The Land(101)
Charles Jamison nodded. “Understand that. He told me. Wade, though, is figuring this is something he needs to be doing because of what all’s happened in the past. Now, understand me, I’m not apologizing for anything. My daddy farmed and he had slaves, and his daddy did the same before him. It was considered all right then. By the time I was a boy, thinking was beginning to change, and by the time of the war I already knew that things couldn’t be the same, and come the end of the war and the changes came, I accepted those changes because I had to. Besides, it was time. But Wade’s been coming up feeling like folks are folks, and he’s wanting to make some amends. I’m not feeling the same. What’s done is done. My granddaddy and my daddy cared about our land and the folks who lived on it, and I’m not about to apologize for anything they did. But I’m respecting my boy and his feelings, and I’m learning from him, just as I learned from my daddy, who was thinking before the war of eventually emancipating his slaves.”
“But it didn’t happen,” I said, a little too bluntly and a little too bitterly. My daddy hadn’t freed me either.
“No, it didn’t,” said Charles Jamison, looking me over. His voice didn’t change. “The war happened instead, and we’re all still recovering from that.”
I didn’t say anything.
“We being neighbors, I figured these things needed to get said. I’m wishing you luck. You need my help on anything, you let me know.”
I thanked Charles Jamison for his offer, but I didn’t figure to ask his help on anything. I liked him and I liked his son, but I didn’t intend to be beholden to any white man. Not again.
Wade Jamison stayed working for another week on the forty, and when the Grangers came again for their timber, he was there. He watched as the logs were rolled into the creek, then went back to hacking off branches. I watched as Filmore Granger’s boy, Harlan, followed him, and I heard Harlan say, “Thought the Jamisons were supposed to be quality folks.”
“What you mean by that?” asked Wade, stopping his work.
“Quality, and here you doin’ a nigger’s bidding.”
Wade Jamison took his time and said to Harlan, “My granddaddy logged trees, even while the Indians were here. Nothing’s wrong in logging and nothing’s wrong in taking orders from a man who knows logging.”
“But you here working for these niggers on Granger land!”
“Thought this was suppose to be Logan land after these trees are cut,” challenged Wade. “Now, I’m working for myself, and even if I weren’t, I don’t see nothing wrong with what I’m doing.”
“Then you a fool,” said Harlan.
The boy Wade stared at the boy Harlan. “Not if I don’t think so,” he said, and turned again to his chopping. As agreed, when the last logs were headed down the creek, Wade Jamison left. I admired the boy and hated to see him go, but my thinking was much the same as Mitchell’s. A white boy on the place could only lead to trouble.
With the demands of the Grangers lessened now, Mitchell again turned his attention to his upcoming marriage. He and Nathan readied the cabin for Caroline’s arrival. They cleaned and swept it, and Mitchell bought some pane for me to make a window so that Caroline could have the sunshine inside. Nathan and I moved our few things to the shed, and when all that was done, Mitchell, Nathan, and I hitched two of the mules to the wagon and headed for Vicksburg. I had arranged for Tom Bee to watch out for the animals and to keep chopping, so I had no worries about the place. It was my first journey off the forty in more than three months.
Mitchell married Caroline on a hot day in August at Mount Elam Baptist Church, and I stood up as his witness. Mitchell was nervous and Caroline was beautiful. She wore an ivory dress, and her hair hung long, graced with baby’s breath from her mother’s flower garden. As she and Mitchell exchanged their vows, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, and despite my loyalty to my friend, I had to fight a heaviness in my heart at seeing Caroline marry someone else, even if it was Mitchell.
After the ceremony, all the people from the church followed the flower-covered wagon carrying Caroline and Mitchell to the Perry farm, where Caroline’s family had laid out a tremendous table of hams and fried chicken and roasts, vegetables and breads of all kinds, pies, cakes, and puddings. It was a true feast, and Miz Rachel Perry herself brought me a plate of food. As I stood enjoying her good cooking, Caroline came over and gently touched my arm. “Mister Paul-Edward Logan,” she said, “I understand me comin’ to the forty is gonna put you outa your house.”