Oh, Freedom!

Two

Two

A visitor’s arrival in the village was a rare and exciting event that would be talked about for months to come by the men round the fire in the evenings, and the women while they shucked corn, helped by the children. Each time, the story would be enriched by some extra detail.

Tommy’s parents had the honour of putting up Peg Leg Joe in their cabin. Mamma bustled about a great deal, because she had to prepare a special meal for the guest. She set to work, shouting, banging pots and pans, and complaining about Tommy’s sisters – including that goodyz-goody Aretha – because they weren’t helping her enough and were lazy good for nothings.

Tommy had been elected hero of the day for bringing the stranger and had permission – to his enormous satisfaction – to lounge about until supper.

At one point he even had the honour to be called into the middle of a circle of men outside who were chatting and spitting tobacco.

The storm had passed. The air was fresh, clean and humid while the first stars were beginning to appear in the sky. The boy was asked to describe once more how he’d met Peg Leg Joe, and how he’d not been in the least frightened, despite that wooden leg, and how, realising that the stranger was lost and clueless, he’d guided him to the village.

Tommy, chest swelling with pride, told the story four times, under the satisfied gaze of his father.

Then Mamma shouted, ‘Dinner, you layabouts!’

What a supper! Fried chicken with corn, sweet potatoes and apple fritters, nothing was lacking.

Tommy stuffed himself full to bursting. Even on big feast days they never ate like this.

During supper, Peg Leg Joe said little, but you could feel from what he did say, that he must be a man of great experience. Wise and devout, he must have seen a great many things, more than he wanted to talk about.

Even old George Washington, who had been invited as a particularly dear friend, listened attentively.

No one asked Peg Leg Joe anything about himself though. The adults thought the same thing: a n***o couldn’t go around like that, as if it were nothing unusual. He had to belong to someone! Perhaps ‘they’ were looking for him?

The best thing was not to ask questions and to make sure that none of the white owners saw him or found out he was there.

Peg Leg Joe in return was generous with his bottle of beer which passed from hand to hand, and in the end everyone was full and in a good mood.

After dinner had finished, the stranger got up, stretched, hobbled to the corner where he’d put down his bundles and came back holding the mysterious gourd in his hand.

By that time, the entire village, including those who hadn’t been invited to the dinner – and who were very jealous – had gathered in front of Tommy’s family’s cabin.

Peg Leg Joe took a stool, carried it outside and had Tommy’s family sit beside him, with Tommy in the front row. George Washington was placed in the seat of honour.

The gourd with the handle was then raised high over his head so that everyone could see it. Now everyone could see the strings across the handle, four, perhaps five.

‘This,’ said Peg Leg Joe, ‘is a banjo.’

No one knew what that was, but did not want to seem ignorant before the stranger.

That’s what Tommy thought, though he didn’t feel shy with his friend.

‘And what’s that?’ he asked.

‘It’s a musical instrument,’ explained Peg Leg Joe. ‘Listen!’

He plucked the strings running down the handle which ended where the gourd had been cut and re-covered with something that looked like suede. Ringing sounds came out of the banjo, again and again.

‘Ohhhhhhhhh!!!’ said everyone.

‘Listen,’ said Peg Leg Joe.

Silence fell. For a moment or two there was just the gentle slap of water against the nearby river bank, the noise of a fish jumping and a breath of wind stirring the tree tops, still wet after the storm.

Then Peg Leg Joe began to sing, accompanying himself on the banjo.

The words went:

Steal away, steal away

Steal away to Jesus

Steal away, steal away home

I ain’t got long to stay here.

Even though the man’s voice was a bit rough and a bit off key too, it didn’t matter. The song was so sweet it touched the heart. And what sounds he could draw from the gourd with strings!

But how did he do it? It was magic!

Everyone listened fascinated – some with their mouths open stupefied – and everyone was moved when the song ended:

My Lord calls me

He calls me by the thunder

The trumpet sound

Within my soul.

I ain’t got long to stay here.

Tommy was captivated not only by the beauty of the music and the marvel of those sounds created like magic by such an odd looking instrument, but also by the words.

One phrase struck him especially and it resounded in his head:

I ain’t got long to stay here.

Why did it strike such a chord with him? He was fine here, right where he was, in the cabin with Mamma and Papa, and even with those irritating sisters of his. There was the river where he fished every day; and his secret places. There were the animals he tracked in the tall grass, and the bird nests he visited by climbing the trees.

He was fine here, right where he was.

Even if Tommy was still a little boy, he knew there were other things to be discovered. He wasn’t silly. There were the cotton fields under the boiling sun, the hard work, sweat; there was the whip, but only if you behaved badly; there were the white masters who you had to lower your eyes in front of and always say, ‘Yes, sir, no, sir.’

And there were also the mysterious things which happened sometimes, at night, and which could not be talked about – like when Old Hunk’s son, Orbo, disappeared. He was a hothead – everyone said so – and they’d burned down the old man’s barn. There was the fear he thought he’d seen in his father’s eyes a couple of times, despite his being a brave man.

But Tommy wasn’t too sure, perhaps they were just imaginings that he’d invented.

I ain’t got long to stay here . . .

Meanwhile, Peg Leg Joe had begun another song which went:

Dark and thorny is the pathway

Where the pilgrim makes his ways

But beyond dis vale of sorrow

Lie the fields of endless days.

After the storm, the night had grown tender and gentle; a big moon was rising in the sky. When the last notes of the song rang out, everyone remained silent, lost in thought. Many of the women were crying and even old George Washington was moved. What they were thinking was anyone’s guess.

Tommy’s father got to his feet, cleared his throat and said, ‘We thank you Peg Leg Joe. It’s late now, and tomorrow will be a hard day for everyone.’

Everyone agreed. They said their thank you’s and went home.

‘You too,’ he said to Tommy and his sisters. ‘Bed!’

The boy obeyed unwillingly. The evening had been so exciting that he didn’t want to go to sleep at all. Then, before going behind the curtain where his straw mattress was, he noticed that not everyone had left. Old George Washington and Sammy, their neighbour – a big fellow as good and fresh as bread – had stayed.

Stretched out on his pallet, Tommy could hear them talking non-stop in low voices. Peg Leg Joe seemed to talk the most.

Every now and again someone interrupted with a question, and he could make out his father’s voice and Sammy’s. Once it sounded as if Mamma had joined in.

Tommy knew it wasn’t good eavesdropping on adult conversations. His father had ordered him to go to bed, to sleep, and he was supposed to be an obedient boy. He knew if they discovered him there’d be trouble. But what was going on was so unusual, and he was very curious.

He slid from his under his covers and peeped across a fold in the curtain dividing his corner from the rest of the cabin. They were sitting around the fireplace bathed in the tender light of the moon and stars filtering in through the window.

Peg Leg Joe talked slowly, his voice a barely audible whisper. Tommy couldn’t make out any of his words. After his speech there was a long silence.

Then old George Washington shook his white-haired head in the darkness and spoke clearly, ‘You should follow the Guide. He’s like Moses and will lead you to the Promised Land.’

‘If it’s God’s will,’ said Mamma.

‘Amen,’ said the others.

The meeting was over. The last guests left. Mamma and Papa retired to bed. Peg Leg Joe curled up in the corner reserved for him.

Tommy continued tossing and turning on his pallet in the silence. Now everyone was asleep; one of his sisters was snoring softly. The boy’s thoughts went round in circles. Such strange things he’d seen and heard! Why had the grown-ups met as if in secret? What did old George Washington mean?

But in his mind, he particularly went over the line of one song, the one that went:

I ain’t got long to stay here.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed about fields of endless days.