Douglass’ Women Read Online Free PDF Page A

neck, his shirt, beating him down ’til I couldn’t see nothing but their legs, fists, heaving backs. Mister Bailey disappeared in that hell.
    Seemed like forever … maybe it was minutes. When Mister Bailey laid still, the men stopped beating him. They just stepped aside. Sweating, breathing deep and fast like hitting a colored was some of the hardest work they’d ever done.
    I got my strength back and rushed forward, wailing, down on my knees over Mister Bailey. “Precious Lord.”
    “Gal, get outta here. No business here.”
    I said, “Here’s my business. Helping a down man.” Foreman considered hitting me I know. I rushed: “His Master won’t like him tore up so.” That stopped him and he looked at me hard. But the weight of Mister Bailey’s head on my lap, the stillness in his body, the blood draining from his nose and mouth made me hold on.
    I didn’t dare ask: “Why? Why this beating? Why this pain?”
    None of the colored men looked at me. Some of them were leaving, quitting the warehouse so I knowed things must’ve gone real bad. Free coloreds would take a heap of abuse to feed their families.
    “Mister Foreman,” I said, “let me clean him up. Take him back to his Master. Just tell me where to go.”
    “You wouldn’t be tricking me, would you?”
    “No, sir. You know I Miz Baldwin’s maid. Any problem, you find me there.”
    Some of the carpenters milled, complaining: “Niggers stealing jobs”; “Niggers they don’t pay, be worse than those they do”; “Slaves stealing jobs.”
    I kept shut. Everybody know a slave can’t order himself to work. Some white man ordered Mister Bailey here. But these fool carpenters beat Bailey. Hurt a man who has no say over what he does.
    Besides, there be plenty work. Bonuses for all. I didn’t see no white men crying poor. They made twice as much as a free colored. So why they worried about losing jobs, when plenty work for all?
    Foreman shouted, “Go on. Back to work.” Then, he tighten his mouth like he was going to spit. “His Master is Auld. Roup Street. Take him. Clean him up. Take him to his Master. Tell him his boy ain’t to come back no more.”
    Don’t know how I got Bailey to the Baldwins’ kitchen. Me telling him he got to stand. Him stumbling. Moaning low ’cause everything hurt.
    “Taught you, nigger,” someone crowed.
    I kept pulling. Bailey kept straggling. Inching forward ’til we were beyond the ship’s shadow and the carpenters’ curses.
    He laid on the buckboard. Curled up like a baby while I clicked, “Giddy-up,” and the old pony did its best trot. Every bump caused him pain. But I was afraid to slow. Maybe some carpenter beat him again. Maybe someone cry, “Lynch him.”
    I flew as best I could. Streets fairly clear. Everybody at supper. The sun was setting, bleeding red.
    I was lucky, this day be my off-day. The Baldwins were at Miz Baldwin’s sister’s for dinner. The entire house be quiet.
    Still I hushed Mister Bailey. Warned him we got to becareful. “Baldwins won’t appreciate talk.” He nodded and let me guide him to my room off the kitchen.
    Inside, even bent, Mister Bailey was big. My room shrinked to nothing. His legs drooped off the edge of my cot. He groaned. Eyes swollen, blood crusted on his face. Shirt, ripped; pants, dirty. His hands were the saddest. Skin torn from the knuckles, blood bubbling up.
    I lit the lamp. Poured water in the basin. Not having a chair, I got down on my knees. “Hold still, I’ll clean you up.”
    He swallowed. I touched the cloth to his head. There was a lump. Blood caked in his hair. His curls were heavy and flat. He winced and I knew I had to soak out the blood bit by bit. Then, bind it with a cloth. All over his body there were scrapes, wounds to tend.
    “I sorry this hurts, Mister Bailey.”
    “Why do you call me Mister? I’m just a slave. ‘Boy. Nigger. Bailey.’ All those names I’m used to. Not Mister.”
    I shrugged. “Seem like it fit you true—Mister.