwich sent up to his quarters. 
He's been going through a lot of whiskey since the rest of his family 
left to visit somewheres. 

A few days later, there's a lot of excitement when a whole bunch of
soldiers come visiting. They're wearing the funniest blue coats and 
take much of the livestock when they leave. I'm surprised when the 
overseers don't even try to stop them. In fact, I suddenly realize, I 
haven't seen an overseer for days. They're not around the big house 
much anyway, but at least one of them usually shows up every day or so 
to see Master James about something. 

After the Lincolns leave, little Jethro comes barging into the kitchen a
yelling. 

“We's free, Miss Brenda. We's free! We can do anythin' we wants cause
we's free. Gimme a sanwich'?” 

“You ain't free till the Master says you is. And you ain't gettin' a
sanwich' til I says you is.” I run him out of the kitchen. 

That afternoon, Mary just up an leaves before the day's even done. 

“I ain't doing any more work, Miss Brenda. I'm free, and I'm a'goin',”
she tells me. Despite my protests, she just ups and leaves me to do all 
the work myself. 

A little while later, I'm in the kitchen fixing dinner when I hear
arguing in the house. And then, scaring the be-Jesus out of me, the 
Master's shotgun goes off -- twice.  In the house, yet.  A bunch'a the 
menfolk run past the kitchen door, back to the slave quarters. 

Carefully looking into the house to see what's wrong, I see Master James
standing there with a smoking gun. Three of the men slaves are lying 
dead on the floor. I admit, I'm scared and run back to the kitchen 
before he can see me. 

From the back door, I can see folks simply walking off and leaving, bags
and bundles on their shoulders. They seem to be in good spirits. 

Lordy, I think, what's going on here? The white slave patrol'll kill
them all. 

Some of them are even taking the Master's property when they leave. I
see the Johnson's driving one of the Master's wagons loaded with their 
household furniture and stolen property, like it was their own. Some 
are leading Master James's livestock. That thieving Oscar is even 
stealing a milk cow. I run outside. 

"Oscar. You bring Bessie right back here. You crazy, or what? Where am I
going to get milk for breakfast tomorrow?" I yell at the scoundrel. 

"Ain't a'gonna need it tomorrow, Miss Brenda," He yells back. "I's gonna
sell Bessie. Mass'a can go ta hell." 

Again, I figure it's none of my business. I feel sorry for Master James,
but one old lady can't begin to stop them. The Master must be able to 
see it himself, I think, and it's the housekeeper's duty to tell him, 
not mine. 

As for Master James, he doesn't even send down for a sandwich for
supper. I stay late just to make sure, hoping he's in good health and 
thinking he'll get hungry. I can imagine him upstairs, guns at hand, 
drinking himself senseless. The Master has always treated me right and 
my Peter can take care of himself, I'm thinking. 

About nine, I hear another gunshot from inside the house and, not having
nerve nor inclination to check on it, bank the fire again and leave for 
my own shack, locking the kitchen door behind me. It's been a very 
strange day. 

Tired and shaking with emotion, I climb the three steps and go inside. I
find Peter already there. He says we're now free, no longer slaves to 
anybody. That the Lincolns won the war. Him being about a half-dozen 
years older than me, neither one of us want to take off on our own. 
More power to the ones who do, I think, but we're too old and tired. 
We'll just have to take our chances right here at the plantation. 

Out of habit, I go to the big house in the morning, but find nobody to
feed. Even the houseboys are gone. The Master doesn't even come 
downstairs for more whiskey, though I go out and bring a jug into the 
parlor for him. 

Although I figured it a'ready, it ain't until about noon that another of
the older slaves tells me for sure. The shot I heard last night was the 
Master shooting himself. When I hear that, I pack up 'nough food and 
other vittles to last for a good while, not really wanting to steal, to 
tote home with me. Ain't a'gonna be none around ta'morrow and better I 
have it than some'a the others. 

I guess that's what the few remaining slaves are waiting for -- me to
leave the house. Even without the Master, I'm a symbol of authority. 
Apparently the very last one. 

As I walk home, heavily laden and feeling guilty with a full basket over
my own shoulder, I look back and see a dozen or so a them running in 
the back door to loot the big house. 

Funny thing, though. It seems that as long as I was there, even with the
Master dead, they feared to go in. As though the last vestige of the 
old life left with me. 

For the next week, there's nobody at the plantation but us old people.
Nobody bothers us and we don't bother nobody else -- not even looters 
that come in from the road. 

*** 

When Negroes and poor whites crowding the road see there ain't anybody
around, they come into the plantation and loot the house and 
outbuildings. Figuring we might well need it, us oldsters have already 
stripped and hidden most of the food and valuables. Though we never 
used none, we also take the house guns, feeling safer us having them 
than those thieves. 

The one place we don't go is the Master's bedroom, afraid of what we
know is in there. By now, you can tell by the smell. 

Soon the plantation is stripped. I can tell by the way thieves creep
past my home with empty arms. Some of the youngsters from other places 
have no respect for age, and even steal from us. 

We think, hopefully, that all we have to do is hold out until the
Master's family comes back to claim the place. It never happens. 

One night, I wake to yelling outside my shack. The sky is bright with a
reddish light. Someone's set fire to the big house. 

Nobody comes to fight the fire and, of course, us old people can't do it
ourselves. 

Finally, one day the sheriff comes and chases us all off the property.
It has been sold, he tells us, and the new Yankee owner doesn't want us 
old and useless Negroes to take care of. 

So much for freedom. 

The End.


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