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By Root 1364 0

would stretch out before the fireplace. Whittling a finger-sized stick to a point at one end, which he then charred in the flames to make a sort of pencil, he would then draw on a piece of white pine board the simple outline figures of people or animals. Every time he did it, Kizzy all but held her breath, fearing that George would next want to learn to write or read. But apparently the idea never occurred to him, and Kizzy took great care never to mention writing or reading, which she felt had forever scarred her life. In fact, during all of Kizzy’s years on the Lea plantation, she had not once held a pen or pencil, a book or newspaper, nor had she mentioned to anyone that she once read and wrote. When she thought about it, she would wonder if she still could, should she ever want to, for any reason. Then she would spell out in her head some words she felt she still remembered correctly, and with intense concentration she would mentally picture what those words would look like written—not that she was sure what her handwriting would look like anymore. Sometimes she’d be tempted—but still she kept her sworn pact with herself never to write again.

Far more than she missed writing or reading, Kizzy felt the absence of news about what was happening in the world beyond the plantation. She remembered how her pappy would tell what he had heard and seen when he returned from his trips with Massa Waller. But any outside news was almost a rarity here on this modest and isolated plantation, where the massa rode his own horse and drove his own buggy. This slave row found out what was going on outside only when Massa and Missis Lea had guests for dinner—sometimes months apart. During one such dinner on a Sunday afternoon in 1812, Miss Malizy ran down from the house to them, “Dey’s eatin’ now an’ I got to hurry right back, but dey’s talkin’ in dere ’bout some new war done started up wid dat England! Seem like de England is sendin’ whole shiploads of dey so’jers over here at us!”

“Ain’t sendin’ ’em over here at me!” said Sister Sarah. “Dem’s white folks fightin’!”

“Where dey fightin’ dis war at?” asked Uncle Pompey, and Miss Malizy said she hadn’t heard. “Well,” he replied, “long as it’s somewheres up Nawth an’ not nowhere roun’ here, don’t make me no difference.”

That night in the cabin, sharp-eared little George asked Kizzy, “What a war is, Mammy?”

She thought a moment before answering. “Well, I reckon it’s whole lots of mens fightin’ ’gainst one ’nother.”

“Fightin’ ’bout what?”

“Fightin’ ’bout anything dey feels like.”

“Well, what de white folks an’ dat England feelin’ ’gainst one’nother ’bout?”

“Boy, jes’ ain’t never no end to ’splainin’ you nothin’.”

A half hour later, Kizzy had to start smiling to herself in the darkness when George began singing one of Miss Malizy’s songs, barely audibly, as if just for himself, “Gon’ put on my long white robe! Down by de ribberside! Down by de ribberside! Ain’t gon’ stu-dy de war no mo’!”

After a very long time without further news, during another big-house dinner, Miss Malizy reported, “Dey sayin’ dem Englands done took some city up Nawth dey calls ’Detroit.’” Then again, months later, she said the massa, missis, and guests were jubilantly discussing, “some great big Newnited States ship dey’s callin’ ‘Ol’ Ironsides.’ Dey’s sayin’ it done sunk plenty dem England ships wid its fo’ty-fo’ guns!”

“Whoowee!” exclaimed Uncle Pompey. “Dat’s ’nough to sink de ark!”

Then one Sunday in 1814, Miss Malizy had George “helping” her in the kitchen when he came flying down to slave row, breathless with a message: “Miss Malizy say tell y’all dat England’s army done whupped five thousan’ Newnited States so’jers, an’ done burnt up both dat Capitol an’ de White House.”

“Lawd, where dat at?” said Kizzy.

“In dat Washington Deecee,” said Uncle Pompey. “Dat’s a fur piece from here.”

“Jes’ long as dey keeps killin’ an’ burnin’ one ’nother ’stead of us!” exclaimed Sister Sarah.

Then during a dinner later that year, Miss Malizy came hurrying to tell them, “Be dog if dey ain’t all in dere a singin’ sump