Solomon. Marilyn Bishop Shaw
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impressed by the way you took to shooting that shotgun we found. Your daddy’s a good enough shot to bring home some game, but you could turn into a real fine shot.”
“I like shootin,’ Mr. Pete. I want to get a big turkey. Or maybe a deer.”
“I don’t blame you one bit. That would be something good to have in the cold season. You’re gonna make a fine shot, but I’ve never seen anybody handle a whip the way you do.”
Solomon managed a little laugh at that. “Oh, yeah, Mr. Pete. I’m real good with that whip of yours,” he said sarcastically. “I can’t hardly pick it up good. I sure can’t make it pop like you do.” Fatigued, he breathed deeply as though talking took great strength. “But I sure would like to make it pop one day,” he said wistfully.
“That doesn’t matter, Solomon. I have the eye to see that you have a gift for handling the whip. If you’re of a mind to, I’d be pleased to teach you what I know.”
That woke Solomon right up. “Would you, Mr. Pete? Would you, surely?”
Patting the boy’s shoulder, Pete stood to reach for his saddlebag and said, “I would, surely, Solomon. And we’ll get started right now.”
Nearly an hour later, when Moses and Lela awoke, Solomon had braided and unbraided the short leather strips Pete had given him. He chanted as he worked the supple leather braid around a stiff leather core. “Over two to the left, over three to the right, keep it smooth and keep it tight.” He knew right off when he didn’t turn the leather just right because his weave would be bumpy and uneven. Before Pete could even tell him he needed to, Solomon pulled the weave out and began again.
Pete, shaking his head, stepped out the door to greet Moses and Lela. “Mornin’ you two. I’ve never in my life seen anything to beat it.”
“What, Pete?” asked Lela, concern written on her face.
“That boy of yours, that’s what. I showed him just twice the braid pattern and he’s just about got it down. Right off, he knew he had to do it just right and he’s been practicing for over an hour now. Never saw such a hand for it.”
“Looks like he wants ’most anything but being a farmer like his daddy,” Moses said in quiet bitterness.
Pete took his new friend’s meaning. “Moses, I know what it’s like to hope your son follows in your steps. I know, too, that we can’t make them what they aren’t. Your Solomon is no farmer.”
“Nope. He’s taken to wanderin’ for hours in the woods and come out with the most greens and berries and roots. And critters,” Moses said, shaking his head. “Lord, with just a sling and a snare, that boy don’t go in the woods but what he don’t come out with somethin’ fer the table.”
“If we had a table . . . “ Lela remarked, looking at Moses, eyebrow arched and hands on hips.
The men shifted uncomfortably. Moses explained, “Lela’s been wantin’ a table and some stools so’s we could ’least sit to eat a meal. There’s been such work to do just gettin’ the house up, we ain’t got to furnishin’s.”
“Well,” Pete calculated, surveying the area, “it’s too wet for me to head out just yet. Diamond would slip and bog down every step. Looks like Solomon’s head is clear and he’ll need to sleep a couple of days to catch up after all the entertaining we’ve done through the night.”
The Freemans wondered where this conversation was going. Pete addressed Moses. “You and Solomon learned to shoot faster than I thought you could. The only thing to improve that is a little practice bringing home game.” Turning toward Lela, Pete continued. “And, Lela, I pray you never need to, but I think you could do some damage with it if you had to.”
“Yes, sir, and we’re mighty grateful to you for that. I don’t know but what we’d a shot ourselves trying to learn it without you,” Moses offered sincerely.
“Yes, well, you don’t need more lessons from me, that’s sure. Why don’t we see what we can do about a little furniture for the house and maybe even a floor,” suggested Pete.
Lela’s eyes brightened. “A floor? A real floor? Wouldn’t that just take the cake? But if we can just get beds and a real table I’d be satisfied.” She grinned. “At least for now!”
Moses’ smile showed his admiration for his wife’s quiet, but incredibly strong will, and he announced, “Look like we in the carpenter business, Pete. We better check all around after the storm and get busy.”
The men moved to their chores and Lela checked on Solomon, who was alert and fixed on his braiding. “Law, child, you’ll wear that leather slap out, you keep going with it,” she teased as she went to her work, but she knew the whip was still a worry to Moses.
It took four days of steady work to clear the area of storm damage, add thatching to the leaky spots in the roofs of the house and corn crib, and make crude but serviceable furniture for the house. The Freemans now had two beds with rope supports on which Lela placed moss-filled mattresses made of sturdy ticking from the renegade wagon. They also had a table and four stools, along with one ladder-back chair for Lela to use for her long hours of mending and sewing. After eight long months sleeping on pallets on the floor, the beds were the most welcomed comfort of all.
Pete headed back to Madison County on the fifth day after the hurricane, the ground having dried enough for travel. The Freemans gathered in the front yard to bid him farewell. As Lela handed him a little parcel that he knew contained some hoecakes and salt pork, she spoke for her family. “Pete, we do thank you for all you’ve done for us.” She shuddered. “I hate to think what might have happened . . .”
Uncomfortable with the memory, the praise, and the parting, he replied, “Now, Lela, I’ve done nothing particular. And I don’t know when I’ve eaten better. Should be me thanking you. I bet I’ve got fifteen extra pounds of fat stored for winter!”
“We’d never have got so much done but for you, Pete, you know that,” Moses offered.
Diamond shifted, anxious to get moving, “I was glad to do it and the work was good for me. Got me limbered up a mite. Now, you all take good care. Winters down here get worse than folks think. Florida’s hot most times, but it can have some kind of cold, too, I learned that last year.” His three friends nodded, since they now knew how serious weather could be. “And, Solomon, I want you to work slowly and carefully on your whip. You’ve got a fine steady hand to do the weaving. Just try to remember all I showed you and take it out and rework it if it gets wobbly.”
“I will, Mr. Pete. I’ll do it real good. And I’ll practice using it, too, you’ll see!”
Moses’ back went stiff and Pete continued, “What else, Solomon? What else must you remember?”
“The whip ain’t a toy, ain’t nothing to play with or use on a man. I won’t forget, Mr. Pete. Not ever.”
A large hand reached down and wistfully rubbed the top of Solomon’s head, carefully avoiding the healing wound, then lifted in farewell as Pete and Diamond headed north.
6
December, 1866
Moses, Lela, and Solomon worked harder than ever as the sharp mornings of winter approached. Solomon helped his father salvage what they could and replant the rest of the winter garden so they could at least have a few collard greens. They gathered all the dead fall from the storm and added it to the woodpile. There could never be too much wood.
Rocks were dredged out of the blanket of mud the storm had washed over them, and the fire pit was rebuilt. They’d had little time when their house was built, so it had no fireplace. Lela was so relieved to have walls, a roof, and a few sticks of furniture, that cooking outside was of little consequence. Her time was spent clearing the area around the house and mending damage to the chicken coop. She even stole a whole afternoon to reorganize the house.