Iola Leroy

from home and wanted the like done. She once told her cousin how I could write and figure up. And what do you think her cousin said?”
“ ‘Pleased,’ I suppose, ‘to hear it.’ ”
“Not a bit of it. She said, if I belonged to her, she would cut off my thumbs; her husband said, ‘Oh, then he couldn’t pick cotton.’ As to my poor thumbs, it did not seem to be taken into account what it would cost me to lose them. My ole Miss used to have a lot of books. She would let me read any one of them except a novel. She wanted to take care of my soul, but she wasn’t taking care of her own.”
“Wasn’t she religious?”
“She went for it. I suppose she was as good as most of them. She said her prayers and went to church, but I don’t know that that made her any better. I never did take much stock in white folks’ religion.”
“Why, Robert, I’m afraid you are something of an infidel.”
“No, Captain, I believe in the real, genuine religion. I ain’t got much myself, but I respect them that have. We had on our place a dear, old saint, named Aunt Kizzy. She was a happy soul. She had seen hard times, but was what I call a living epistle. I’ve heard her tell how her only child had been sold from her, when the man who bought herself did not want to buy her child. Poor little fellow! he was only two years old. I asked her one day how she felt when her child was taken away. ‘I felt,’ she said, ‘as if I was going to my grave. But I knew if I couldn’t get justice here, I could get it in another world.’ ”
“That was faith,” said Captain Sybil, as if speaking to himself, “a patient waiting for death to redress the wrongs of life.”
“Many a time,” continued Robert, “have I heard her humming to herself in the kitchen and saying, ‘I has my trials, ups and downs, but it won’t allers be so. I specs one day to wing and wing wid de angels, Hallelujah! Den I specs to hear a voice sayin’, “Poor ole Kizzy, she’s done de bes’ she kin. Go down, Gabriel, an’ tote her in.” Den I specs to put on my golden slippers, my long white robe, an’ my starry crown, an’ walk dem golden streets, Hallelujah!’ I’ve known that dear, old soul to travel going on two miles, after her work was done, to have someone read to her. Her favorite chapter began with, ‘Let not your heart be troubled, ye believe in God, believe also in Me.’ ”
“I have been deeply impressed,” said Captain Sybil, “with the childlike faith of some of these people. I do not mean to say that they are consistent Christians, but I do think that this faith has in a measure underlain the life of the race. It has been a golden thread woven amid the sombre tissues of their lives. A ray of light shimmering amid the gloom of their condition. And what would they have been without it?”
“I don’t know. But I know what she was with it. And I believe if there are any saints in glory, Aunt Kizzy is one of them.”
“She is dead, then?”
“Yes, went all right, singing and rejoicing until the last, ‘Troubles over, troubles over, and den my troubles will be over. We’ll walk de golden streets all ’roun’ in de New Jerusalem.’ Now, Captain, that’s the kind of religion that I want. Not that kind which could ride to church on Sundays, and talk so solemn with the minister about heaven and good things, then come home and light down on the servants like a thousand of bricks. I have no use for it. I don’t believe in it. I never did and I never will. If any man wants to save my soul he ain’t got to beat my body. That ain’t the kind of religion I’m looking for. I ain’t got a bit of use for it. Now, Captain, ain’t I right?”
“Well, yes, Robert, I think you are more than half right. You ought to know my dear, old mother who lives in Maine. We have had colored company at our house, and I never saw her show the least difference between her colored and white guests. She is a Quaker preacher, and don’t believe in war, but when the rest of the young men went to the front, I wanted to go also. So I thought it all over, and there seemed to be no way out of slavery except through the war. I had been taught to hate war and detest slavery. Now the time had come when I could not help the war, but I could strike a blow for freedom. So I told my mother I was going to the front, that I expected to be killed, but I went to free the slave. It went hard with her. But I thought that I ought to come, and I believe my mother’s prayers are following me.”
“Captain,” said Robert, rising, “I am glad that I have heard your story. I think that some of these Northern soldiers do two things⁠—hate slavery and hate niggers.”
“I am afraid that is so with some of them. They would rather be whipped by Rebels than conquer with negroes. Oh, I heard a soldier,” said Captain Sybil, “say, when the colored men were being enlisted, that he would break his sword and resign. But he didn’t do either. After Colonel Shaw led his charge at Fort Wagner, and died in the conflict, he got bravely over his prejudices. The conduct of the colored troops there and elsewhere has done much to turn public opinion in their favor. I suppose any white soldier would rather have his black substitute receive the bullets than himself.”


VII
Tom Anderson’s Death

“Where is Tom?” asked Captain Sybil; “I