of the fire, and because it is not good luck to watch a boiling
project; and as she stood in the red glow of the firelight she was
the personification of negro superstition. Tall and gaunt, with long
bony arms, and skinny claws of hands, with a wrinkled, malicious,
yet half-frightened countenance, surrounded by little pig-tails of
gray wool that stuck out from under her scarlet turban, with her old
petticoat turned inside out, and a gay little shawl pinned on her
shoulders, she stood like a Voodoo priestess eagerly watching and
listening. When the boiling fairly began, she commenced swaying,
rocking herself backward and forward, patting the floor with heavy
foot, almost dancing while she muttered and sung, in a low voice, a few
gibberish charms that had been taught by her mother, Queen Abigail.
She rolled her eyes up in a superstitious ecstasy, and swung her long
arms to the rhythm of her heathenish song, when suddenly a shock like
an earth-quake struck her door; it flew violently open, and some long,
heavy object rushed in, struck Tuggie violently on her tender shins,
and threw her, face downward, on the floor. She was for a moment
stunned with the fall and with the suddenness of the assault, but when
she regained her senses she still lay on the floor with eyes tightly
closed and her face covered with her hands, for this violent assailant
was surely that terrifying creature, a “moonack,” that she had raised
and brought by her wicked conjuring, and if she glanced at it, it would
cause her instant death.
Perfect stillness had succeeded the assault. The old negress groaned
and tried to pray. She repeated some old Voodoo charms, the Creed, all
kinds of words to ward off evil spirits, and at last pleaded aloud,
“Oh, Mass’ Debbil, you only lets me go dis time, I won’t nebber burn no
projects no more; I warn’t a-goin’ to hurt Bosum anyway, I only wants
to git a new tea-kettle outen him. I’ll frow de project out, and burn
up de dough-baby, an’ lug back dat wool I stole from Debby Nickkels,
an’ I won’t nebber purtend I’se a witch agin. Oh! Mass’ Moonack! Don’t
take me dis time.” At this juncture she again became speechless with
terror, for she heard soft, irregular footsteps entering the door. She
groaned and moaned, but did not open her eyes.
Four pale and staring boys, Tom and Jeffrey Hazard, Zeke Gardiner,
and Pel Noyes, stole softly in on tiptoe, caught hold of the clumsy
caricature of a bob-sled that had so fiercely assaulted Tuggie’s shins
and knocked her down, dragged it out of the house and disappeared
with it down the road. Jeffrey Hazard, who had in him throughout his
entire life a far more active and real devil than any evil spirit that
Tuggie conjured or dreamed of, could not resist, ere he left the house,
catching the old woman by the foot as he passed her and pulling her as
if to take her off with him, until her groans of fright made him desist.
Old Tuggie listened to the light footsteps and the dragging noise in
agony. With close-shut eyes she listened to the steps of the devils
and moonacks as they gradually went away from the house. The cold, icy
night-air blew in upon her as she lay on the floor, the water burned
down in the pot, and a nauseous odor of burning fish and flesh filled
the house. At last she tremblingly arose, closed the door, swung the
pot off the fire, seized a horseshoe and prayer-book, and went to bed.
The week previous Pel Noyes had been to Boston, and had returned with
his brain and tongue full of a fine sled for coasting that he had seen
in that great metropolis. With four old sleigh-runners and a few
boards he had rigged an imitation of the beautiful “double-runner,”
and the four boys sallied out that winter night to use and enjoy it.
They intended to skim past Witch Tuggie’s door with a shrill and
annoying shriek of defiance, but alas! their clumsy steering-apparatus
broke when they were half-way down the hill, and the contrary sled,
rudderless and uncontrolled, instead of gliding past the witch’s door
banged into it, with the full success that we know. The boys were
thrown into the snow outside the door, and their first impulse was to
abandon their newly manufactured sled and run for their lives; but they
were quick to discover, from manner and word, that Tuggie was more
frightened than they were, and they stole in softly and rescued the
sled out of the very witch’s den.
A BLACK POLITICIAN
On a bright June morning in the year 1811, old Cuddymonk sat in
the cheerful sunlight at the open door of his house, on the banks
of Lake Petaquamscut, in old Narragansett. Cuddymonk was a negro;
but a Narragansett negro was, at that date, of almost another race
than a Southern negro. He was free; he was usually respected and
self-respecting; he might, and often did, own a house and farm of
his own; and he had a certain independent social position which was
far from being a despised one, for he enjoyed, with his rich white
neighbors, who had been slave-owners, a friendly intimacy that
was denied to a poor white man. He was, however, somewhat lazy,
occasionally untruthful, and even dishonest--like his Southern colored
brother. Cuddymonk was a typical Narragansett negro--sharp, shrewd, and
in the main thrifty. He was deeply and consistently superstitious, and
knew a thousand tales of ghosts and spirits and witches and Manitous,
old traditions of African Voodooism and Indian pow-wows. He was
profoundly learned in the meaning of dreams and omens and predictions,
and he did not hesitate to practise--or attempt to practise--all kinds
of witch-charms and “conjures” and “projects,” though he was a member
in good standing, as he proudly stated, of “de Pistikle Church.”
He was a good cobbler, a fair tinker, a poor mason, a worse carpenter,
a first-class fisherman. He worked at any and all of these trades with
cheerful and indolent impartiality, just as he fiddled, and sheared
sheep, and ploughed, and sowed, and raked, and harvested for his rich
white neighbors; but when anyone asked him his real trade, he proudly
answered, “I’s er pollertishun.”
He was indeed a politician, for he had held the highest political
position that his State and race afforded: he had thrice been elected
“Black Gov’nor” of Narragansett on “Nigger ’Lection Day”--not on
account of his master’s great wealth and high position, as was in
slavery times “Gov’nor” Aaron Potter; not for his military prowess,
as was “Gov’nor” Guy Watson, who had served bravely at Ticonderoga
and at the absurd capture of General Prescott; not, as was “Gov’nor”
Prince Robinson, for his handsome person and stately appearance,
for poor Cuddy possessed neither. He had been elected just as white
governors frequently are elected nowadays--because he was a politician.
His office, however, bore no salary and but few emoluments; but it
conferred great honor and dignity, and through it he received many
small favors. He was consulted as to the settlement of many petty
disputes among his black brothers, and his decision was law. His office
thus had a certain power, and commanded some respect among the white
people, who through him could obtain small settlements and adjustments,
and arrange many matters in their relations with the negroes, without
the trouble of personal effort. Cuddy had the honor of having many
of his legal decisions and political aphorisms and his abstruse
financial opinions quoted at the white Governor’s table, where they
had been received with much laughter, and some praise, also, for their
shrewdness.
His election had been a scene of great festivity. On the third
Saturday in June (on which Nigger ’Lection was always held) there
gathered in the great oak grove on Rose Hill the black inhabitants,
riding on saddles and pillions, in chaises and farm-wagons, in ox-carts
even--men, women, and children--all in their gayest and finest attire,
from all the towns around. At ten o’clock the canvass commenced. Weeks
of “’lectureneerin’ and parmenteerin’” had roused great interest in the
event, and at last the two rows of the male friends of the respective
candidates were arranged in lines under the trees in the charge of two
pompous marshals, while the women stood admiringly around. Cuddymonk,
mounted on Colonel Gardiner’s gray horse, and wearing a fine coat and
knee-breeches that had been given him by the colonel, with a great
borrowed gold-laced cocked hat balanced on the back of his head, rode
up and down the line flourishing a long sword that had been lent him
for the occasion. And he kept quiet and order, that no one might change
ranks after the counting began, or step from one end of the line to the
other, and thus fraudulently increase the number of votes. When the
counting was done the number of votes and successful candidate was
announced. Cuddymonk’s election was received with tumultuous cheers and
congratulations.
Only one event occurred to mar the dignity of this first election. As
he was about to end his inauguration address with a glorious flourish
and climax of ornate rhetoric, his defeated opponent called out, in a
high, malicious voice, “Cuddy, yer calfs has got round in front!” Cuddy
glanced down at his legs with apprehensive mortification. Alas! it was
too true. Colonel Gardiner had given with the knee-breeches a pair of
his fine long stockings: but as he was as sturdy and muscular as Cuddy
was thin, and as the politician had even more “negative calf and convex
shin” (as said Randolph of Virginia) than have most of his race, the
colonel’s stockings hung in unsightly folds; that Cuddy’s wife, Rosann,
remedied by thrusting into each stocking-leg a great roll of sheep’s
wool. In the heat of “parmenteerin’,” and through constant friction
against his horse’s sides, Cuddy’s woollen calves had indeed “got round
in front.” In vain did he try, amid the jeers of his opponents, to
replace the unsightly wads in a dignified and proper position; they
refused to stay placed, and for the rest of the day, at the dinner and
at the dance, the false calves hung in front of and under his sharp old
knees, looking for all the world, in the gray, wrinkled stockings, like
a pair of hornets’ nests under the eaves of a house.
It may plainly be seen that by virtue of his position old Cuddymonk was
of the high aristocracy of Narragansett black society. He was also an
aristocrat by birth. The blood of African kings ran in his veins, and
a strong cross of Indian blood, that of old King Ninigret, showed in
his high cheek-bones and coarse black hair. His skin, too, was far from
black. As he sat in the clear sunlight on this May morning, his bare
feet and hands and face were of a uniform glowing golden-brown color,
as rich and cheerful, though not as orange-tinted, as a ripe pumpkin.
The appearance of his head was, also, most unlike the wool-covered,
low-browed, heavy-jawed cranium of a negro; for his half-curly, coarse
hair grew on the back part of his head only, and stuck out in a great
stiff, surrounding halo. The top and sides of his head being thus left
bare gave to him the appearance of having an extraordinarily high and
brain-developed forehead; and altogether these peculiarities caused
him to bear a comical cranial resemblance both to the noble Shakespeare
and a blue-haired, ring-crowned baboon. His teeth and eyeballs showed
the brilliant, glittering white of the negro, not at all like the dingy
black snags and reddish, inflamed eyeballs seen in the Indian. He wore
a collarless and rather ragged white shirt, an ancient and much-worn
long-tailed blue coat with brass buttons, the very coat which had been
given to him by Colonel Gardiner to attire him fitly and gloriously
upon his election as “Gov’nor.” But the garment having served through
three terms of office (to say nothing of the many years it had
faithfully covered the colonel’s back), was now degraded to every-day
wear. Cuddy was also clad in a shapeless pair of loose yellowish tow
trousers called “tongs,” that bore strong evidence not only of home
spinning and weaving, but of home tailoring as well, if such unsightly
great linen bags could be said to be tailored.
Cuddy regarded with much satisfaction a row of dilapidated beehives
that stood by his door, whose busy inhabitants furnished to him the
toothsome honey he so dearly loved, and which he could so readily and
profitably sell when he could “spare” it. He looked with equal pride on
a row of thriving okra-plants, whose long green pods would in midsummer
make for him such succulent and nourishing soups, and would also be
sliced into delicate pale green, six-rayed stars, and displayed for
weeks on window-sills and door-stones and shed-tops and stone walls in
his small domain, through sunny, windless days when the starry wafers
would not be blown away, drying for his own winter use and to carry
to Newport to sell. His only other crop was represented by a freshly
turned plot of earth--a potato-field--which he had planted the previous
day.
Cuddymonk stretched himself with delight in the sunshine, and thus
spoke to his wife, Rosann, a gay-turbaned old woman, who was twice as
fat and twice as black as he was:
“I tell ye, Rosann, ’tatoes an’ honey an’ okra is a tousan’ times
better’n pigs; ye don’ have ter feed ’em, an’ tend ’em, and watch ’em
eaten theirselves up. Dey jess grows an’ grows for nothin’. Ef more
folks growed ’tatoes an’ okra in dis country, times’d be better’n dey
is.”
Rosann did not answer him, she seldom did; and now her attention
was called to a horse and rider that had turned from the main road
and were advancing up the narrow lane that led to Cuddy’s house.
Mounted visitors were not frequent at Cuddy’s humble home, even on
gubernatorial business; and when he and Rosann saw that the horseman
was no less a person than Constable Cranston, of North Kingston, they
stared in open-mouthed amazement. No less astonished were they when the
sheriff announced his errand--that he had come to arrest the “Gov’nor”
for debt. Suit had been brought against him and judgment rendered, and
his arrest was the next step.
For Cuddymonk, like many another philosopher and many another
politician, was careless and even tricky in business matters, and had
been accused by both black and white neighbors of “never paying fer
nothing if he could help it.” That he should have been arrested for
this special debt was to him most astonishing, and he denounced it as
keen injustice. He thus protested to the sheriff:
“Mass’ Cranston, yer don’t know what yer a-doin’. I don’t owe ole man
Hazard nothin’! Yer see, it was jess like dis. I say ter him, I mus’
hab er pig ter raise. He say ter me, ‘Take one ob mine;’ an’ he press
me ter take it, kase it’s a runtlin’, an’ he’s afear’d it’ll die. An’
Rosann, she knows how ter mother runtlin’s, so I takes der pig. An’ I
say, ‘Ole man Hazard, I pay you free dollar ob de money I git for der
pig.’ He say, ‘All right, Cuddy.’ Now I don’t nebber git no money fer
dat pig. I buy de corn ter feed der pig of Peleg Brown; an’ when I kill
de pig an’ take him ter Peleg ter sell, he don’ come ter ser much as de
corn he eat. I t’ink he shrink kase I kill him in de discrease ob de
moon. So I nebber got nothin’ fer de pig, so in course I don’ owe ole
man Hazard nothin’. I ain’t got no money ter pay wid, anyway. I tell
ye, Mass’ Cranston, times nebber’ll be good in dis country till corn’s
a pistareen a bushel an’ pork a pistareen a pound. Den de pore man’ll
hab some chance.”
Mr. Cranston knew old Cuddy too well to allow him to proceed into the
discussion of political economy; and he interrupted the “Gov’nor,”
saying, with much gravity, that the law must take its course, nor
could the execution of justice be delayed; that since Cuddy could not
pay, he must come at once with him to jail. The negro rose cheerfully,
saying, as he hobbled into the house:
“Wal, ef I mus’ go I mus’; but de exertootion ob justice’ll hab to move
mighty slow a-takin’ ole Cuddy ter jail. I’se got der rheumatiz, so I
can’t hardly walk. I’se dat bad I t’inks I mus’ be witch-rid by ole
Tuggie Bannocks. Dat’s why dat pig eat ser much corn kase she conjured
him. Times nebber’ll be good in dis country whiles dey don’ hang ole
witches like Tuggie Bannocks. Hitch yer hoss ter de button-wood tree
an’ come in an’ set down while I’se packin’ up, an’ Rosann’ll cook ye
some early ’tatoes. Run out an’ git some of our first crap, Sanna.”
“Early potatoes!” exclaimed Mr. Cranston, “at this time of the year!”
“Yis, I’se a fust-rate farmer, ef I ain’t much on pig-raisin’. I allays
has fine early ’tatoes, de fust yer see anywheres. Jes’ look at dem!”
Rosann appeared with her apron full of the freshly planted potatoes,
that, negro-fashion, he had planted whole, and that had spent a few
hours only on Cuddy’s farm; and as the sheriff refused to allow her
to cook them for him, she placed them upon a blanket in the centre of
the floor, upon which she and Cuddy were accumulating the articles that
the negro wished to take to jail with him. The pile rapidly increased.
Old coats and shirts, a feather pillow, a fiddle, a prayer-book, a pair
of long boots filled with flax-seed, were added to the contents of the
blanket.
“Come, come,” said the sheriff; “you can’t take all that along with
you. How are you going to carry it?”
“I guess you’ll hab ter tote it for me, Mass’ Cranston, I’se dat bad
wid the rheumatiz.”
This was more than the constable had bargained for. This arrest of
old Cuddy was more than half a joke, and was done at the instigation
of several farmers who hoped thus to obtain some satisfaction for the
many debts Cuddy had argued and twisted himself out of paying. They
had all fancied that the terrified politician would gladly pay over
the three dollars at once, as it was well known that Rosann had a good
stockingful of silver dollars hidden under the hearth-stone--and one
of her stockings full of silver was well worth having. The constable
was on his way to attend to other and more pressing duties, and had
but little time to spend over this arrest; much less did he wish to
ride to Kingston jail carrying a great pack of Cuddymonk’s clothing and
possessions behind him. He told Rosann to remove half of the articles
from the blanket, and a long and wordy argument with the “Gov’nor”
arose over every relinquished treasure, ending in the constable’s
complete rout when he attempted to leave the foot-stove behind and to
pour the flax-seed out of his boots. “I can’t do dat, noway,” said
Cuddy; “it’ll spoil deir shape ef I don’ keep flax-seed in ’em, an
I’se afeard I can’t get none in jail.” At the end of half an hour the
blanket with its contents was rolled into a great, irregular, unwieldy
bundle and strapped on the horse’s back.
The man of law mounted his horse, and with his prisoner passed slowly
down the narrow lane and through the rocky cross-road under the
feathery pale-green foliage and sweet-scented pink-and-white blossoms
of the graceful locust-trees that form such a glory in early summer by
all the roadsides throughout sunny Narragansett. Flickering patches of
glowing sunlight fell through the clusters of peachy locust-blossoms
on the stone walls and hedgerows, that were a great, luxuriant, tangled
garden of faintly perfumed wild flowers. The leaves of sweetbrier and
bayberry sent out a pungent, spicy odor that mingled with the vapid
and cloying sweetness of the locust-blossoms. Great fields of clover
wafted their fresh balm in little puffs of pure sweetness that routed
the combined fragrance of locust, bayberry, and brier. Thousands of
bees hummed over the sweet, sunny fields and in the fragrant, flowering
branches--Cuddy’s own bees gathering for him the luscious honey he
loved. Singing-birds flew lightly and warbled softly around. The
tropical blood of the old negro fairly glowed with the sense of light
and perfume and melody and warmth, and he laughed aloud with sensuous
delight as if the road to jail lay through Paradise.
He hobbled painfully, however, even in the warm sunlight, and he
frequently sat down on a sunny stone to rest his rheumatic old bones;
but his tongue never ceased wagging, and he poured forth to the
constable a flood of political, ethical, physical, legal, spiritual,
meteorological, thaumaturgical, and medical advice, and also a complete
local history of past events in Narragansett. A flame of youth and
memory and happiness seemed kindled by the glorious summer day in his
heart and brain, though his poor body was too stiff and worn to renew
also its activity and youth.
At last he said, smilingly, to the constable: “Mass’ Cranston,
ef you’ll go de ribber road an’ wants ter let me stop ter Kernel
Gardiner’s I kin get some money; he owes me five dollar for honeycomb.”
Gladly did Sheriff Cranston consent, though Colonel Gardiner’s house
was two miles out of the way, for he saw now a prospect of release
from his cumbersome charge. “Here, Cuddy,” he said, “we sha’n’t get to
the Colonel’s for two hours at this rate--you talk so much and walk so
little. You get up and ride and I’ll walk for awhile, then we shall get
along faster.”
The old negro, with the constable’s assistance, mounted and smiled with
delight; for he loved a horse, as do all of his race. A gleam of humor
twinkled in his eye as he urged on the sturdy sorrel, a half-blooded
Narragansett pacer, until she ambled along at a rate that forced the
constable to walk at an uncomfortably rapid and perspiring pace. Nor
was Mr. Cranston altogether comfortable mentally. He winced several
times in his progress at the laughing inquiries and jeers of the
farmers that he saw in the field or passed in the road; and the shouts
of the district-school children at the “Corner,” who chanced to be “out
at recess” as the “Black Gov’nor” and his white foot-runner coursed
along, made him keenly conscious that the dignity of the law was not
fully preserved, either in his hurrying, panting figure or in the
grotesque appearance of short-legged Cuddy. For the Narragansett pacer,
like others of her race, was phenomenally broad-backed; and Cuddy’s
short, stiff legs, clad in their unsightly, flapping tow tongs, stuck
out at an absurd angle, showing a long expanse of skinny, bare ankles
that looked like yellow turkey-legs; and the enormous uncurried leather
shoes that he had donned, in which to walk in comfort to jail, looked
twice as large as ever in that prominent position. The constable had an
uneasy suspicion that Cuddy had retained his tow tongs and long-tailed
coat, and had put on his old black satin brass-buckled stock and red
woollen comforter and great moth-eaten fur cap--the worst clothes he
had in the world--in order to look as ridiculous as possible, and thus
guy his captor. But the cheerful yellow countenance of the prisoner
bore not a trace of any possibility of ever cherishing a sinister
design.
When they reached the great gambrel-roofed house of Colonel Gardiner
the negro dismounted and entered. He soon reappeared, saying,
cheerfully, “I’se got de money, Mass’ Cranston.”
“Hurry up, then, and give me the three dollars,” said the constable,
impatiently. “I want to get off.”
The negro stared in astonishment: “I ain’t agoin’ ter spen’ dat
honey-money dat way--payin’ fer an ole dead pig I don’ owe nothin’ fer.
I’se goin’ to keep it ter be comferable in jail wid. Didn’ yer hear
Rosann say, ‘Keep comferable, Cuddy?’ Dat’s why I brung de foot-stove
fer!”
The constable was wild with indignation and disgust. He had gone two
miles out of his way--painfully running and perspiring while his
prisoner rode at ease--and now he was farther from the end of his
vexatious business than ever. He impatiently explained and argued
to the stubborn negro that if he would only pay over part of the
five dollars he would need no jail comforts. Still the old man was
persistent in his determination; he had started to go to jail, and to
jail he would go.
“I ain’t agoin’ ag’inst de course ob de law. It ’ud be a pretty scandal
fer de Gub’nor not ter go ter jail when he ’rested. Set ebberybody a
bad edsample. I’se er law-erbidin’ citterzman, an’ I’se goin’ ter ’bey
de law ob de lan’. B’sides, Rosann she say she t’inks I get red ob my
rheumatiz’ in jail. Ole Tuggie Bannocks can’t get me out nights ter
witch-ride me.”
The discomfited sheriff at last rode slowly on, while Cuddy again
hobbled alongside, still cheerful, still philosophizing, still
advising. Mr. Cranston was puzzled. He could not abandon his prisoner,
nor could he persuade or force him to pay the debt; still less could he
hurry him, and the time to perform other and more important duties was
close at hand. At last, completely baffled and conquered, he suddenly
exclaimed: “Here, Cuddymonk, I’ve had enough of this; take your bundle,
I’ll pay your debt to old Hazard and the costs, too.”