THE MISSION BEGUN
Obadiah Dale's car was waiting at his home. It stood upon the gravel
driveway opposite the steps at the end of the porch. Virginia was seated
in the rear seat and her eyes rested seriously upon Serena, who from the
higher floor of the porch, viewed Ike, lounging by the car, as from a
rostrum.
The young negro was attired in a neat livery which gave him a natty
aspect distinctly absent when his siesta was disturbed by Serena.
Regardless of his more attractive guise, however, he shifted nervously
under her stern gaze. He, who ever bore himself, in hours of leisure,
before the black population of South Ridgefield as one of imperial
blood, was abashed before her. That poise, that coolness of demeanor,
that almost insolent manner exhibited at crap games, chicken fights or
those social functions where the gentler sex predominates, was absent
now. Before Serena, his lofty soul became as a worm, desirous of burying
itself from the pitiless light of publicity.
"You Ike," she said with great severity, "mine wot ah say. Stop you'
fas' drivin'. Miss Virginy ain' wantin' to go shootin' aroun' dis
yere town lak er circus lady in er cha'iot race."
The girl displayed interest in the remark, but remained silent.
Ike climbed into the car and sought support from the steering wheel.
In a gentle manner, as if desirous of averting wrath, he made answer,
"Ah ain' no speeder, Miss Sereny. Ah is de carefulest chauffah in dis
town. Ah sez, 'Safety fust.' Dat's ma motta." At the sound of his
own voice he gained in assurance. He had acquired these statements by
heart from frequent repetition.
"Wat you down in dat co't fo', den?" inquired Serena. "Mr. Dale he
done say, he gittin' tired er payin' fines fo' yo'all. He say de
nex' time he gwine ax de jedge to let you rot in dat calaboose."
Ike listened to this promise of extended incarceration with the casual
interest due an oft repeated tale. Disregarding it, he continued, "Ah
goes to co't 'count o' de inexpe'ienced drivers." He spoke as an
expert. "Ef dey had 'spe'ienced drivers dey ain' gwine be no trouble
a tall."
"Dey bettah be no mo' trouble," snapped Serena, "les yo'all gits in
worse. G'wan now 'bout you' business. Take Miss Virginy down to de
sto' an' den out on de river road. You gotta git back in time to bring
her pa home fo' lunch." The solution of a difficult problem dawned
upon her and instantly she returned to her former argument. "Don' you
drive dat caah no fas'er den er hoss an' er ker'idge kin go," she
commanded.
It is of record that even a worm upon extreme irritation will fall upon
its tormentor. Thus Ike reacted to this notable example of feminine
ignorance. "How's ah gwine mek dis yere high powah caah run dat slow?
Ah ast you dat? How's ah gwine do it?"
Apparently heedless of this incipient rebellion, Serena gave her
attention to her young mistress, "Good bye, honey chil'," she
worried. "Don' you mek youse'f sick on sody an' ice cream."
Virginia smiled sweetly at the now beaming black face of the negro woman.
"I'll be very careful," she promised.
Serena devoted herself again to her minion. "You Ike, go slow. Go mighty
cafful. Dat's wot ah say."
He looked askance at her. Every vestige of humor had departed from the
black face replaced by a cold, implacable glare. Without a word, he
started the machine and it glided down the drive.
Her purchases completed, Virginia sat musing upon the message from her
mother as the big car hummed softly towards the quiet beauty of the river
road. Vague plans, indefinite as dreams, floated through her mind.
Ike was obeying Serena's wishes so faithfully that the absence of
excitement, so essential to the display of what he considered his best
talents, was almost lulling him to sleep.
A large bill board fenced the front of a vacant lot, on their way. A
magnificent example of the lithographer's art, as adapted to the
advertising needs of a minstrel show, was posted upon it. It's
coloring, chiefly red, was effective and forceful and displayed an
extravagant disregard of the high cost of ink. It portrayed the
triumphant passage of the Jubilee Minstrels. The brilliant uniforms,
the martial air of the musicians as well as the exceeding pleasure with
which this aggregation appeared to be welcomed by the reviewing
public, was of a character to please, to impress, yes, even to stun
all beholders, except the blind.
This picture caught the soul of Ike as he came within the scope of its
influence. To him, applause and admiration were as strong drink. Envy
knocked at his heart as he beheld the bright raiment. He visualized
himself, thus dazzlingly attired, exhibited to his admiring fellow
townsmen. Violating speed laws was infantile piffle to this. A syncopated
melody, appropriate to a victorious march, blared in memory's ear.
He hummed it softly. His body twitched to the rhythm and his feet took up
the cadence. He pressed a pedal and the powerful car accelerated its
motion well above the modest limits commanded by Serena. To the shell of
Ike, the increased speed was but a return to normal. His spirit was
away. Expanding as a morning-glory to the sun, it paraded, in wondrous
garments, to martial music, before gaping thousands.
A turn in their way was before them. Ike partially roused himself from
his sweet dreams and automatically attended to the necessities of the
moment. These included no slackening of speed.
The car swung a corner and instantly thereafter there came a mighty
groaning of brakes as it was finally stopped in the midst of what had
been an orderly procession of small negro children. The startling arrival
of the big machine had scattered them, with shrill cries and screams,
in every direction.
Virginia was alarmed at the sudden halt and at the frightened outcries
of the youngsters. She leaped out. On the curb an excited colored woman
was holding a weeping black boy by the hand. He was very small and,
because of a deformed leg, used a crutch. Between efforts to reassemble
her scattered charges, she endeavored to calm and comfort him.
Hurrying to the woman, Virginia cried, "I'm so sorry."
"Much good sorry gwine do after you kill somebody," shouted the woman,
much angered by the occurrence. "Ain' you got no bettah sense 'en to
run down a lot o' chillun?"
"It would have been terrible if we had hurt one of them. I never would
have forgiven myself. We couldn't see them until we turned the corner."
In her excitement she sought friendly support. "Could we, Ike?"
To Ike, it was a duty from which much pleasure could be derived to
take part in any controversy. Likewise, one acquires merit, when one
is a chauffeur, by strongly maintaining the contention of one's
mistress--she may reciprocate in a difficult hour. Ike turned an
unfriendly countenance upon the woman, and asked for information, "How
ah gwine see 'roun' er corner? Does you 'spect dat ma eyes is
twisted?"
"Go long, man. Mine you' own business."
Not thus summarily was Ike to be dismissed. "Dese yere chillun ain' no
call to be in de street. Howcum 'em der? Ain' it yo'all's business
to keep 'em outen de way?" A uniformity in costume struck him. "Ain'
dey orphant chillun runnin' loose?"
"Orphans! The poor things!" Virginia cried.
"Wot ef dey is orphants?" the woman protested with great belligerence.
"Den," Ike behaved as if he, a public spirited citizen, had discovered
the warden of a penitentiary seeking pleasure beyond the walls with
notorious criminals, "howcum dey heah? Wharfo?"
The suspicion and force in the chauffeur's manner brought fresh tears to
orphan eyes.
Encouraged by these evidences of public attention, Ike continued his
investigation. "Ah axes you woman, why ain' dey in de 'sylum whar
dey 'long?"
The chauffeur's words had not soothed the guardian of the children. She
showed unmistakable signs of increasing wrath. Glaring fixedly at him,
she blazed, "Mine you' own business, you black po'cupine."
Although the application of the epithet was obscure, its effect was
all that could be desired. Ike suffered a species of fit. His mouth
opened and closed without sound. His wildly rolling eyes exposed wide
areas of white and then glued themselves in invenomed hatred upon the
woman. Muscles contracted and worked in his neck. Even as a panther, he
appeared about to spring upon his foe.
Virginia interfered. Her experience of life was limited, but she
understood the negro. "Don't get out of the car, Ike," she ordered.
"Ef dat spindle legged dude git outen dat caah, ah is boun' to bus'
his haid wid ma fist," predicted the woman.
Virginia feared no blood shed but deemed it desirable to take steps to
avoid an argument certain to be loud and long and to add nothing to her
dignity as a bystander. She answered Ike's inquiries herself. "The
children were out walking, I suppose, and had to cross the street?"
This overture slightly mollified the woman but she yet viewed the
porcupine with distinct hostility.
"Are all of these poor children orphans?" continued Virginia, shaking
her head at the pity of it.
"Yas'm, dey's all orphants f'om the Lincoln Home, up de street."
"And you had them out for their daily walk?"
"No, mam, dey gits out onest er week. Ah ain' got no time to take 'em
out every day."
Virginia looked at the woman very thoughtfully. "Your work makes you
very happy, doesn't it?" she asked.
"Ah ain' heard o' no kind er wo'k mekin' nobody happy. Ah jes allers
was, an' allers is happy. Dat's me," the woman explained.
"Why, you are a mother to all of those children."
"Yas'm, de onlies' mother dey gwine git, ah guesses." The woman
viewed her reassembled charges speculatively. She patted the little
cripple at her side. "Po' li'l Willie, he cain't walk ve'y fas',
kin you, sweetheart?"
"You poor little fellow," sighed Virginia.
"Ah bettah tote you, Willie. We gotta move right smart afo' noon an'
you ain' ve'y spry on dat crutch." Picking up the lame boy, the woman
began to issue instructions for the advance of her forces.
Virginia surveyed the manoeuvering orphans comprehensively. "If I could
get them all into the car I would take them for a ride," she exclaimed,
and then, "They can be crowded in, I believe. May they go?"
The woman regarded the girl in great astonishment. "Cou'se dey kin
go eff yo'all wants 'em." Her conscience appeared to demand a
further warning. "Dey is er powe'ful mouthy and mischievous lot o'
rascallions."
Ike was disgusted. To be required to act as chauffeur for a crowd of
screaming infants of his own race was another wound to that dignity so
recently and fearfully lacerated. He submitted protest. "Dis yere caah
ain' gwine hol' all dem chillun. It ain' no dray. Dey gwine bus' de
springs smack bang offen it."
"If the car breaks down you can have them fix it at the garage, Ike.
They always have been able to mend it," Virginia told him with great
complacency as she proceeded with her plans.
"Ef all de chillun stan' close, 'ceptin fo' or five wid li'l Willie
an' me on de back seat, dey is plenty room," the orphan's guardian
indicated, greatly pleased at the prospect of the ride.
The sullen fire of eternal hatred burned in the eye which Ike turned
upon her. He fired his last shot. "Miss Virginy, you' Daddy ain' want
all des yere chillun in dis caah. He mighty biggoty about whoall ride
in it. Ah 'spects dey is gwine dirty it up sumpin fierce."
"Who yo'all call dirty?" demanded the woman; but Virginia made peace
by an emphatic "Hush," as the colored orphans were packed into the back
of the machine. With their attendant they filled the entire space.
The car moved away as soon as Virginia had taken her seat by the
irritated Ike. They left the town and sped along country roads. The
little negroes, awed by their new surroundings, became noisy with
familiarity and expressed their joy by screaming.
The young hostess of this strange party was at first uncomfortable and
embarrassed at the clamor of her small guests, but as she awakened to the
enjoyment she was giving the orphans she forgot herself in their pleasure.
It was a beautiful ride along the river shore, through the woods, and
then back between great fields of growing grain the surfaces of which
were broken into moving waves of green at the touch of the summer breeze.
They reentered the town a few minutes before noon and were almost back
to the turn towards the Orphans' Home, when far down the street they
caught the glitter of brass and the glow of red. "Er ban', er ban',"
screamed the little negroes.
The enticing strains of melody called to Ike across the intervening
blocks. There was a look of deep guile in his face, which became regret,
as he suggested to Virginia, "Des po' orphants ain' no chans to heah
fine ban' music. Ah might circle aroun' dat minst'el ban' an' let
de chillun lis'en fo' er spell."
As Virginia nodded assent, the car shot away, straight down the street.
In a few moments they had overtaken the marching musicians, the reality
of the poster which had charmed Ike. From them burst melody which coursed
through his veins. As he drifted away on a sea of syncopated bliss,
the car, subconsciously driven, closed upon the marching minstrels.
In the midst of a delegation of youth, honoring the snare and bass
drummers, it rolled. Bearing Virginia and her guests behind the pageant
and as an apparent part thereof, it proceeded towards the center of
the city.
The negro children were clamorous with delight at the wonderful
concentration of humanity, noise, and excitement. Their screams vied
with the band and their guardian on the rear seat assumed a careless
dignity.
Virginia's mind was occupied with the infants. To her, the onlookers,
more numerous as they neared the business part of town, were the
background of a picture. She was utterly unconscious that the load of
pickaninnies formed a most appropriate part of the spectacle.
Laughter pealed from the increasing crowds at the nonsensical behavior of
the orphans. In the center of town, prominent business men were away
from their offices for luncheon. They gazed indifferently at the marching
band, but as the machine approached, they recognized its monogram,
and, attracting the attention of companions, they burst into shouts of
laughter. Here was the car of wealthy Obadiah Dale, packed with negro
children, chaperoned by his daughter, taking part in a minstrel parade.
Suddenly upon the sidewalk near the curb, Virginia espied her father.
Regardless of her surroundings, the girl endeavored to attract his
attention by waving her hand. The pickaninnies joined with shouts,
considering it a pleasant game.
Plunged in thought and heedless of the band, the increased clamor aroused
Obadiah. Incredulity and amazement, at the sight of his daughter and
her company, held him. An acquaintance approached, spoke and laughed.
Anger flushed the mill owner as he marked the staring eyes fixed in
unveiled amusement on himself and his daughter.
"Daddy is over there,--there." She indicated the place to Ike, delight
in her discovery accenting her cry.
The chauffeur, thus rudely torn from his musical reverie, solaced his
disturbed harmoniousness, by smiting the ears of the crowd and wrecking
the sweet tones of the band, by a discordant honk. Thus soothed, he
attempted to turn towards the sidewalk, but the congested traffic blocked
him and he had to delay a few moments before he could swing the car over
to the curb.
Obadiah came up. He glared at the assembled orphans with manifest
disapproval and gave gruff tongue to his astonishment. "What does
this mean? I don't understand it," he snarled at Virginia.
In the depths of her big blue eyes lay tenderness as she anxiously
searched his cold grey ones for some sign of sympathetic appreciation.
"Daddy, dear"--there was a note of pride in her manner--"these are
orphans from the Lincoln Home. I have had them out riding all morning."
The pickaninnies acknowledged the introduction with screams.
This attention added fuel to Obadiah's irritation, "How are you going
to get rid of this bunch?" he asked loudly, giving no heed to the
listening ears of guests. "I want to go home and get my lunch."
The girl wrinkled her nose in thoughtful consideration of the social
dilemma she faced. The truly resourceful are never long at a loss. "You
get in here, Daddy," she urged, "you can hold me on your lap and we
will run over to the Orphans' Home. We can leave the children there and
go straight home."
"The idea!" snapped Obadiah, "I won't be made more ridiculous than I
have been, today. You must learn to give thought to others, Virginia."
Instantly, her happiness faded before his words. "I am so sorry. I
forgot how time was passing and I didn't mean to get in this big crowd.
How will you get home? What can I do for you, Daddy?"
Once more he realized that amused faces watched him as he interviewed
his daughter, a lily in a bed of black tulips. "Get out of this crowd.
Everybody is laughing at me. I'll get home some way," he declared
peevishly. "You get rid of that outfit as soon as you can," he called,
as he moved away, apparently in a hurry to escape the orphans' company.
"I'll see you at home."