The Land, Page 2

  Mitchell looked at the ground.

  “Is that understood?”

  Mitchell looked up, first at Hammond, then at me, and I felt my knees go weak. “Yeah,” he mumbled, his eyes fixed on me, and at that moment I knew that my troubles with Mitchell were far from over.

  And I was right.

  The next time Mitchell Thomas caught up with me alone, he near to whipped the living daylights out of me. “Now, go tell your brothers ’bout this beatin’, you white nigger!” he cried as he pummeled me. “For all I care, you can tell yo’ white daddy ’bout it too!”

  But after Mitchell got finished beating on me, I told no one. Instead, I made my way over to the creek and sat on its bank, looked out over my daddy’s land, and pondered why Mitchell and the other boys hated me so. Now, what Mitchell said was true: I did have a white daddy. My daddy was Edward Logan, and Edward Logan was a much-respected man. He was a prosperous man too, or at least he had been before the war had come in 1861, and still now that the war was over by several years, he was doing better than most. He owned a lot of land, and until a few years back he had owned his share of slaves too.

  My mama had been one of those slaves.

  My mama was called by the name of Deborah, and she was equally of the African people and of the native people, the Indians, whom we called the Nation. She was a beautiful woman. My daddy took a liking to her soon after she came into her womanhood, and he took her for his colored woman, and that’s how my older sister Cassie and I came to be. Cassie and I were our daddy’s children, and both of us were born into slavery. Now, there were a lot of white men who fathered colored children in those days, even though the law said no white man could legally father a black child; that was in part so no child of color could inherit from his white daddy. Some white men took care of their colored children; most didn’t. My daddy was one who did. Not only did he take care of Cassie and me, but he acknowledged that we were his, though it was quietly spoken, and he raised us as his, pretty much the same as his white children, and that’s what made us different, what made me different.

  I was a colored boy who looked almost white. Though I had a mixed look to me, upon first seeing me, most folks thought I was white, and for some folks, if they didn’t know different, they kept thinking so. My hair was brown and straight and hung somewhat long most times, to my shoulders. Some called that the Indian look in me, and my mama liked that. My skin was what some folks call olive for some reason, and my features being what they were, people made their own judgments about who and what I was.

  Because my daddy was who he was, I had some of the privileges of a white boy, privileges denied to Mitchell and other colored folks on the place. Cassie and I sat right alongside Hammond, George, and Robert at our daddy’s table. We wore good clothes, and our daddy educated us. He’d taught us himself how to read and write and figure, even though when he taught Cassie, it was against the law at the time, and when he taught me, it was against what so many of his white neighbors held dear. He also made Hammond and George and Robert share their books and all their school learning with us. When he traveled on business around the community, he oftentimes took me with him, along with my brothers. Just by being with Edward Logan and a part of his world, I was receiving an education none of the other boys of color on the place were privy to. My daddy protected me, and I was treated almost as if I were white. Yes, I was different, all right, and that was a fact. I sat there by the creek thinking on that, and finally decided it was no wonder Mitchell Thomas couldn’t stand the sight of me. I supposed if I’d been Mitchell, I wouldn’t’ve liked me much either.

  I remember Robert came along as I was sitting there dwelling on all this and wanted to know what had happened. “What you think?” I said.

  “Mitchell?”

  “Mitchell.”

  Robert heaved a sigh and sat down beside me. “Looks bad.”

  “Feels worse.”

  “Why’d he do it this time?”

  I looked at Robert. Though I’d figured it out, I wasn’t ready to talk about it. “Same as always,” I said. “He just doesn’t like me.”

  Robert nodded, and we said no more for a good long while. Robert threw rocks into the creek, letting me be, and if he figured I was holding something back, he didn’t say so. Robert and I didn’t need to talk; we were that close.

  Some time passed; then Robert spoke again. “You want to fish awhile?”

  I glanced over at the rock opening where we kept our poles and shook my head. “Don’t feel like it.”

  “Wanna do anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “You hurting?”

  “What you think?”

  “Want me to get Hammond and George?”

  I shook my head.

  “What you going to do?”

  “Sit right here.”

  “Okay,” said Robert. “I’ll sit with you.” He continued to throw his rocks. I continued to stare out at the creek, and we said no more.

  After my realization about myself and how some folks saw me, I gave more serious thought on how to stop Mitchell from beating on me. Despite now having more understanding of Mitchell’s dislike of me, I couldn’t fully understand his hate. I didn’t figure I’d ever done anything directly to Mitchell. My mama, though, figured different. She rubbed salve on my wounds and said, “You haven’t done anything, huh? Well, how you think it make Mitchell feel for you to be sending Hammond and George to his house to speak to him and scaring his mama?”

  “They didn’t scare her!” I protested. “All they did was ask where Mitchell was!”

  “That’s all they had to do. They’re white.”

  “They’re my brothers,” I reminded her.

  “Uh-huh . . . white brothers, and you best remember that.”

  I was hardly about to forget it, what with my mama always reminding me of the fact, though in those early days it didn’t seem important to me. Hammond, George, and Robert were simply my brothers, and my daddy was my daddy, and I got tired of my mama always reminding me different; but still I had to admit that there was something to what she said about me asking Hammond and George to talk to Mitchell, something that wasn’t right. Mitchell had been born a slave on my daddy’s land, and so had I. We had that much in common. My mama was right. I shouldn’t have sent Hammond and George. I needed to settle this thing with Mitchell myself.

  Once I came to that conclusion, to handle things myself, even when Hammond and George offered to help again, I said no. They had taken one look at me after Mitchell’s last beating, and George said, “Looks like that talk we had with Mitchell didn’t do much good.”

  “You want us to go talk to him again?” Hammond asked.

  “Better still,” said Robert, “this time we’ll beat him up good for ya!”

  “No,” I replied. “You talk to him again or you whip him, he’ll still come after me. I’ll handle it my own self.”

  “Then least we’d better teach you how to fight better,” said George.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve got it figured now. I’ll be all right.”

  George laughed. “Hope you’re right. We don’t want to have to bury you.”

  Well, I didn’t want them to have to bury me either. I had a plan, and all I could do was pray that it worked. That same day I went looking for Mitchell. When I found him, he seemed surprised to see me. He looked around. “Well, where they at?” he said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Your brothers. Ain’t ’spected you to be out walkin’ round without ’em.”

  “Well, I am. I come looking for you.”

  “What for? To get yo’self another whippin’?”

  “To ask you something.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I wanna know exactly how come you don’t like me. I mean, I got some of your reasons figured, but far as I can tell, I never done anything to you.”

  Mitchell shrugged. “Just don’t like you.”

  “Just don’t?” I ques
tioned.

  He looked at me square and said matter-of-factly, “I got no use for white niggers.”

  I thought on that for a moment. I hated that word nigger, but I wasn’t about to lecture Mitchell concerning it right now. Instead, I said, “I wasn’t so white-looking, would you like me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?

  “’Cause you think you way better’n everybody else.”

  “Now, what makes you think I think that? You inside my head?”

  “You know how come,” Mitchell retorted.

  “Just ’cause my daddy’s white and he owns this place?” I asked. “Well, I didn’t have a say about who my daddy is, and I didn’t have a say about my looking white. It’s just who I am.” I dismissed all that with a shrug and hoped Mitchell would do the same. “What else makes you think I feel like I’m better?”

  “You so smart, you go on figure it out,” said Mitchell, having now said more to me than ever before without having started to pound on me.

  I thought on what he said before I spoke again. “You know, Mitchell, you way stronger’n me, and ’cause you are, there’re a whole lotta things you can do I can’t. But there’re some things I can do and you can’t, like read and write and figure. Maybe you think I feel better’n everybody else ’cause I can do those things and you can’t, so I was thinking: What if I taught you to read and write and figure? Then you’d pretty much know what I know and there wouldn’t be any reason for you to think I’m thinking I’m so smart.”

  Mitchell scowled. “What I want t’ read and write and figure for?”

  “’Cause it’s something worth knowing,” I reasoned, “and ’cause most white folks don’t want us knowing how, ’cause once we do know, we can learn all sorts of things white folks know. You ever think why it is most white folks don’t want us to know how to read and write and figure? My daddy says it’s ’cause they need us as workers and so they don’t want us knowing much as they do. Long as they figure they know something we don’t, they can figure they’re smarter than us.”

  Mitchell thought on that. “Ain’t you afraid of them night riders comin’ to get you, you go tryin’ to teach me how to do them things?” he asked dryly.

  Now, the night riders were white folks who dressed up in sheets and such and rode around threatening colored folks and white folks too who started up schools for colored folks and taught colored folks anything other than what they figured colored folks needed to know. The night riders were certainly to be feared, but I wasn’t worried about them, and I knew Mitchell really wasn’t either. Neither of us had ever seen them and after all, this teaching thing would be just between Mitchell and me. I shrugged. “No need for them to find out. I’m not opening any school, just teaching you.”

  “And what you ’spect me t’ do for you?” he asked.

  The truth was, all I expected from Mitchell Thomas was for him to stop beating up on me, but I was realizing now with those words that Mitchell was more than just a bully. There was a pride in him too, and there’d have to be an exchange of learning for this truce I was proposing to work. “You could teach me to fight,” I said.

  “Can’t teach you to win,” he returned.

  “Well, that’d be up to me,” I replied.

  Mitchell took his time in making up his mind. “All right then,” he finally agreed. “You teach me how t’ read and write and figure, and I’ll teach you how t’ fight, but I wants ya t’ know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I still don’t like ya.”

  “Well, I don’t like you either,” I admitted quite truthfully.

  He nodded, accepting my honesty, and the deal was struck. So that’s how things began between Mitchell and me. After that, Mitchell and I held our truce. We didn’t become friends, but at least he wasn’t beating up on me anymore. I taught him and he taught me. He wasn’t the best student, but then again I wasn’t a great fighter either. I learned how to defend myself, and maybe just as important, once the other colored boys saw Mitchell and me together without Mitchell picking on me and bopping me upside the head, they pretty much backed off and left me alone. I don’t know if at the time Mitchell was aware of it or not, but though he never declared himself as such, his presence alone made him my protector.

  The Stallion

  A couple of years after Mitchell and I had come to our understanding, my daddy took himself a real interest in a stallion by the name of Ghost Wind. Now, my daddy loved horses and in particular fast horses, and he’d recently heard about Ghost Wind, who some folks claimed was the fastest thing on four legs. Since my daddy didn’t own Ghost Wind, the fastest thing on four legs, he soon took steps to rectify that fact. After corresponding with the owner of that stallion, a man by the name of Waverly who lived in the neighboring county, he announced that he was going to take a look at the horse for himself, and if that stallion was as fast as everybody said, he intended to buy him. He decided to take all of us boys with him.

  The Waverly farm was several hours away, so on the day my daddy went to bargain for the stallion, we started early, long before dawn. The night before, my daddy had chosen five of our best horses for us to ride. He said he wanted Jim Waverly to know he already had the best, so a stallion named Ghost Wind, though he wanted him, was not the only horse out there. He had gotten the best before, and even if he couldn’t settle on a fair price for the stallion, he’d get the best somewhere else.

  The only problem with his decision about taking his best five horses was Robert. Now, the thing was, Robert had always been skittish around horses. He had once been thrown by a horse, and his leg and ribs were broken. That fall had put a great fear into him, and he had never gotten over it, so it was difficult even to get him near a horse, let alone on one unless he was riding double with someone else. Robert much preferred to walk to get to where he was going or, if the distance proved too much, to ride in a buggy. My daddy, though, being the horseman he was, wasn’t about to let Robert ride in a buggy to another horseman’s farm. He was particularly proud of these five horses, and he wasn’t going to have one of them hitched to a buggy. The concession he finally made to Robert was to replace one of the five with a lesser horse, but still of fine quality. This horse was slower and less spirited, and he figured even Robert shouldn’t have a problem with him.

  “Just keep a tight hold on the reins, let him know who’s in charge,” said my daddy to Robert, “and you’ll do fine.”

  Robert looked at me mounted beside him, and I could tell he was figuring the horse was in charge, not him. Still, he said, “Yes, sir,” to our daddy and made the ride, though he looked uncomfortable all the way. Now, I was just the opposite of Robert. I was eleven by then and could sit a horse well. In fact, I was good with horses and could handle most of them. My daddy said it seemed like to him I’d been born on one. So, while my daddy, Hammond, and George rode on ahead, I stayed behind with Robert, talking most of the way to the Waverly farm, keeping Robert’s mind off his fear and his horse in line with my own.

  Once we got to the Waverly farm, we went right away to see the stallion my daddy had come to buy, the great Ghost Wind. He was pure white and he was a beauty. My daddy admired him openly. Mr. Waverly invited him to mount, and my daddy did so. He walked the horse around the pasture, then nudged him into a gallop. Ghost Wind seemed to be floating.

  “Like to put him into some real paces,” said my daddy, “and see just how fast he is.”

  “Fine,” agreed Mr. Waverly. “I’ll just get mounted and show you the course. I’m sure your boys there would like to see it too. We can all ride along, though I’ll tell you right now we won’t be able to keep up.”

  Hammond and George were all for that. I was too, but Robert held back. He’d had enough of horses for a while. He said he’d rather wait at the finish line to see the horses come in. Although I wanted to ride the course along with my daddy, George, and Hammond, I stayed behind with Robert.

  Now, Mr. Waverly had three boys.
Percy was eleven, same as Robert and me, Jack was a couple of years younger, and Christian was the eldest. All three stayed behind. They had seen Ghost Wind race before and seemed to have no interest in seeing him race again. Soon as their daddy was gone, they said there was another horse we should see. “Called an Appaloosa,” said Christian Waverly. “Come from out west somewheres. He’s ours. Our daddy gave him to us.”

  “Wanna see him?” asked Jack Waverly.

  I certainly did, but they weren’t talking to me, and Robert was hesitant, having no desire to see another horse, no matter how special. Unfortunately, those boys sensed Robert’s fear, and they brought the Appaloosa out anyway. The Appaloosa was a beautiful thing with deep colored patches of brown against a background of cream, but he seemed frightened, and the Waverlys had a hard time handling him. Finally, when they got him calmed, they invited Robert to mount.

  Robert’s eyes widened at the prospect and he backed away. “But . . . but he’s wild.”

  The Waverlys scoffed. “No wilder’n most. Go ’head. Get on.” “No, thank you,” Robert politely declined.

  “Aw, come on,” said Percy Waverly. “Sure your daddy would want you to try him out, seeing what a horseman he is.”

  “I said no,” Robert repeated.

  The Appaloosa suddenly reared, and Robert’s eyes showed his terror. Backing away, he stumbled.

  “You ain’t scairt of him, are you?” asked Christian. “Come on, we’ll help you up.” Then two of the Waverlys scooped Robert up, while the third held the Appaloosa, and plopped him on the horse’s back. Robert was terrified.

  I yelled for them to take Robert off that horse and pushed my way toward the Appaloosa. “Let him down!” I ordered.

  One of the Waverlys caught me by the lapel of my coat. “And just who do you think you are to be telling anybody to do anything? Oh, yeah, we heard about you.”

  I glanced at Robert, who was mute with fear. He was trying to get off the animal, but I knew that filled him with terror too; the ground to him was a long way down. “He doesn’t have a way with horses,” I tried to tell those boys. “He’ll get hurt.”