He went by as fast as he could, but when he looked back
A man had come out with a hostile stick in his hand.
Spade shook his head. “Freedom’s land,” he thought to himself,
“They’s some mighty quick-actin’ people in Freedom’s land,
Some mighty rash-tempered dogs.” He swayed as he walked.
Here was another house. He looked for the dog
With fright in his eyes. Then a swimming qualm came over him,
A deathly faintness. His hands went out to the fence.
He gripped two palings, hung, and stared at his shoes.
Somebody was talking to him. He tried to move on
But his legs wouldn’t walk. The voice was a woman’s voice.
She’d be calling the dog in a minute. He shivered hard.
“Excuse me ma’am, but I’se feelin’ poorly,” he said.
“I just crossed over—I’ll go as soon as I kin.”
A man’s voice now. They were taking him under the arms.
He didn’t care what they did. He let himself walk.
Then he was sitting up in a bentwood chair
In a tidy kitchen that smelt of frying and ham;
The thick, good smell made him strangely sick at first
But it soon passed off. They fed him little by little
Till at last he could tell his tale and ask about them.
They were churchgoing people and kind to runaway slaves.
She wore a blue dress. They had two sons in the war.
That was all that he knew and all that he ever knew.
But they let him sleep in the garret and gave him some shoes
And fifty cents when he left. He wanted to stay
But times were bad and they couldn’t afford to keep him.
The town was tired of runaway negroes now.
All the same, when he left, he walked with a different step.
He went down town. He was free. He was Mister Spade.
The President had written a letter about it
And the mule and the coal-black gal might come any day.
He hummed a tuneless whistle between his teeth
And fished a piece of paper out of his pants,
They’d written him down a boss’s name and address
But he’d have to get somebody to read it again.
He approached a group of three white men on a corner
Holding the paper. “ ’Scuse me, boss, can you tell me—”
The white men looked at him with hard, vacant eyes.
At last one of them took the paper. “Oh, Hell,” he said,
Spitting, and gave Spade a stare. Then he seemed to think
Of something funny. He nudged the other two men.
“Listen, nigger,” he said. “You want Mr. Braid.
You’ll find him two blocks down at the Marshal’s office,
Tell him Mr. Clarke sent you there—Mr. William Clarke—
He’ll fix you up all right.” The other men grinned,
Adding directions. Spade thanked them and went away.
He heard them laugh as he went. Another man took him
To a red-faced person who sat in a tilted chair,
Reading a paper, his feet cocked up on his desk.
He looked at Spade and his feet came down with a slam.
“Take that God damn smile off,” he said. “Who let you come in?
You contraband niggers think that you own this town
And that all you’ve got to do is cross over here
For people to feed you free the rest of your lives.
Well it don’t go down with me—just understand that.”
Spade brought out his paper, dumbly. The man looked at it.
“Hell, this ain’t for me,” he said. Spade started to go.
“Come back here, nigger,” ordered the red-faced man.
“Hey, Mike!” he yelled “Here’s another of Lincoln’s pets.
Send him out with the rest of the gang.” “But, boss—” said Spade.
“Don’t get lippy with me,” said the man, “Mike, take him along.”
The pimply boy named Mike jerked a sallow thumb.
“Come on, black beauty,” he said. “We got you a job.”
Spade followed him, dazed. When they were out in the street
The boy turned to him. “Now, nigger, watch out,” he said,
Patting a heavy pistol swung at his belt,
With puppy-fierceness, “You don’t get away from me.
I’m a special deputy, see?” “All right, boss,” said Spade.
“I ain’t aimin’ to get away from nobody now,
I just aims to work till I gets myself a good mule.”
The boy laughed briefly. The conversation dropped.
They walked out of the town till they came to a torn-up road
Where a gang of negroes was working. “Say, boss—” said Spade.
The boy cut him off. “Hey, Jerry,” he called to the foreman,
“Here’s another one.” The foreman looked up and spat.
“Judas!” he said, “Can’t they keep the bastards at home?
I’d put a gun on that river if I was Braid.
Well, come along, nig, get a move on and find a shovel.
Don’t stand lookin’ at me all day.” The boy went away.
Spade found a shovel and started work on the road.
The foreman watched him awhile with sarcastic eyes,
Spade saw that he, too, wore a pistol. “Christ,” said the foreman,
Disgustedly, “Try and put some guts in it there.
You’re big enough. That shovel’ll cost five dollars.
Remember that—it comes out of your first week’s pay.
You’re a free nigger now.” He chuckled. Spade didn’t answer
And, after a while, the foreman moved away.
Spade turned to the gingerskinned negro who worked beside him.
“You fum de Souf?” he mouthed at him. Ginger nodded.
“I been here a month now. They fotched me here the first day.
Got any money?” “Nuthin’ but fifty cents.”
“You better give it to him,” said Ginger, stealing
A glance at the foreman. “He’ll treat you bad if you don’t.
“He’s a cranky man.” Spade’s heart sank into his boots.
“Don’t we uns get paid? We ain’t none of us slaves no more,
The President said so. Why we wuhkin’ like dis?”
Ginger snickered. “Sho’ we uns gets paid,” he said,
“But we got to buy our stuff at de company sto’
And he sells his old shovels a dozen times what dey’s wuth.
I only been here a month but I owes twelve dollars.
Dey ain’t no way to pay it except by wuhk,
And de more you wuhk de more you owe at the sto.’
I kain’t figure it out exactly but it’s dat way.”
Spade worked for a while, revolving these things in his mind.
“I reckoned I sho’ was gwine to be sassy and free
When I swum dat river,” he said. Ginger grinned like a monkey,
“Swing your shubbel,
