Silas's Story

The Kate Chronicles

by ShiningStar

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.

A BRIEF HISTORY LESSON: Tuskegee Institute was founded by Booker T. Washington in Alabama in 1881. George Washington Carver, who joined the staff of the struggling college in 1896 and remained a strong presence until his death in 1943, is my personal hero. He is the epitome of a man who refused to let ignorance and prejudice deter him from fulfilling what he believed to be his role as a true servant of God and man. Born a slave, he was blessed with a high degree of intelligence and talent—and a love for nature’s gifts, which he used for the benefit of all, regardless of race or station in life.

I see the character of Silas in much the same light: a man who knew himself and his abilities—a man who found dignity in the work given him to do—a true gentleman.

NOTE: The term Negro is used in this story because it was common usage in that time period.

Excerpt from the Memoirs of Dr. Katherine Barkley Wardell:

One of my earliest memories of our twice-yearly sojourns at the Barkley Ranch was sitting in the kitchen waiting politely for Mr. Silas to offer me a sample of his cooking. I wasn’t allowed to ask, and he knew it.

Those boys—Mr. Jarrod, Mr. Nick, and Mr. Gene—they was pesky as flies, always a-buzzin’ round my stove wantin’ a taste a-this and a taste a-that!

Mother had impressed upon me that little ladies didn’t beg treats in the kitchen—or anywhere else for that matter.

My, my, my, what a sight o’trouble they was!

At that point in the story—which I’d heard at least a dozen times—he’d cut his eyes over to the table where I was sitting, fairly trembling with anticipation.

Couldn’t keep stuff aroun’ here more’n a few minutes. Couldn’t hide it either! Those pesky boys just buzzed and buzzed and made off with all of it!

By this time, the smell of fresh ginger cookies or applesauce cake or pecan pie was almost more than I could bear. Just when I thought I couldn’t stand it another minute, he’d stop whatever he was doing and turn around with his hands on his hips.

Why, Miss Kate, you been here long? You been here listenin’ to old Silas talk about those troublesome brothers a- yours?

I’d nod vigorously, pressing my lips together to keep from smacking them.

My, my, my—what a little lady you is! Would you like somethin’ from Silas’s kitchen, Miss Kate?

Yes! Oh, yes, please, Mr. Silas! That didn’t count as asking because he’d already offered.

I’d close my eyes then and open my mouth wide, and pretty soon I’d feel a warm, soft ginger cookie being wafted under my nose—or hear the sound of a plate and fork being set in front of me. Silas was such a good cook—much better than Isabel, although I’d never tell her that and hurt her feelings. Papa said that Isabel was a fancy cook, and Silas’s cooking was just plain good eating.

I’m not sure when I became aware that there was a difference between Silas and me, and it came as a shock to realize that it was a really big difference. His skin was the color of the rich dark coffee to which my brother Nick was partial. Mine was not.

As usual, Mother had a logical explanation. Silas is a Negro, Kate. His race came from Africa. Most Africans have darker skin.

Some time later, I observed that Ciego’s skin was like the color of the walnuts Papa loved.

Again, Mother explained. Ciego is from Mexico. Many people from Mexico have brown skin—and of course, you must remember that Ciego works out in the sun a great deal.

At that point, I held both small arms out in front of me and observed their pale, uninteresting lack of color. For a long time after that, I wondered what I could do to improve upon myself and finally confessed my dissatisfaction to my sister Audra. Audra didn’t have colored skin either, but I thought she was beautiful anyway.

I want to look like Mr. Silas or Ciego. You can see them. They’re different.

Audra didn’t laugh at me—although as I grew older, I wondered how she’d managed to keep a straight face.

You don’t like the color of your skin?

It’s so—so plain!

Well, but KatieBee, that’s how God made you.

Why didn’t He make me like Silas or Ciego?

He just didn’t—just like He didn’t make all the trees alike or all flowers the same color. She stooped and took my face in her hands. It’s like Mother’s garden, sweet. She has roses of all different colors, and when they bloom together, they’re beautiful. People are part of God’s garden, you see.

If I were a rose, I’d like to be pink.

But God might choose to make you red or yellow—or even white.

Why?

God always knows best, KatieBee.

As I grew, so did my relationship with Silas. He was old—Mother said that even he didn’t know his real age. By the time I was ten, I knew about the War Between the States—and Papa’s part in it. I also knew that Silas had been a slave who, after escaping from a plantation in South Carolina, had made his way West to find a better life. There he met Tom Barkley and had been part of the Barkley family ever since.

Silas knew things that no one else did. His herb garden just outside the kitchen door yielded the secret ingredients of his plain good eating. He mixed the juice of berries and crushed bark and added clay from the riverbank to make paint, and the pictures he created weren’t just pictures but rather had a life of their own.

He sang songs that I never heard in the churches we attended in New Orleans and later in Nashville. They seemed to come from deep inside him—from his very soul.

The salves he mixed could cure anything from a bee sting to sunburn to chest colds. When I had the misfortune to come down with chickenpox during our summer visit to the ranch when I was three, it was Silas’s cool, soothing—albeit smelly—concoction that kept me from scratching myself half to death.

And Silas was wise. I thought there surely wasn’t a question about life to which he didn’t have the answer. He could read people like a book. If he said someone was a good person, it was true. If he said someone was cruel or sneaky or dishonest, Nick said you could stake your life on it.

But the most obvious thing about Silas was that he loved the Barkley family—and that included me—and I loved him back. When I was older, I spent time with him in the kitchen less to get treats than to talk with and learn from him.

What was it like to be a slave? I asked him once.

He didn’t look up from the dough he was rolling into a pie crust. Like the little bitty bird you found caught in that trap down by the creek, he said after awhile.

I set him free. And you’re free now.

Thing is, bird won’t remember. I will.

Was your master cruel to you?

Didn’t beat me, if that’s what you mean. But I wasn’t free.

What kind of work did you do?

Picked cotton from the time I was just toddlin’. Carried a little sack on my shoulder and picked ‘til my fingers was bleedin’ First time, my mamma cried when she seed ‘em. But—she got useta it after awhile.

What did she do after Emancipation?

She was long gone before—sold down th’ river.

The Mississippi?

Reckon so.

Why?

Don’t know.

But you stayed.

Me’n my brothers. Five of ‘em. Baby just walkin’.

She didn’t even get to take the baby with her?

No.

Where are your brothers now, Mr. Silas?

Don’t know. Two of ‘em sold ‘fore I run off. One run off with me and got caught. Other two—reckon they stayed—or died.

But you came West.

New land, new life.

Did you—did you have another name—before, I mean?

He looked up then, and a slow smile spread across his face. Got one now. It’s Barkley.

* * * * * * * *

Nick and Heath built a house for Silas when he got too old and feeble to work. It was a neat, tidy little place only a stone’s throw from the kitchen door. He walked over frequently to make sure the new housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Listrata, was doing things right.

Mrs. Listrata was from Italy. Her husband had come to California in hopes of growing grapes and making wine. Nick had helped them get started, but Mr. Listrata had died within a few months. So his wife had come to live in Silas’s former quarters and work for the Barkleys. She was a good cook and kept the house spotless—and she was a pleasant person as well—but she wasn’t Silas.

* * * * * * * *

I was sixteen that summer. Always before, even after he moved to his own small house, Silas had been on hand to welcome us home at Christmas or in the summer, but this time he wasn’t. Nick said he’d gone to take his breakfast a few mornings ago and found him on the floor beside his bed.

Doc says it’s a stroke. Says he won’t get better. I got someone with him all the time now, but. . .

My first thought was to rush out to see him, but Nick said no.

He’s not the Silas you remember, KatieBee.

He’s still Silas.

Not really, honey. Trust me on this.

Mother and Papa had gone out, of course, and as soon as they came back, I began my campaign to get my way. I had to see him—had to say goodbye if that was all I could do. Surprisingly, Mother and Papa agreed.

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over—and as soon as Nick and Heath had ridden out—I picked some flowers from Mother’s garden and walked across the yard to see Silas. At first I thought he was sleeping, but then he opened his eyes.

It’s Kate, Mr. Silas. I came to see you. I brought you some of Mother’s roses.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. A single tear slipped from the corner of one eye and down his cheek. I took out my clean handkerchief and wiped it away.

It’s all right, Mr. Silas. I used to listen to you talk. Now it’s your turn to listen to me.

He nodded.

I pulled up a chair and put a hand on his. Did you know that when I was a little girl, I thought God made a big mistake because my skin wasn’t like yours?

His eyes widened.

You weren’t like everybody else I knew. I wanted to be different, too. I thought I was pretty plain.

I thought he smiled—or tried to.

Audra convinced me that it was like the flowers in Mother’s garden—if everything looked the same, it wouldn’t be as interesting. She said God knew what He was doing.

His head moved just a little, and I knew he was nodding.

Did you know that I wrote down all the stories you told me? Stories about living on that plantation in South Carolina. What it was like to be a slave. How you ran away. How you met Mother and Tom Barkley. I turned them in for a school assignment just this year—and the teacher got mad at me and said it wasn’t that way at all. Papa said it was—and that you’d know better than anybody.

He went to see the teacher and told her that I’d shared something very special with her and that he was sorry she couldn’t appreciate it. He made her give him the little book I’d made with the stories, and he took them to a friend of his who’s a printer—and they’re going to be a real book for me to keep forever—to show my children someday.

He watched me closely.

And you know the songs you were always singing? Other people are singing them, too. They call them spirituals. Papa took me to hear a choir from a place called Tuskegee—it’s a college in Alabama for Negroes. Their music made me cry.

Something flickered in his eyes. He’d told me once that he’d never been to school—that he’d only learned to write his name after he came to California and that he couldn’t read much of anything except his Bible—and that only by following along when the preacher read aloud.

I think maybe you’re the best cook in California, Mr. Silas. Nobody can make ginger cookies or pecan pie like you can. Mother says it’s because you don’t use a recipe—you just know what to do.

I looked around the room. Nick and Heath had seen to having some of Silas’s paintings framed and had hung them where he could see.

There’s a man at Tuskegee—a teacher named George Washington Carver—he paints, too, I heard. You know I asked you for one of your paintings once, and you said someday. I wasn’t supposed to ask—Mother said it wasn’t the thing to do—but—but I was wondering. . .

His eyes darted around the room and came to rest on the picture he knew I liked best. It was really several pictures in one—Mother called it a collage. The same little girl was in all of them. Sitting at the table in the kitchen. Having a tea party under the big tree just outside the kitchen door. Mounted on Daisy. Learning to shoot a gun. Curled in a rocker on the porch reading a book.

That’s the one.

He blinked his eyes several times, and I knew he was giving me permission to take it.

It’s me, isn’t it? You would never tell me. You said little ladies didn’t go around looking at themselves.

This time he did manage a smile.

Do you remember the time I asked you why you knew so much about people? You said it was because you paid attention to them—that nobody thought about you watching them. Sometimes I do that at school, you know? And you’re right—you can learn a lot just by watching what people do and listening to what they say.

His breathing changed suddenly.

Silas, do you need something? Do you want me to get Nick—or Mother?

His lips formed a soundless No.

Do you want me to stay here?

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

I was never sure exactly what brought the song to mind, but I began to sing the hauntingly familiar words.

Swing low, sweet chariot. . .comin’ for to carry me home. . .swing low, sweet chariot. . .comin’ for to carry me home. . .

If you get there before I do. . .comin’ for to carry me home. . .Tell all my friends I’m comin’, too. . .comin’ for to carry me home. . .

* * * * * * * *

The citizens of Stockton—black and white—turned out to say goodbye to Silas. The minister of his church read several passages from the Bible, but the one that spoke to me most poignantly was Well done. . .thou good and faithful servant.

Other people there probably interpreted the servant part a little differently than the Barkley family. Silas worked for the Barkleys all right, but he’d been a server, not a servant. Each of us standing at the graveside that day could have told story after story about what Silas had done for us personally, and no two stories would have been the same.

When the service was over, we each laid a single rose on his coffin.

Papa took Mother, Audra and me back to the buggy before Jarrod, Nick, Heath, and Gene lowered the ropes.

Audra looked back wistfully. I suppose I thought Silas would be here as long as the house remained standing. He was the one thing in our lives that never changed. It won’t be the same without him.

Mother patted her arm, then turned to me. Are you all right, Kate?

I nodded. I’m glad I was with him.

* * * * * * * *

In fifty years of medical practice, I have seen many people die. How well I know what death looks like! So, I can attest with certainty to the fact that Silas did not die. The chariot I was singing about literally swept down and took him away. I never told anyone what I saw—and perhaps these will be considered the confused ramblings of an old lady. But I hope—I pray—that same chariot comes for me when it is my time to go. If it does, Silas will probably be driving.

The picture Silas painted hangs over my bed today. It is a constant reminder of the gentle man who created it. Several years before his death, Nick donated the rest of the paintings to a museum in San Francisco. Silas would be surprised to learn that they are considered a very valuable piece of Americana.

But their monetary value is small compared to the worth of what Silas left behind in the hearts of the family that loved him. I can see him still. . .smell the ginger cookies. . .hear him. . .

My, my, my, Miss Kate! You been here long? What a fine little lady! You want somethin’ from old Silas’s kitchen? Well, it just happens I got a batch of fresh ginger cookies comin’ outta th’ oven right now. . .

Oh, yes, Silas, please!

Perhaps if I close my eyes very tight and open my mouth very wide. . .

THE END