My Name Is Wash

A short story about a slave in the 1860's. This was loosely based on Wash McQuerry's life. Very, very loosely based.

 

My name is Wash. Not like “warsh”, which is what ol’ Granny Piper calls cleanin’ the dishes, but short for Washington. I’m not really sure why’s Mama called me that, but it’s not as if I can ask her, with her being dead and all. Dunno why a body would wants to name their youngun Wash, but it’s fine as daisies with me.

                I used to be a slave…not no mores, though, that’s for sure. I ain’t in no hurry to go back to that plantation either, and I don’t care beans for what’s goin’ on down there now. You see, I’m a Negro…but a free one, now, that’s at leas’ certain. I been a free-issue for ‘bout two summers now, and it’s still hard to think about life down on the plantation with old Marster Milt and Missy Rosalie. It’s still hard to believe, you know, what’s happened to me and all…but it’s all on account of Mister and Missus McQuerry, yessir, all on their account….

                It all started a little ovuh two years ago…I was workin’ away at those wretched cotton fields, just workin’ away, not knowin’ a thing but to avoid the sharp crack of the Ovuh-seer’s whip. I knew then that I had no future…I was but a ‘nuther Negro, a stupid field hand, with not a jugful to look fo’ward to. I paid no mind at all when that tall white man came walkin’ down the path towards the Big House. Some of the other slaves did, though; they reckoned it was a slave trader. Micah even got all weepy, and he was lucky the Ovuh-seer was walkin’ ovuh to the white man, ‘cause I was sure he’d get a lick of that whip. I didn’t really care, ‘cause I was already a field hand in the Deep South, and there sure wasn’t much worse I could have been sent to. ‘Sides, I didn’t really have nobody…I’d always thought it was stupid to get marriaged with a ‘nuther slave when you    could get sold with the snap of a finger, jus’ like that. So I just kept on’a pickin’ the cotton, mindin’ my own.

                Later than evenin’, I got a call to go in the barn. That’s a when I started to get’s a little nervous, ‘cause I knew that Granny Piper and the field hand Jeremiah both got whipped like a hoss in there. So I jus’ braced myself and strolled in, real obedient-like. I was a bit surprised to see that tall white man in there, with Missy Rosalie. That made my stomach feel a bit better…Missy Rosalie was the Big Missy, but she sure was a lot kinder to the Negroes than Marster Milt was. So I just swallowed and walked right up to them, makin’ no eye contact or nothin’, like a good slave. Now I could get a closer look at Mister McQuerry, I somehow felt a little better. He sure was tall, but not intimidatin’; he had warm blue eyes and light hair that was hidden beneath a big black top hat.

                “Wash, this here’s Mister McQuerry. He’s a wantin’ a strong Negro man for his farm up in Georgy, and he heard tell you was a good slave for fieldwork. I tol’ him fur sure, Mr. McQuerry, he’s a mighty good field hand, and I’m not sure we’s a wantin’ to sell him. But he said he want’s to take a look at you anyhow,” she said. It took me a good second to process what she’s was a sayin’, but then I turned around and began to unbutton my shirt. Jeremiah had tol’ me that when a slave trader wants to “take a look,”, he always goes to see the number of whip scratches on a man’s back. So I just pulled the shirt off and held there, real still, so he could see.

                “Well, there’s not a mark on him! He must be a pretty obedient slave,” Mister McQuerry said. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, so I just kept my mouth shut. I could feel myself just a shakin’, and my stomach felt all funny.

                “Yessir, yessir, he is, and, like I said, I’m not certain my husband, Milton, will wanna sell him,” Missy Rosalie said, all worried-like.

                I can’t really recall what happened after that, ‘pecifically, but I do remember that I was sent to that horrible tiny cabin I slept in pretty early. I heard Mara and Granny Piper sayin’ that Marster Milt was up in the drawing room with Mister McQuerry just arguin’ away, and Marster had tol’ him he wasn’t gwine to sell me to him. Again, I wasn’t sure what to feel like…Mister McQuerry had seemed awful nice, but there was no tellin’ what would happen to me on his farm jus’ the same.

                The nex’ day, Mister McQuerry had up and left, and I jus’ went back to my fieldwork like nothin’ had happened. Marster Milt said nothin’ about I, but the Ovuh-seer kept givin’ me dirty looks. I didn’t really care, though, ‘cause I knew he wouldn’t whip me unless I had done something really bad; if I was hurt badly, I wouldn’t be able to work for a day. But I ended up forgettin’ ‘bout it in a couple of days, and it seemed like everyone else did, too.

                ‘Bout two weeks later, though, a tiny woman came strollin’ down the path, jus’ like Mister McQuerry had. I didn’t make the connection then, of coss, ‘cause I just figured it was one of Missy Rosalie’s friends comin’ for a visit. Even gossipin’ Mara didn’t pay no mind. But we were all dead wrong.

                After dinner that night, as I was walkin’ to the cabin, a dark shadow climbed across the swaying grass. I shivered, and then laughed at myself quietly; it was prolly just a foolish bird. But the movement was accompanied by a sharp whisper, and I had known no bird to evuh do that before.

                “Who’s there?” I said, my eyebrows narrowed, and my hands balled into fists. I knew how to fight if I needed to, and the excitement of a skirmish was already flowin’ through me like whiskey.

                “It’s Missus McQuerry. Crouch down, we can’t be seen,” she said quietly.  The pale moonlight lit up her face. It was heart-shaped, with dark hair pulled behind her head tightly and black eyes to match.

                “Oh, you’re Mister McQuerry’s woman!” I said, excitedly. I was relieved it was just a female, but also vaguely disappointed that there wouldn’t be a fight.

                “Quiet down!” she said sharply.

                I glanced around at my surroundin’s, and was happy to see that no one else was up and about. I lowered myself to her level, and most of my body was hidden by the tall grass around us. 

                “I’m an abolitionist from up North, I’ve come to help you,” she said. I raised my eyebrows.

                “What in God’s creation is a ba‘litionist?” I asked, bewildered. I had known no white man to care about a Negro, and wasn’t about to think that this woman did.

                “ We’re a friend to the blacks. We want to see the slaves freed,” she said.

                This got me excited all ovuh again. What was left of my skeptical thoughts began to fade from my mind, and I listened to her with a new feeling of hope.

                I don’t really remember everything after that, but I do recall the gist of it; Mister and Missus McQuerry (she tol’ me to call them Jonah and Rebecca, but I thought that would be dis’spectful) were both ba’litionists, and they was helpin’ Negroes ‘scape from slavery. They picked me ‘cause I wasn’t marriaged, and it was too dangerous for them to take a young or elderly woman like Mara (who was only fifteen) and Granny Piper. I felt sad for them, but I knew I should take the per’tunity to ‘scape as it presented itself.

                The plan was to firs’ get me off the plantation. This was to be dangerous, as there were patter-rollers out at night. I would jus’ slink off in the middle of the dark night, like the ol’ cook Hazel had done years ago. I knew I could do it, though; God wasn’t gwine to let me be a slave forevuh, I could jus’ feel it.

                The last day I was to leave, I was sure to be extra nice to the others. I gave hugs and kisses to Mara and Granny Piper, worked hard in the fields, and gave Jeremiah and Micah parts of my breakfast. I knew I was gwine to miss them terrible, but I sure wanted to be free. And, before I knew it, night had come, it’s thin blanket of darkness stretched ovuh the plantation like a tent. The crickets chirped loudly as I quietly pranced into the grass, but I could barely hear them over the sharp poundin’ of my own heart beating, just thump-thumpin’ away.     

 To tell the whole truth, I can’t hardly remember that night; my mind had been turned off and the beast inside me, yearnin’ for freedom, led the way. Before I knew what was goin’ on, Mister McQuerry was pattin’ me on the back almost fifteen miles away from the plantation. Dawn had come, and the pale light of the sun peppered the sky with its soft radiance. I remember it clearly, as if it were the first time I had seen it. And it was, really, I realize now; in slavery I was nothin’.  I didn’t exist. Then, standing there, side by side with Mister McQuerry, I was a man.

 My name is Wash. No, that’s not right; my name is Washington Jonah McQuerry, free at las’.

               

 

Author's Note

Constructive criticism, please!

Reviews

[Tony]

I believe the story here is well told. I like things of a historic nature, especially if the correct feeling can be portrayed in the past.
As a rule, it is difficult to write about something unless you are knowledgeable about your topic and subject. Given the authors inability to live in this time frame, he would then rely on the stories of others to create his own.
I consider it brave to attempt to put voice to a slave on a cotton plantation, but this author stepped up, did it, AND pulled off the dialect and Sound of the voice as well!
Very well researched, well written, and as a reader, I walked beside Jonah the whole way.
I am looking for errors in grammar, or where improvements could be made in spacing or whatever.
Nope.

[Haleemaaisha]

interesting!