Tell me the war won’t end till we’ve whipped the Yankees,
Tell me I’ll never get wrinkles and always have beaus.”
The slave got away from Zachary’s place that night.
He was a big fellow named Spade with one cropped ear.
He had splay feet and sometimes walked with a limp.
His back was scarred. He was black as a pine at night.
He’d tried to run away a couple of times
—That was how he got some of the marks you could tell him by—
But he’d been pretty quiet now for a year or so
And they thought he had settled down. When he got away
He meant to kill Zachary first but the signs weren’t right.
He talked to the knife but the knife didn’t sweat or heat,
So he just got away instead. When he reached the woods
And was all alone, he was pretty scared for a while,
But he kept on going all night by the big soft stars,
Loping as fast as he could on his long splay feet
And when morning broke, he knew he was safe for a time.
He came out on a cleared place, then. He saw the red
Sun spill over the trees. He threw his pack
Down on the ground and started to laugh and laugh,
“Spade, boy, Spade, you’s lucky to git dis far.
You never managed to git dis far before,
De Lawd’s sho’ly with you, Spade.” He ate and drank.
He drew a circle for Zachary’s face in the ground
And spat in the circle. Then he thought of his woman.
“She’s sho’ly a grievin’ woman dis mawnin’, Spade.”
The thought made him sad at first, but he soon cheered up.
“She’ll do all right as soon as she’s thu with grievin’.
Grievin’ yaller gals always does all right.
Next time I’se gwine to git me a coal-black gal.
I’se tired of persimmon-skins. I’se gwine to break loose.
De signs is right dis time. I’se gwine to be free,
Free in de Norf.” He saw himself in the North.
He had a stovepipe hat and a coal-black gal.
He had a white-folks’ house and a regular mule.
He worked for money and nobody ever owned him.
He got religion and dollars and lucky dice
And everybody he passed in the white folks’ street
Said “Good mawnin’, Mr. Spade—Mr. Spade, good mawnin’.”
He chuckled aloud. “Good mawnin’, Mistuh Spade,
Gwine to be free, Mistuh Spade—yes, suh, Mistuh Spade!”
For a lazy moment, he was already there—
Then he stiffened, nostrils flaring, at a slight sound.
It couldn’t be dogs already. “Jesus,” he whispered,
“Sweet, lovin’ Jesus, don’t let ’em git me again,
Burn me up, but don’t let ’em git me again,
Dey’s gwine to cut me apart.” The rabbit ran past.
He stared at it for a moment with wild, round eyes,
Started a yell of laughter—and choked it off.
“Dat ain’t no nachul rabbit dere, Spade, boy.
Dat’s a sign. Yes, suh. You better start makin’ tracks.
Take your foot in your hand, Mistuh Spade.” He swung the bundle
Up on his shoulders and slid along through the trees.
The bundle was light. He was going to be hungry soon
And the big splay feet would soon be bleeding and sore,
But, as he went, he shook with uncanny chuckles.
“Good mawnin’, Mr. Spade—glad to see you dis mawnin’!
How’s Mrs. Spade, Mr. Spade?”
Sally Dupré, from the high porch of her house
Stared at the road. They would be here soon enough.
She had waved a flag the last time they went away.
This time she would wave her hand or her handkerchief.
That was what women did. The column passed by
And the women waved, and it came back and they waved,
And, in between, if you loved, you lived by a dull
Clock of long minutes that passed like sunbonneted women
Each with the same dry face and the same set hands.
I have read, they have told me that love is a pretty god
With light wings stuck to his shoulders. They did not tell me
That love is nursing a hawk with yellow eyes,
That love is feeding your heart to the beak of the hawk
Because an old woman, gossiping, uttered a name.
They were coming now.
She remembered the first time.
They were different now. They rode with a different rein.
They rode all together. They knew where they were going.
They were famous now, but she wondered about the fame.
And yet, as she wondered, she felt the tears in her blood
Because they could ride so easily. He was there.
She fed her heart to the hawk and watched him ride.
She thought, “But they like this, too. They are like small boys
Going off to cook potatoes over a fire
Deep in the woods, where no women can ever come
To say how blackened and burnt the potatoes are
And how you could cook them better back in a house.
Oh, they like to come home. When they’re sick they like to come home,
They dream about home—they write you they want to come back,
And they come back and live in the house for a while
And raise their sons to hear the same whistle-tune
Under the window, the whistle calling the boys
Out to the burnt potatoes. O whistler Death,
What have we done to you in a barren month,
In a sterile hour, that our lovers should die before us?”
Then she thought. “No, no, I can’t bear it. It cannot be borne.”
And knowing this, bore it. He saw her. He turned his horse.
“If he comes here, I can’t keep it back, I can’t keep it back,
I can’t stand it, don’t let him come.” He was coming now.
He rides well, she thought, while her hands made each other cold.
I will have to remember how. And his face is sharper.
The moustache quite changes his face. The face that I saw
While he was away was clean-shaven and darker-eyed.
I must change that, now. I will have to remember that.
It is very important. He swung from Black Whistle’s back.
His spurs made a noise on the porch. She twisted her hands.
“If I shut my eyes, I can make him kiss me. I will not.”
They were saying goodbye, now. She heard polite voices saying it.
Then the voices ended. “No, no, it is not to be borne,
It is the last twist of the vise.” Her will snapped then.
When she looked at him, she knew that the knives
