It was not the dawn flooding the Bay with splendor which woke Frederick, though the sun did come up like a golden ball and the waters turned to iridescent glory. Nor was it the crying of crows high up in the pine trees, nor even the barking of a dog somewhere down on the beach. Rather was it a gradual awareness of flaming words. Had he found a book, a new book more wonderful even than his precious Columbian Orator? He didn’t see the words; yet they seemed to be all around him—living things that carried him down wide rivers and over mountains and across spreading plains. Then it was people who were with him—black men, very tall and big and strong. They turned up rich earth as black as their broad backs; they hunted in forests; some of them were in cities, whole cities of black folks. For they were free: they went wherever they wished; they worked as they planned. They even flew like birds, high in the sky. He was up there with them, looking down on the earth which seemed so small. He stretched his wings. He was strong. He could fly. He could fly in a flock of people. Who were they? He listened closely. That’s it: he was not reading, he was listening. Somebody was making a speech. But it wasn’t a speech—not like any he had ever heard—not at all like the preacher in Baltimore.
Frederick opened his eyes. The dream persisted—a shaft of brightness surrounding a strange crouching figure swaying there beside him, the flowing sound of words. The light hurt his eyes, but now Frederick realized it was Sandy. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, head erect, eyes two glowing balls of fire, making low musical sounds. If they were words, they conveyed no meaning to Frederick. Bright sunshine poured through an opening in the cabin where a door hung back. Outside a rooster crowed, and memory jerked Frederick to full consciousness. He raised his hand to his eyes. The flow of sound ceased abruptly, and while the boy stared a mask seemed to fall over the man’s shining face, snuffing out the glow and setting the features in stone. For a moment the figure was rigid. Then Sandy was on his feet. He spoke tersely.
“Good. You wake. Time you go.”
The words were hard and compelling, and Frederick sat up. His body felt light. His sense of well-being was very real, as real as the smell of pine which seemed to exude from every board of the bare cabin. He looked around. The woman was nowhere in sight, but his eyes fell on a pail of water near by; and then Sandy was back with food. The bowl was warm in his hands, and Sandy stood silent waiting for him to eat. Frederick drew a long breath.
He was remembering: black men, men like Sandy, going places! He must find out—He looked up at Sandy.
“When—When I sleep—You talking.” Sandy remained silent. Frederick rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. Suddenly he felt a little foolish. He’d had a silly dream. But—Something drove him to the question.
“You talk to me?”
“Yes.” The simple statement made him frown.
“But, I do not understand. What you saying? I was asleep.”
A flicker of expression crossed Sandy’s face. When he spoke his voice was less guttural.