"Mos'ly driv' away. Some done lef' town fer good. Reckon Ah'se goin'
back to Memphis. Dey doan' have no riots dar."
"When you gwine?"
"Mawnin' train, de ten-ten."
"We'se gwine too."
Stella listened without comment. There was no reason to stay here.
Tom talked to the two police at the next block. "They started to run
away all the niggers, Uncle. Then they got better sense. Who in hell
would do the work, if the niggers left? You don't have to go now."
Tom thanked them, and went on over to Judge Land's. Stella's week's
wages were unpaid. The courteous Judge, upset at this conflict between
the lower elements of both races, did his best to change Tom's mind. "Ah
gotter go, Jedge. Dey's wu'thless nigguhs an' po' white trash
ev'rywhere; but dey don't have trouble lak dis ev'rywhere."
He withdrew from the bank all his savings, which were deposited with the
church's money, careful not to disturb the congregation's balance.
They reached the station early. The Jenkins family was already there;
they had been drowsing since sun-up in the colored waiting-room. Tom
went to buy the tickets. Here was a hitch. The money would not stretch
to cover fares for all of them to Memphis, even with half-fares for the
three oldest, and Babe and little Will free.
"You can get tickets for Adamsville, and have two dollars left over,"
said the uninterested agent. He knew the peculiarities of negro finance.
"Aw' right."
On the train, the little Coles and Stella were squeezed into one seat;
elder Jenkins, Tom, and two other traveling negroes found a compartment
together. The fugitive preacher was at once at home; he expounded the
Africanized doctrines of the Baptist faith interminably. "Hit's only
grace what kin save," he repeated. "Does de Lawd's grace dwell in yo'
heart? Is you been bawn agin?"
Finally one of the strange negroes, who was highly impressed with the
insistent doctrine, drew out from Tom the vague state of his plans.
"Ah'll fin' somethin' to do," the black tongue of God concluded.
"An' you doan't know nobody in Adamsville? Doan't you belong to no
lodge, or nothin'? Ain't you a Risin' Star, or a Sunshiner?"
Tom rubbed a shiny mahogany ear in earnest reflection. "Ah does belong
to de Sons an' Daughters of Ancient Galilean Fishermen, for a fack."
"Dar now! Now, nigguh, I knows Adamsville, forrards an' back'ards. You
git off at de Union Depot, den walk down to Avenoo C, an' go east twill
you gits to de lodge. 'Bout Thuhty-fo'th Street. Dey'll fix you up."
They reached the lodge; its chairs furnished a place for the younger
Coles to munch cold fish sandwiches and cram overripe bananas, while Tom
went househunting. "Jus' you walk out to Joneses' Hill, in West
Adamsville. You kin find a house, an' maybe a job with it." The business
agent was full of suggestions.
At the first corner, the old negro considered carefully. West?... One
horizon appeared an endless level; the other ended in a gentle hill
climbing high above the houses at its base. "Dat mus' be dis Joneses'
Hill."
He walked due east. On and on he plodded, on the lookout for the
railroad yards that ran just below the hill; but there were no tracks to
be seen. At last he struck Highland Boulevard, and then the slope to the
mountain. The railroad must lie beyond it. He ambled aimlessly up the
long dummy line to the breezy gap, then followed the curving road to the
south. There were no houses here, only a sleepy July woodland.
Jays jawed at him from towering blackgums and bluegums, tiny hedge
birds, flushed by his approach, whirred noisily into leafy coverts. He
feasted on plump blackberries pocketed in a moist hollow, disturbing two
quarrelsome chipmunks, who continued to scold after he had passed them.
A homeless cur sidled cautiously, sniffed, was satisfied, joined his
train.
He found a good stick, and walked on. Must be a railroad somewhere.
He stopped at last before a vacant house, old and decrepit, with sagging
front porch, broken panes stuffed with weathered brown newspapers, a
general air of run-downness. Maybe he had gone the wrong way. He decided
to knock and ask. He knocked at the front door. No answer. He peered
through the dusty, fly-scarred windows. Nothing inside, except one
broken-down bed and piles of dusty yellowed papers on the floor. He
walked laboriously around the house, looking in at each window. No one
within. There was a good table in the kitchen, a rusted stove, an old
clothes basket hanging on the wall beside a broken lantern, a
dilapidated splint-bottomed chair. He came around to the front again.
The shade of the lonely spreading oak before the front porch was
attractive. He sat down upon some cushioning chigger-weed. The July
afternoon wore on; he slept.
He woke at the sound of feet sending the gravel flying. A white man
approached.
"Hey, nigger, what you doing there?"
He got to his feet, his hat off. "Ah'm lookin' for Joneses' Hill, suh.
Done los' mah way."
"I reckon you have! Jones' Hill is in West Adamsville, six miles from
here. Live there?"
"Aimin' to."
"Where do you live now?"
"Ah jus' come to town, suh. Ain't picked out mah house yit."
Nathaniel Guild considered him. Looked like a respectable negro. "You
married?"
"Yes, suh. Me 'n' mah ole 'ooman got five chillun, fo' boys an' one
girl."
The white man looked abstractedly into his face. "I'm looking for a
tenant for this house--someone who can keep an eye on the place, and do
a little day work now and then."
There now! Tom had never doubted for a moment that the Lord would
provide. His tone was persuasively eager. "Lawdy, boss, Ah's jes' de man
you's lookin' for! Ah does all kin's of wu'k, an' mah ole 'ooman is sho'
a powerful cook."
"I'll tell you what I'll do. You can come in, for three dollars a month
rent. The house can be fixed up, and I'll see that you get more than
enough work to pay it off. We may have work for you every day soon. If
your wife's a good cook, Tom, you send her over to that new house you
see yonder, to Mr. Judson; say Mr. Guild sent you." He walked back
through the gate. "There's an excellent spring just at the bottom here;
and if you can find any garden truck behind the house, you're welcome to
it. There are some tomatoes, I know, and some turnips. If you want some
seeds, Mr. Judson will let you have them.... Oh, by the way, here's your
key."
When these suggestions had become realities, Stella was vehement in her
praise of the Judson place. "Dat Miss' Mary, now, she's a sho' 'nuff
lady! She order me 'roun' jes' lak Miss' Land useter. Dis is one gran'
place, Tom."
The children scattered over the mountain, like the hedge rabbits they
soon became acquainted with, and grew sturdy and strong from the
pioneering. Old Tom learned the countryside, and particularly the negro
settlement two miles back through the trees. Lilydale had a thriving
Baptist Church, the First Zion, which competed vigorously for converts
with the Nebo Methodist congregation, two hilly blocks away. Tom soon
became an elder, and on the loss of the pastor, who was indicted as a
murder suspect, the Georgia preacher naturally succeeded to his place.
On weekdays Tom found himself in daily demand, as Hillcrest Subdivision
expanded and developed. Even Ed, the oldest of his boys, found work for
his strong sixteen-year muscles in the road-making. Jim and Will went to
the city school, while Diana tended Babe, to let Stella cook for the
Judsons.
Tom's keen instinct soon located the isolated hen roosts in the valley,
and the more unprotected ones at the foot of the mountain. Surely the
Lord's anointed deserved chicken.
With the knowledge that a chicken dinner awaited him on his return, his
Sunday sermons gained unction and elegance. He was regarded as the most
powerful disputer in this section of the valley, and his exhortations
always secured a big turnout for the baptizing in Shadow Creek.
He felt welded to the mountain. He was caretaker of the whole estate,
and lord of his half of it. He felt superior to the mere Lilydale
negroes, even those who owned their own homes; it was more to be good
enough to live near Mister Judson. As for the Adamsville negroes, his
scorn for them boiled over weekly in his sermon. "Them crap-shootin',
rum-soppin' Scratch-Ankle nigguhs----" The self-righteous congregation
shivered delightedly as he pictured the sure hell-fire for the modern
"Sodom-'n'-Gomorry."
Life had evidently provided a firm and pleasant routine for this
wandering apostle of the Lord.