By Eva Williams Malone.
[During the period immediately following the Civil War, many
former slaves, after living in matrimonial harmony for years,
were “married over again.” The writer recalls several such
instances on her father’s plantation in Tennessee.]
Mr. Josiah Crabtree, gentleman of color, Grand Master of the Lodge of
Colored Masons and holder of various other offices of emolument and
trust, had, metaphorically speaking, run against a snag. Being a plain
and simple man of direct methods, the ornate made small appeal to his
mentality. However, Mr. Crabtree had consented to argue the matter; and,
in differences matrimonial, the husband who argues is lost.
“But, Penelope,” he began—he always called his wife Penelope when they
disagreed, possibly because she disliked the name—“Penelope, what’s de
use ob it? Here we is been libin’ togedder, happy an’ contented wid de
few words Uncle Jake said ober us dat ebenin’ in de cabin on de ol’
plantation. Dey tuk us all fro’ war times, an’ we ain’t nebber fit yit;
an’ what in de name o’ peace you want t’ hop up an’ git mahried all ober
agin at dis late day fur, beats my time! You ought t’ know by now dat I
ain’t gwine quit you; an’ effen you ain’t pleased wid me, all you got t’
do is t’ say de word.”
Mrs. Crabtree tossed her comely black head, and said petulantly: “’Pears
lak I can’t git no notion o’ style or keepin’ up wid de pussession in
yo’ nigger haid! You don’t seem t’ hab no mo’ ambitions dan a mole! You
t’ink jes’ ’case we-alls had suttin’ ways in slave times, dem ways gwine
fit de presen’ suckumstances. In cose it were ’missible for us t’ g’long
satisfied wid de few words from Uncle Jake den; but dat don’t prove it’s
de propper t’ing _now_! We’se innerpennant ’Merican citterzens dese days;
we’se got as good a right t’ go t’ de Cote house as de next un.”
“Fo’ de Lawd, Penelope! you ain’t gwine trot me t’ de Cote House effen I
gib in t’ you ’bout dis mattah, is you?”
“You got t’ go t’ de Cote House fo’ de license, you po’ fool nigger you!
All de ladies an’ gemmens in our S’ciety is bein’ mahried ober agin, wid
a license an’ a ring, an’ a preacher, an’ flowers an’ sech! It make me
feel reel slavish, it sho’ do, t’ go on libin’ lak we is been. I’m de
Seccertary o’ de Good S’maritans, an’ Sist’ Hapgood ain’t nothin’ but
a privit member; yit her an’ Brer Hapgood done been mahried agin las’
mont’ wid a gol’ ring an’ dat beutiful piece writ about ’em in de paper.
It make me feel pintedly lef’ out in de col’—it suttinly do;” and a few
self-pitying tears fell on the shirt bosom Mrs. Crabtree was ironing.
[Illustration:
“I’m de Seccertary o’ de Good S’maritans.”
]
“But what you gwine do ’bout Orleeny an’ Cato?” asked Mr. Crabtree,
referring to the ebon-hued pledges of their conjugal love.
“Do? Nothin’ ’tall; ain’t nothin’ t’ be did! Des let ’em come ’long t’
dere Ma’s an’ Pa’s weddin’, an’ unnerstan’ dat effen we wuz bawn in
slavery, an’ got mahried by jumpin’ de broomstick, we’se keepin’ up wid
de pussession now. Mis’ Hapgood had her Aleck as one o’ de ushers when
her an’ he’s pa got mahried las’ mon’; so we’ll des let our Orleeny be de
maid o’ honnah. Dat’s de berry lates’ style.”
So, despite his perfect content with matters as they were, Mr. Crabtree
listened to the siren voice, and finally consented, after twenty years of
apparent matrimony, to have the entire thing done over again according to
post-bellum methods, and in a style befitting American citizens living
in the full blaze of an amended constitution. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree
were to be married again; by a preacher, with a license, in a church,
with a gold ring. Orleeny was to be maid of honor, and Cato, in all the
glory of white cotton gloves and other festal accessories, was to be
usher in chief. In his honest soul Mr. Crabtree thought the whole thing
unmitigated nonsense; but, like many a man with a lighter skin, concluded
that, if nothing else would make his wife happy and give her proper éclat
before the members of her S’ciety, he would consent to be a reluctant
victim on the altar of matrimonial precedent!
“Effen you gwine do the t’ing, you might ez well do it right”—was his
conclusion, in which his progressive wife fully coincided. A tidy little
sum that had gradually accumulated in the bank was drawn out; and
preparations for the belated nuptials went on apace. It was to be not
only a church wedding, but a S’ciety wedding likewise, where the various
“Orders” with which Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree affiliated were to appear in
full regalia and lend spectacular glory to the occasion.
[Illustration:
A few self-pitying tears fell on the shirt bosom Mrs. Crabtree
was ironing.
]
“Dere ain’t nothin’ fitten to be bought in dis heah measly little town,”
argued Mrs. Crabtree. “We’ll des git on de cyars an’ go ober t’ de county
seat an’ lay in de trosso; you’ll hatter go dere for de license anyhow.”
By the time they had purchased a “trosso” befitting a sixteen-year-old
bride, Mr. Crabtree’s arms were heavy-laden. The bride-to-be, radiant
with visions of her coming loveliness, beamed upon him and insisted that
an entire suit of black broadcloth for the groom was indispensable.
“Why, Pennie, it ’pears lak dat las’ blue suit dat ol’ Mas’ gin me ’ud
do berry well. We could shine up de brass buttons an’ freshen it up wid
benzine—” protested Mr. Crabtree, with prudent consideration for his fast
diminishing exchequer.
“Now, honey,” insisted Mrs. Crabtree in her most coquettish manner, “you
don’t ’spose I’m gwine ’low a good-lookin’ man lak you t’ ma’ch up de ile
in dat ol’ blue suit, an’ me des ez fresh ez de mawnin’ jew in dat white
swiss an ’dat long veil! An’ you de Master o’ de Lodge, too? It ’ud be
scan’lous!”
So the broadcloth suit was added to the multitudinous bundles; and, at
the suggestion of Mrs. Crabtree, deposited with their grocer for safe
keeping. Then the bridal pair hastened towards the courthouse to procure
the license. When this priceless document had been filled in with due
solemnity, Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree felt their ante-nuptial arrangements
were well-nigh perfected. As, arm in arm, and at peace with all the world
they ambled towards the grocery store to reclaim their relinquished
packages, Mrs. Crabtree exclaimed:
“Lawsee, Si! we done furgit de ring!”
The selection of the golden circlet that was to bind them in renewed
wedded security was so momentous a question that the sun was slipping
behind the hills before it was satisfactorily accomplished. At this
juncture the absorbed bridal party recalled the fact that it must be
nearly train time.
“We’ll des race ober t’ de grocery sto’ an’ grab up our bundles an’ scoot
t’ de depo’—” urged Mr. Crabtree as he impelled his panting companion
onward.
“Your bundles? Ah, yes; to be sure,” said the custodian of the “trosso;”
“they’re all right. The colored man you sent after them carried them to
the station some time ago.”
“De cullud man whot I sont atter em?” ejaculated Mr. Crabtree, with
bulging eyes.
“Yes, he said you had been delayed, and would go straight to the train
from the courthouse. Isn’t that all right?”
“Golly! I should say it wan’t all right!” cried the prospective groom,
forgetting in the stress of the moment the dignity becoming the Master
of the Lodge. “I ain’t never sont nobody atter dem bundles; I wouldn’ a
trusted ’em wid de preacher hisse’f effen he’d a been a dark-complected
genterman! What for looks was dat thievin’ nigger?”
The grocer’s face wore a look of puzzlement:
“Why, I couldn’t tell for my life. I didn’t notice him specially; I just
supposed of course you sent him. Better go over to the station—maybe
you’ll find your stuff there all right.”
But this cheerful prophecy failed of fulfillment, as no clue to the
missing “trosso” or its mysterious purloiner could be gained.
“Dem Jingo mines closed down yistiddy, an’ dis heah town’s full o’
loafin’ thievin’ niggers—” Mr. Crabtree explained to his wife after
two hours’ diligent search had failed to disclose any clue to thief or
packages; “some ob ’em is hyerd us ’scussin’ our plans, an’ has followed
us an’ swiped dat trosso.”
Which very plausible solution did credit to Mr. Crabtree’s powers of
discernment.
Weary, footsore, with blighted hopes and flabby pocket-book, a
disgruntled colored gentleman and lady boarded the midnight train for
Ducktown. On the lady’s finger a golden circlet gleamed in mocking irony;
from the gentleman’s coat pocket a superfluous marriage license protruded.
“What you gwine do about it?” the gentleman finally took heart of grace
and demanded of his sulky spouse.
“Don’t ax me what I’m gwine do! Effen I tole you, you’d be sho’ t’ put in
an’ do sumpin t’ spile de whole puffommance. You might a knowed sumpin
gwine happen t’ dat trosso when you tuhn it loose.”
With true feminine logic Mrs. Crabtree entirely overlooked the fact that
the relinguishment of the packages was her own suggestion.
“I can tell you one t’ing,” she resumed with asperity, “dere ain’t gwine
be no weddin’ wid dat trosso gone a glimmerin’! You can des put dat in
yo’ pipe an’ smoke it!”
Later, as Mr. Crabtree extinguished the candle before retiring, he
observed that his wife took a vial labelled “_Ipecac_” and stealthily
deposited it beneath her pillow. But for this timely observation, the
violent illness with which Mrs. Crabtree aroused the household the next
morning would doubtless have caused graver concern in Mr. Crabtree’s
kindly soul.
For some days Orleeny, whose epistolary attainments were the pride of the
Crabtree household, was closeted with her suffering parent; and later,
each individual who had been bidden to the intercepted nuptials received
the following announcement:
“Owing to the suddent illness of the Bride, the marriage of Mr. and Mrs.
Josiah Crabtree have been indeffanately bosboned.”