mightiest turkey hunter on Pon Pon--sat in the midsummer sunshine at
his cabin door and talked, partly to himself and partly to his black
wife, Bess, who busied herself within. A protracted drought was over
the land, and Sabey’s summer harvest was at hand. Hunting turkeys
and ducks in the winter, he was equally successful in his summer
quest for the much-esteemed fresh water terrapins which abounded in
the backwaters and the sluggish lily-covered canals that intersected
the abandoned inland ricefields. They found a ready market on the
plantations or at the railway station, whence they were shipped to
Charleston, to appear on the tables of her discriminating gourmets in
the form of highly spiced soups and stews. These big terrapins were
frequently offered for sale by negroes who surprised the slow creatures
while crossing the road or path on their way from one canal or pond
to another, or trapped them in some shallow water hole. A few negroes
even hunted them occasionally, the only equipment necessary being an
empty crocus bag and a pair of legs--naked or trousered--with bare feet
attached. Sneaking as close as possible to the floating log on which
the terrapins sunned themselves, the hunter crept up until they became
alarmed and slid off into the water, when he jumped in after them,
and if the water was not more than three or four feet deep he could
usually locate them by feeling about on the bottom near the log with
his bare feet, when he would bob his head and his hands under, and the
prize would go into the sack hung about his neck. But Sabey followed
successfully, not only the ordinary methods of capture, but during dry
spells adopted the hazardous expedient of going down into the alligator
holes after them. As Prairie dogs, owls and rattlesnakes live together
in the same burrows on the Western plains, terrapins are always found
in alligator holes with their hosts in dry spells when the water is
low, and he who would secure them must either get the alligator out
first, or go down into the hole with him--one a difficult, the other a
dangerous, adventure.
In the cruel midsummer droughts that sometimes occurred in the
low-country, even the wet savannas and backwaters were parched to
desert dryness. The muddy bottoms, ordinarily covered with water,
even the shallower canals and ditches, sun-baked and cracked open,
were abandoned by the life that sometime swam or waded in the waters
now receded. Only the deeper places held water, and these roiled with
the teeming fish and eels and terrapins that cluttered up the muddy
pools. Crane and heron--greater and lesser--flew squawking overhead,
or stalked along the marges taking heavy toll of their helpless prey,
while in the mud round about countless tracks of otter, mink and
raccoon showed that, like lions at the African water holes, these
lesser creatures, too, held nightly carnival at the water. Now came
the human spoilers--negroes with “jampots” or “churnpots”--cylindrical
contrivances about fifteen inches in diameter by thirty inches in
height, made of canes tied together with hickory bark thongs, and
looking like tall, bottomless waste-baskets. Wading in the shallow
waters, the fisherman holds his jampot by the upper rim with both
hands, churning the water in front of him. Apprised by splash or
flutter that a fish has been trapped, he reaches one hand into the
cage, withdraws his catch, which he bestows in a bag hung about his
neck, and “churns” again. When conditions were favorable for this form
of fishing, the negroes, in the years immediately following the war,
caught not only the coarse mudfish and “cats” which they so affect,
but destroyed also countless thousands of trout and bream and other
fine food fish. In Sabey’s time, almost every other negro in the
well-watered districts owned a jampot, and the making of this was an
important side line of the old plantation chair and basket-makers, but,
synchronously perhaps with the destruction of the fish, the art, or the
practice, of “churning” passed away, and it is seldom heard of now.
Now that a “hebby dry drought” was on, Sabey licked his chaps in
pleasant anticipation. No rain was in prospect. The roaring of
alligators is regarded by low-country weather sharps as a sign of
coming rain, but, although the old bulls had bellowed lustily at dawn
on several consecutive mornings, the sun still blazed from a cloudless
sky and the heat waves danced and shimmered in the breathless air,
giving point to the saw that in a drought all signs fail, which was
once strikingly illustrated by an old-time plantation driver, whose
master, needing rain, drew comfort from the persistent bellowing of
the alligators. “Did you hear those ’gators this morning, Scipio? That
should bring rain.”
“Yaas, Maussuh, uh yeddy’um, but dis duh Dry Drought, enty?”
“Yes, a very severe drought.”
“Berry well, suh. Enty you know, Maussuh, suh Dry Drought duh him own
maussuh, en’ him ent ’f’aid alligettuh? En’, Maussuh, Dry Drought
him haa’d-head’ ez de berry Satan! Nobody ent fuh mek’um fuh do
nutt’n’! All dem todduh kinduh wedduh dem berry ’f’aid alligettuh.
W’en alligettuh belluh fuh rain, dem big Bloodynoun frog dem jine’um,
‘_come’yuh rain, come’yuh’ rain, come’yuh rain!_’ Den dem po’ leely
frog een de tree, dem hab shishuh mo’nful woice, dem biggin fuh cry.
Bimeby, rain come. But Dry Drought, him ent stan’ so. W’en Dry Drought
come, bullfrog know suh alligettuh cyan’ mek’um fuh wedduh, en’ you
yeddy’um holluh ‘_’e yent fuh rain, ’e yent fuh rain, ’e yent fuh
rain!_’ Alligettuh bex. ’E holluh ’gen. Dry Drought suck ’e teet’
at’um. ’Scuse me fuh cuss, Maussuh, but Dry Drought him ent care uh
_dam_ ’bout alligettuh, uh dunkyuh ef’ ’e holluh ’tell ’e belly bus’!”
So, as the unterrified “Dry Drought” burned about him, Sabey prepared
to start his campaign. The waters, long drying up, were now low
enough. Many alligators had been forced to move, and the smaller ones
were frequently encountered in the road--sometimes even on the high
pineland plateaus--as they traveled toward the river or adventured in
search of deeper canals or water holes. They always showed fight, too,
swelling up like pouter pigeons, standing high off the ground, and
hissing like geese, while they watched for a chance to lash out with
dangerous tail. But, with the conservatism of age and wealth, the big
old fellows seldom moved from their favorite pools on which opened
their subterranean holes or burrows, excavated with their forefeet,
like those of other burrowing creatures. Here in the deep pools were
fish at hand, and nearby were the pig paths along which unwary shoats,
going to the water, or nosing about in the soft earth for succulent
roots, would often come in reach of the sweeping tail, and add to the
variety of the big ’gator’s fare. In these deep underground holes,
the ugly creatures hibernated from autumn to spring, until, with the
earliest warm sunshine, first the nose and eyes would appear cautiously
above the water which covered the entrance to the hole, and, growing
bolder day by day, as the weather became warmer, next the head, and, at
last the entire body would be exposed, lying on the muddy bank, or on a
tussock among the rushes. Here, perhaps, he would be descried by some
adventurous boy, who, sighting carefully despite his palpitating heart,
would shatter the ’gator’s skull with a rifle bullet or reach his heart
by a well-aimed charge of buckshot behind the shoulder; but, barring
the boy, the days of the big ’gators were long in the land, for they
became more wary with advancing years and seldom fell to the negroes’
firearms.
While the drought was yet young, the heaviest alligator in the
community had been located by Sabey at the “Half Moon” dam, and now the
deep pool into which his hole opened contained all the water that was
left in the great savanna. The yawning mouth of the big ’gator hole,
ordinarily covered with water, now disclosed a parched throat wide
enough to have taken in a barrel. From day to day during the pendency
of the drought, Sabey had sneaked up to the pool hoping to surprise
the ’gator out of his hole and by a lucky shot get him out of the way
and clear the path to the terrapins, but he had not been fortunate
enough to see him, although he knew he was there by the tracks and the
impress of his great body in the baked mud that lay between the pool
and the entrance to his hole. Even had Sabey found him, he could have
slain him only with a close shot in the unprotected region just under
the arm, for the negro seldom shoots anything larger than number two
shot, which would have glanced harmlessly off the tough scales with
which the ’gator was almost completely armored.
Forced to oust the householder, in order to get at his unbidden guests,
the terrapin hunter was now turned ’gator hunter. Although almost
invariably hunting alone, pulling the smaller ’gators out of their
holes with an iron hook and killing them with his axe, the master of
the Half Moon pool was too ugly a customer to be so easily disposed
of, and, after pondering long, Sabey determined to organize a ’gator
hunt for the following day and call to his aid some of the plantation
negroes.
On Saturday morning a dozen negroes, men and boys, met Sabey at the
Half Moon. They were making holiday and laughed and chaffed in high
spirits. A few carried jampots, intending to churn the waters for
their favorite mudfish. Others, directed by Sabey, had brought strong
plow lines which they had borrowed without leave from “de buckruh’,”
and three or four were provided with axes. Besides his musket, Sabey
carried on his shoulder a stout seven-foot hickory staff, at one end
of which the village blacksmith had attached an iron ring, while at
the other he had riveted a strong iron shaft shaped somewhat like a
medieval pike--a spear-like point with which to prod and stir up his
’gatorship, and a sharp, though heavy, hook with which to drag him out
of his retreat. Although Sabey was the master craftsman of them all in
this form of adventure, the two or three old darkeys in the bunch could
not refrain from giving advice. “Git een de hole, Sabey, git een de
hole,” said old Cato Giles, the plantation foreman. “Tek de plow line
en’ tie’um to ’e foot, den we mans kin drag’um out.”
“Duh me gwine een de hole, enty? Hukkuh uh gwine git at da’ alligettuh’
foot bedout git at ’e head fus’? Me fuh pit my head een ’e mout’ w’ile
uh duh tie ’e foot, enty? No, suh!”
Cutting a long, supple pole from a nearby thicket, Sabey ran it down
the hole in order to determine its underground course and locate its
occupant. He knelt at the opening and ran his sapling down carefully,
listening for the scraping of the far end against the rough scales
of the alligator. The hole, which slanted downward at an angle of 45
degrees, proved to be almost straight, and, when twelve feet of the
pole had been shoved in, Sabey heard the grating sound he had been
listening for, and knew what work was before him. Withdrawing the pole,
he first made fast a double plow line to the ring end of his staff,
while he tied another line around one of his ankles and prepared to go
down into the hole. “Tek off yo’ shu’t, man,” advised old Cato. “Ef da’
’gatuh bite you ’e gwine spile’um, en’ no use fuh t’row’way uh shu’t.”
“Yaas, man,” another said, “tek’um off. You kin slip een da’ hole
bettuh bedout’um.”
So Sabey cast off shirt and hat, and, with a warning to his companions
to pull him out quickly if he should call, went down on his hands and
knees and crawled head-foremost into the hole, pushing his billhook
before him. Wriggling like a snake, he dragged himself slowly and
cautiously downward, and, about the time he had gone down far enough to
leave only his toes sticking out of the mouth of the hole, the sharp
point of his staff rattled against the ’gator’s skull as he lay head on
toward the entrance. The strong, musky smell of the great saurian would
have suffocated one less tough than Sabey, but he paid no attention to
it, and prodded with his staff until he had maneuvered the sharp point
of his hook under the ’gator’s throat when, with a quick upward jerk,
he fastened it in the creature’s lower jaw, and, as a hissing sigh met
him in the face, he shouted and kicked his heels at the same time as
a signal that he wished to come up. They pulled so lustily that his
crooked leg was almost jerked out of its socket, and his head came out,
grumbling and scolding, “Oonuh t’ink me duh alligettuh ’long fo’ foot,
enty? Wuh me fuh do fuh foot attuh oonuh pull off dem wuh uh got? Oonuh
mus’be fool! Oonuh nebbuh pull nigguh outuh alligettuh hole befo’?”
But they were now too excited to quarrel, and, seizing the double
plow lines, they began, under Sabey’s direction, to pull slowly on
the ’gator. Had Sabey hooked him in a less sensitive part, they could
not have budged him. He was too well braced for hanging back, but his
throat was comparatively tender, and inch by inch he began to come up,
while the negroes shouted and chanted with delight, their excitement
increasing as the line shortened and the quarry neared the mouth of
the hole, till at last the ugly snout was pushed forward, and then
the head, full two feet long, appeared as the fore feet followed, and
the ’gator reared up. Frightened, the negroes retreated to the very
end of the line. Meanwhile, Sabey had seized his musket and executed
a flank movement, and realizing that, as the ’gator’s tail was still
underground, there was little danger in a close approach, crept up and,
firing when the muzzle of his gun almost touched the ’gator’s side,
tore a great hole just behind the shoulder. The negroes shouted with
joy, for they realized that the wound was mortal. But ’gators take a
long time to die, and they kept pulling, and he kept crawling, until
his entire length of nine feet had been drawn out of the hole. Sabey
was wary, and insisted on their retaining hold of the staff, which
was still hooked in the ’gator’s throat, and he warned his companions
of the danger in approaching within reach of the treacherous tail,
but after awhile, as the great creature slowly bled to death, several
of the younger negroes walked too near, and, while appraising with
gastronomic appreciation the great tail, which many of the negroes eat
with avidity, it lashed out suddenly. A feeble effort, but with force
enough to send the frightened negroes on both sides of him sprawling
and rubbing their bruised legs which the ’gator’s sweep, delivered with
full force, could have broken like pipe stems.
And now that the Dragon that guarded the treasure had been haled from
the dungeon and put _hors de combat_, Sabey tied a couple of empty
sacks, each to a plow line, and essayed a second nose dive into the
pit of promise. There is always danger of getting jammed or stuck in
exploring a ’gator hole, but Sabey was experienced and cautious, and
the hole was large, so down he went, taking the sacks with him, and
soon reached the bottom, which had widened into a considerable cavity
eighteen feet from the mouth. His exploring hands, feeling in front
of him, found a small pool of water literally alive with terrapins.
Having ample room to turn around, Sabey lost no time in filling one
of his sacks with terrapins, which, at a jerk of the line, was hauled
up out of his way. The second sack held all that remained, and, when
this had followed the first, he turned, and, facing upward, decided
to go head-foremost, preferring to crawl out like a self-respecting
caterpillar, under his own steam, rather than be hauled up by the
heels like a slaughtered shoat. But, fearing suffocation in the close
quarters underground, he had admonished the men above, who managed the
rope attached to his foot, to pull him up quickly at the first jerk,
and, as he turned upward, his free leg became entangled with the tied
one. In kicking loose, he gave the line a jerk, to which his friends
responded so suddenly that they hauled his legs up under him, trussing
him into the semblance of a bronze statuette of a squatting Buddha.
Sabey yelled with pain and anger, for the hole, while large enough for
a man to pass extended, was too close for him doubled up, and Sabey
was stuck in the barrel. His muffled cries reached his friends, but
they thought them calls for more speed, and the harder they pulled, the
tighter they jammed the unhappy wretch.
“Eh, eh! Da’ felluh pull _hebby_!”
“Yaas, man, Buh Sabey pull hebby sukkuh alligettuh.”
It was old Cato who noticed that they had not budged him an inch.
“_’Top_, oonuh man, _’top_!” he shouted. “’Ee yent duh moobe. Slack de
rope.”
As they stopped pulling, Sabey hauled in the slack, released his legs,
and, hauling on the rope hand over hand, was soon at the mouth of
the hole, where he lay for several minutes to fill up with fresh air.
When, recovered sufficiently to get mad, he rose on all-fours like an
alligator, he presented a fearful sight. His yellow wool, his face, and
his copper-colored arms and torso were smeared and streaked with black
mud, his ragged trousers, water-soaked and muddy, clung to his crooked
legs, and he looked like a composite of iguana and ape.
Though ordinarily a taciturn negro, Sabey, under the spur of anger,
galloped through his vocabulary of invective at top speed. “Oonuh good
fuh nutt’n’ debble’ub’uh _no’count nigguh_! Oonuh ent _wut_! Uh tell
oonuh ’sponsubble fuh haul de rope w’en uh pull’um ’long me han’, uh
nebbuh tell oonuh fuh haul’um w’en uh kick’um ’long me foot! Oonuh ent
know de diff’unce ’twix’ man’ han’ en’ ’e foot? Ef man tell oonuh fuh
tek uh cucklebuhr outuh mule _yez_, oonuh gwine saa’ch fuhr’um een ’e
_tail_, enty? Oonuh mus’be tek me fuh annimel!”
“Ef you ent wash off dem mud en’ t’ing ’fo’ you gone home, Bess gwine
tek you fuh cootuh, eeduhso fuh ’ranguhtang, en’ him ent gwi’ leh you
fuh gone een him house,” they chaffed.
Sabey washed in the muddy pool, resumed his shirt, tied the two sacks
of terrapins together, hung them over the gun barrel at his back, and
prepared to shake the mud of the Half Moon off his feet. “W’en uh done
sell dese yuh yalluh-belly cootuh en’ gone een me house wid alltwo me
han’ full’up wid money, Bess gwine lub me tummuch, ef uh _yiz_ look
lukkuh ’ranguhtang. Monkey hab fo’ han’, en’ de mo’res’ han’ man hab,
de mo’ ’ooman lub’um! Oonuh black Aff’ikin _Guinea nigguh_! Oonuh
kin nyam da’ alligettuh, en’ w’en oonuh _yiz_ nyam’um, _oonuh duh
cannibel_!”
“THE WILES THAT IN THE WOMEN ARE”
For many years old John, as country coachman for the late Governor
Aiken, periodically drove a pair of switch-tailed mules to the
Governor’s carriage, making round trips between Jehossee Island and
Adams Run station, whenever his employer came from Charleston to visit
the great rice plantation. John was a trim and finicky old darkey, with
quite a manner, and, in his old beaver hat and long-tailed coat, made a
notable figure among the darkeys usually loafing about the station.
Low-country negroes never miss a train. Journeying by rail, they take
no chances, but invariably reach the station several hours ahead of
train time, where, chattering and gossiping, the waiting time passes
quickly and pleasantly.
Among these groups old John, with his long-handled whip of plaited
buckskin, correctly looped, and carried coachman fashion, moved and
exchanged pleasantries. He, too, was always ahead of time, and his
docile mules, switching their long, untrimmed tails about, and hitched
to the only closed carriage in the community, were always objects of
interest to the station idlers.
“Uncle John, mekso oonuh ent shabe dem mule tail?” inquired one of a
group that squatted upon the platform.
“Sistuh, you ebbuh yeddy ’bout Johossee muskittuh’?”
“No, suh.”
“Ahnhn, uh t’awt so. Gal, you ebbuh see blackbu’d’ ’puntop’uh rice
rick? You _is_ shum, enty? Berry well; dem muskittuh’ een Johossee
maa’sh stan’ same fashi’n. W’en dem light ’puntop’uh mule, dem
kibbuhr’um ’tell oonuh cyan’ see dem haa’ness! One time, jis’ attuh
daa’k, uh binnuh dribe comin’ een late f’um Adam’ Run, en’ w’en uh
’trike de causeway, all ub uh sudd’nt uh nebbuh yeddy no mule’ foot duh
trot ’puntop’uh de groun’! De cyaaridge duh moobe, but uh yent yeddy
no soun’ f’um de mule’ foot. Uh say tuh mese’f, eh, eh, duh warruh
dish’yuh? Uh look ’gen, en’, uh ’cla’ tuh goodness, de muskittuh’ _dat_
t’ick ’puntop de mule’ belly, dem hice’um up off de groun’, en’ duh
flew t’ru de ellyment duh cya’um ’long! Dem wing’ duh sing sukkuh bee
duh swawm, en’ de mule’ duh trot wid all fo’ dem foot, but ’e nebbuh
tetch no groun’! Uh nebbuh do nutt’n ’tell uh cross de bridge, ’cause
de bridge mek out’uh pole, en’ dem berry slip’ry duh night time, en’
uh glad de mule’ ent haffuh pit dem foot ’puntop’um, but attuh uh
done cross de bridge, uh tek me lash en’ uh cut de mule’ two’t’ree
time onduhneet’ dem belly, en’, uh ’cla’ tuh my Mastuh, t’ree peck uh
muskittuh’ drap ’puntop de groun’ en’ uh yeddy de mule’ foot duh trot
’gen een de road! So, attuh dat, uh nebbuh shabe de Gub’nuh’ cyaaridge
mule’ tail no mo’, en’ now you shum stan’ dey, dem kin lick muskittuh’,
fly en’ t’ing’ same lukkuh hawss.”
So old John, coachman and raconteur, a faithful and respected servant,
lived his days, which were long, and when at last he was gathered to
his fathers, his funeral was the talk of the colored countryside, and
his grave, ornately decorated with broken bits of old blue china and
the stone bottles in which Bass’ ale had once been imported, was much
admired by those whose sad occasions brought them to the plantation
God’s-Acre under the spreading live-oaks.
“Eh, eh, Buh John sho’ hab uh fine grabe.”
“Yaas, tittie, ’e fine fuh true. You see da’ blue chaney, enty? Dat
chaney bin ’e Missis’ pitchuh ’tell de pitchuh’ mout’ done bruk out.
One time ’e missis sen’ one leely nigguh gal duh big spring wid ’e blue
pitchuh fuh fetch watuh. De gal full’ de pitchuh en’ pit’um ’puntop ’e
head duh walk duh paat’ comin’ fuh de house. De gal duh walk ca’less
like, duh swing ’e han’, en’ ’e yeye high, en’ ’e nebbuh look ’puntop
de paat’, en’ one limus cootuh binnuh cross ’e paat’, en’ him git to
de paat’ same time de gal git dey, en’ de gal ’tump ’e toe ’puntop
de cootuh, en’ de cootuh t’row’um down, en’ de pitchuh fall off de
gal’ head en’ ’trike ’puntop’uh root, en’ de pitchuh’ mout’ bruk out
en’ de gal gone back duh big spring en’ full’ de pitchuh ’gen, en’
pit’um ’puntop ’e head en’ gone big house duh paat’, but ’e dat ’f’aid
suh limus cootuh gwine hit’um ’gen, ’e ’tep’ high, en’ w’en ’e ’tep’
high de watuh wuh ’e fetch f’um big spring ’plash’ out de pitchuh’
bruk mout’ en’ drap’ ’puntop de gal two eye’ en’ run down ’e face en’
gone een ’e mout’, en’ w’en de gal git duh big house, ’e missis look
’puntop all de watuh en’ t’ing’ dey ’puntop ’e face en’ ’e missis
t’ink de gal cry tuh dat, en’ ’e missis sorry fuhr’um en’ ’e nebbuh
lick’um nuh nutt’n’, en’ ’e gi’ de bruk mout’ pitchuh to de gal, en’
w’en de gal grow up, Buh John hab’um fuh wife, en’ da’ de way Buh John
git de pitchuh, en’ attuh Buh John done dead, ’e wife wuh ’e lef’ tek
hatchitch en’ bruk de pitchuh ’gen, en’ pit eb’ry Gawd piece ’puntop
Buh John’ grabe, en’ da’ w’ymekso ’e stan’ so.”
“’E grabe look stylish fuh true, but uh know berry well w’en _my_
juntlemun dead me yent fuh bruk no pitchuh en’ t’ing fuh pit ’puntop
_him_ cawpse, ’cause da’ nigguh _ent wut_, ’e too lub fuh drink rum,
en’ w’en ’e fetch’um home, him fuhrebbuh duh fall down en’ bruk de
bottle wuh ’e fetch’um een, en’ uh hab all dem bruk bottle pile’ een de
fench cawnuh fuh pit ’puntop him grabe w’en ’e dead. Two’t’ree time Joe
seem lukkuh ’e kinduh spishus ’bout de bruk bottle, en’ ’e ax me wuffuh
uh duh sabe’um, but uh tell’um uh sabe’um fuh beat’um up ’long pessle,
fuh pizen buckruh’ dog, en’ dat sattify ’e mine’ en’ ’e lemme ’lone.”
“You sho’ hab uh good onduhstan’, tittie, ’cause man ent fuh know
tummuch. Ef ’ooman tell’um de trute ’e nebbuh sattify. ’Ooman haffuh
fool’um fuh mek’um easy een ’e mine’!”
“You duh talk trute, tittie, him _lub_ you fuh fool’um. Fool’um duh de
only t’ing him gwine b’leebe.”