May 1945, the war against Hitler was over. Patton's third Army had annihilated the Nazis hordes on battlefield Europe.
On a train headed west from New York were two young soldiers of the infamous Third Army--Joe Cunningham, of Ponca, Nebraska, and Steve Jones of Fresno, California. They had been through the war together, from the Normandy Beachhead to the Battle of the Bulge, and now they were going home.
They were hardened veterans, both only twenty-three years old. There was only one difference between them--one was white and the other was black.
"Why did I let you talk me into going by Ponca, when I'm headed home to Fresno?" punned Steve as the train came to a halt at Ponca station.
"It's my Granny C's 103rd birthday and the whole county is celebrating. Besides, I want you to meet my family. I wrote and told them how you saved my life and they all want to meet you."
"Did you tell them I was colored?"
"Well, no, but that doesn't matter; besides you're not all colored. I saw a picture of your mother one time on your foot locker. What is she?"
Steve hesitated, then replied, "Spanish."
"I thought so," Joe answered.
"Have your folks up here ever seen a colored person?" Steve asked.
"I'll have you know, Steve, ole buddy, that colored people helped settle these Nebraska plains way back when," Joe proudly said.
"Where they at--I don't see 'em?"
"There's none here in Ponca--just Indians and whites."
"I thought so. They'll have a bowel movement when they see me here," Steve said with a chuckle.
Joe laughed, "Let's go, Steve. We'll take a cab to the house--it's only three miles up the road."
Steve strained his eyes over the western horizon; it seemed as barren as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. "Where?" he chided.
Joe just smiled at his remark.
"So this is the Ponca you been telling me all about, eh?" Steve Asked.
"Yeh, it used to be a trading post a long time back."
"Hey, is that our cab?" Steve interrupted.
"Yeh, think so, let's hop in," Joe said as he waved at the driver.
"Where to soldier boys?" the cab driver asked as Joe and Steve carried their baggage to the curb where the cab was parked.
"Cunningham Manor," Joe said with a proud smile.
"Get you there in fifteen minutes," the driver yelled, as he got out, walked to the trunk, opened it and put their baggage in. "Big party out that way," he continued as he closed the trunk and entered the driver's seat.
"Yep, it's my Granny C's birthday," Joe said as he and Steve entered the back seat.
"Is that Cunningham Manor?" Steve asked, straining his eyes as the cab sped west on a two lane paved road.
"Yep, that's it!"
"It's in the middle of nowhere; like you said."
"The house straight ahead is kinda new; my dad built it back in thirty-nine. The original house was over there. See those old, wooden broken-down buildings up on the hill over there?"
"Ah, yeh," Steve said, straining his eyes to see them.
"Looks like the birthday party has started already and I do believe half the county is here to celebrate Granny C's birthday," Joe gleefully remarked.
"Yeh, sure is a lot of people around," Steve agreed.
"Well, here we are," the cab driver drawled as he pulled up to the driveway of the sprawling two-story ranch house.
"Here you go sir," Joe said handing the cab driver a five-dollar bill. "Keep the change."
"Thank you, soldier boy," he replied as he opened the cab door, jumped out of the driver's seat and walked toward the trunk to get the baggage.
Joe and Steve got out of the cab and stood looking at Cunningham Manor, when suddenly a young girl came running toward them.
"Joe! Joe! You made it!"
Joe smiled and stretched out his arms. "Sissy," he yelled as they both met and embraced.
"Mother and Dad are coming down soon. Boy, will they be glad you got here," she giggled with excitement.
"Sissy, this is Steve, my war buddy," Joe proudly said, turning to face Steve. He continued, "Steve, this is Sissy, my sister, of course."
"Hi, Steve, Joe told us a lot about you."
"Hi, Sissy. Glad to meet you and don't believe half the things your brother said," Steve quipped with a smile as he patted Joe on the shoulder.
"Here comes Mom and Dad now," Joe yelled to Steve, running toward them as they walked down the steps of the house. Steve and Sissy walked briskly behind him. Joe embraced his parents, then turned and walked toward Steve and Sissy, holding his mother and father with an arm around each of them.
"Steve, I want you to meet my mom and dad!" Joe proudly exclaimed.
"It's a pleasure to meet you both," Steve replied, adding, "besides Sissy, you're all Joe ever talked about...you and Cunningham Manor."
"So, you're Steve," Joe's father slowly stated with a stunned expression on his face. "Joe told us how you saved his life by tackling him down before he stepped on a land mine."
"We were just lucky, sir," Steve replied with a tone of embarrassment.
"I think I told you, Dad, Steve's outfit was the one that brought us ammunition and food during the Battle of the Bulge...they called 'em the Red Ball Express," Joe remarked.
"What's your plans now that you're out of the army, Steve?" Mr. Cunningham asked.
"Well, sir, the army taught me the trucking business, so I thought I'd go into the business back home in Fresno."
"How long can you stay, son ?"
"Not long, sir. My train leaves in about three hours."
"Well, get your self something to eat and drink. Joe, why don't you introduce Steve to all the people."
"I'll do it, daddy!" Sissy interrupted.
"OK, Sissy," Mr. Cunningham hesitatingly agreed. "You two go on. Joe and I will talk for awhile."
"Be along later, Steve," Joe said.
"OK," Steve replied.
Steve and Sissy walked over to the tables that were loaded with food and drink and a four-tier birthday cake smack dab in the center.
"Why didn't you tell us he was colored?" Joe's father angrily asked, with a frown on his face.
"Aw, Dad, what's the difference? We went through two years of the war together and never had a better friend," Joe retorted, with a bit of anger in his voice.
"I know, Son, but up here nobody's seen coloreds that much and they might start talking that you brought a nigger to Granny C's birthday party."
"Oh, John," chided Mrs. Cunningham, "he's only going to be here a short while and he's such a nice polite young man. Besides, I like him."
"OK," Mr. Cunningham said, giving in to his wife's logic, "just be careful when you introduce him to Granny C ... she's old and if she sees him it might upset her."
"See you in a little while," Joe grunted as he rushed away to catch up with Steve and Sissy.
"Be sure and say hello to Mrs. Jamison; you know you were always her favorite," Mrs. Cunningham yelled as Joe rushed away.
"OK, Mom."
"OK, you two, quit eating up all the food," Joe smilingly remarked to Steve and Sissy, as he neared the tables. "Come on, Steve. I want you to meet the people I grew up with and also Granny C; that's her in the wheel chair. That's my cousin Elaine standing next to her. You know, I'm not even sure Granny C remembers me!"
"Oh, sure she does!" Sissy shot back.
Steve glanced in Granny C's direction; their eyes met for a second. A tender smile came to her face, then she slowly turned her head and began staring out onto the western plains.
"Why do you call her Granny C?" Steve asked Joe.
"Well, her name is Cynthia, or Cindy, but ever since I can remember she always had us call her Granny C. She just loves to be wheeled out to that spot on the mound overlooking the old buildings, where she just sits there for hours on end, staring at that old shack over there ... where she was born. Her mother is buried over on that hill about a hundred yards from the shack," Joe paused, then continued, "she must have a lot of memories. Don't know how good they were but she always has a smile on her face--like now. Look at her, smiling and staring out over the hill."
1_
ESCAPE
"Da nigga's gone, Mista Doorman, da nigga's gone!" bellowed Jim Petty, the D'Orman overseer.
"If I told you once, I told you fifty times, Mr.Petty, the name is D'Orman. Understand?
D-E-E- Orman."
"Yessuh."
"Now, Mr. Petty, which one of my niggras is gone?"
"That tall, skinny buck--name's Isaiah, da one dat chops da wood. I sent his black ass down to the river to git some bait for ya fishin'. That was two hours gone and when I went down thar, thar wern't hide ner hair of that nigga nowheres."
"Get the dogs, Mr. Petty," D'Orman commanded. "I'll send Sam and Adam with you; he can't get too far. You know they always head north up the river and they have to pass the Johnson plantation. We'll catch him before he gets there. Now get a move on and get them dogs--fast, it's getting dark! And remember, no shooting! That nigga's worth twelve-hundred on the hoof."
"Yessuh, Mista D-E-E Orman."
"Damn him," D'Orman muttered as he strode toward the big house. These damn peckerwoods are just as dumb as my niggras and I do believe just as lazy. Just can't get good overseers anymore ... my grandaddy wouldn't have put up with this nonsense.
Jerimia D'Orman, owner of one of the largest tobacco plantations in Louisiana, was a proud, arrogant member of the southern aristocracy. He was a short, portly, slightly-balding man-well dressed in his white suit, bowtie and straw hat--typical attire on a hot day for a Louisiana plantation owner in his late fifties. The plantation was left to him after his grandfather's death some five years previous. His father was killed in 1830 in a pistol duel defending the honor of his mother, who later died in 1838. Jerimia never married, but it's been said that he fathered half the slaves on his plantation.
"Marylou!" D'Orman yelled, "Send Jethro up to the Johnson place. Tell him to tell them that one of my niggras has run away and keep their eyes open for him; he's got to pass by their place."
"Who was he, Massa D?"
"Isaiah! Now git!"
"Yessa, Massa D, lick-i-dee-split," she giggled.
"Jethro! Jethro!" Marylou yelled, "Isaiah done gone an run off! Massa D says yo git up to de Johnson place and tell Massa Johnson dat Isaiah done run away and is headed pass his place."
Frowning, Jethro complained, "But girl, I ain't got no pass, and yo knows what dey do to niggas dat don't got no pass even iffen dey knows em."
"Den go to Massa D and git one," she mumbled.
"Massa D! Massa D!" Jethro yelled, as he raced toward D'Orman, stumbling as he ran. "Suh, I needs ... "
"Goddammit, Jethro!" D'Orman interrupted, "I thought you was half way to the Johnson place by now."
"Yessuh," Jethro muttered, "but I needs a road pass else dem Johnson white folk git mad cuz I is on his road wif out one."
"Here, dammit!" D'Orman grunted as he scribbled a pass for him. "Now git and tell any white man that stops you that you're my nigga and you have to git to the Johnson place, fast! Take my rig and git now!"
"Yessuh, Yessuh." Jethro raced toward the barn, stumbled on to the one-horse rig and urged the horse at a fast pace toward the road to the Johnson plantation. The dust rose high as the rig sped north.
Once out of view, Jethro reared the horse to a slow pace and smiled. Dey cain't see's me now. I hopes Isaiah gits gone clean.
Isaiah and Jethro had been special friends since childhood. One time the boys were playing "Toss the Stick" when they should have been cleaning up the barn. Jethro threw the stick right through the big house kitchen window. It was a childish incident, but on an anti-bellum plantation in Louisiana there was no such thing as a childish accident by a slave, no matter what age. The overseer charged out of the big house kitchen door with whip in hand, heading toward the very barn that he had seen Jethro running into.
Jethro yelled, "Isaiah, we gwan git it now!" then hid behind a bale of hay. Isaiah, not hearing Jethro's words ... but sensing trouble, grabbed a hay fork and began forking hay.
The overseer charged into the barn yelling at the top of his lungs to Isaiah, "Ya little skinny nigga, I seen ya throw that stick through the big house winda! I'm gonna whip the skin offa yo skinny black ass! Yo was da one; I seen ya!"
Isaiah, startled by the rage in the overseer's voice, dropped the fork and backed away toward the barn wall in stark fear.
"Don't you try to run away from me, boy. Ya gonna git yo back-side whupped good. Yo was the one, wasn't cha? Wasn't cha!"
Isaiah said nothing, he resigned himself to the intended whipping, the first of many during the next ten years.
His back against the wall, Isaiah closed his eyes and stood tall. The overseer crashed the whip down hard on his shoulders, ripping the skin open--again across his ribs and again, across his legs and again and again. Isaiah wrenched with the sting of each blow but he uttered not a sound.
Hearing the cursings of the overseer, Jerimia D'Orman ran to the barn.
"Now that's enough!" He yelled at the overseer, "Don't want to kill him."
The overseer, still red with rage, lowered his whip. "He's da one dat broke the winda of the big house, suh!"
Jerimia looked at Isaiah's body--a mass of streaming blood coagulating to his torn shirt. "Was you the one that broke that winda, boy?" Isaiah was mute.
"I'm gonna ask you once more, boy," D'Orman commanded, "was you the one that broke the winda?" Isaiah stared upward, then collapsed on the barn floor.
"Git Auntie to clean that boy up," Jerimia D'Orman yelled at the overseer, "and don't beat them youngin's so bad next time ... remember they're money on the hoof, and with scars they don't bring too much on the block."
As D'Orman and the overseer left, Jethro, unseen by the pair and shivering in fear at what he had seen and heard, peered over a hay bale at Isaiah. He cautiously approached Isaiah, who was still unconscious. Isaiah stirred, opened his eyes and stared at his friend.
Unable to move a muscle, for the pain was excruciating, Isaiah mumbled, "Dey gone?"
"Yeh, yeh, dey's gone, Isaiah, and tanks fo not saying it was me."
"Yeh, yeh, OK. I hurts all over."
"Nigga, stop! Stop that rig or I'll blow you out of it!"
Jethro's thoughts were shattered by two horse-mounted whites with squirrel guns pointed directly at him. He reared the horse to a halt.
"Yessuhs."
"Nigga, what you doin on dis road with that fancy rig and all?" yelled one of the riders.
Quickly Jethro answered, "I's goin to Massa Johnson's place fo Massa D, down de road. Massa D says I gotta hurry."
"Just hold ya horses, boy. Where's ya road pass? No nigga goes down da Johnson road wid out one."
"Yessuh. I's got it right cheh," Jethro fearfully muttered.
The tall, ruddy-complexioned, stringy-haired, white plantation boss of the Johnson place stared at Jethro, then snatched the pass from his hand. He looked at it, then strode over to his companion and whispered softly, "Whats it say, Sam?"
"Hell, J.D., you knows I can't read neither!"
"Yea, I forgot," J.D. replied, then strode back to Jethro. "OK, nigga, git! Mr. D says you a good nigga; git on up to the big house."
"Yessuh! Yessuh!" Jethro said, as he prodded the horse into a fast trot toward the Johnson big house. Smiling, he thought, Dey can't read no better den me and I can't read atall. Isaiah can, though. Member when dey ketched him reading a wantud postah. He told em he was just lookin at de pitchurs but dey made him eat de postah. Den they told em dat niggas wasn't supposed to read--just work, and iffen a nigga got caught reading, he woo git whupped. Half of Isaiah's whuppings was cause he was caught reading or stealing tobacco...loved that tobacco. Gettin close to the big house, betta looks like I's in a hurry!He gently put the whip to the horse.
Jethro reared the horse in front of the Johnson big house and yelled to one of the Johnson overseers, "Is Massa Johnson der? I's got a word fo em fom Massa D, down de road."
The overseer just stared at him. "What he say, boy? I'll tell em."
"Yessuh. Well, one of Massa D's niggras is done gone and run off an Massa D says dat de nigga wud be comin by yo way headed norf and fo y'all to catch him and hold him till he gits here.
"Well boy," the overseer sneered, "what's dis here nigga look like and what's his name?"
Nervously Jethro stammered, "Well, he's dis high," putting his hands above his head. "I rekun close to twenty hans tall and a might skinny...black likes me, and when he smiles he shows a lotta teeth."
The overseer frowned, "Well, the nigga won't be smiling when we git him and he won't have no teeth neither. Git on back and tell Mr. D'Orman we'll find him iffen he's in dis neck of the woods."
"Yessuh," Jethro grunted, then reared the horse and headed back.
The banks of the Mississippi were overflowing as the great river wound its way south to the gulf. It was unusually torrential for this time of the year The thick vegetation along its banks were green and moist; the willow trees draped their branches nearly to the ground, providing cover for all the creatures along the Louisiana side of the Mississippi. Except for the river, it was a calm serene day in June 1848. The country dreamed of manifest destiny; the railroads were stretching their tentacles of rails westward across the land, the river boats hosted gamblers, and cotton was king.
For Isaiah Dorman nothing was calm, nothing serene. He'd been on the run for more than two hours and he was sure half the county was looking for him. The dogs would be yelping soon and the white man, with his guns and whips, will be searching every nook and cranny. If they caught me they would let the dogs bite me all over before being called off. They'll beat me with sticks and whips until I can no longer stand...put me in chains and drag me back to the D'Orman plantation where the overseer will horsewhip me in front of the slaves as an example of what would happen if any of them think of running away. Later I'd be sold on the block to work the fields, probably as far away as Georgia or Alabama. No man should be a slave, I'll never let them catch me alive.
Twice he was almost seen by whites who were fishing along the banks. He had to be careful not to be seen, even by slaves, yet he had to keep going. At twilight he knew he must travel fast, especially during the evening and night. During the day, it was too dangerous even to move, let alone travel any distance at all. As long as I stays close to de bank and moves twixt de trees; I got a chance. I's betta git going; done rested a nuff.
He knew he was close to five miles north of the plantation, and pretty close to the Johnson place. He'd traveled pretty fast in two hours, and the odds were good that if the Johnson whites were looking for him, they wouldn't think that he'd passed their place yet.
He moved his lanky body from the ground, looked cautiously in all directions and hurriedly headed north, using the trees and vegetation as cover. As darkness approached, Isaiah gave a sign of relief ... he hadn't been seen. Four hours passed, and not a sign of a posse. Things seemed to be going too well. He was sure they had missed him by now.
Suddenly, he heard dogs barking somewhere in the far off distance. They're surely after me now, he thought, and hot on my trail. He could hide from the men in the dark but he couldn't hide from the sure smell of the blood hounds. Crossing the river to avoid the hounds would be dangerous...I might drown, so that's out.
Fear slowly enveloped him as the sound of the barking dogs got closer and closer. The only chance he had was to throw off the scent. He was hoping to find a skunk; he could kill it and pour the foul-smelling liquid from the scent gland behind him. Then he remembered the jars of salt and pepper in his gunny sack, along with the stolen pork belly. If I spread enough of the pepper on the ground the hounds will sniff it and it'll ruin their smell. I have to try it, he thought.
Isaiah stopped, reached into the sack, praying all the time that the pepper jar hadn't broken. He was relieved to see the jar intact. After opening the lid, he poured the pepper in front of him while walking backwards to the north. He turned, threw the empty jar in the river and began running through the trees and vegetation.
By now he could hear the voices of the whites as they yelled, "We're gittin damn close to that nigga. He's out there; the dogs are gettin nervous."
The D'Orman whites and the Johnson posse had not joined up yet because Isaiah heard yells from different directions. Panic set in Isaiah's mind, his heart beat faster as the posse got closer. His legs were weak; sweat poured from his brow, and each breath was shorter, as he ran with all the power he had.
I wish I could stop and rest for just a moment, he thought, but I can't the posse is about two-hundred yards away.
It seemed that both posses had joined together as the sound of the barking dogs were coming from the same direction. Suddenly, there were yelps of pain coming from the bloodhounds. They seemed to stop and yelp as if bitten by bees or attacked by wasps.
"What the hell's wrong with them dogs?" screamed one of the whites. "They're running around in circles; like they was bit by a cotton mouth or somethin!"
"Hell, I don't know," answered the handler, "I bet that nigga's close around here somewheres."
"You dumb peckerwood!" screamed Adam, the D'Orman hand. "Iffen he was 'round here, them dumb dogs of your'n would take us to him instead of running around in circles like they had coal oil up their asses."
"Adam, you stay put with these crazy dogs and that thar peckerwood handler!" screamed Sam. "The rest of us will run up the trail aways. He's up there somewhere; I can smell him. You can smell a nigga a mile away. Let's go!"
Hearing the footsteps of the posse rustling through the marsh leaves, Isaiah though tired, quickened his pace. The pepper worked, but it wouldn't be long before the dogs would regain their sense of smell. He was worried that the whites would see him in the moonlight. Again, panic began to take control of Isaiah. He didn't dare make any noise, but he knew he couldn't run without breaking branches and rustling leaves. Glancing around, he spotted some fallen dead trees, about a hundred yards west of the bank. He slowly crept up the bank and headed for them. He could hear the voices of the posse in the background.
"Check behind every tree and in every bush," a voice commanded.
Isaiah fell to his hands and knees and crawled to the dead trees and squeezed himself beneath them.
As the posse got closer, Isaiah could see their faces in the pale moonlight. He dared not even breath loudly. Sweat streamed down his face as they approached his hiding spot. The rustling of their footsteps on the leaves and the sounds of their voices terrified him, as he could see the boots of the men approaching ever closer while he peered through an opening between the dead tree stumps. The posse stopped not ten feet from his hidden sanctuary.
They stood there quietly, then a voice yelled out, "OK, nigga, we got chu now. Come on out or we'll come in and git cha."
Isaiah sensed it was a ploy because they were standing just spitting distance from him, he virtually stopped breathing. A voice whispered, "Aw hell, he ain't nowheres around these parts or we woulda got him by now."
Sam, the leader, just grunted, then said, "Let's git back; we can pickup his trail tomorrow when it's light and the dawgs got their sniffers right. DAMMIT TO HELL!" he continued, "I wanted to catch that nigga tonight so's I could go fishin tomorrow. Now I got to go nigga huntin tomorrow... When we do catch that nigga, I'm gonna snatch his balls out, just for this."
The sound of the posse's boots became fainter as they trampled slowly southward toward the bank and headed back for their plantations. Isaiah lay motionless beneath the dead trees...afraid that just one sound might bring them back. He stayed there for what seemed like hours. It was close to midnight, half the night was gone and he was tired and hungry. All the food he had was the sow belly. He didn't dare start a fire to cook it, so he ate it raw.
Stumbling down to the river bank to get a drink of water, he noticed what appeared to be a fallen log. He crept closer to see that it was a log raft someone had left. He smiled, then grunted. "I'll be dog gone; look at dat!" He quickly found a tree branch--long enough to use as a pole stick, mounted the raft and started to pole up the Mississippi into the night.
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