The Good Lord Bird

The big one, Frederick, he moved ’round the fire and come up to me. He had so many weapons on him, he sounded like a marching band. He looked down, friendly, and said, “What’s your name?”

Well, that was a problem, being that I didn’t have no time to think of a girl one.

“Henrietta,” the Old Man blurted out from his map. “Slave but now free,” he said proudly. “I calls her Little Onion henceforth for my own reasons.” He winked at me. “This poor girl’s Pa was killed right before her eyes by that ruffian Dutch Henry. Rascal that he is, I would have sent a charge through him, but I was in a hurry.”

I noted the Old Man hadn’t said a word about scrapin’ by with his own life, but the thought of Pa being run clean through with that wood pike made me weepy, and I wiped my nose and busted into tears.

“Now, now, Onion,” the Old Man said. “We’re gonna straighten you out right away.” He leaned over and dug out his saddlebag again, rumbled through it, and brung out yet another gift, this time a rumpled, flea-bitten dress and bonnet. “I got this for my daughter Ellen’s birthday,” he said. “It’s store-bought. But I reckon she’d be happy to give it to a pretty girl like you, as a gift to your freedom.”

I was ready to give up the charade then, for while I weren’t particular about eating the flea-bitten onion that lived in his pocket, ain’t no way in God’s kingdom was I gonna put on that dress and bonnet. Not in no way, shape, form, or fashion was I gonna do it. But my arse was on the line, and while it’s a small arse, it do cover my backside and thus I am fond of it. Plus, he was an outlaw, and I was his prisoner. I was in a quandary, and my tears busted forth again, which worked out perfect, for it moved them all to my favor, and I seen right off that crying and squalling was part of the game of being a girl.

“It’s all right,” the Old Man said, “you ain’t got but to thank the Good Lord for His kindnesses. You don’t owe me nothing.”

Well, I took the dress, excused myself, and went into the woods a ways and throwed that nonsense on. The bonnet I couldn’t tie proper atop my head, but I mashed it on some kind of way. The dress come down to my feet, for the Old Man’s children was stout giants to the last. Even the shortest of his daughters stood nearly six feet fully growed without her shoes, and head and shoulders above yours truly, for I followed my Pa in the size department. But I got the whole business fixed right as I could, then emerged from behind the tree and managed to say, “Thank you, marse.”

“I ain’t master to you, Onion,” he said. “You just as free as the birds run.” He turned to Frederick and said, “Fred, take my horse and teach Onion here to ride, for the enemy will be hurrying our way soon. There’s a war on. We can’t tarry.”

That was the first I heard the word war. First I ever heard of it, but at the moment my mind was on my own freedom. I was looking to jump back to Dutch’s.

Fred led me to Dutch’s old pinto, the one me and the Old Man was riding, prompted me on it, then led my horse along by the reins, holding it steady, while riding his. As we rode, Fred talked. He was a chatterbox. He was twice my age, but I seen right off that he had half a loaf, if you get my drift; he was slow in his mind. He had a bubble in his head. He chatted about nothing, for he couldn’t fix his mind on one thing more than a minute. We plodded along like that for a while, him blabbing and me quiet, till he piped up, “You like pheasant?”

“Yes, massa,” I said.

“I ain’t your massa, Onion.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, for I was of the habit.

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Then I’ll call you missy.”

“Okay, sir.”

“If you keep calling me sir, I’ll keep calling you missy,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

This went on for several minutes, us sirring and missying one another, till finally I got so hot I wanted to take a rock and bust him across the head with it, but he was white and I was not, so I busted into tears again.

My tears throwed Fred. He stopped the horse and said, “I am sorry, Henrietta. I takes back every word I said.”

I quit bawling and we headed forth again, pacing slowly. We rode about a half mile down the creek where the cottonwood thickets stopped. The clearing met woods near a set of rocks and wide trees. We dismounted and Fred looked around the area. “We can leave the horses here,” he said.