Patrick Henry and the Frigate’s Keel: And Other Stories of a Young Nation Read Online Free PDF Page B

said, “Rachel, I’ll swear like I want to.”
    She stared at me with those wide blue eyes of hers, and then she said, “Why do you call me that, Davey?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œRachel.”
    â€œThat’s your name, ain’t it?” I demanded.
    â€œYes, but I’m your mother.”
    â€œYou’re a bondwoman,” I said. “I seen my Pa pay out your price—eighteen dollars cash and four dollars owing.”
    She reached out a hand as if to find something, but found nothing and stood there with that arm outstretched, trembling. I was frightened, thinking that she would fall, but then she seemed to get hold of herself, moved over to a bench and sat down. All that time her eyes never left my face.
    â€œHow about the schooling?” I asked her.
    She said, very slowly, “You can go out today, Davey—without schooling, please.”
    I didn’t wait to hear any more; I ran outside, whooping and yelling.
    But that night Pa put it to her. I was up in the loft, supposed to be sleeping, but through the open hatch I could see Pa sitting at the table with his pipe in his hand.
    â€œRachel,” he said.
    I could hardly make out her voice. “What is it?”
    â€œDavey tells me you didn’t give him his schooling today.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    There was a long silence then, and finally Rachel said, “He called me a bondwoman.”
    â€œAnd was the hurt of that so that you couldn’t school him?”
    â€œThere was no hurt,” Rachel said; “only shame.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t know!” she cried. “You wouldn’t know!”
    Well, it was fine weather all along, and Pa turned the black earth like it was cheese and rooted out stumps and put in his crops. The hunting was good, too, and as much work as he did, Rachel matched him. He never let up on her for work, making sure, I guess, that she would pay out the eighteen dollars and the four owing. She salted meat and smoked meat, mended britches and sewed shirts, and did the cooking and the putting by. Her skin turned brown, and her eyes seemed to be lighter and lighter blue. She wore her hair in two long braids down her back.
    And then the hunter came.
    Out in the deep woods, paying a call wasn’t a measure of distance. Hunters came by and paid their respects after they walked a thousand miles down from Canada country, and then, maybe, a walking man would range down to Kentuck or off to French Orleans. Packmen, mostly Scotch and Jewish, would come by with their two mules loaded up with trade trinkets. “Hello,” they’d say, and then be off for the land of the Ojibway; and then pay their respects five months later back to New York and Boston to sell their furs.
    The hunter’s name was Jim Fairway, and he was a walker, all right, a woodsy man who never had homespun on his back, nothing but buckskin and fancy Indian beadwork. A thousand miles was grass under his feet. A big man with long yellow hair.
    He came into the clearing one day, walking soft and easy, and twirling his long rifle over his head. “Hullo, there!” he yelled. “Hullo, there, you Sam Harvey! … Hullo, there, Davey!” He seemed sure glad to have listening folk to hear the sound of his voice.
    I came running, and Pa laid down his work to grin at Jim. He liked Jim, even if Jim was no-account and woodsy.
    â€œWhere you from, Jim?” Pa called.
    â€œCanady.”
    â€œWalk it?” Pa asked.
    â€œYou don’t sight no horse,” Jim grinned, swinging me up to his shoulder. I sure liked Jim.
    â€œWell, set and rest,” Pa said. “Set and rest.”
    â€œPleased to.”
    â€œSeen Injun sign?” Pa asked.
    â€œSome.”
    We were all walking toward the cabin now. Pa said, “This is been a mighty fine year, without no trouble.”
    â€œYou get trouble when you don’t the least