Thoughts Of A Colored Man
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“You have to understand that you’re a long way from home, boy,” the man said. He was dressed in dark clothing and wore a black hat pulled low over his eyes. “The country you’re heading toward is not like what you know.”
A chill ran through me as I looked up into his shadowed face. The man’s hands were empty; he held nothing but air—as if he meant to scare me with silence before speaking further. His words sent a shiver down my spine; I wanted to run for dear life but knew it would be useless.
We had left our horses at the first crossroads we came across and started on foot because of an old man who warned us there were bandits in these parts. But now that I thought about it, this old man hadn’t been so old after all, judging by how quickly he could ride away from us once he saw us leaving our animals at his house.
It was just another lie to frighten people out of their wits before they got too close to town. Now that I thought about it, we were being watched by other people almost constantly.
I tried to keep a grip on my anger as I asked, “What do you mean?”
“It’s best you don’t ask questions here. Just follow directions or get yourself killed.”
“Why are you following us?”
“That doesn’t concern you. If you want to stay alive, keep moving. You’re headed toward trouble.”
“Where’s it coming from? What sort of trouble?”
“Just know your enemy. You’re not going to be safe until you reach that place on the map we gave you. Once you pass beyond that point, you’ll be safe.”
My head hurt as I stared at the road ahead and wondered where this mysterious place could be. My mind drifted back to my last night in Washington. I remembered how much I enjoyed spending time with the colored men at the Union League Club and how good it felt to sit at a table full of white men and listen to them discuss politics and economics.
I also recalled how good it had been to hear the sound of my own voice raised against slavery. And then there were the times I spent with Harriet Beecher Stowe when we visited her friends in the abolitionist movement.
She was such a kind lady—always willing to share her opinions on anything I brought up—and she never treated me like someone who couldn’t possibly understand politics or the economy or even simple things like geography. I could still remember the day Mrs. Stowe took me aside after I told her I’d read Tom Sawyer.
When she learned that I loved reading, she shared some books she herself wrote that explained the principles behind her work to end slavery. I couldn’t believe it when I realized that many of those same principles were contained in those same books. They were the very same ideas Jefferson used to convince Congress that slavery should be abolished!
But now that I was free to live without the threat of slavery looming over me, I had no one to talk to. There wasn’t anyone I could relate to anymore. That made me think of Uncle Sam again, wondering why he hadn’t returned my letters yet.
I decided to write him a letter telling him how much I missed him; maybe I could get his attention. After all, if he wanted me, he knew where to find me.
“Keep walking,” the man said from beside me.
We walked until dusk fell upon us. In fact, we didn’t stop walking until we reached the edge of a forest that looked as though it could swallow any man whole and hide him from view forever. Then we continued on foot, stopping every few hours to rest our legs and eat something that tasted like dirt and water.
By midday tomorrow, we would be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods and hills and mountains—a wilderness that stretched on endlessly. As the sun descended toward the horizon, it cast strange shadows through the trees. The man kept staring at me while I walked ahead. When I stopped, he grabbed my arm and said, “Don’t look back, boy.”
“Why?”
“It might make you lose your way.”
As we walked, I thought about what he’d said. Had I ever lost my way before? How did I feel about getting lost? Was it frightening or was it liberating? Or was it both?
“How will we find our way?” I asked after I finished eating.
“Follow the stars.”
“You mean the stars are pointing our way?”
“Yes. You can see them better at night than during the day. Keep moving forward.”
Our progress seemed slow because we had to watch our steps and try not to trip over hidden tree roots and rocks. It took another hour for me to realize I could just walk right into a trap set by the man. I turned around and said, “There’s a hole back there. Watch your step!”
The man stopped and faced me. He had a pistol pointed at my chest. “Didn’t I tell you not to ask questions?”
“Well, yes, but—”
He pushed me down with his boot before he pulled out his gun. “This is a dangerous place. We must be careful and watch out for each other. Now, I want you to crawl backward until you reach solid ground. Then stand up and keep going. Don’t turn back. Do you understand?”
“Do I have to answer you? I’m hungry.”
“If you don’t do as I say, you die.”
“I guess I’ll die, then. You can take me with you.”
With a growl, he lifted his rifle and fired off five quick shots before turning to face me once more. “Don’t you ever threaten to leave?”
That was exactly what I intended to do.
***
“What’s taking you so long?” the man asked when I finally caught up with him.
“We’ve got to go through here,” I said, pointing to a narrow strip between two tall trees.
“Good thing we found that place,” he replied.
We followed the path, which led us straight into a cave where we rested and ate dinner before crawling into our sleeping bags for the night. A fire burned low in front of the entrance, casting its light deep inside the dark interior of the cave.
The man sat beside it, warming himself. I lay in my bedroll on top of a pile of rocks while he watched me. The cave floor was damp; my blanket was soaking wet. But I didn’t care about the chill; all I could think about was being left alone in the darkness of the cave.
I tried to think of anything but the man and the terrible danger that lurked somewhere outside, waiting for us to come back. My imagination played tricks on me and gave me strange visions of men with spears standing guard at the opening, ready to rush in and kill us if they caught our scent. If only I hadn’t let Uncle Sam down.
“Why did you run away?” the man asked after some time passed.
“No reason.”
“Tell me anyway. I want to know about you.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Come on, tell me.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Well, why were you born?”
“Because I was,” I snapped back.
He laughed, but he wasn’t amused. “I meant why did you get born.”
“Why did you?”
“To take care of myself.”
“I suppose you’re right. That makes sense.”
When I woke up, the man was gone.
***
We crossed a wide river before arriving at another cave and setting camp again for the next three days. Each afternoon and evening, we spent hours watching for signs that we were close to the town. One day we came across an abandoned mine shaft.
The other two nights, the man lit a fire and we roasted wild game and vegetables he had brought along. I ate well, but my stomach grumbled with hunger from time to time. What would I eat when I reached San Francisco? Would I find someone who would help me? Would I even live long enough to reach it?
On the morning of the fourth day, my thoughts drifted back to my childhood. It was Christmas Eve when I first met the woman with silver hair and red lips. She was wearing black gloves and had a long white scarf wrapped around her neck and draped across her shoulders.
She was sitting by herself on the edge of a hill that overlooked the village she called home, and I couldn’t resist staring at her from afar. At first, I thought nothing of it, but when I glanced over to where the lady should have been standing, I saw only empty space.
When I returned my attention to the woman, she looked directly at me. Her pale blue eyes pierced the foggy mist that hung above us. Then she waved and smiled.
She had never done that before.
That night I went outside, searching for the woman. As I walked through the cold wind, I felt something tugging at my hand. I turned to see a young boy holding a piece of straw rope in his small hands. “What do you want?” I asked.
He didn’t answer; he simply stared at me with those pale blue eyes. Then he ran off. I chased him a little way until I lost sight of him among the thick rows of corn. I turned back to the house where I’d lived most of my life—a simple, one-story structure made of wood, with a porch running around half the building.
There was no snow on the ground, but the sky was covered in clouds and it was still bitterly cold. I remembered how warm and cozy my bedroom had been, with a small window that opened to let the fresh air in. The room was filled with books and toys I loved best of all.
My father died shortly after my tenth birthday. He was working as a miner and came home one day with blackened lungs and yellowed teeth. I cried when he told me he was going to die. I wanted to say good-bye. Instead, I stood outside, holding onto his hand as he leaned against the wall and waited to pass on into the next world.
It was then that the lady appeared. The next day, when she visited me again, I decided to ask her for advice. I was sure she knew more about the afterlife than anyone else in our village. So there I sat on her lap, staring at her face and wondering if this was the way dead people looked.
The lady spoke to me in such a low voice, I could barely hear what she said. “The pain you feel is because you miss your father,” she said.
“How can that be?” I asked.
“He’s not here anymore,” she explained. “But he left something behind. Something precious he wants you to keep.”
“Where?” I whispered.
“Inside yourself, where everything is connected.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. Just follow the path.”
She rose from her chair and walked into a hallway in the house and disappeared down the stairs. I followed after her. She went straight ahead and stopped in front of a door. With trembling hands, I opened the wooden knob and peered inside. A bed stood there, along with a chest.
On top of the chest was a picture frame holding a photo of my father. I pulled the photo out and held it close to my heart. I never thought much about what she meant by a path or about the importance of keeping my father’s memory alive.
Only years later did I realize that it must have been my destiny to travel this journey to find myself. My mother, too, would soon join me. She, too, would go to the light.
The next morning, the man and I set off for San Francisco. We continued riding along the same road we took to reach our cave, but instead of going through a canyon, we headed south toward an open plain that stretched as far as the eye could see.
The ground was covered with brown grass and dotted with occasional clumps of trees, while high mountains surrounded us on the east and west sides of the land. To my left were jagged cliffs; to my right, a valley with tall, lush trees. The sky was clear blue without a cloud in sight, and the sun warmed my skin even though we rode hard through the morning.
We reached the edge of the city by late afternoon. We passed by buildings made of stone blocks and wood shingles that reminded me of the log cabins I’d seen in New Orleans. The houses were arranged in neat lines and spaced so widely apart that they seemed like single-family dwellings rather than part of a town.
As we traveled farther up the street, I noticed men walking on both sides of the road with bundles slung over their shoulders. Some carried baskets full of potatoes and other vegetables, while others hauled bags of rice, wheat flour, and corn meal.
It wasn’t unusual to see women carrying heavy sacks on their backs, either. These people had come from all corners of the United States in hopes of making it big in San Francisco. Their faces shone with hope and eagerness, just as mine had once upon a time. They weren’t ashamed of who they were or where they came from. That gave me courage.
We turned left onto Clay Street and kept following it toward Fisherman’s Wharf. At last, we stopped before a large two-story building on a corner of the wharf. I’d heard there was a saloon on the lower floor and an inn above. As soon as we dismounted, a group of men came rushing over to greet us.
“Welcome to San Francisco, ma’am!” shouted one of them, shaking my hand first, then the man beside him. “This is the best place to live in California! You won’t regret coming here.”
“Thank you.” I tried to hide the fear I felt at being away from my family, but the words slipped out.
They offered us water and bread rolls, which we accepted gratefully, along with directions to our hotel, the Hotel Del Monte, at the intersection of Front and Mason streets.
When we got back to the stables, I found out that Tom and Jim were staying in a boardinghouse across the street from our hotel. They showed me around and introduced me to some of their friends and acquaintances.
But when night fell and darkness descended over the bay, I couldn’t stop thinking about the lady I met on Clay Street. I knew I should get plenty of sleep, but I couldn’t resist going outside. It was then that I discovered why she was so important—not only to me but also to others like me, those who wanted to find themselves and their place in the world.
In the dark alleys near the wharf, I found people who shared my passion for freedom and adventure.
I watched them talk among themselves and marveled at their strength. Many were young men from Texas; others were women from Louisiana and Mississippi. They told stories about the old plantation life, how they worked the cotton fields, and lived under oppressive oppression from slave masters and overseers.
And yet, most of these folks still had the courage to fight for their rights. I admired them all the more for having such strong convictions. They were willing to endure harsh conditions because they believed in a better future and didn’t care who they hurt, as long as it helped bring change to their lives.
For a moment, I envied them and realized that if they hadn’t gone so far down the wrong path in their youth, they might have grown to be fine men and women. Instead, they were now on the wrong side of history, living in an era dominated by white Americans and fighting for a cause that wouldn’t allow blacks to vote or own property.
I hoped that someday they would see what it meant to be free, but I had no illusions about that happening any time soon.
In the morning, Tom and I went to the wharf to look for work. After talking to several men working on the boats in the harbor, we learned that they preferred hiring men who already knew something about sailing rather than trainees.
Most of them were from the East Coast of the United States, including Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Maine, and some even hailed from Europe. I saw many of them staring at me when they thought no one was looking.
Maybe they remembered seeing my picture in the newspaper or heard me mention the name of the ship on which I sailed, the Waverly. But they could never have imagined that I’d come this far west from New Orleans to seek employment.
If they asked me, I would tell them I came because I had lost everything, from my money and home to my fiancé. I would tell them about my journey and how I ended up in San Francisco. Then they would probably laugh and say: “Well, well, isn’t that interesting!” The truth was, though, that I’d always wondered if anyone would ever ask me those questions.
While I searched for a job, Tom made new friends and told them he was a gambler. This brought more stares. He explained that when the Mississippi River flooded every spring, his house and business were destroyed and he spent most of the summer working as a dockhand to make ends meet until the waters receded.
After a while, we decided that we should go into Fisherman’s Wharf and look for other jobs. When we got there, Tom took me to one of the shops where he’d seen men polishing boots for tourists. A middle-aged Irish immigrant gave us a quick once-over glance and said, “Can you start tomorrow?”
“I’ll be ready,” replied Tom.
The man nodded and pointed to a small room on the right side of the shop. “It’s yours.”
We returned to the stables later that afternoon and found that Jim had arrived. I introduced him to Tom and we started telling stories about our lives on the river. Jim seemed impressed, especially with Tom’s tales about gambling. He asked Tom to teach him to play cards, but Tom quickly changed the subject and insisted that we needed to find work.
“There aren’t many men in town who know anything about sailing,” Tom said after we finished our meal. “And none of them want to take on a trainee, which means you’re stuck with me or nobody else.”
“That’s okay,” replied Jim. “At least I won’t have to worry about learning to sail. I just need a job and enough money to get myself established here.”
“Then we will work together,” I told him.
I didn’t tell Jim about my plans for leaving, nor did I explain my reasons for wanting to stay in San Francisco. Instead, I told him that I felt compelled to help Tom learn what he needed to know before we left this part of the country.
Over the next few days, the three of us talked about life on the river, what it meant to crew a boat and what sort of men we needed aboard for different jobs. We also discussed our pasts, including my decision not to marry Tom and how that turned out badly.
We laughed over our troubles and I learned much about each of them. I loved hearing how Jim met Tom, how he became a captain, and how Tom came to live in California. I liked watching Tom’s face light up when he told people he was a gambler or how Jim smiled when he talked about his two little girls.
Both of them cared deeply about their families, but neither of them would ever forget that their first love was the river and sailing, something I shared in common with them.
Tom and Jim were so different from me that I was surprised I’d agreed to share a room with them. Yet the longer we worked together, the more I understood why I wanted to help them. Each of them was struggling against adversity, but they were determined to succeed—even if it meant facing another storm.
The End