Never Too Late by Michael Phillips Page A

what it’s like ter be on da move an’ be hungry.”
    â€œHow’s dat?” he asked as he spread a slice of bread with butter.
    Briefly Josepha told him her story. Before long the two were talking and laughing like old friends. After twenty or thirty minutes, Josepha’s ears perked up. “Dat’s da mistress’s voice. You bes’ be gettin’ on, I reckon.”
    â€œI’s much obliged ter you,” said the black man rising from the table. “By da way, I’s Henry Patterson.”
    â€œAn’ I’s Josepha Black.”
    â€œPleased ter make yo acquaintance. I reckon I’s be seein’ you agin when I come back ter see ef yo master’s got work fo me.”
    â€œHe won’t. Dat jes’ his way er gittin’ rid ob folks. He figgers nobody’ll wait aroun’ a week. But tell you what—you say you’s good wiff horses?”
    â€œDat I is.”
    â€œDen you go ter da nex’ town—hit’s called Greens Crossin’. Dere’s a coupla white men dere dat dey says is more den usually kind ter coloreds. One ob dem’s a man called Mister Watson at da mill, an’ da other’s at da livery . . . I forgot his name. But maybe one er dem’s got work. Can’t say fo sho.”
    â€œI’m obliged ter you, Miz Black.”
    â€œGood day ter you, Mister Patterson.”

T ERROR
    18

    J OSEPHA DIDN’T SEE THE FREEDMAN AGAIN THAT next week. Whether he had taken her advice and what might have been the result, she did not know.
    When another new black face appeared at the McSimmons plantation, young William McSimmons showed a much different reaction. By then twenty-two years old and home from the war convalescing from a leg wound and subsequent infection, he lost no time turning the charm toward an unusually pretty new young house slave. He was good-looking enough to turn her head at the same time.
    Josepha knew it was trouble from the beginning. She tried to befriend the new girl. Josepha knew what it was like to be alone in the world. But at the age of seventeen, the dim-witted girl was not ready to grow and change, and Josepha feared what the result would be. She did what she could for the foolish girl, but she could not prevent her sneaking out at night.
    Mistress McSimmons had died, struck down by a rare form of malaria, and the master was allowing his eldest sonmore and more leeway about the place than was good for him. The loss of his wife had been hard on Mr. McSimmons, and most of his slaves felt a sympathy for him. He had also lost one of his sons to the war. They were especially concerned that his grief might cause him to turn over the affairs of the plantation to the son who was his namesake when and if the war with the North ever ended.
    As it turned out, their fears were not completely unfounded. The younger McSimmons had been seeing the daughter of a wealthy plantation owner from Charlotte, who had named his daughter after the fair city. At about the same time as his tryst with the new slave girl named Emma, the announcement was made of William and Charlotte’s engagement.
    The moment she laid eyes on the future Mrs. McSimmons, Josepha knew that the new mistress would have no soft spot in her heart for slaves.
    When the young McSimmons heir led his betrothed into the kitchen one day on the way to the parlor, where a sumptuous tea had been spread, she paused and glanced around at the assembled black staff.
    â€œCan these darkies cook?” she asked, disdain dripping from her voice.
    â€œAs well as any, I suppose,” laughed her husband-to-be.
    â€œWell, I can see right now that there will have to be some changes around here—clean aprons for one thing, and everyone with matching dresses. It looks like a hodgepodge. I take pride in my kitchen. And that stack of pans over there—why haven’t they been cleaned?”
    The slave women and girls glanced around at oneanother,