August 21, 1939 Morning

‘I will not be hurried,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘Just let me be. Kindly allow me to sit here in peace a moment.’

‘Father, us not trying to rush you. But it time now to get gone from here.’

Doctor Copeland rocked stubbornly, his gray shawl drawn close around his shoulders. Although the morning was warm and fresh, a small wood fire burned in the stove. The kitchen was bare of all furniture except the chair in which he sat. The other rooms were empty, too. Most of the furniture had been moved to Portia’s house, and the rest was tied to the automobile outside. All was in readiness except his own mind. But how could he leave when there was neither beginning nor end, neither truth nor purpose in his thoughts? He put up his hand to steady his trembling head and continued to rock himself slowly in the creaking chair.

Behind the closed door he heard their voices:

‘I done all I can. He determined to sit there till he good and ready to leave.’

‘Buddy and me done wrapped the china plates and——’

‘Us should have left before the dew dried,’ said the old man. ‘As is, night liable to catch us on the road.’

Their voices quieted. Footsteps echoed in the empty hallway and he could hear them no more. On the floor beside him was a cup and saucer. He filled it with coffee from the pot on the top of the stove. As he rocked he drank the coffee and warmed his fingers in the steam. This could not truly be the end. Other voices called wordless in his heart. The voice of Jesus and of John Brown. The voice of the great Spinoza and of Karl Marx. The calling voices of all those who had fought and to whom it had been vouchsafed to complete their missions. The grief-bound voices of his people. And also the voice of the dead. Of the mute Singer, who was a righteous white man of understanding. The voices of the weak and of the mighty. The rolling voice of his people growing always in strength and in power. The voice of the strong, true purpose. And in answer the words trembled on his lips—the words which are surely the root of all human grief—so that he almost said aloud: ‘Almighty Host! Utmost power of the universe! I have done those things which I ought not to have done and left undone those things which I ought to have done. So this cannot truly be the end.’

He had first come into the house with her whom he loved. And Daisy was dressed in her bridal gown and wore a white lace veil. Her skin was the beautiful color of dark honey and her laughter was sweet. At night he had shut himself in the bright room to study alone. He had tried to cogitate and to discipline himself to study. But with Daisy near him there was a strong desire in him that would not go away with study. So sometimes he surrendered to these feelings, and again he bit his lips and meditated with the books throughout the night. And then there were Hamilton and Karl Marx and William and Portia. All lost. No one remained.

And Madyben and Benny Mae. And Benedine Madine and Mady Copeland. Those who carried his name. And those whom he had exhorted. But out of the thousands of them where was there one to whom he could entrust the mission and then take ease?

All of his life he had known it strongly. He had known the reason for his working and was sure in his heart because he knew each day what lay ahead of him. He would go with his bag from house to house, and on all things he would talk to them and patiently explain. And then in the night he would be happy in the knowledge that the day had been a day of purpose. And even without Daisy and Hamilton and Karl Marx and William and Portia he could sit by the stove alone and take joy from this knowledge. He would drink a pot of turnip-green liquor and eat a pone of cornbread. A deep feeling of satisfaction would be in him because the day was good.

There were thousands of such times of satisfaction. But what had been their meaning? Out of all the years he could think of no work of lasting value.

After a while the door to the hall was opened and Portia came in. ‘I reckon I going to have to dress you like a baby,’ she said. ‘Here your shoes and socks. Let me take off your bedroom shoes and put them on. We got to get gone from here pretty soon.’

‘Why have you done this to me?’ he asked bitterly.

‘What I done to you now?’

‘You know full well that I do not want to leave. You pressed me into saying yes when I was in no fit condition to make a decision. I wish to remain where I have always been, and you know it.’

‘Listen to you carry on!’ Portia said angrily. ‘You done grumbled so much that I nearly worn out. You done fumed and fussed so that I right shamed for you.’

‘Pshaw! Say what you will. You only come before me like a gnat. I know what I wish and will not be pestered into doing that which is wrong.’

Portia took off his bedroom shoes and unrolled a pair of clean black cotton socks. ‘Father, less us quit this here argument. Us have all done the best we know how. It entirely the best plan for you to go on out with Grandpapa and Hamilton and Buddy. They going to take good care of you and you going to get well.’

‘No, I will not,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘But I would have recovered here. I know it.’

‘Who you think could pay the note on this here house? How you think us could feed you? Who you think could take care you here?’

‘I have always managed, and I can manage yet.’

‘You just trying to be contrary.’

‘Pshaw! You come before me like a gnat. And I ignore you.’

‘That certainly is a nice way to talk to me while I trying to put on your shoes and socks.’

‘I am sorry. Forgive me, Daughter.’

‘Course you sorry,’ she said. ‘Course we both sorry. Us can’t afford to quarrel. And besides, once we get you settled on the farm you going to like it. They got the prettiest vegetable garden I ever seen. Make my mouth slobber to think about it. And chickens and two breed sows and eighteen peach trees. You just going to be crazy about it there. I sure do wish it was me could get a chance to go.’

‘I wish so, too.’

‘How come you so determined to grieve?’

‘I just feel that I have failed,’ he said.

‘How you mean you done failed?’

‘I do not know. Just leave me be, Daughter. Just let me sit here in peace a moment.’

‘O.K. But us got to get gone from here pretty soon.’

He would be silent. He would sit quietly and rock in the chair until the sense of order was in him once more. His head trembled and his backbone ached.

‘I certainly hope this,’ Portia said. ‘I certainly hope that when I dead and gone as many peoples grieves for me as grieves for Mr. Singer. I sure would like to know I were going to have as sad a funeral as he had and as many peoples——’

‘Hush!’ said Doctor Copeland roughly. ‘You talk too much.’

But truly with the death of that white man a dark sorrow had lain down in his heart. He had talked to him as to no other white man and had trusted him. And the mystery of his suicide had left him baffled and without support. There was neither beginning nor end to this sorrow. Nor understanding. Always he would return in his thoughts to this white man who was not insolent or scornful but who was just. And how can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind? But of all this he must not think. He must thrust it from him now.

For it was discipline he needed. During the past month the black, terrible feelings had arisen again to wrestle with his spirit. There was the hatred that for days had truly let him down into the regions of death. After the quarrel with Mr. Blount, the midnight visitor, there had been in him a murderous darkness. Yet now he could not clearly recall those issues which were the cause of their dispute. And then the different anger that came in him when he looked on the stumps of Willie’s legs. The warring love and hatred—love for his people and hatred for the oppressors of his people—that left him exhausted and sick in spirit.

‘Daughter,’ he said. ‘Get me my watch and coat. I am going.’

He pushed himself up with the arms of the chair. The floor seemed a far way from his face and after the long time in bed his legs were very weak. For a moment he felt he would fall. He walked dizzily across the bare room and stood leaning against the side of the doorway. He coughed and took from his pocket one of the squares of paper to hold over his mouth.

‘Here your coat,’ Portia said. ‘But it is so hot outside you not going to need it.’

He walked for the last time through the empty house. The blinds were closed and in the darkened rooms there was the smell of dust. He rested against the wall of the vestibule and then went outside. The morning was bright and warm. Many friends had come to say good-bye the night before and in the very early morning—but now only the family was congregated on the porch. The wagon and the automobile were parked out in the street.

‘Well Benedict Mady,’ the old man said. ‘I reckon you ghy be a little bit homesick these first few days. But won’t be long.’

‘I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick?’

Portia wet her lips nervously and said: ‘He coming back whenever he get good and ready. Buddy will be glad to ride him to town in the car. Buddy just love to drive.’

The automobile was loaded. Boxes of books were tied to the running-board. The back seat was crowded with two chairs and the filing case. His office desk, legs in the air, had been fastened to the top. But although the car was weighted down the wagon was almost empty. The mule stood patiently, a brick tied to his reins.

‘Karl Marx,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘Look sharp. Go over the house and make sure that nothing is left. Bring the cup I left on the floor and my rocking-chair.’

‘Less us get started. I anxious to be home by dinner-time,’ Hamilton said.

At last they were ready. Highboy cranked the automobile. Karl Marx sat at the wheel and Portia, Highboy, and William were crowded together on the back seat.

‘Father, suppose you set on Highboy’s lap. I believe you be more comfortable than scrouged up here with us and all this furniture.’

‘No, it is too crowded. I would rather ride in the wagon.’

‘But you not used to the wagon,’ Karl Marx said. ‘It going to be very bumpy and the trip liable to take all day.’

‘That does not matter. I have ridden in many a wagon before this.’

‘Tell Hamilton to come with us. I sure he rather ride in the automobile.’

Grandpapa had driven the wagon into town the day before. They brought with them a load of produce, peaches and cabbages and turnips, for Hamilton to sell in town. All except a sack of peaches had been marketed.

‘Well, Benedict Mady, I see you riding home with me,’ the old man said.

Doctor Copeland climbed into the back of the wagon. He was weary as though his bones were made of lead. His head trembled and a sudden spasm of nausea made him lie down flat on the rough boards.

‘I right glad you coming,’ Grandpapa said. ‘You understand I always had deep respect for scholars. Deep respect. I able to overlook and forget a good many things if a man be a scholar. I very glad to have a scholar like you in the fambly again.’

The wheels of the wagon creaked. They were on the way. ‘I will return soon,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘After only a month or two I will return.’

‘Hamilton he a right good scholar. I think he favors you some. He do all my figuring on paper for me and he read the newspapers. And Whitman I think he ghy be a scholar. Right now he able to read the Bible to me. And do number work. Small a child as he is. I always had a deep respect for scholars.’

The motion of the wagon jolted his back. He looked up at the branches overhead, and then when there was no shade he covered his face with a handkerchief to shield his eyes from the sun. It was not possible that this could be the end. Always he had felt in him the strong, true purpose. For forty years his mission was his life and his life was his mission. And yet all remained to be done and nothing was completed.

‘Yes, Benedict Mady, I right glad to have you with us again. I been waiting to ask you about this peculiar feeling in my right foot. A queer feeling like my foot gone to sleep. I taken 666 and rubbed it with liniment. I hoping you will find me a good treatment.’

‘I will do what I can.’

‘Yes, I glad to have you. I believe in all kinfolks sticking together—blood kin and marriage kin. I believe in all us struggling along and helping each other out, and some day us will have a reward in the Beyond.’

‘Pshaw!’ Doctor Copeland said bitterly. ‘I believe in justice now.’

‘What that you say you believe in? You speak so hoarse I ain’t able to hear you.’

‘In justice for us. Justice for us Negroes.’

‘That right.’

He felt the fire in him and he could not be still. He wanted to sit up and speak in a loud voice—yet when he tried to raise himself he could not find the strength. The words in his heart grew big and they would not be silent. But the old man had ceased to listen and there was no one to hear him.

‘Git, Lee Jackson. Git, Honey. Pick up your feets and quit this here poking. Us got a long way to go.’