as if she had already gone.
Queen did not even beg to stay. She knew it was useless, and she didn't
want to remain in the same town as Digby. Or even Alice. She cleaned
herself up as best she could, and tended her injuries. She had no plan for
the future and dared not remember the past. There was only what she had
to do now. She wanted to take nothing of Alice's with her, she wanted to
leave as she had arrived, but simple public decency demanded at least a
change of clothes, and she put another cheap dress into a bag. She didn't
bother saying good-bye to Alice, for she knew there would be no response.
She avoided the center of town because she didn't want to run into anyone
who knew her, but made her way to the river. She stood on the bridge
looking down at the Tennessee River, and thought how simple it would be
to end it all, to let herself slip, fall into the fast, flowing water and
welcome oblivion.
She didn't slip, she didn't fall. She had no idea of where she would go,
or what she would do, but she would go somewhere and she would do
something, because she could not
QUEEN 619
believe that God intended anything else for her.
She picked up her bag and walked across the bridge, a distant memory
ringing in her ears. The talk she used to hear among the slaves was her
drumbeat.
North. North. North.
North was the promised land to a slave, and if she could get to the
North, her troubles would be magically, mysteriously, over.
The road to the North led to Huntsville, and Queen trudged along, a weary
pilgrim making her lonely progress.
It was hot. Heat haze shimmered on the road, and dust from the passing
carriages sprayed into her hair, into her wounds, calming them, binding
them, but no one who passed by offered a ride. Blacks thought she was
white, and whites thought she was trash, and the only person she had to
talk to was God, but she cursed her friend now, for what He had brought
her to.
She walked slowly and rested at the roadside frequently, because every
step was painful, and by the end of the day, she had only covered a short
distance. As a bloodred sunset swept the land, she couldn't go on
anymore, and when she saw an old barn by a deserted farm, abandoned in
the war, she went to it, to find some little comer in which to rest.
Others, a few blacks, were there before her. In these postwar, postslave
days, thousands had become drifters, searching aimlessly for the
fulfillment of the promise of freedom. Any barn, any deserted building,
any roof that offered shelter for the night was temporary home to an
aimless community of stragglers.
A group of men sat round a fire, and a woman was boiling some roots and
a rabbit. Queen limped toward the group, uncertain of the protocol. She
looked for some separate shed in which she could hide, and be alone, and
lick, like a dog, her bruised body and battered heart.
The blacks stared at the new arrival in contempt, because she was not
black. A white woman here was dangerous, but Queen stood her ground.
"I need somewhere to sleep," she said.
No one spoke for a while, and then a man jerked his head toward the old
pigsty. Queen was not shocked by such a lodg-
620 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN
ing, or asharned to accept it, and the animals were long gone. As she walked
toward it, she heard the blacks whispering among themselves, and some women
giggling
She walked into the pigsty and almost fell to the ground, too exhausted to
go on, now that she had found her haven. She rested her head against the
wooden pen, and dozed for a while. When she woke, it was dark, and the
blacks at the camp fire were eatinp. The smell of the food made her realize
how hungry she was. She stood unsteadily, and walked a few paces toward
them.
The woman who had made the stew looked at her. Her face was expressionless,
showing neither compassion nor contempt.
"Is yo' hungry?" she asked, and Queen nodded her head, thinking the woman
might be kind, as Pearl had been to her, in the forest.
But the wornan was not Pearl. She looked at the plate of food in her hand,
and again at Queen, and she hurled the plate to the ground.
"Eat that, whitey," she sneered. The simple gesture contained all her anger
at the things her Massa had done to her when she was a slave. She hated
white folk.
Queen was beyond insult now, and accepted what the world had to offer. She
saw a couple of pieces of bony meat in the mess at her feet, picked them
up, brushed the dirt from them, and went to the pigsty to eat.
She heard the women laughing at her distress again, and the men talking in
frightened whispers of things she did not understand, and the woman who had
thrown the food was being told off.
"Shoulda bin mo' friendly," she heard a man's voice say. "If'n dey come
tonight and she tell 'em what you done, could go bad fo' you.
"Here, girt," he said, and threw some half-eaten corn husks into the
pigsty. Queen did not understand his change of heart, nor did she care. She
gnawed on the food until it was gone. She found some old straw, fashioned
it into a rough bed, and lay down to sleep.
They came while she was asleep, the three white men, on horseback, with
scarves tied around their necks and pulled up
QUEEN 621
to hide their faces. They carried burning brands, and rounded up the
blacks who had been sleeping in the barn, chased them with fire, and made
sport with them.
Queen woke to the screams of some of the women. Tucked in a comer of the
pigsty, she peered out and saw a white man ride up to the barn and throw
a burning brand at it. The old dry wood of the building caught fire like
tinder, the hay in the stalls speeding the progress of the flames. The
blacks left inside scrambled for safety, and the night rang with their
screams.
One woman didn't get out fast enough, and was engulfed in flames. All
this Queen saw from her hiding place, as in a daze, a perverted dream,
a nightmare of horror. She saw the white men round up the blacks and
force them from the property. The blacks begged for mercy, but the white
men were resolute. The blacks were not welcome here. They had wanted
freedom and they'd got it. But not here.
Satisfied with their night's work, the white men galloped away. The
blacks, scared to return to their camp, and having no reason to now,
stared at the burning barn and then drifted into the night to find some
other shelter.
Queen was transfixed by the fire. The flames of the burning barn merged
with the fire of the campsite in the forest and the brands of her
pursuers, and she heard Henderson's laughter again, and the insults of
his friend.
The firelight glittered in her eyes, flames that would haunt her forever.
In the day she walked on toward Hun
tsville, without any sense of direction
except the elusive North. It was harder this day. Her bruises had
developed, and her injuries were sharp and scraped at her body like
razors. The small energy that had come to her with her determination to
get away from Decatur had deserted her with her night's rest. The sun beat
down on her, and her lips were dry. Every step was an achievement.
She could see the city in the distance, but it gave her no joy, for she
couldn't imagine that it held any promise for her. She began to believe
that she could not go on, and that there was no point. Still she didn't
stop. Scattered farms gave way to scattered houses, and there was more
traffic on the road, but no one stopped for her.
622 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN
She thought that even God must have deserted her, and then she heard a
choir singing a hymn, and saw a little church in the distance. It was a
rough-and-ready building of unhewn timber, hastily put together, but a
small steeple surmounted by a wooden cross announced its purpose. Queen
could tell it was a black church from the sound she heard; whites never
raised their voices like that. She expected to be evicted from it if she
went in, but she had no choice. She could not survive the parching, noonday
sun.
The Preacher was a dedicated man, who had honed his sermons at services
held in the open cotton fields that some Massas used to allow their slaves
to attend. He had developed a stentorian voice, and could make his sermons
ring to the open sky that had been the roof of his makeshift churches. His
ministry was to bring hope to his people, not in this life but in the
glorious peace that was to come.
" Our troubles in this mortal world can last a day, or a year, or a
lifetime," he shouted at his congregation, and they vociferously agreed.
" But they cannot last forever," he told them. "Forever is eternal, and our
mortal misery is but a moment in the blinking of God's eye. And when that
moment we call life is done, we will be taken up into the bosom of His
sweet love, in glory, and our troubles will be banished forever."
The congregation roared its agreement, and no one noticed a tiny white
woman sneak into the church through the open door, and fall against the
wall at the back.
" Taken up in Glory!" the Preacher yelled again. "We will dwell in the
eternal sunshine of God's love, in Glory! And we will forget our agony, and
we will forget our pain, and all the misery of our human days, because we
will live in His eternal Glory! "
The crowd was clapping now, and cheering him on. The woman at the old pedal
organ looked at the ecstatic congregation, her heart awash with the love of
Jesus. But she was puzzled to see a little white woman, bruised and dirty,
leaning against the wall near the front door of the church.
"Not just for a moment," the Preacher cried. "Or a day, or a year, or a
lifetime. But fic'ever. And fo'ever. And fo'ever! In Glory!"
QUEEN 623
"Hallelujah," the people sang, raising the roof. "Oh, glory hallelujah!
"
"Let us pray," the Preacher exhorted them. His flock fell silent, and the
Preacher noticed the strange white woman near the door. He stared at her,
because white women didn't come into black churches. Gradually, the
congregation turned to Queen, until every eye in the building seemed to
be staring at her.
She had to do something to make them understand; she had to let them know
how much she needed help; she had to say something to stop them from
throwing her out, for here was her only salvation. But it was so hard to
say. Despair and defiance struggled in her heart, and she was shaking
with emotion. When she spoke, it was in a whisper that only those close
to her could hear.
"I's nigra," she told them. And when no one responded, she said it again,
louder now.
"I's nigra!" And louder again. "Nigra! Nigra! Nigra!"
Only the Preacher replied.
"Hallelujah, sister," he said. The crowd chanted and clapped its
approval.
The simple relief that flooded through Queen astonished her. She felt as
if she had found home, after years lost in the wilderness.
72
Joyce, who played the organ at the church, was a motherly
woman, and took charge of Queen. She took her to her ram
shackle home in the black shantytown on the outskirts of
Huntsville, ordered her children to clean up the shed and make
up a rough bed for their new guest, and told them that they
were not to bother Queen. She tended Queen's injuries, bathed
her bruises and bound her wounds. She made Queen sit in an
old rocking chair on the rickety porch, and fed her hot soup.
624 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN
She didn't. ask how Queen came to be in such a state, for she knew the
girl would tell her in her own good time. What she needed now was to be
alone in caring company. The tribe of children obeyed their mother, but
were curious about their visitor. Two of Joyce's girls sat in the yard
pretending not to stare at her and, at their mother's suggestion, watching
out for her welfare. Although Queen never guessed it, for the time she
stayed with Joyce she was seldom out of someone's sight. Abram, Joyce's
husband, came home in the evening, and was told of Queen and introduced
to her, and politely offered her the hospitality of his home. He had been
a slave, like his wife, and was an expert blacksmith. After the war his
former Massa, appreciative of his skill, set him up in his own business,
and Abram worked seven days a week to provide for his large family and pay
off his loan.
After a rowdy family meal, Joyce took her to the shed where a comfortable
bunk and a clean blanket awaited her. She undressed Queen, checking her
injuries and clucking her disapproval of whatever had caused them. She
tucked Queen into bed, as Easter used to do, and stroked her pretty hair,
and hummed a soft, sweet lullaby, as Easter used to do. Her undemanding
charity and patient care broke Queen's reserve. She turned her head to
the wall and began to weep, but Joyce took her into her arrns, and held
her while she cried, as a mother holds her child. As Easter used to do.
Joyce was a simple, honest woman who had found a simple honest man to
love. Their life on the plantation had been hard, but now, as their own
Massas, they were determined to reap all the benefits that the precious
freedom offered. They tried to find goodness in everything about them,
and because they sought it, and recognized it when they saw it, they
found it more often than most, and praised it, and ignored or dismissed
the bad. The children were following in their parents' footsteps, for
Abram was a stem but fair father, and Joyce a generous mother who shared
her love equally, and set a firm moral tone for her offspring. Their
second son, Wash, was not their own, but
a light-skinned quadroon who had
been born with a crippled leg. His real mother had died when he was
little, and Joyce had adopted him, and loved him. When Wash's father, who
had never had much time for his son, ran away from the
QUEEN 625
plantation at the start of the war and was never seen again, Abram simply
accepted the boy's temporary presence in his house as a permanent fact and
Wash could not remember that he had ever had other parents.
The family, with its easy, raucous familiarity and overtly displayed
affections, was a revelation to Queen, who had never known such simple
treasure. Within days she became part of the household, appreciated by
all of them, and they in return gave her the simple gifts of
uncomplicated laughter, of sibling bickering that vanished as quickly as
it arose, and the understanding and support that came from mutually
shared problems. Each evening the family sat together on the porch, Joyce
and Abram in rocking chairs, and the children squatting on stools or on
the ground, and discussed their day, with its joys and its dilemmas, and
counseled each other, wisely or badly, but with care and affection.
Queen would join them and she heard with increasing awe the squabbles and
discipline, the jokes and the advice, the gossip and the news, for this
was how she wanted her life to be. No one cared if she was white or
black, but all were solicitous of her welfare.
One warm evening she was alone with Joyce on the porch. Abram was working
late, and the children had been allowed to go to a sock hop. Joyce rocked
gently, knitting for the coming winter, and Queen sat in Abram's rocker,
watching the moths dance around the lamp, and listening to the sounds of
the shantytown night. Music and laughter and sometimes a distant, angry
voice. And mothers singing lullabies. She began to talk, softly, slowly,
haltingly, of her experience in Decatur, until the whole awful story
tumbled out. Joyce said nothing throughout, but went on knitting, and
nodded from time to time, to let Queen know she was listening. When she
finished, Queen was surprised that she wasn't crying. She had relived the
nightmare of Digby's rape in every bloody detail, and it caused her much
pain, but she didn't want to cry. She told the story of Alice's rejection
of her, from a slightly different point of view, with some sympathy for
Alice's predicament.
Joyce made no comment on the story, but put her knitting away, and
suggested they pray for the forgiveness of those who had treated Queen
so badly. Queen smiled and shook her
626 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN
head, an intolerable burden lifted from her shoulders. She might pray for
Alice, but never for Digby.
Queen prayed often and fervently these days. She went regularly to the
church of her salvation with Joyce, and was encouraged by the Preacher to
believe that her footsteps there had been divinely inspired.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear
no evil," the Preacher intoned, "for Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy
staff, they comfort me."
And Queen agreed.
What surprised Queen most was how easy it had been. She had spent her life
denying she was black because she believed herself to be white, and wanted
Jass and all her white relations to admit that fact, but it had only
brought her unhappiness, and rejection by some of darker skin.
In Decatur she had tried to pretend that she had no black blood at all, and
that had brought her misery.
Here she had accepted her blood, and had allied herself to people with whom
she felt a sense of kinship, and it was giving her a rare and welcome sense
of belonging. She began to understand that her rejection by the field hands
was because of mutual insecurity and fear, hers because she didn't want to
be one of them and thought herself different, theirs because they didn't
understand her ambitions, and thought her different.
The sadness was that it could not last. Abram and Joyce would not ask her