A Perilous Proposal by Michael Phillips Page A

wearing the uniform of a soldier and having saved him from what would probably have been death, the fellow called Micah Duff looked fully a man. In Jake’s estimation, Duff might have been anywhere from twenty to thirty. In fact, he was but eighteen. He was only a few years older than Jake and hardly more than a boy himself.
    Jake lay back and closed his eyes and tried to take in this latest change in his life. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. But he knew he was weak. And as he came more fully awake he realized the truth of what the young man had said—that he was seriously hurt and wasn’t going anywhere on his own anytime soon. He hurt everywhere!
    He did his best to keep sipping at the water in the cup. Gradually he finished it and asked for a refill. After a little while, with Duff’s help, he managed to sit up. Now his ribs and left arm really screamed out at him!
    Duff handed him a cup of coffee. “Here,” he said, “this ought to help clear some of the fog out of your brain. It might not be too good, but it’s strong, which is all the men of this company expect. I’m not the cook, but a lot of them still come to my fire for their first cup of coffee in the morning. They say the cook’s coffee’s too weak.”
    Jake took it with a grateful nod, and began sipping at the edges of the steaming cup. It was strong, all right!
    â€œNow let’s see about that bacon!” said Duff. “You hungry?”
    â€œI ain’t had no chance ter be hungry, suh,” replied Jake.“I’m barely waked up enuff . . . I’s still tryin’ ter figger out all what’s goin’ on.”
    Duff laughed. “Well, you’ll be hungry soon enough, I reckon. By the way . . . what’s your name, brother?”
    â€œJake Patterson, suh.”
    â€œWell, I’m pleased to meet you, Jake,” said Duff, forking out several slabs of the sizzling pork onto two tin plates. He handed one to Jake. “But one thing we gotta get straight,” he went on, “—I ain’t no sir . I’m just a black man like you.”
    â€œI ain’t no man, Mr. Duff,” said Jake. “I’s just a kid on da run tryin’ ter keep out er sight an’ make it to da norf.”
    â€œHow old are you, Jake?”
    â€œI don’t know . . . twelve, I reckon, maybe thirteen by now. I kinder lose track er time hidin’ out like I been doin’.”
    â€œHey, Duff, looks like your invalid’s gonna make it after all,” a voice interrupted them. Jake turned to see a white man looking him over as he approached.
    â€œYes, sir,” said Duff. “I’m trying to get some coffee into him.”
    â€œIf anything will bring the life back into him, it’s your coffee! How you doing, son?” he said, glancing down at Jake.
    â€œUh . . . okay, suh.”
    â€œGimme a cup of that coffee of yours, Duff,” he said, handing the private an empty cup.
    Duff filled it. The man took a sip, grimaced, then walked away.
    â€œWell, Jake,” said Duff when he was gone, “I’m eighteen, so that makes me a little older than you, but not old enough for you to call me no sir . So you see, I’m just a few years ahead of you, though being a soldier makes a man of you quicker than other things.”
    â€œWhy are you a soldier, Mr. Duff? Ain’t you a slave?”
    â€œA slave! I’ve never been a slave, Jake. I’m from Illinois and I’m as free as any white man alive. Why . . . were you a slave?”
    â€œI’s still a slave, Mr. Duff,” said Jake.
    â€œTalking to you, I’m not sure I like the mister any more than I do the sir . Nobody’s called me a mister in my life. All the men around here just call me Duff, or Private Duff. So why don’t you do that too, Jake, if you don’t want to call me by my name.”
    â€œI’ll try, Mr. Duff.”
    â€œWhat I