“My name is Frederick, ma’m.” His words were respectfully low and distinct.
The man nodded his head in approval. His mother did not move for a moment. When she spoke there was a harsh grating in her voice.
“Who gave you such a name?”
Frederick was conscious of something tightening inside of him. His name always surprised people. He had come to wish that he did know how he got it. From his grandmother? His mother? His father? In Baltimore he and Tommy had talked about it. Then the young master had said to his little slave, “Aw, fiddlesticks! What difference does it make? That’s your name, ain’t it? Just tell ’em!”
“Answer me, boy!” this frightening old lady was saying.
His back stiffened and he said in the same respectful tone, “Frederick is my name, ma’m.”
She struck him, hard, with her cane. The master pushed back his chair and half rose.
“Mother!”
“Impudence!” Her eyes blazed. “Get out of my sight!”
Frederick backed away. He dare not run, he dare not answer. He would not cower. He had no need of asking how he had offended her. He had the fierce satisfaction of knowing. “Impudence” could be committed by a slave in a hundred different ways—a look, a word, a gesture. It was an unpardonable crime. He knew he was guilty. Henry had backed to the wall, eyes popping, mouth open.