I Was a Revolutionary by Andrew Malan Milward Page A

alive?”
    John shook his head, a look of bemused confusion. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry for you people.”
    â€œDon’t need either from you,” CK said, his voice sharpening in a sudden flash of anger, which John seemed not to register.
    â€œWhat can you tell me about the church where you’re staying? What’s it like in there?”
    â€œI could tell you everything.”
    â€œGo on, then.”
    CK looked at the ground, coughed into one hand, and held out the other, until John removed a few coins from the small pocket of his vest and dropped them onto his palm.
    CK said, “Obliged,” and proceeded to describe what he and his family had experienced the last few weeks in the basement of the old church. Or selectively describe, rather. CK painted a pretty picture for John, people cooperating and helping one another, which had been true when they arrived, but lately with tensions rising there had been a lot of arguments, a few that had turned into fights even. He mentioned none of that now. He told him of his friend Dulcet, who played a mean fife that he carried in his coat pocket, entertaining the children with melody and song. As CK spoke, John wrote quickly on his small book of papers. When CK finished, he looked over at John’s hurried hand. It looked like a bunch of chicken scratch, mysterious in its illegibility.
    â€œWhat was it you did back in Mississippi, anyway? You preach?” asked John.
    â€œNah, ain’t much for speaking the Word,” CK said, “but I hear it in my head all right.” He told him that, like most in Bolivar County, he’d farmed.
    â€œGood profession,” said John.
    â€œDifficult where I come from,” CK said. “Sharecrop, tenant-farm.” He told of how the landowners charged high rents and drew up contracts that made sure they kept the profits when cotton prices were high and the renters took on the debt when they were low, making it impossible to get out of the contract, unless you wanted to go to jail. John wrote none of this down, just listened as he looked out at the water, and when CK finished he said nothing. The two stood silently as the boats rocked calmly in the water, going nowhere. CK enjoyed talking in the warm evening.
    Not ready to return to the church yet, he pointed at the newspaper under John’s arm and asked, “How you learn that?”
    â€œMy daddy wrote for the papers,” John said. “Guess I got it in the blood.” He smiled, and as if wanting to show off his latest work he unfolded the paper and held it out between the two of them. The headline across the top read “ DARKIES DUPED BY FALSE PROMISES! ” and John folded it up again.
    â€œWhat that say?” CK asked, smiling.
    John hemmed.
    â€œJust fooling,” CK said. “I know what it say.”
    Again John said nothing.
    â€œYou come find me when you ready to write about why we really on this river,” CK said and left.
    When the boats finally began to leave for Kansas, first they carried the exodusters who could pay, and only then did the relief board raise enough money from private donors to transport those without fare. It was early one morning that CK woke to Dulcet tugging on his arm.
    â€œCK, they here,” he said.
    CK struggled into wakefulness, shaking his head, rubbing at his eyes.
    â€œThe steamers,” Dulcet said. “They leaving for Kansas soon.”
    â€œWhat? How you know?”
    â€œSaw a man outside running through the street. Asked where he was going. Said he, ‘The boats.’ Said I, ‘What boats?’ Said he, ‘Kansas.’ Thought he was lying, so I said, ‘How you know?’ Pushed me, said, ‘Get out the way. They filling up and not about to wait a minute longer.’ So you know what I do? I goes and gets us three vouchers for passage. Now what you say to that, CK?”
    Dulcet slapped him on the