I Was a Revolutionary by Andrew Malan Milward

windows or split wood, make a delivery of some sort to the other side of town. He tried to save for passage to Kansas—they’d left Mississippi with little more than twenty dollars, which had mostly evaporated—but now it seemed they might be stuck in St. Louis forever. People he spoke to in the streets were scared. There was talk that the city was so swamped by refugees they’d all be forced onto boats that would take them back south. As was his way in dark times, CK would smile, maybe place a steady hand on the dithering soul’s shoulder, and tell him to keep his faith strong. Everything would be okay. If they questioned how he could be so certain, he’d say, “Because I’m washed in the blood of our Savior.” Some grew angry, not wanting to hear any talk of a god that had allowed shackles all those years. Even Dulcet grew tired of his increased speechifying. One day when CK tried to talk to him about Noah’s slothful inebriation after the Flood, Dulcet called him foolish for believing in a white man’s god after what they’d been through. Stunned to hear such words from his friend, CK could only rejoin, “I’ll pray for God to turn your heart.”
    â€œHow long you pray for the white man to turn his heart?” Dulcet said. “Long enough your knees broke?” They weren’t leaving because of God, he said; they were leaving because a black man couldn’t get a fair shake in the South, and to illustrate his point he told a story of how before the election he’d worked to get blacks to turn out for the Republicans. “Guess word got around,” Dulcet said, “and one night we get some visitors at our home. Bulldozers, threatening to make a good nigger out of me if I don’t quit talking about the election. And course I don’t, so they come back and set my house on fire.” He looked hard at CK. “Burned it to the ground. My home. That’s what this about. That’s why we leaving.”
    CK reached to place a hand on Dulcet’s shoulder—“I’m sorry, friend”—but Dulcet stormed off in a huff, shaking his head at the bitter memory, and his return later that evening to supper with CK and Mil seemed to seal an unspoken agreement not to discuss the matter any further. Theirs was an argument that could not be resolved, CK knew. It could only be reconciled in light of their common end: getting to Kansas was what mattered. Still, it gave CK pause, not doubt but confusion: How could anyone ignore God’s hand in this miracle of common struggle and purpose? They were alive, together, out of Mississippi, on their way to a better life.
    Which was not to say CK didn’t welcome information that steadied his belief. All that waiting in the church had turned him into quite the gossip, always asking after the latest news. One evening on his way back to the church after having spent the day sweeping out stables, he bumped into that newspaperman again. CK recognized him immediately in that same gray suit. It had been two weeks since the day they arrived and the man didn’t seem to remember him. CK introduced himself, asking if he’d heard anything new.
    â€œJohn Barns,” the man said, shaking CK’s hand. “Mayor’s put a stop on boats carrying coloreds to the city.”
    â€œAny talk about steamers leaving for Kansas?”
    â€œTalk of steamers all right,” he said. “But not to Kansas. Steamers back south, is the rumor. Townsfolk here are fed up, and planters in the South are sending labor agents to bring coloreds back to the plantations.”
    â€œHeard talk of that,” CK said, kicking idly at a small rock near his boot.
    â€œFree passage back, they’re saying.”
    â€œDon’t think many will take up that offer.”
    â€œYou know something I don’t?”
    CK smiled. “Why we wanna go back to Egypt when we done made it out