Silent Thunder by Andrea Pinkney Page A

knocked with some horse sense.” Rosco’s lips were still pressed close to the place where Walnut’s ear would be if she were a china doll. “I’m showing you how it is you should tell this here dolly what you know,” Rosco said. “Speak to her more quiet than the breeze speaks to the sky. If you do that, Summer, you can speak as much of your mind as you please.”
    I had to think on that for a moment. “Can I tell her when I’m feeling squirrely?”
    Rosco nodded.
    â€œCan I tell her what I think ’bout Missy Claire and her Arts and Letters Society?”
    Rosco nodded again. “You can tell her any deep-down thing you want”
    â€œI got a lot I want to tell Walnut,” I said quietly.
    â€œGood,” Rosco encouraged. “‘Long as you say it so’s only she can hear. Promise me, Summer.”
    â€œI promise.”
    Rosco gave my hand a little squeeze.
    â€œRos,” I asked, “what is arts, anyway?”
    Rosco thought a moment. “Arts is a special way of doing something, making something fine as can be. Like Mama’s way of shaping tea cakes. And Clem’s way of shoeing horses. That’s arts,” Rosco said.
    We were at the front steps of the house now, about to go inside, about to face our work for the day.
    But I was too squirrely to work. I twirled Walnut by her arms. Spun her out in front of me to make her dance. Then, like a cricket springing free from under a leaf, I asked Rosco, “You ever wonder why we ain’t got no pa?”
    â€œEverybody’s got a pa.”
    I went back to cuddling my dolly. “Who’s our pa, then?”
    Rosco’s jaw went tight. “Somebody,” was all he said.
    â€œSomebody who? And where’s he at?”
    Rosco kicked at the steps in front of him. “Girl, you always got a bees’ nest of questions buzzing up in you. It’s enough to drive a good man to agitation.”
    I could smell Mama’s biscuits. “You ever ask Mama ’bout our daddy?”
    Rosco kicked at the steps again, harder this time. “Nope,” he said.
    â€œHow come?”
    Rosco wouldn’t look at me then. He said, “Half the slaves on this place don’t know nothin’ about who their pa is.”
    â€œBut don’t you ever wonder, Ros?”
    Now Rosco’s jaw was tight as ever. “I ain’t like you, Summer. I ain’t got the same bees bothering me. I don’t want to know the answer to every last little thing.”
    â€œBut this ain’t little, Ros.”
    Rosco went around to the side door of the house. Before he walked up the back steps to Lowell’s room, he said, “Summer, if you mess with too many bees, you come away with a bad sting.”
    I cradled Walnut, listening to Rosco creak his way up the stairs, wishing I’d remembered to ask him about his own silent thunder.

10
Rosco
    September 28, 1862
    I LOVED SUNDAY MORNINGS at the house, when the Parnells had gone to church. It was quiet, and I could take a moment to watch the sun stretch its arms along the walls of the master’s study.
    Today, lady sun was doing a fine job dancing across Master Parnell’s writing desk. And she did me a true favor by calling my attention to the Harper’s Weekly that was folded open and resting on the desk blotter.
    I leaned over the desk, just enough to see a headline and a good bit of the main story. My eyes followed down the page. I spotted President Abraham Lincoln’s name right away. Then I came to two words I didn’t know. Two long words I tried to sound out silendy.
    Emancipation Proclamation.
    The article said the president had presented a draft of this Emancipation Proclamation to Congress, andthat he intended to issue a formal version of the document at the first of the new year, 1863. This document would call for the freedom of all slaves.
    Right then, something flinched inside my chest. I read the final