Free The Emancipation of Robert Sadler by Robert Sadler, Marie Chapian Page B

growled and staggered toward the house. “Git movin then,” he said over his shoulder.
    With trembling hands, I filled my arms with pieces of wood and hurried back to the Big House. That was my last attempt to get to the quarter that winter. It was many weeks before I got another opportunity.
    The next days brought merrymaking and fun for the Beal family and their visitors. They had activities planned for each day, and the house was filled with the sounds of their voices and the smells of liquor and tobacco.
    It was at this time I got my introduction to a torturous form of entertainment which gave them much pleasure.
    After breakfast one cold morning, I was bringing in water from the well on the porch to be put on the cookstove to heat. “Robert,” Daisy said from the door, “Massuh callin you.” I hurried as fast I could and practically ran to the parlor, where he was sitting with his friends. He had already been drinking. I could tell by the way he sat and the crooked look on his face.
    The fire was going in the fireplace, and the room was cozy and warm. “Put some coal on the fire, boy,” ordered Master Beal. “Yessuh, Massuh Beal, suh,” I responded properly.
    I bent to pick up the coals as I was told when suddenly I felt a searing pain in my back. I whirled around, shocked and yelping. Master Beal stood behind me with a red-hot poking iron from the fire. He was laughing and so were his friends. “Let’s see how high you can jump, boy,” he cawed, jabbing the poking iron at my belly. The burning pain caused me to fall backwards onto the floor. He continued, jabbing and taunting and laughing hilariously.
    â€œJump, boy!—Oh, that ain’t high enough! Let’s see you do a little jig!” He thrust the glowing end of the poking iron into my leg, and I rolled over and scrambled to my feet, crying and squealing in terror.
    â€œI said a jig, boy. A jig!” Again the poking iron came at me and I hopped out of its way. Again and again he pushed the fiery end of the poking iron at me. I leaped and hopped and turned and twisted each time to escape its sizzling my flesh. Sometimes I made it, but sometimes I didn’t. When the iron bit into me, I screamed and yelled, much to the master’s delight. Their laughter and excitement over this sport built to a frenzy as I wept and begged, “No Massuh, no, please Massuh—” jumping around the room to miss the deadly sear of the iron.
    â€œCareful there, boy, don’t let the poker getcha!” he teased. I jumped. I hopped. I did the dance they wanted.
    At last, when they tired of their fun, Master Beal shouted, “Stand still, boy.” I did, shaking and crying miserably. Then with one final teasing jab, he said in a calm voice, “You forgot to put any coal on the fire.”
    Those burns took many weeks to heal, and I’d bear the scars on my legs my whole life. Master Beal loved to show off on his slave boy and for eight winters when guests came I was often called to “put the coals on.”
    There was no such thing as doctor care for the slaves on the plantation. The animals had better medical treatment. Slaves died during the winters from exposure. Disease was common among the shacks in the quarter. Death was a victory.
    One miserable day after another passed by, and I didn’t know any better but to believe I was what they said I was—a dumb niggerboy with no soul. I was the little puppy dog who did the dirty work for the white folks in their house, and dirty work was all my people were meant for. And the white folks expected us to be grateful for the honor of serving them. They felt it was hard work to take care of us, feed us, and give us shelter. They had some kind of idea that we should be happy for what they did for us, as people without souls paying for some terrible sins of the past. We were supposed to be singing and dancing and being just plain dumb and