Chapter One: Follow the Drinking Gourd
Author's Note: This story was written as part of the 2016 Hogan's Heroes Big Bang. Also, all song lyrics quoted in this story are in public domain. Thanks to honu59 for being a wonderful beta as always!
Follow the drinking gourd
Follow the drinking gourd
For the old man is a waitin'
For to carry you to freedom
Follow the drinking gourd
When the sun comes up
And the first Quail calls
Follow the drinking gourd
For the old man is a waitin'
For to carry you to freedom
Follow the drinking gourd
A traditional African-American spiritual, author unknown.
February 1931
Richard Baker trembled as he peeked into the casket. He had never seen a dead person before. He wasn't sure what one would look like. But Mammaw looked like she was asleep. His Dad said that she was with Jesus now and he believed that. He knew that at ninety-eight years, that his great-grandmother was old and his family never hid from him the fact that she was dying even though he was only ten. But it was still a shock seeing her lying there.
For as long as Richard could remember, Mammaw had been a part of his life. She took no nonsense from anyone. If you were caught doing something bad, you prayed that it wasn't Mammaw who found out. She had a big wooden spoon and she wasn't afraid to give you a whooping if you deserved it. He would never forget the day she caught him lying about having homework. She didn't spank him that time. Instead, she pulled up her blouse and showed him the layers of scars that crisscrossed her back. She grabbed his hand and made him touch and feel the way they marred her skin.
"I was often whipped for being too slow, or looking at a white folk the wrong way. But my worst whipping came the day I found a newspaper on the ground. No one was around so I picked it up. I looked at the words and letters and wondered what they said. I wanted to know what they said. I wanted to learn to read. But slaves weren't allowed to learn. When the overseer caught me looking, he whipped me so hard, I thought I would die. Your ancestors fought long and hard so you can go to school. Don't you throw that gift away."
He never complained about school again - at least not within Mammaw's hearing.
Reaching into the casket, Richard touched Mammaw's hand. The skin was cold, dry. It felt wrong. Her hands should be warm. Her arms should be wrapped around him in a big hug. Her fingers should be pointing toward the night sky...
"Look, Richie, you see those stars?"
"Yes, Mammaw."
"Those stars there, that's the drinking gourd, the big dipper. Find the star at the end and look up, and see the brightest star in the sky. That's the North Star. As long as you walk toward that star, you are walking north."
"Is that how you escaped? You followed a star?"
"Yes, for as long as you can find that star, you can find your way home."
Home. What would home be like now without Mammaw there? Everyone knew her, the slave who had escaped and then went back South to work as a conductor on the Underground Railroad. She told her story to anyone who wanted to hear it. She said we all needed to know and to remember. But now she was dead. Who would tell the stories now? Who would remember?
Leaning forward, he kissed her brow. "I'll remember, Mammaw. I promise."
May 1942
When Richard stepped off of the bus in Philadelphia, it was late. Instinctively, he glanced up at the night sky. He could barely see the stars due to the lights of the city, but still he looked. The action always reminded him that he was home.
Hiking up his duffel, Richard walked down the familiar streets. While the rest of the city was starting to drift off to sleep, his part of town was waking up. Night was the time when his people were free to be themselves. Free to express their culture in art and song.
From a bar across the street, the blare of trumpet player's warm up of scales and arpeggios caused him to wince. The instrument needed tuning, and its sound grated on his nerves. Richard had an ear for music, the ability to match pitch, to recognize the quality of a voice or an instrument. He loved music, good music, with every fiber of his being. But he was a Baker and that was only to be expected in his family.
His father worked as a DJ and his mother had sung professionally before she had married. His oldest sister could make the keys of a piano sing and his two younger sisters had inherited their mother's vocals. The entire family sang in the church choir where his older brother served as a pastor; his voice could boom out from the pulpit in both word and in song, whichever way the Spirit led.
However strong his musical gifts were, Richard would never be a professional. He lacked that extra factor that could make him a star. But that was fine, for where he truly excelled was in analyzing music, in identifying talent. It was gift that led him to attend Lincoln University in Oxford, PA to study business and music. Because if he couldn't be a star, he was going to make them.
As Richard walked past one of his favorite clubs, the sound of jazz made him stop. He recognized that band; they were one of his local favorites. Besides, after weeks of studying, he deserved a drink.
No sooner had he stepped through the door than a loud voice hollered, "Richard Baker. Good to see you. How's college life treating you?"
Richard smiled as James Jameson hurried over. Mr. Jameson owned the club and was an old friend of his father's - most of the people in the music business were. "Good; the semester's over. I turned in my last paper this afternoon and jumped on the bus home."
"How many years you got left?"
"One." The truth was more complicated than that, but he wasn't sure how Jameson would react. He knew his decision would be controversial.
"Can I get you a drink?"
"A brandy, please."
They walked over to the bar where Jameson poured his drink and then a second for himself. "You hear about rationing at this school of yours? I don't know how I'm going to be able to keep serving food if this war goes on."
Richard lifted his drink as if in a toast. "As long as they don't start rationing brandy. But if they do, people will still come for the music."
"Well, the war is throwing a wrench in that too. Too many bands are losing members to the draft. I could use a man like you working for me. You can scout, help the bands find people to fill their gaps. You've got one of the best ears in the business."
Richard took another drink. The offer was tempting. It would only help in a career where connections were everything. But he was no longer available. "Thank you for the offer. I wish I could, but I'm not going to be in Philadelphia for long."
"Drafted too?"
He shook his head. "No, I enlisted."
Jameson sighed. "Your father know yet?"
"I'll tell him tonight."
The two men grew silent as they nursed their drinks. When the band finished their set, Richard pushed his empty glass across the bar and pulled out his wallet.
A strong hand covered his. "This is on the house." Then with a weak smile, Jameson added, "When this war is over, I want to see you walk through that door in one piece. Be careful out there."
"Thank you." Then grabbing his bag again, Richard headed off to a conversation he both anticipated and dreaded.
Richard grew more nervous when he crossed into the white section of town and drew closer to the station that felt like a second family home. He had practically grown up at the station. As a boy, he would sit in awe as his father played music that sounded like magic to his ears. As a teenager, he would spend nights here with his father, learning how everything worked. He had even covered for his father a couple of times during his summers home from college.
Reaching his destination, Richard looked through the glass at his father. His father's voice on the air was a point of pride for many of his people who stayed up late for the chance to hear their music, their voices broadcast across the city. His father had worked hard to get on the air, to convince the white folk that there was money to be made in playing soul music.
Once the record was cued up and the microphone turned off, Richard walked into the room. "Hi, Dad!"
His father jumped to his feet. "Richard!"
Father and son hugged and when they pulled apart, the elder Baker began to talk. "You're home! Now you need to go talk to Jameson. He's got a summer job for you. A good one. It will be a good opportunity to get your foot in this business. Get you contacts with the right people. Then it will only be a matter of time before you graduate. Then we get can away from the white stations and start our own."
"Dad."
"With your skills, I know we can do it. You're getting the education I never had. With your knowledge, we'll go far. No one is going to stop us."
It pained Richard to know that he was about to break his father's heart. Placing on a firm hand on his father's shoulder, he said, "Dad, we need to talk."
The tone in his voice stopped his father cold. "What is it, son?"
"I've enlisted in the Tuskegee Program."
The silence was deafening and before he could say anything else, the song ended and he had to wait for his father to change the record. When his father turned back to him, he spoke one word, "Why?"
"I'm not going to sit back and wait to be drafted. Besides, they're doing good things at Tuskegee. They're going to let us fly."
"If you had waited a year, you could have gone in as an officer." Unspoken were the words that would be safer.
"I know, Dad, but I also know my roots. I'm going to be a radio operator."
"Why, son?" The elder Baker gestured at the studio. "I thought this was what we wanted. What you wanted. Was I wrong?"
"I do want this. But before I can make music, I need to live a life that people would want to make music about." He paused. He wasn't making sense. "Look, Dad, there's not a radio station in this country that plays our music before ten o'clock at night. The only reason they let you take this shift is that they think no one is listening. I want to change that. But we'll never get the funding or the permission until folks look on our people with respect. As people. As equals. Fighting in this war will show them that we deserve their respect."
"You're a lot like your great grandmother, son. She believed that you had to fight to get freedom, fight to keep it. She would be proud of you."
Richard fought back the lump in his throat. He had been thinking a lot about Mammaw before making his decision. He knew that she would approve. But it wasn't her approval that he needed to hear. "Do I have your blessing, Dad?"
The song came to an end, and Richard was forced to wait again in silence for his father's answer. When the music began, his breath caught. The song was a popular one. Duke Ellington was one of the biggest names in jazz. The song, "Don't Get Around Much Anymore," was a fun one to play, but Richard knew it better by its original name, "Never No Lament."
No lament. No regrets. No looking back. His father had given him his blessing in the best way he knew how.
June 1943
Baker groaned when the guard's voice woke him from his slumber. Surprise roll call. Great. Rolling out of his bunk, he shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his hat. He wondered what had gotten Kommandant Bernsdorf riled up this time.
Yawning as he lined up with the other men from his barracks, Baker's gaze was drawn to the night sky. The sky was clear and the stars were bright. If he could forget about the guards and the barbed wire and the fact that he was half a world away, he could almost pretend that he was camping with his family in Pennsylvania. He could pretend that he looking up at the stars, hearing his family talking and singing in the background.
Then instinctively, as he had done hundreds of times before, Baker looked until he spotted it - the drinking gourd - and followed it until he spotted the familiar north star.
As long as you can find that star, you can find your way home.
He was in a foreign country. He didn't know where he was or how far he'd have to travel to be free. Anyone who spotted him would know that he was an escaped prisoner. It would be dangerous, nay impossible. But Mammaw had crossed four states in her bid for freedom without really knowing where she was going or how long it would take. She knew that if anyone spotted her, she would be recognized as a runaway slave. But against the odds, she had made it. And she had gone back so that others could reach freedom, too.
How could he hesitate to escape when he owed his life to his ancestors who had taken the same risk? Somehow, someway, he'd find his way home.
He just needed to follow a star.
