Part 20 (1/2)

Sam munched his bread and sipped his water. He watched the children eat their pieces ravenously. He couldn't finish his. He handed it to the smallest one of the children who was staring at him with eyes that chilled his heart. He knew the child was still hungry. Such a lunch as a piece of bread and a tin cup of water must be an accident, of course.

He had heard of jailers putting prisoners on bread and water to punish them. He had never known human beings living at home to have such food.

They would have a good dinner steaming hot. He was sure of that.

A sudden commotion broke out in the alley below. Yells, catcalls, oaths and the sound of cras.h.i.+ng bricks, coal, pieces of furniture, and the splash of much water came from the court.

The mother rushed to the window and hurled a stone. There was a pile of them in the corner of the room.

Sam tried to look out.

”What's de matter, ma'm? Is dey er fight?”

”No--nothin' but a rent collector.” The woman smiled.

It was the first pleasant thought that had entered her mind since Sam had come.

The dinner was as rude a surprise as the lunch. He watched the woman fumble over lighting the fire in the stove until he could stand it no longer.

”Lemme start de fire fer ye, ma'm,” he offered at last.

”I wish you would,” she sighed. ”I married when I wuz seventeen and I never had made a fire before. I don't believe I'll ever learn.”

The negro was not long in observing that she knew no more about cooking than she did about lighting a fire. The only cooking utensils in the place were a pot and a frying pan. The frying pan was in constant use.

For dinner she fried a piece of tough beef without seasoning. She didn't know how to make bread. She bought the soggy stuff at the grocer's.

There was no bread for dinner at all. They had boiled potatoes, boiled in plain water without even a grain of salt or pepper. The coffee was so black and heavy and bitter he couldn't drink it.

The father had a cup of beer with his coffee. A cup of beer was provided for Sam. The girl of twelve had rushed the growler to the corner saloon.

The negro had never tasted beer before and he couldn't drink it. The stuff was horrible. It reminded him of a dose of quinine his mistress had once made him take when he had a chill.

He worked harder than usual next day to forget the fear that haunted him. At night he was ill. He had caught cold and had a fever. He dropped on his pallet without dinner and didn't get up for three weeks.

He owed his landlady so much money now, he felt in honor bound to board with her and give her all his earnings. He felt himself sinking into an abyss and he didn't have the strength to fight his way out.

The thing that hurt him more than bad food and air when he got to his work again was the look of death in the faces of the children. Their eyes haunted him in the dark as they slept on the same floor. He would get out of there when he was strong again. But these children would never go except to be hauled in the dead wagon to the Potter's Field.

And he heard the rattle of this black wagon daily.

In a mood of desperation he walked down Water Street past the boarding house. In front of the place he met a boarder who had spoken to him the last day of his stay. He seized Sam by the coat, led him aside and whispered:

”Has ye heard 'bout de old man, name John Brown, dat come ter lead de n.i.g.g.e.rs ter de promise' lan'?”

”No, but I'se waitin' fur somebody ter lead me.”

”Come right on wid me, man. I'se a-goin' to a meetin' to-night an' jine de ban'. Will ye jine us?”

”I jine anything dat'll lead me to de promise' lan'.”

”Come on. Hit's over in Brooklyn but a n.i.g.g.e.r's gwine ter meet me at de ferry and take me dar.”

Sam felt in his pocket for the money for the ferry. Luckily he had twenty cents. It was worth while to gamble that much on a trip to the promised land.