"I am a _Catholique_, _mais_"--brightening as he hoped to recommend
himself anew--"not a good one."
"Well, you know," said Jones--"where's Colossus? Oh! all right. Colossus
strayed off a minute in Mobile, and I plum lost him for two days. Here's
the place; come in. Colossus and this boy can go to the kitchen.--Now,
Colossus, what _air_ you a-beckonin' at me faw?"
He let his servant draw him aside and address him in a whisper.
"Oh, go 'way!" said the parson with a jerk. "Who's goin' to throw me?
What? Speak louder. Why, Colossus, you shayn't talk so, saw. 'Pon my
soul, you're the mightiest fool I ever taken up with. Jest you go down
that alley-way with this yalla boy, and don't show yo' face untell yo'
called!"
The negro begged; the master wrathily insisted.
"Colossus, will you do ez I tell you, or shell I hev' to strike you,
saw?"
"Oh Mahs Jimmy, I--I's gwine; but--" he ventured nearer--"don't on no
account drink nothin', Mahs Jimmy."
Such was the negro's earnestness that he put one foot in the gutter, and
fell heavily against his master. The parson threw him off angrily.
"Thar, now! Why, Colossus, you must of been dosted with sumthin'; yo'
plum crazy.--Humph, come on, Jools, let's eat! Humph! to tell me that,
when I never taken a drop, exceptin' for chills, in my life--which he
knows so as well as me!"
The two masters began to ascend a stair.
"_Mais_, he is a sassy; I would sell him, me," said the young Creole.
"No, I wouldn't do that," replied the parson; "though there is people in
Bethesdy who says he is a rascal. He's a powerful smart fool. Why, that
boy's got money, Jools; more money than religion, I reckon. I'm shore he
fallen into mighty bad company--" they passed beyond earshot.
Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the tavern kitchen, passed to
the next door and entered the dark rear corner of a low grocery, where,
the law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold to slaves. There, in
the quiet company of Baptiste and the grocer, the colloquial powers of
Colossus, which were simply prodigious, began very soon to show
themselves.
"For whilst," said he, "Mahs Jimmy has eddication, you know--whilst he
has eddication, I has 'scretion. He has eddication and I has 'scretion,
an' so we gits along."
He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying half his length
upon the damp board, continued:--
"As a p'inciple I discredits de imbimin' of awjus liquors. De imbimin'
of awjus liquors, de wiolution of de Sabbaf, de playin' of de fiddle,
and de usin' of bywords, dey is de fo' sins of de conscience, an' if any
man sin de fo' sins of de conscience, de debble done sharp his fork fo'
dat man.--Ain't dat so, boss?"
The grocer was sure it was so.
"Neberdeless, mind you--" here the orator brimmed his glass from the
bottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye--"mind you, a roytious
man, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take a
_leetle_ for de weak stomach."
But the fascinations of Colossus's eloquence must not mislead us; this
is the story of a true Christian; to wit, Parson Jones.
The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee M. St.-Ange declared
he could not touch: it was too wretchedly bad. At the French Market,
near by, there was some noble coffee. This, however, would have to be
bought, and Parson Jones had scruples.
"You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which it
does so in--"
"Oh, yes!" cried St.-Ange, "conscien'; thad is the bez, Posson Jone'.
Certainlee! I am a _Catholique_, you is a _schismatique_: you thing it
is wrong to dring some coffee--well, then, it _is_ wrong; you thing it
is wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price--well, then, it
_is_ wrong; I thing it is right--well, then, it _is_ right: it is all
'abit; _c'est tout_. What a man thing is right, _is right_; 'tis all
'abit. A man muz nod go again' his conscien'. My faith! do you thing I
would go again' my conscien'? _Mais allons_, led us go and ged some
coffee."
"Jools."
"W'at?"
"Jools, it ain't the drinkin' of coffee, but the buyin' of it on a
Sabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools, it's again' conscience, you
know."
"Ah!" said St.-Ange, "_c'est_ very true. For you it would be a sin,
_mais_ for me it is only 'abit. Rilligion is a very strange; I know a
man one time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday evening.
I thing it is all 'abit. _Mais_, come, Posson Jone'; I have got one
friend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some coffee. Come; Miguel
have no familie; only him and Joe--always like to see friend; _allons_,
led us come yonder."
"Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know," said the shamefaced parson, "I
never visit on Sundays."
"Never w'at?" asked the astounded Creole.
"No," said Jones, smiling awkwardly.
"Never visite?"
"Exceptin' sometimes amongst church-members," said Parson Jones.
"_Mais_," said the seductive St.-Ange, "Miguel and Joe is
church-member'--certainlee! They love to talk about rilligion. Come at
Miguel and talk about some rilligion. I am nearly expire for me coffee."
Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair and rose up.
"Jools," said the weak giant, "I ought to be in church right now."
"_Mais_, the church is right yonder at Miguel', yes. Ah!" continued
St.-Ange, as they descended the stairs, "I thing every man muz have the
rilligion he like the bez--me, I like the _Catholique_ rilligion the
bez--for me it _is_ the bez. Every man will sure go to heaven if he like
his rilligion the bez."
"Jools," said the West-Floridian, laying his great hand tenderly upon
the Creole's shoulder, as they stepped out upon the _banquette_, "do you
think you have any shore hopes of heaven?"
"Yass!" replied St.-Ange; "I am sure-sure. I thing everybody will go to
heaven. I thing you will go, _et_ I thing Miguel will go, _et_
Joe--everybody, I thing--_mais_, hof course, not if they not have been
christen'. Even I thing some niggers will go."
"Jools," said the parson, stopping in his walk--"Jools, I _don't_ want
to lose my niggah."
"You will not loose him. With Baptiste he _cannot_ ged loose."
But Colossus's master was not reassured. "Now," said he, still tarrying,
"this is jest the way; had I of gone to church--"
"Posson Jone'--" said Jules.
"What?"
"I tell you. We goin' to church!"
"Will you?" asked Jones, joyously.
"_Allons_, come along," said Jules, taking his elbow.
They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several corners, and by-and-by
turned into a cross-street. The parson stopped an instant as they were
turning, and looked back up the street.
"W'at you lookin'?" asked his companion.
"I thought I saw Colossus," answered the parson, with an anxious face;
"I reckon 'twa'nt him, though." And they went on.
The street they now entered was a very quiet one. The eye of any chance
passer would have been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick
edifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out like
a bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair of lamps hanging
before a large closed entrance. It was a theatre, honeycombed with
gambling-dens. At this morning hour all was still, and the only sign of
life was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its narrow
shade, and each carrying an infant relative. Into this place the parson
and M. St.-Ange entered, the little nurses jumping up from the sills to
let them pass in.
A half-hour may have passed. At the end of that time the whole juvenile
company were laying alternate eyes and ears to the chinks, to gather
what they could of an interesting quarrel going on within.
"I did not, saw! I given you no cause of offense, saw! It's not so,
saw! Mister Jools simply mistaken the house,--thinkin' it was a
Sabbath-school! No such thing, saw; I _ain't_ bound to bet! Yes, I kin
git out! Yes, without bettin'! I hev a right to my _o_pinion; I reckon
I'm _a white man_, saw! No, saw! I on'y said I didn't think you could
get the game on them cards. 'Sno such thing, saw! I do _not_ know how to
play! I wouldn't hev a rascal's money ef I should win it! Shoot ef you
dare! You can kill me, but you cayn't scare me! No, I shayn't bet! I'll
die first! Yes, saw; Mr. Jools can bet for me if he admires to; I ain't
his mostah."
Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to St.-Ange.
"Saw, I don't understand you, saw. I never said I'd loan you money to
bet for me. I didn't suspicion this from you, saw. No, I won't take any
more lemonade; it's the most notorious stuff I ever drank, saw!"
M. St.-Ange's replies were in _falsetto_ and not without effect; for
presently the parson's indignation and anger began to melt. "Don't ask
me, Jools, I can't help you. It's no use; it's a matter of conscience
with me, Jools."
"_Mais oui!_ 'tis a matt' of conscien' wid me, the same."
"But, Jools, the money's none o' mine, nohow; it belongs to Smyrny, you
know."
"If I could make jus' _one_ bet," said the persuasive St.-Ange, "I would
leave this place, fas'-fas', yes. If I had thing--_mais_ I did not
soupspicion this from you, Posson Jone'--"
"Don't, Jools, don't!"
"No, Posson Jone'!"
"You're bound to win?" said the parson, wavering.
"_Mais certainement!_ But it is not to win that I want; 'tis me
conscien'--me honor!"
"Well, Jools, I hope I'm not a-doin' no wrong. I'll loan you some of
this money if you say you'll come right out 'thout takin' your
winnin's."
All was still. The peeping children could see the parson as he lifted
his hand to his breast-pocket. There it paused a moment in bewilderment,
then plunged to the bottom. It came back empty, and fell lifelessly at
his side. His head dropped upon his breast, his eyes were for a moment
closed, his broad palms were lifted and pressed against his forehead, a
tremor seized him, and he fell all in a lump to the floor. The children
ran off with their infant-loads, leaving Jules St.-Ange swearing by all
his deceased relatives, first to Miguel and Joe, and then to the lifted
parson, that he did not know what had become of the money "except if"
the black man had got it.
* * * * *
In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites of the old rampart,
a trio of Spanish forts, where the town has since sprung up and grown
old, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Creole summer, lay the
Congo Plains. Here stretched the canvas of the historic Cayetano, who
Sunday after Sunday sowed the sawdust for his circus-ring.
But to-day the great showman had fallen short of his printed promise.
The hurricane had come by night, and with one fell swash had made an
irretrievable sop of everything. The circus trailed away its bedraggled
magnificence, and the ring was cleared for the bull.
Then the sun seemed to come out and work for the people. "See," said the
Spaniards, looking up at the glorious sky with its great white fleets
drawn off upon the horizon, "see--heaven smiles upon the bull-fight!"
In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat the gayly decked
wives and daughters of the Gascons, from the _metairies_ along the
Ridge, and the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their shining
hair unbonneted to the sun. Next below were their husbands and lovers in
Sunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen,
Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese sailors in little woolen caps,
and strangers of the graver sort; mariners of England, Germany, and
Holland. The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers, Canadian
_voyageurs_, drinking and singing; _Americains_, too--more's the
shame--from the upper rivers--who will not keep their seats--who ply the
bottle, and who will get home by-and-by and tell how wicked Sodom is;
broad-brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans too, with their copper cheeks and
bat's eyes, and their tinkling spurred heels. Yonder in that quieter
section are the quadroon women in their black lace shawls--and there is
Baptiste; and below them are the turbaned black women, and there is--but
he vanishes--Colossus.
The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though loudly demanded, does
not begin. The _Americains_ grow derisive and find pastime in gibes and
raillery. They mock the various Latins with their national inflections,
and answer their scowls with laughter. Some of the more aggressive shout
pretty French greetings to the women of Gascony, and one bargeman, amid
peals of applause, stands on a seat and hurls a kiss to the quadroons.
The marines of England, Germany, and Holland, as spectators, like the
fun, while the Spaniards look black and cast defiant imprecations upon
their persecutors. Some Gascons, with timely caution, pick their women
out and depart, running a terrible fire of gallantries.
In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull: "The bull! the
bull!--hush!"
In a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling--standing head
and shoulders above the rest--calling in the _Americaine_ tongue.
Another man, big and red, named Joe, and a handsome little Creole in
elegant dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him, but the
flatboatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it. Ah, through
some shameful knavery of the men into whose hands he has fallen, he is
drunk! Even the women can see that; and now he throws his arms wildly
and raises his voice until the whole great circle hears it. He is
preaching!
Ah! kind Lord, for a special providence now! The men of his own
nation--men from the land of the open English Bible and temperance cup
and song--are cheering him on to mad disgrace. And now another call for
the appointed sport is drowned by the flatboatmen singing the ancient
tune of 'Mear.' You can hear the words--
"Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul--"
from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with laughter, from singers
who toss their hats aloft and roll in their seats; the chorus swells to
the accompaniment of a thousand brogans--
"He used to wear an old gray coat
All buttoned down before."
A ribboned man in the arena is trying to be heard, and the Latins raise
one mighty cry for silence. The big red man gets a hand over the
parson's mouth, and the ribboned man seizes his moment.
"They have been endeavoring for hours," he says, "to draw the terrible
animals from their dens, but such is their strength and fierceness,
that--"
His voice is drowned. Enough has been heard to warrant the inference
that the beasts cannot be whipped out of the storm-drenched cages to
which menagerie-life and long starvation have attached them, and from
the roar of indignation the man of ribbons flies. The noise increases.
Men are standing up by hundreds, and women are imploring to be let out
of the turmoil. All at once, like the bursting of a dam, the whole mass
pours down into the ring. They sweep across the arena and over the
showman's barriers. Miguel gets a frightful trampling. Who cares for
gates or doors? They tear the beasts' houses bar from bar, and, laying
hold of the gaunt buffalo, drag him forth by feet, ears, and tail; and
in the midst of the _melee_, still head and shoulders above all, wilder,
with the cup of the wicked, than any beast, is the man of God from the
Florida parishes!
In his arms he bore--and all the people shouted at once when they saw
it--the tiger. He had lifted it high up with its back to his breast, his
arms clasped under its shoulders; the wretched brute had curled up
caterpillar-wise, with its long tail against its belly, and through its
filed teeth grinned a fixed and impotent wrath. And Parson Jones was
shouting:--
"The tiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together! You dah to say
they shayn't and I'll comb you with this varmint from head to foot! The
tiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together. They _shell_! Now, you,
Joe! Behold! I am here to see it done. The lion and the buffler _shell_
lay down together!"
Mouthing these words again and again, the parson forced his way through
the surge in the wake of the buffalo. This creature the Latins had
secured by a lariat over his head, and were dragging across the old
rampart and into a street of the city.
The Northern races were trying to prevent, and there was pommeling and
knocking down, cursing and knife-drawing, until Jules St.-Ange was quite
carried away with the fun, laughed, clapped his hands, and swore with
delight, and ever kept close to the gallant parson.
Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child's-play an interruption. He had
come to find Colossus and the money. In an unlucky moment he made bold
to lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken barriers in the
hands of a flatboatman felled him to the sod, the terrible crowd swept
over him, the lariat was cut, and the giant parson hurled the tiger upon
the buffalo's back. In another instant both brutes were dead at the
hands of the mob; Jones was lifted from his feet, and prating of
Scripture and the millennium, of Paul at Ephesus and Daniel in the
"buffler's" den, was borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing
_Americains_. Half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on the floor of
a cell in the _calaboza_.
When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for midnight.
Somebody was at the door of his cell with a key. The lock grated, the
door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray of
moonlight fell upon M. Jules St.-Ange. The prisoner sat upon the empty
shackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor.
"Misty Posson Jone'," said the visitor, softly.
"O Jools!"
"_Mais_, w'at de matter, Posson Jone'?"
"My sins, Jools, my sins!"
"Ah, Posson Jone', is that something to cry, because a man get sometime
a litt' bit intoxicate? _Mais_, if a man keep _all the time_ intoxicate,
I think that is again' the conscien'."
"Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened--oh! Jools, where's my pore old
niggah?"
"Posson Jone', never min'; he is wid Baptiste."
"Where?"
"I don' know w'ere--_mais_ he is wid Baptiste. Baptiste is a beautiful
to take care of somebody."
"Is he as good as you, Jools?" asked Parson Jones, sincerely.
Jules was slightly staggered.
"You know, Posson Jone', you know, a nigger cannot be good as a w'ite
man--_mais_ Baptiste is a good nigger."
The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his hands.
"I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on the Isabella schooner.
Pore Smyrny!" He deeply sighed.
"Posson Jone'," said Jules, leaning against the wall and smiling, "I
swear you is the moz funny man I ever see. If I was you I would say,
me, 'Ah! 'ow I am lucky! the money I los', it was not mine, anyhow!' My
faith! shall a man make hisse'f to be the more sorry because the money
he los' is not his? Me, I would say, 'It is a specious providence.'
"Ah! Misty Posson Jone'," he continued, "you make a so droll sermon ad
the bull-ring. Ha! ha! I swear I thing you can make money to preach thad
sermon many time ad the theatre St. Philippe. Hah! you is the moz brave
dat I never see, _mais_ ad the same time the moz rilligious man. Where
I'm goin' to fin' one priest to make like dat? _Mais_, why you can't
cheer up an' be 'appy? Me, if I should be miserabl' like that I would
kill meself."
The countryman only shook his head.
"_Bien_, Posson Jone', I have the so good news for you."
The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry.
"Las' evening when they lock' you, I come right off at M. De Blanc's
house to get you let out of de calaboose; M. De Blanc he is the judge.
So soon I was entering--'Ah! Jules, me boy, juz the man to make complete
the game!' Posson Jone', it was a specious providence! I win in t'ree
hours more dan six hundred dollah! Look." He produced a mass of
bank-notes, _bons_, and due-bills.
"And you got the pass?" asked the parson, regarding the money with a
sadness incomprehensible to Jules.
"It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight."
"Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain."
The Creole's face became a perfect blank.
"Because," said the parson, "for two reasons: firstly, I have broken the
laws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly--you must really
excuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I'm
afeerd. You told the judge I was innocent; and in neither case it don't
become a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) to 'do evil
that good may come.' I muss stay."
M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at this
exhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit upon.
"_Mais_, Posson Jone'!"--in his old _falsetto_--"de order--you cannot
read it, it is in French--compel you to go hout, sir!"
"Is that so?" cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face--"is that
so, Jools?"
The young man nodded, smiling; but though he smiled, the fountain of his
tenderness was opened. He made the sign of the cross as the parson knelt
in prayer, and even whispered "Hail Mary," etc., quite through, twice
over.
Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of villas behind the city,
nestled under live-oaks and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, and
known as Suburb St. Jean.
With the first beam came the West-Floridian and the Creole out upon the
bank below the village. Upon the parson's arm hung a pair of antique
saddle-bags. Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes were
encircled with broad blue rings, and one cheek-bone bore the official
impress of every knuckle of Colossus's left hand. The "beautiful to take
care of somebody" had lost his charge. At mention of the negro he became
wild, and half in English, half in the "gumbo" dialect, said murderous
things. Intimidated by Jules to calmness, he became able to speak
confidently on one point; he could, would, and did swear that Colossus
had gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost certain; in fact,
he thought so.
There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared upon the bayou's
margin, and Baptiste pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, the
Isabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails for
departure. Moving down to where she lay, the parson and his friend
paused on the bank, loath to say farewell.
"O Jools!" said the parson, "supposin' Colossus ain't gone home! O
Jools, if you'll look him out for me, I'll never forget you--I'll never
forget you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he taken that
money. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal"--he set foot upon the
gang-plank--"but Colossus wouldn't steal from me. Good-by."
"Misty Posson Jone'," said St.-Ange, putting his hand on the parson's
arm with genuine affection, "hol' on. You see dis money--w'at I win las'
night? Well, I win' it by a specious providence, ain't it?"
"There's no tellin'," said the humbled Jones. "Providence
'Moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform.'"
"Ah!" cried the Creole, "_c'est_ very true. I ged this money in the
mysterieuze way. _Mais_, if I keep dis money, you know where it goin' be
to-night?"
"I really can't say," replied the parson.
"Goin' to de dev'," said the sweetly smiling young man.
The schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds, and even Baptiste,
laughed outright.
"O Jools, you mustn't!"
"Well, den, w'at I shall do wid _it_?"
"Anything!" answered the parson; "better donate it away to some poor
man--"
"Ah! Misty Posson Jone', dat is w'at I want. You los' five hondred
dollar'--'twas me fault."
"No, it wa'n't, Jools."
"_Mais_, it was!"
"No!"
"It _was_ me fault! I _swear_ it was me fault! _Mais_, here is five
hundred dollar'; I wish you shall take it. Here! I don't got no use for
money.--Oh my faith! Posson Jone', you must not begin to cry some more."