The Great Battle (A Translation)

By Renty Grant

When Old Massa was alive, I was young and strong as Alfred the ox. I was on the front line in our big fight with the Heywards. Scipio—he was a Heyward—and I got into a fight over a woman who used to live here. She’s dead now, but she was beautiful and she was my girl for a while. Scipio would come to court her, and one day, he and I met on the lawn and had it out. He was a good stick player, but I was the best along the river. He struck me three times before I knocked him down and threw him over the fence into Heyward’s cornfield.

The next day, he vowed to return with his gang to beat us down. So I spread word that our overseer would be in the pineland on Saturday, and Old Master would be off hunting. Saturday came, and after fieldwork, our whole settlement lined up on our side of the fence—men in front, women behind. 

Quawkoo stood on the top rail, watching. When he finally called out that the Heywards were coming across the cornfield like a chariot on fire, I looked around. Everyone in our gang stood upright, like black snakes at attention. 

“Stand firm!” I shouted. 

The Heywards came running—men up front and women behind, except for one fierce woman who marched with the men. She would beat up her husband. He was there, too, marching with the women.

Their first man, long Jim, climbed the fence, but we knocked him back down fast. 

“Stand to him!” I yelled, and our side cheered. 

The Heywards climbed together, and we all struck together. Sticks moved so fast you couldn’t see them. Our women shouted, and the Heyward women shouted back, “Get on top of the fence!”

Then I heard Scipio yell, “I got him now.” I rushed to him, calling to my people to “stand up.” But Scipio couldn’t match me in stick-play. 

Bang! Bang! Bang! 

He hollered, “I got you!” as I felt blood running from my head to my eyes. He yelled, “One more time!” But I struck him hard on the head, and he dropped. 

Our people shouted, and the Heywards fell back—except for that fierce woman. She jumped at me, wrapped her legs around me, clawed my face, and bit my ear.

Then, the woman at the center of it all—my girl—yanked her off, and I threw her over the fence. My girl chased her with a stick until she was tired. 

We lifted one of the Heywards who couldn’t walk and threw him back over the fence. His people carried him off.

My girl wrapped her headscarf around my wound, and I sat on the ground, grinning. “That was a great fight,” I said. 

But Dorset looked at me and said, “Fight the devil! What’s Master going to say?” 

Until then, I hadn’t thought about him, but now fear crept in.

When Master came back from his hunt, I watched him ride down to the settlement and talk to the driver, Aaron, Dorset, Caesar, Mike, Moses, Judge, and Stepney. I felt sweat trickling down my neck. Then he rode back to the house. Cuffee took his horse, but Master didn’t say a word to anyone. He went inside, his face dark with anger, and I knew a new fear.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. 

The next morning, I cooked the best breakfast I ever made. I asked Frank how Master had looked while he ate, and Frank said, “Solemn.” 

That fear stayed with me.

Master didn’t speak to me or anyone else for hours. He sat alone in the dining room, staring into the fire. Then, I heard horses. Through a crack in the door, I saw Heyward’s overseer arrive. I wondered, “What’s he telling Master about me?” 

Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I took two logs and headed to the dining room, acting like I was there to tend the fire.

Heyward’s overseer came into the parlor and began with, “Renty did—” but Master cut him off sharply. 

“Leave Renty,” he said. 

I put the log on the fire, but fear stayed thick in my chest.

Then, as I lingered in the doorway, I saw Heyward’s overseer lean over and spit into Master’s fire.

Master’s face went dark—his whole body went stiff—and he looked at me. With a voice like a knife, he said:

“Damn you, Renty, if you come back up here, I’ll—”I never heard the rest.

I ran back to the kitchen, dropped my head in my hands, and whispered, “Thank God! Heyward’s overseer spit in Master’s fire.”

Because Master don’t take kindly to filth. 

After that, he turned cold on that overseer and never spoke of the great battle again—like the whole thing got swallowed up in the fire, spit and all.

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