Which Discloses one Daddy Joe, and Disposes of an Evangelist
It was chilly at that height. Gard rode all night down the
mountain-side, and saw at last the lights of moon and sunrise mingling
over the meadows and cornfields of a plantation close below him. The
forest grew thinner and broke into clearing and pastures. He left the
highway by an old cart-road whose ruts were grass-grown, though its
centre was trodden hard by many human feet, and passed an empty building
of rough boards--a school-house or a negro church. The big chestnuts
hung over it, and underbrush grew up to its windows. The path went to
the door, swerved aside through the thicket, and at last ran into a
little, lonely, hollow pasture, with the sunlight pouring over its edge
as into a cup. He picketed his horse to a thin sapling that would bend
and let the horse eat, and lay down near a bowlder where the sunlight
seemed to be the yellowest, smiling to feel the warmth steal through
him. "There's too much luxury in my bones for an evangelist." Presently
he was asleep. The sun mounted, swung around by the south, and the
shadow of the bowlder went over the sleeper. An old negro, with bowed
head and cane in hand, stumped vigorously along the path towards the
building under the chestnuts. He passed the bowlder on the other side,
and saw neither the sleeper nor the horse picketed among the saplings
and feeding quietly. He wore a suit of fine broadcloth, the coat lined
with silk and stained and threadbare, a white vest, a blue, dotted
cravat, and a soft, gray hat. After that the clearing was silent except
for passing crows and drowsy insects.
Suddenly the woods became choral, a burst of singing from the chestnut
grove. Gard started, sat up, and listened.
"That's no jingle! That's music!"
He jumped to his feet and ran across the pasture, crept hurriedly
through a thicket to a window brushed by leaves of the underwood. He was
absorbed and eager.
"Man there with a voice like a bass viol!" he muttered.
"I wished I didn't wake an' sleep,
I wished I did lay down an' weep,
By Jordan, Jordan.
If I could come to that Dead Sea,
I'd wade up stream to Galilee,
By Jordan."
Each verse boomed up a noble crescendo and fell away in plaintive minor
chords. The preacher in the pulpit, in white vest, dotted cravat, and
fashionably cut coat, cried:
"Mou'n an' pray! Mou'n an' pray!"
"I wished I weep when Jesus weep,
I wished he wash me wid he sheep
In Jordan, Jordan.
I'd drown in Jordan wave and shout--
'Lord Jesus take my white soul out
Of Jordan.'"
"You wa'min, brer'n, you wa'min! Lo'd God! Jordan! Mou'n an' pray!"
"I wished the burden on my soul
Would roll away. Roll, Jordan, roll!
Roll, Jordan, Jordan!
Lord Jesus disher sheep astray,
Ain' You gwine show me yonder way
To Jordan?"
"De tex'," began the preacher, "is 'bout er man what he Lord len' him a
talent--da's a big bit of money, oom!--an' he wrap it in a napkin caze
he skeered of it an' hide it, an' go 'way crackin' he knuckle-bones.
'Hiyi!' An' he Lord say, 'You shif'less brack rascal! Ain' you got sense
to buy er cow what he feed in de pasture, an' bimeby deh's er calf, an'
de cow's good as befo', an' da's de calf, wuf eighteen dollars,
Confed'ate money?' Das' what Mars Ca'leton give Miss Meely fo' de white
yeahlin' what ain' any special so't of er calf. He Lord say, 'Give me
dat talent! You go hoe co'n in de co'nfield. I spec you skeered to tu'n
roun' when you get de end of de row. You ain' got business ent'prise,'
he say. 'You go fin' er slipper-sloppy mud turkle what know how keep he
shirt on he back an' he fingehs an' toes inside he shirt, an' lay down
in de slipper-sloppy mud wid him. Da's de habit an' perfession,' he say,
'ez sholy 'bout right fo' you.' Disher's de sayin' of scripcheh, caze
Miss Meely read it ter me las' night, an' ef it ain' de exac' wo'ds,
da's de efficaciousness. Da's de efficaciousness. Wha's de residuum?
"Ef you kotch a rabbit, an' skin him, an' clean him to he bone meat, an'
bile him till he swim in he own gravy, an' smell, oom! he smell sweeter
'n Miss Meely's flower-gyarden, da's de efficaciousness of de rabbit.
But afteh you done et de rabbit, an' he mek de sunshine inside, an'
de notion how soon you go kotch one mo', da's de residuum. I tell you
fo' sho fac'. Wha's de residuum? Ain' I heah las' week to Leesburg how
de Yankees done mek er Proclamation, an' deh pos' it on de do' of de
Cyounty House up no'th, dat de niggehs gwine all be free? Ain' Brer
Jacob dar skip up f'om de gyarden whar he rakin' weeds an' tell Miss
Meely how he gwine be free? Ain' Miss Meely cuff he yeahs fo' pesterin'
her? Ain' he got no mo' use fo' he freedom 'n ter gallop roun' fo' he
got it, an' pester Miss Meely what been shovin' co'n pone 'n bacon in he
mouf since he been a pickaninny? Oom!
"What you gwine do wid er talent ef you got it? Gwine git so tickle
befo' you know what it is? Gwine git ter de end of de co'n row an' hoe
on out 'n in de swamp caze ain' no man tell you tu'n. Gwine lie in de
roadway for er jumpy-tail wabble-yeah rabbit run down you mouf when
you hungry? Gwine splash in de creek wid de mud turkle wid he fingehs
an' toes wrap in he shirt. Hiyah! Oom! Comin' a day of-er-er-lamentation
an' dry bones, when de whippo'will be cryin' he lonesome lak he lookin'
fo' some one he cyarn fin'; an' ef he lookin' fo' a niggeh wuf len'in'
a talent to, da's some one he cyarn fin'.
"He Lord len' him a talent, say de good book. Oom! De efficaciousness of
de tex' am disher solemn wa'nin'. Don' go roun' ast white folks len' you
money. De borrowin' money's de beginnin' of trouble. Ain' nobody know
when deh gwine ast fo' it again. Mote ast fo' it de day afteh you put in
er pocket wid de hole clean down de groun'. Mote tell you buy er cow an'
wait fo' de calf, what de sojers take it lak deh tuk Miss Meely's ho'ses
'cep de two up in de hill pasture. De efficaciousness of de tex' am
disher solemn wa'nin. Wha's de residuum?"
The preacher swung his arms over his head shouting:
"Jo'dan! Jo'dan! Ain' no shinin', ain' no gladness, on'y 'yond Jo'dan!
Ain' gwine be no free niggeh! Ain' gwine be no slave! Gwine 'yond
Jo'dan!"
The congregation swayed, moaned, shouted:
"Jordan! Jordan!"
"Ain' I hyah de whippo'will cryin' de yevenin', 'Daddy Joe, come 'yond
Jo'dan, Daddy Joe.' Jo'dan Jo'dan!"
"Amen!"
"Now you shoutin'!"
From his ambush Gard could see the preacher plainly through the window
and two or three of the swaying heads nearest the preacher. The service
from now on seemed like an incoherent tumult, the preacher's voice now
and then above it, crying, "Mou'n an' pray!" until, at last, after half
an hour, it all died away, and there was silence except for the sobbing,
moaning, and panting. The preacher had sat down, or was not in sight
from where Gard was hidden. Some one unseen at the other end of the
building began to sing softly:
"There's a little wheel am turning in my heart."
Gradually the congregation dropped into the melody, all singing softly.
"There's a little wheel am turning in my heart,
In my heart, in my heart.
That little wheel am Jesus in my heart,
In my heart, in my heart--
I don' want no deception in my heart."
There was a long prayer in a husky whisper. The preacher seemed
exhausted. The meeting broke up. Gard counted fifty or more as they
came out. They all took the path to the highway, except the preacher,
who stumped away towards the pasture. Gard waited till everything was
still, then stepped into the path and followed him. When he came into
the pasture he saw the old man down by the bunch of saplings, examining
the horse, and joined him promptly.
"Good-morning, friend."
"Mo'nin, sah; disher you ho'se, sah?"
Gard felt in the saddle-bags and found a couple of tracts left.
"You do not know how to read? These are two short sermons upon the
texts, 'Whosoever calleth his brother a fool is in danger of hell-fire,'
and 'He that loseth himself shall find himself.' You live over there, in
a cabin by yourself?"
"Hey! Yes, sah."
"If you like I will go with you and read you these sermons?"
They went up the pasture, and left the horse feeding under the saplings.
The old man seemed awe-struck, as if he thought Gard might be some such
spiritual stranger as visited the prophets of old and the chosen
servants of the Lord. He walked on, looking up shyly at his sudden
guest, who went beside him, straight, slim, and sinewy, with sun-tanned
skin, shaven lips, silky black beard, singular hat, with broad, stiff
brim, and did not, surely, in that garb at least, look like other men.
When they came to where the path passed from the clearing into the
thicket again the negro stepped aside. Gard motioned and said:
"After you, Daddy Joe."
"Ain' he know my name! Ain' he know my name!"
The path led down and came out on the bank of a creek, with old willows
along it and a single little cabin back of the willows in a meadow.
Across the creek were cornfields, and in the distance the chimneys of a
large plantation house.
Gard asked, "Have you something for me to eat?"
"Yes, sah. Yes, sah."
They sat down on a rickety bench at the cabin door, and Gard read the
two tracts while Daddy Joe watched with troubled, pathetic eyes, and
after it brought out corn-bread and bacon sizzling in a pan. The
sunshine was warm. Some bird whistled shrilly in the willows over the
brown, sluggish creek. The smoke of the distant chimneys hung heavily.
Gard felt as if he would like to let his business slide and watch for
hours dreamily the hanging smoke, and gather the sense of contrast
between the tumult of the times and spirit of the settled land brooded
over by memories of generations at peace, of homes and familiar things.
"Daddy Joe," he said, suddenly, "we must work in our garden."
Daddy Joe seemed to think that normal remarks were not to be expected
from a visitant, possibly heavenly, at any rate having intimate
knowledge and a message to deliver.
"Yes, sah. Da's a fac'. We must work in de gyarden, sholy."
"I have something for you to do." He stopped. Daddy Joe's sermon had
seemed to imply an adverse opinion to negro freedom.
"You are wrong, Daddy Joe. It would be better for the slaves to be
free."
"Fo' God!"
"You really think so yourself. This is what you think, that it is meant
they shall be free, but it is right to tell them that their freedom will
be a trial for them and many of them will fail. This is what you
think."
"Da's sholy de efficaciousness."
"You will promise, then, in order to help this forward, to do what I
tell you, and in secret, so that no one here shall know. It is a small
thing, but a help to the cause of the Union armies, which is the cause
of the nation and the negro--you will do this?"
"Yes, sah," in a trembling and awed whisper.
"The promise is upon your conscience as a preacher of the Word."
"Yes, sah," almost inaudibly.
"This is it, then. You will give me the clothes you are wearing, for
which I will pay you twenty dollars, and one of the horses hidden in the
hill pasture."
"Fo' God!"
"You will take my horse in exchange, ride to-morrow morning, before
daybreak, for Leesburg, and take the train to Washington. Have you ever
been in Washington?"
"Yes, sah."
"I will give you a paper which you will show to any soldier about
Washington who stops you, and he will let you pass. In the city you will
find the War Department, and there leave that paper and another I will
give you. The second paper you will not let any one see before you
leave it at the War Department. You will there be given forty dollars.
When you return you will come at night and take the horse up to the hill
pasture. Will you have to account for your absence?"
"Miss Meely done lef' me go preachin' round de cyounty, sah. Miss
Meely"--hesitating--"Miss Meely te'ible sot down on de Yankees, sah."
"Be careful, then. We must work in our garden."
"Sholy."
"And you see that this is your duty."
"Yes, sah."
"To-morrow morning, before daybreak, in the road beyond your church, we
will separate, and you will not see me any more."
Beside Daddy Joe's bowed-down humility and belief Gard had a sensation
that in a measure was new--a sense of ignobleness and triviality. In
some strange way there seemed to rise out of Daddy Joe a certain
spiritual stature and significance. One seemed to discern that nowhere
in his soul did he play a part, or play at anything, or remember
himself. He took Gard to be perhaps, a half-divine evangelist. In Daddy
Joe's primitive faith, Gard fancied, heavenly incarnated messengers
came as easily among men as his ancestral gods had come in the jungle;
spirits, evil or good, still rode the night wind; a magical influence of
benefit or harm was a quality of things, like their color and touch.
It was out of these conditions that the historic faiths had come, with
their deep simplicities. The torch-bearers, with fresh fire, men who
travailed with the secrets of the future, had so sat in doorways, taught
such as Daddy Joe the master words, and forgot the times filled with
wars and policies, while the sunlight was on the grainfields, some brown
creek quiet in its bed, and the hearth smoke hanging in the air. But he
had not any such message for Daddy Joe, and felt trivial in his mask.
Wars and policies, too, were trivial, shadows drifting across the
cornfields, ripples on the slow mass of the creek. It was what occurred
to men in doorways and by roadsides that was of importance, that lit the
torches and determined the massed current.
In the dark of the dawn they separated at the highway. Daddy Joe rode
downward on Gard's horse with the white forefoot. A few hundred feet and
he pulled up, turned in his saddle, and looked back. The horse and man
going up under the pine avenue seemed to loom large and vague in the
gloom.
"Fo' God," he whispered, "ain' gwine see him no mo'."
In the broad daylight on top of the gap Gard examined his clothes,
rubbed the smoothness of his shaven face, and observed that the horse he
rode was an iron-gray. The clothes were a gray felt hat, a long, black
coat, threadbare and lined with silk, a white vest, dotted necktie and
unstarched linen, black trousers, and his own shoes. He thought he might
resemble a seedy Southern gentleman in possession of a whiskey flask and
an eccentric plan for the capture of the city of Washington. He might
imagine a resemblance in spirit to Jack Mavering. It would furnish a
basis and a sequence.
He came to the burned bridge on the Shenandoah. Three or four horsemen
were on the other side who met and greeted him when he had crossed.
"Howdy."
"Howdy."
Gard wrung the water from his wet clothes and waited. One of the
horsemen drew a paper from his pocket.
"Haven't seen a man like this anywhere, have you?" and read from the
paper.
"'Loose, black clothes, broad, stiff-brimmed hat, shaven lips, black
beard, smooth hair, of sect called Dunkers, carrying saddle-bags, riding
bay horse with white forefoot.'"
Gard considered.
"I wouldn't gamble on the fo' foot," he said, slowly, "but there was
an individual resembling otherwise that lucid and cyarefully boiled
description over 'yond the ridge. He gave me a printed little damn
sheet which contained discourteous ref'ences to hell-fire.
But"--thoughtfully--"that ho'se, 'pears to me his feet matched."
"Never mind. That's the man. They said he went over the ridge. Where'd
he go from then?"
"He 'peared to be pointed for Harper's Ferry."
"Well, we've lost him, then."
Gard looked sympathetic and reached down into the tails of his coat.
"There's only one thing, seh, that's equally good for disappointment and
wet feet. This heah whiskey never paid any duty to the United States--I
have my doubts, seh, whether it paid any to the Confed'acy. I should
like to devote a generous percentage to the use of the Confed'acy. You
wouldn't mind assuming charge of that percentage?"
A moment later the other asked, "Have you got the tract that Yankee
scout gave you?"
"Who?"
"The Dunker."
"Oh! ve'y good! As applied to me, I took the ref'ences to be
discourteous. I gave it, seh, to a niggeh."