FOLKS FROM DIXIE
[Illustration: MR. RUGGLES.]
FOLKS
FROM DIXIE
BY
PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
Author of “Lyrics of Lowly Life”
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
E. W. KEMBLE
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1898
_Copyright, 1897_,
BY BACHELLER SYNDICATE.
_Copyright, 1898_,
BY JOHN BRISBEN WALKER.
_Copyright, 1898_,
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
To my Friend
H. A. TOBEY, M.D.
Contents
Page
ANNER ’LIZER’S STUMBLIN’ BLOCK 3
THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 29
THE COLONEL’S AWAKENING 69
THE TRIAL SERMONS ON BULL-SKIN 83
JIMSELLA 113
MT. PISGAH’S CHRISTMAS ’POSSUM 125
A FAMILY FEUD 137
AUNT MANDY’S INVESTMENT 159
THE INTERVENTION OF PETER 171
NELSE HATTON’S VENGEANCE 185
AT SHAFT 11 205
THE DELIBERATION OF MR. DUNKIN 235
List of Illustrations
Page
“MR. RUGGLES” _Frontispiece_
“A VISIT FROM UNCLE EBEN” 18
“AUNT CAROLINE WAS FINDING SOLACE IN HER PIPE” 56
“BROTHER HEZEKIAH SNEEDON” 84
“WHYN’T YOU GIT ME SOMEP’N’ TO FIX MYSELF UP IN?” 114
“I SEE ’POSSUM GREASE ON YO’ MOUF” 131
“OLD AUNT DOSHY” 137
“WHA’ ’D YOU KETCH?” 186
Folks from Dixie
[Illustration]
ANNER ’LIZER’S STUMBLIN’ BLOCK
ANNER ’LIZER’S STUMBLIN’ BLOCK
It was winter. The gray old mansion of Mr. Robert Selfridge, of Fayette
County, Ky., was wrapped in its usual mantle of winter sombreness,
and the ample plantation stretching in every direction thereabout was
one level plain of unflecked whiteness. At a distance from the house
the cabins of the negroes stretched away in a long, broken black line
that stood out in bold relief against the extreme whiteness of their
surroundings.
About the centre of the line, as dark and uninviting as the rest, with
its wide chimney of scrap limestone turning clouds of dense smoke into
the air, stood a cabin.
There was nothing in its appearance to distinguish it from the other huts
clustered about. The logs that formed its sides were just as seamy, the
timbers of the roof had just the same abashed, brow-beaten look; and the
keenest eye could not have detected the slightest shade of difference
between its front and the bare, unwhitewashed fronts of its scores of
fellows. Indeed, it would not have been mentioned at all, but for the
fact that within its confines lived and thrived the heroine of this story.
Of all the girls of the Selfridge estate, black, brown, or yellow, Anner
’Lizer was, without dispute, conceded to be the belle. Her black eyes
were like glowing coals in their sparkling brightness; her teeth were
like twin rows of shining ivories; her brown skin was as smooth and soft
as silk; and the full lips that enclosed her gay and flexile tongue were
tempting enough to make the heart of any dusky swain throb and his mouth
water.
Was it any wonder, then, that Sam Merritt—strapping, big Sam, than whom
there was not a more popular man on the place—should pay devoted court to
her?
Do not gather from this that it was Sam alone who paid his _devoirs_ to
this brown beauty. Oh, no! Anner ’Lizer was the “bright, particular star”
of that plantation, and the most desired of all blessings by the young
men thereabout. But Sam, with his smooth but fearless ways, Sam, with
his lightsome foot, so airy in the dance, Sam, handsome Sam, was the
all-preferred. If there was a dance to go to, a corn-husking to attend,
a social at the rude little log church, Sam was always the lucky man who
was alert and _able_ to possess himself of Anner ’Lizer’s “comp’ny.”
And so, naturally, people began to connect their names, and the rumour
went forth, as rumours will, that the two were engaged; and, as far as
engagements went among the slaves in those days, I suppose it was true.
Sam had never exactly prostrated himself at his sweetheart’s feet and
openly declared his passion; nor had she modestly snickered behind her
fan, and murmured yes in the approved fashion of the present. But he
had looked his feelings, and she had looked hers; while numerous little
attentions bestowed on each other, too subtle to be detailed, and the
attraction which kept them constantly together, were earnests of their
intentions more weighty than words could give. And so, let me say,
without further explanation, that Sam and Anner ’Lizer were engaged. But
when did the course of true love ever run smooth?
There was never a time but there were some rocks in its channel around
which the little stream had to glide or over which it had to bound and
bubble; and thus it was with the loves of our young friends. But in
this case the crystal stream seemed destined neither to bound over nor
glide by the obstacle in its path, but rather to let its merry course be
checked thereby.
It may, at first, seem a strange thing to say, but it was nevertheless
true, that the whole sweep and torrent of the trouble had rise in the
great religious revival that was being enthusiastically carried on at
the little Baptist meeting-house. Interest, or, perhaps more correctly
speaking, excitement ran high, and regularly as night came round all
the hands on the neighbouring plantations flocked to the scene of their
devotions.
There was no more regular attendant at these meetings, nor more deeply
interested listener to the pastor’s inflammatory exhortations, than
Anner ’Lizer. The weirdness of the scene and the touch of mysticism in
the services—though, of course, she did not analyse it thus—reached her
emotional nature and stirred her being to its depths. Night after night
found her in her pew, the third bench from the rude pulpit, her large
eyes, dilated to their fullest capacity, following the minister through
every motion, seeming at times in their steadfastness to look through him
and beyond to the regions he was describing,—the harp-ringing heaven of
bliss or the fire-filled home of the damned.
Now Sam, on the other hand, could not be induced to attend these
meetings; and when his fellow-servants were at the little church praying,
singing, and shouting, he was to be found sitting in one corner of his
cabin, picking his banjo, or scouring the woods, carrying axe and taper,
and, with a dog trotting at his heels, hunting for that venison of the
negro palate,—’coon.
Of course this utter irreverence on the part of her lover shocked
Anner ’Lizer; but she had not entered far enough into the regions of
the ecstasy to be a proselyte; so she let Sam go his way, albeit with
reluctance, while she went to church unattended. But she thought of Sam;
and many a time when she secretly prayed to get religion she added a
prayer that she might retain Sam.
He, the rogue, was an unconscious but pronounced sceptic; and day by day,
as Anner ’Lizer became more and more possessed by religious fervour, the
breach between them widened; still widening gradually until the one span
that connected the two hearts was suddenly snapped asunder on the night
when Anner ’Lizer went to the mourner’s bench.
She had not gone to church with that intention; indeed not, although she
had long been deeply moved by a consciousness of her lost estate. But
that night, when the preacher had pictured the boundless joys of heaven,
and then, leaning over the pulpit and stretching out his arms before him,
had said in his softest tone, “Now come, won’t you, sinnahs? De Lawd is
jes’ on de othah side; jes’ one step away, waitin’ to receibe you. Won’t
you come to him? Won’t you tek de chance o’ becomin’ j’int ’ars o’ dat
beautiful city whar de streets is gol’ an’ de gates is pearl? Won’t you
come to him, sinnah? Don’t you see de pityin’ look he’s a-givin’ you,
a-sayin’ Come, come?” she lost herself. Some irresistible power seemed
dominating her, and she arose and went forward, dropping at the altar
amid a great shouting and clapping of hands and cries of “Bless de Lawd,
one mo’ recruit fu’ de Gospel ahmy.”
Some one started the hymn, “We’ll bow around the altar,” and the refrain
was taken up by the congregation with a fervour that made the rafters of
the little edifice ring again.
The conquest of Anner ’Lizer, the belle of that section of Kentucky,
was an event of great moment; and in spite of the concentration of the
worshippers’ minds on their devotions, the unexpected occurrence called
forth a deal of discussion among the brothers and sisters. Aunt Hannah
remarked to Aunt Maria, over the back of the seat, that she “nevah knowed
de gal was unner c’nviction.” And Aunt Maria answered solemnly, “You
know, sistah, de Lawd wuks in a myste’ious way his wondahs to pu’fo’m.”
Meanwhile the hymn went on, and above it rose the voice of the minister:
“We want all de Christuns in de house to draw up aroun’ de altah, whar de
fiah is bu’nin’: you know in de wintah time when hit’s col’ you crowds up
clost to de fiahplace; so now ef you wants to git spi’tually wa’m, you
mus’ be up whar de fiah is.” There was a great scrambling and shuffling
of feet as the members rose with one accord to crowd, singing, around the
altar.
Two of the rude benches had been placed end to end before the pulpit,
so that they extended nearly the full width of the little church; and
at these knelt a dozen or more mourners, swaying and writhing under the
burden of their sins.
The song being ended, the preacher said: “Brer’ Adams, please tek up de
cross.” During the momentary lull that intervened between the end of the
song and the prayer, the wails and supplications of the mourners sounded
out with weird effect. Then Brer’ Adams, a white-haired patriarch, knelt
and “took up the cross.”
Earnestly he besought the divine mercy in behalf of “de po’ sinnahs,
a-rollin’ an’ a-tossin’ in de tempes’ of dere sins. Lawd,” he prayed,
“come down dis evenin’ in Sperit’s powah to seek an’ to save-ah; let
us heah de rumblin’ of yo’ cha’iot wheels-ah lak de thundah f’om Mount
Sinai-ah; oh, Lawd-ah, convert mou’nahs an’ convict sinnahs-ah; show ’em
dat dey mus’ die an’ cain’t lib an’ atter death to judg-a-ment; tu’n ’em
aroun’ befo’ it is evahlastin’ an’ eternally too late.” Then warming more
and more, and swaying his form back and forth, as he pounded the seat in
emphasis, he began to wail out in a sort of indescribable monotone: “O
Lawd, save de mou’nah!”
“Save de mou’nah!” came the response from all over the church.
“He’p ’em out of de miah an’ quicksan’s of dere sins!”
“He’p, Lawd!”
“And place deir feet upon de evahlastin’ an’ eternal rock-ah!”
“Do, Lawd!”
“O Lawd-ah, shake a dyin’ sinnah ovah hell an’ fo’bid his mighty fall-ah!”
“O Lawd, shake ’em!” came from the congregation.
By this time every one was worked up to a high state of excitement, and
the prayer came to an end amid great commotion. Then a rich, mellow voice
led out with:
“Sabe de mou’nah jes’ now,
Sabe de mou’nah jes’ now,
Sabe de mou’nah jes’ now,
Only trust Him jes’ now,
Only trust Him jes’ now,
He’p de sinnah jes’ now;”
and so to indefinite length the mournful minor melody ran along like
a sad brook flowing through autumn woods, trying to laugh and ripple
through tears.
Every now and then some mourner would spring half up, with a shriek,
and then sink down again trembling and jerking spasmodically. “He’s
a-doubtin’, he’s a-doubtin’!” the cry would fly around; “but I tell you
he purt’ nigh had it that time.”
Finally, the slender form of Anner ’Lizer began to sway backward and
forward, like a sapling in the wind, and she began to mourn and weep
aloud.
“Praise de Lawd!” shouted Aunt Hannah, “de po’ soul’s gittin’ de
evidence: keep on, honey, de Lawd ain’t fa’ off.” The sudden change
attracted considerable attention, and in a moment a dozen or more zealous
altar-workers gathered around Anner ’Lizer, and began to clap and sing
with all their might, keeping time to the melodious cadence of their
music with heavy foot-pats on the resounding floor.
“Git on boa’d-ah, little childering,
Git on boa’d-ah, little childering,
Git on boa’d-ah, little childering,
Dere’s room fo’ many mo’.
“De gospel ship is sailin’,
It’s loaded down wid souls.
If you want to mek heab’n yo’ happy home,
You mus’ ketch it ’fo’ it goes.
Git on boa’d, etc.
“King Jesus at de hellum,
Fu’ to guide de ship erright.
We gwine fu’ to put into heab’n’s po’t
Wid ouah sails all shinin’ white.
Git on boa’d,” etc.
With a long dwell on the last word of the chorus, the mellow cadence of
the song died away.
“Let us bow down fu’ a season of silent praar,” said the minister.
“Lawd, he’p us to pray,” responded Uncle Eben Adams.
The silence that ensued was continually broken by the wavering wail
of the mourners. Suddenly one of them, a stalwart young man, near the
opening of the aisle, began to writhe and twist himself into every
possible contortion, crying: “O Lawd, de devil’s a-ridin’ me; tek him
off—tek him off!”
“Tek him off, Lawd!” shouted the congregation.
Then suddenly, without warning, the mourner rose straight up into the
air, shouting, “Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!”
“He’s got it—he’s got it!” cried a dozen eager worshippers, leaping to
their feet and crowding around the happy convert; “bless de Lawd, he’s
got it.” A voice was raised, and soon the church was ringing with
“Loose him and let him go,
Let him shout to glory.”
On went the man, shouting “Hallelujah,” shaking hands, and bounding over
seats in the ecstasy of his bliss.
His conversion kindled the flame of the meeting and set the fire going.
You have seen corn in the popper when the first kernel springs up and
flares open, how quickly the rest follow, keeping up the steady pop,
pop, pop; well, just so it was after this first conversion. The mourners
popped up quickly and steadily as the strength of the spiritual fire
seemed to reach their swelling souls. One by one they left the bench on
which, figuratively speaking, they may be said to have laid down their
sins and proclaimed themselves possessors of religion; until, finally,
there was but one left, and that one—Anner ’Lizer. She had ceased from
her violent activity, and seemed perfectly passive now.
The efforts of all were soon concentrated on her, and such stamping and
clapping and singing was never heard before. Such cries of “Jes’ look
up, sistah, don’t you see Him at yo’ side? Jes’ reach out yo’ han’ an’
tech de hem of His ga’ment. Jes’ listen, sistah, don’t you heah de angels
singin’? don’t you heah de rumblin’ of de cha’iot wheels? He’s a-comin’,
He’s a-comin’, He’s a-comin’!”
But Anner ’Lizer was immovable; with her face lying against the hard
bench, she moaned and prayed softly to herself. The congregation
redoubled its exertions, but all to no effect, Anner ’Lizer wouldn’t
“come thoo.”
It was a strange case.
Aunt Maria whispered to her bosom friend: “You min’ me, Sistah Hannah,
dere’s sump’n’ on dat gal’s min’.” And Aunt Hannah answered: “I believe
you.”
Josephine, or more commonly Phiny, a former belle whom Anner ’Lizer’s
superior charms had deposed, could not lose this opportunity to have a
fling at her successful rival. Of course such cases of vindictiveness
in women are rare, and Phiny was exceptional when she whispered to her
fellow-servant, Lucy: “I reckon she’d git ’ligion if Sam Me’itt was heah
to see her.” Lucy snickered, as in duty bound, and whispered back: “I
wisht you’d heish.”
Well, after all their singing, in spite of all their efforts, the
time came for closing the meeting and Anner ’Lizer had not yet made a
profession.
She was lifted tenderly up from the mourner’s bench by a couple of
solicitous sisters, and after listening to the preacher’s exhortation
to “pray constantly, thoo de day an’ thoo de night, in de highways an’
de byways an’ in yo’ secret closet,” she went home praying in her soul,
leaving the rest of the congregation to loiter along the way and gossip
over the night’s events.
* * * * *
All the next day Anner ’Lizer, erstwhile so cheerful, went about her work
sad and silent; every now and then stopping in the midst of her labours
and burying her face in her neat white apron to sob violently. It was
true, as Aunt Hannah expressed, that “de Sperit had sholy tuk holt of
dat gal wid a powahful han’.”
All of her fellow-servants knew that she was a mourner, and with that
characteristic reverence for religion which is common to all their
race, and not lacking even in the most hardened sinner among them, they
respected her feelings. Phiny alone, when she met her, tossed her head
and giggled openly. But Phiny’s actions never troubled Anner ’Lizer, for
she felt herself so far above her. Once though, in the course of the day,
she had been somewhat disturbed, when she had suddenly come upon her
rival, standing in the spring-house talking and laughing with Sam. She
noticed, too, with a pang, that Phiny had tied a bow of red ribbon on her
hair. She shut her lips and only prayed the harder. But an hour later,
somehow, a ribbon as red as Phiny’s had miraculously attached itself to
her thick black plaits. Was the temporal creeping in with the spiritual
in Anner ’Lizer’s mind? Who can tell? Perhaps she thought that, while
cultivating the one, she need not utterly neglect the other; and who says
but that she was right?
Uncle Eben, however, did not take this view of the matter when he came
hobbling up in the afternoon to exhort her a little. He found Anner
’Lizer in the kitchen washing dishes. Engrossed in the contemplation of
her spiritual state, or praying for deliverance from the same, through
the whole day she had gone about without speaking to any one. But with
Uncle Eben it was, of course, different; for he was a man held in high
respect by all the negroes and, next to the minister, the greatest oracle
in those parts; so Anner ’Lizer spoke to him.
“Howdy, Uncl’ Eben,” she said, in a lugubrious tone, as the old man
hobbled in and settled down in a convenient corner.
“Howdy, honey, howdy,” he replied, crossing one leg over the other, as he
unwound his long bandana, placed it in his hat, and then deposited his
heavy cane on the white floor. “I jes’ thought I’d drap in to ax you how
do you do to-day?”
“Po’ enough, Uncl’ Eben, fu’ sho.”
“Ain’t foun’ no res’ fu’ yo’ soul yit?”
“No res’ yit,” answered Anner ’Lizer, again applying the apron to her
already swollen eyes.
[Illustration: A VISIT FROM UNCLE EBEN.]
“Um-m,” sighed the old man, meditatively tapping his foot; and then the
gay flash of Anner ’Lizer’s ribbon caught his eye and he gasped: “Bless
de Lawd, Sis ’Lizer; you don’t mean to tell me dat you’s gwin ’bout heah
seekin’ wid yo’ har tied up in ribbon? Whut! tek it off, honey, tek it
off; ef yo’ wants yo’ soul saved, tek it off!”
Anner ’Lizer hesitated, and raised her eyes in momentary protest; but
they met the horrified gaze of the old man, and she lowered them again as
her hand went reluctantly up to her head to remove the offending bit of
finery.
“You see, honey,” Uncle Eben went on, “when you sta’ts out on de
Christian jou’ney, you’s got to lay aside evry weight dat doeth so easy
beset you an’ keeps you f’om pergressin’; y’ ain’t got to think nothin’
’bout pussunal ’dornment; you’s jes’ got to shet yo’ eyes an’ open yo’
hea’t an’ say, Lawd, come; you mustn’t wait fu’ to go to chu’ch to pray,
nuther, you mus’ pray any whar an’ ev’rywhar. Why, when I was seekin’, I
ust to go ’way off up in de big woods to pray, an’ dere’s whar de Lawd
answered me, an’ I’m a-rejoicin’ to-day in de powah of de same salvation.
Honey, you’s got to pray, I tell you. You’s got to brek de backbone of
yo’ pride an’ pray in earnes’; an’ ef you does dat, you’ll git he’p, fu’
de Lawd is a praar-heahin’ Lawd an’ plenteous in mussy.”
Anner ’Lizer listened attentively to the exhortation, and evidently
profited by it; for soon after Uncle Eben’s departure she changed her
natty little dress for one less pretentious, and her dainty, frilled
white muslin apron gave way to a broad dark calico one. If grace was to
be found by self-abnegation in the matter of dress, Anner ’Lizer was
bound to have it at any price.
As afternoon waned and night came on, she grew more and more serious,
and more frequent recourse was had to the corner of her apron. She even
failed to see Phiny when that enterprising young person passed her,
decked out in the whitest of white cuffs and collars setting off in
pleasant contrast her neat dark dress. Phiny giggled again and put up
her hand, ostensibly to brush some imaginary dust from her bosom, but
really to show her pretty white cuffs with their big bone buttons. But it
was all lost on Anner ’Lizer; her gaze was downcast and her thoughts far
away. If any one was ever “seekin’” in earnest, this girl was.
Night came, and with it the usual services. Anner ’Lizer was one of the
earliest of the congregation to arrive, and she went immediately to the
mourner’s bench. In the language of the congregation, “Eldah Johnsing
sholy did preach a powahful sermon” that night. More sinners were
convicted and brought to their knees, and, as before, these recruits were
converted and Anner ’Lizer left. What was the matter?
That was the question which every one asked, but there were none found
who could answer it. The circumstance was all the more astounding from
the fact that this unsuccessful mourner had not been a very wicked girl.
Indeed, it was to have been expected that she might shake her sins from
her shoulders as she would discard a mantle, and step over on the Lord’s
side. But it was not so.
But when a third night came and passed with the same result, it became
the talk of three plantations. To be sure, cases were not lacking where
people had “mourned” a week, two weeks, or even a month; but they were
woful sinners and those were times of less spiritual interest; but under
circumstances so favourable as were now presented, that one could long
refrain from “gittin’ religion” was the wonder of all. So, after the
third night, everybody wondered and talked, and not a few began to lean
to Phiny’s explanation, that “de ole snek in de grass had be’n a-goin’ on
doin’ all her dev’ment on de sly, so’s _people_ wouldn’t know it; but de
_Lawd_ he did, an’ he payin’ her up fu’ it now.”
Sam Merritt alone did not talk, and seemed perfectly indifferent to all
that was said; when he was in Phiny’s company and she rallied him about
the actions of his “gal,” he remained silent.
On the fourth night of Anner ’Lizer’s mourning, the congregation
gathered as usual at the church. For the first half-hour all went on
as usual, and the fact that Anner ’Lizer was absent caused no remark,
for every one thought she would come in later. But time passed and she
did not come. “Eldah Johnsing’s” flock became agitated. Of course there
were other mourners, but the one particular one was absent; hence the
dissatisfaction. Every head in the house was turned toward the door,
whenever it was opened by some late comer; and around flew the whisper,
“I wunner ef she’s quit mou’nin’; you ain’t heerd of her gittin’ ’ligion,
have you?” No one had.
Meanwhile the object of their solicitude was praying just the same, but
in a far different place. Grasping, as she was, at everything that seemed
to give her promise of relief, somehow Uncle Eben’s words had had a deep
effect upon her. So, when night fell and her work was over, she had gone
up into the woods to pray. She had prayed long without success, and now
she was crying aloud from the very fulness of her heart, “O Lawd, sen’ de
light—sen’ de light!” Suddenly, as if in answer to her prayer, a light
appeared before her some distance away.
The sudden attainment of one’s desires often shocks one; so with our
mourner. For a moment her heart stood still and the thought came to her
to flee; but her mind flashed back over the words of one of the hymns
she had heard down at church, “Let us walk in de light;” and she knew
that before she walked in the light she must walk toward it. So she rose
and started in the direction of the light. How it flickered and flared,
disappeared and reappeared, rose and fell, even as her spirits, as she
stumbled and groped her way over fallen logs and through briers. Her
limbs were bruised and her dress torn by the thorns. But she heeded it
not, she had fixed her eye—physical and spiritual—on the light before
her. It drew her with an irresistible fascination. Suddenly she stopped.
An idea had occurred to her! Maybe this light was a Jack-o’-lantern! For
a moment she hesitated, then promptly turned her pocket wrong side out,
murmuring, “De Lawd’ll tek keer o’ me.” On she started; but, lo! the
light had disappeared! What! had the turning of the pocket indeed worked
so potent a charm?
But no! it reappeared as she got beyond the intervention of a brush pile
which had obscured it. The light grew brighter as she grew fainter;
but she clasped her hands and raised her eyes in unwavering faith, for
she found that the beacon did not recede, but glowed with a steady and
stationary flame.
As she drew near, the sound of sharp strokes came to her ears, and she
wondered. Then, as she slipped into the narrow circle of light, she saw
that it was made by a taper which was set on a log. The strokes came from
a man who was chopping down a tree in which a ’coon seemed to have taken
refuge. It needed no second glance at the stalwart shoulders to tell her
that the man was—Sam. Her step attracted his attention, and he turned.
“Sam!”
“Anner ’Lizer!”
And then they both stood still, too amazed to speak. Finally she walked
across to where he was standing, and said: “Sam, I didn’t come out heah
to fin’ you, but de Lawd has ’p’inted it so, ’ca’se he knowed I orter
speak to you.” Sam leaned hopelessly on his axe; he thought she was going
to exhort him.
Anner ’Lizer went on: “Sam, you’s my stumblin’ block in de highroad to
salvation; I’s be’n tryin’ to git ’ligion fu’ fou’ nights, an’ I cain’t
do it jes’ on yo’ ’count; I prays an’ I prays, an’ jes’ as I’s a’mos’ got
it, jes’ as I begin to heah de cha’iot wheels a-rollin’, yo’ face comes
right in ’tween an’ drives it all away. Tell me, now, Sam, so’s to put
me out ov my ’spense, does you want to ma’y me, er is you goin’ to ma’y
Phiny? I jes’ wants you to tell me, not dat I keers pussonally, but so’s
my min’ kin be at res’ spi’tu’lly, an’ I kin git ’ligion. Jes’ say yes
er no; I wants to be settled one way er ’t other.”
“Anner ’Lizer,” said Sam, reproachfully, “you know I wants to ma’y you
jes’ ez soon ez Mas’ Rob’ll let me.”
“Dere now,” said Anner ’Lizer, “bless de Lawd!” And, somehow, Sam had
dropped the axe and was holding her in his arms.
It boots not whether the ’coon was caught that night or not; but it is a
fact that Anner ’Lizer set the whole place afire by getting religion at
home early the next morning. And the same night the minister announced
“dat de Lawd had foun’ out de sistah’s stumblin’ block an’ removed it
f’om de path.”
THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE
THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE
“And this is Mt. Hope,” said the Rev. Howard Dokesbury to himself as he
descended, bag in hand, from the smoky, dingy coach, or part of a coach,
which was assigned to his people, and stepped upon the rotten planks of
the station platform. The car he had just left was not a palace, nor had
his reception by his fellow-passengers or his intercourse with them been
of such cordial nature as to endear them to him. But he watched the choky
little engine with its three black cars wind out of sight with a look as
regretful as if he were witnessing the departure of his dearest friend.
Then he turned his attention again to his surroundings, and a sigh welled
up from his heart. “And this is Mt. Hope,” he repeated. A note in his
voice indicated that he fully appreciated the spirit of keen irony in
which the place had been named.
The colour scheme of the picture that met his eyes was in dingy blacks
and grays. The building that held the ticket, telegraph, and train
despatchers’ offices was a miserably old ramshackle affair, standing well
in the foreground of this scene of gloom and desolation. Its windows were
so coated with smoke and grime that they seemed to have been painted over
in order to secure secrecy within. Here and there a lazy cur lay drowsily
snapping at the flies, and at the end of the station, perched on boxes
or leaning against the wall, making a living picture of equal laziness,
stood a group of idle Negroes exchanging rude badinage with their white
counterparts across the street.
After a while this bantering interchange would grow more keen and
personal, a free-for-all friendly fight would follow, and the newspaper
correspondent in that section would write it up as a “race war.” But this
had not happened yet that day.
“This is Mt. Hope,” repeated the new-comer; “this is the field of my
labours.”
Rev. Howard Dokesbury, as may already have been inferred, was a
Negro,—there could be no mistake about that. The deep dark brown of his
skin, the rich over-fulness of his lips, and the close curl of his short
black hair were evidences that admitted of no argument. He was a finely
proportioned, stalwart-looking man, with a general air of self-possession
and self-sufficiency in his manner. There was firmness in the set of
his lips. A reader of character would have said of him, “Here is a man
of solid judgment, careful in deliberation, prompt in execution, and
decisive.”
It was the perception in him of these very qualities which had prompted
the authorities of the little college where he had taken his degree and
received his theological training, to urge him to go among his people at
the South, and there to exert his powers for good where the field was
broad and the labourers few.
Born of Southern parents from whom he had learned many of the
superstitions and traditions of the South, Howard Dokesbury himself had
never before been below Mason and Dixon’s line. But with a confidence
born of youth and a consciousness of personal power, he had started South
with the idea that he knew the people with whom he had to deal, and was
equipped with the proper weapons to cope with their shortcomings.
But as he looked around upon the scene which now met his eye, a doubt
arose in his mind. He picked up his bag with a sigh, and approached a man
who had been standing apart from the rest of the loungers and regarding
him with indolent intentness.
“Could you direct me to the house of Stephen Gray?” asked the minister.
The interrogated took time to change his position from left foot to right
and to shift his quid, before he drawled forth, “I reckon you’s de new
Mefdis preachah, huh?”
“Yes,” replied Howard, in the most conciliatory tone he could command,
“and I hope I find in you one of my flock.”
“No, suh, I’s a Babtist myse’f. I wa’n’t raised up no place erroun’ Mt.
Hope; I’m nachelly f’om way up in Adams County. Dey jes’ sont me down
hyeah to fin’ you an’ to tek you up to Steve’s. Steve, he’s workin’
to-day an’ couldn’t come down.”
He laid particular stress upon the “to-day,” as if Steve’s spell of
activity were not an everyday occurrence.
“Is it far from here?” asked Dokesbury.
“’Tain’t mo’ ’n a mile an’ a ha’f by de shawt cut.”
“Well, then, let’s take the short cut, by all means,” said the preacher.
They trudged along for a while in silence, and then the young man asked,
“What do you men about here do mostly for a living?”
“Oh, well, we does odd jobs, we saws an’ splits wood an’ totes bundles,
an’ some of ’em raises gyahden, but mos’ of us, we fishes. De fish bites
an’ we ketches ’em. Sometimes we eats ’em an’ sometimes we sells ’em; a
string o’ fish’ll bring a peck o’ co’n any time.”
“And is that all you do?”
“’Bout.”
“Why, I don’t see how you live that way.”
“Oh, we lives all right,” answered the man; “we has plenty to eat an’
drink, an’ clothes to wear, an’ some place to stay. I reckon folks ain’t
got much use fu’ nuffin’ mo’.”
Dokesbury sighed. Here indeed was virgin soil for his ministerial
labours. His spirits were not materially raised when, some time later, he
came in sight of the house which was to be his abode. To be sure, it was
better than most of the houses which he had seen in the Negro part of Mt.
Hope; but even at that it was far from being good or comfortable-looking.
It was small and mean in appearance. The weather boarding was broken,
and in some places entirely fallen away, showing the great unhewn logs
beneath; while off the boards that remained the whitewash had peeled in
scrofulous spots.
The minister’s guide went up to the closed door, and rapped loudly with a
heavy stick.
“G’ ’way f’om dah, an’ quit you’ foolin’,” came in a large voice from
within.
The guide grinned, and rapped again. There was a sound of shuffling feet
and the pushing back of a chair, and then the same voice saying: “I bet
I’ll mek you git away f’om dat do’.”
“Dat’s A’nt Ca’line,” the guide said, and laughed.
The door was flung back as quickly as its worn hinges and sagging bottom
would allow, and a large body surmounted by a face like a big round
full moon presented itself in the opening. A broomstick showed itself
aggressively in one fat shiny hand.
“It’s you, Tom Scott, is it—you trif’nin’—” and then, catching sight of
the stranger, her whole manner changed, and she dropped the broomstick
with an embarrassed “’Scuse me, suh.”
Tom chuckled all over as he said, “A’nt Ca’line, dis is yo’ new preachah.”
The big black face lighted up with a broad smile as the old woman
extended her hand and enveloped that of the young minister’s.
“Come in,” she said. “I’s mighty glad to see you—that no-’count Tom come
put’ nigh mekin’ me ’spose myse’f.” Then turning to Tom, she exclaimed
with good-natured severity, “An’ you go ’long, you scoun’ll you!”
The preacher entered the cabin—it was hardly more—and seated himself
in the rush-bottomed chair which A’nt Ca’line had been industriously
polishing with her apron.
“An’ now, Brothah—”
“Dokesbury,” supplemented the young man.
“Brothah Dokesbury, I jes’ want you to mek yo’se’f at home right erway.
I know you ain’t use to ouah ways down hyeah; but you jes’ got to set in
an’ git ust to ’em. You mus’n’t feel bad ef things don’t go yo’ way f’om
de ve’y fust. Have you got a mammy?”
The question was very abrupt, and a lump suddenly jumped up in
Dokesbury’s throat and pushed the water into his eyes. He did have a
mother away back there at home. She was all alone, and he was her heart
and the hope of her life.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve got a little mother up there in Ohio.”
“Well, I’s gwine to be yo’ mothah down hyeah; dat is, ef I ain’t too
rough an’ common fu’ you.”
“Hush!” exclaimed the preacher, and he got up and took the old lady’s
hand in both of his own. “You shall be my mother down here; you shall
help me, as you have done to-day. I feel better already.”
“I knowed you would;” and the old face beamed on the young one. “An’ now
jes’ go out de do’ dah an’ wash yo’ face. Dey’s a pan an’ soap an’ watah
right dah, an’ hyeah’s a towel; den you kin go right into yo’ room, fu’
I knows you want to be erlone fu’ a while. I’ll fix yo’ suppah while you
rests.”
He did as he was bidden. On a rough bench outside the door, he found
a basin and a bucket of water with a tin dipper in it. To one side,
in a broken saucer, lay a piece of coarse soap. The facilities for
copious ablutions were not abundant, but one thing the minister noted
with pleasure: the towel, which was rough and hurt his skin, was,
nevertheless, scrupulously clean. He went to his room feeling fresher and
better, and although he found the place little and dark and warm, it too
was clean, and a sense of its homeness began to take possession of him.
The room was off the main living-room into which he had been first
ushered. It had one small window that opened out on a fairly neat yard.
A table with a chair before it stood beside the window, and across
the room—if the three feet of space which intervened could be called
“across”—stood the little bed with its dark calico quilt and white
pillows. There was no carpet on the floor, and the absence of a washstand
indicated very plainly that the occupant was expected to wash outside.
The young minister knelt for a few minutes beside the bed, and then
rising cast himself into the chair to rest.
It was possibly half an hour later when his partial nap was broken in
upon by the sound of a gruff voice from without saying, “He’s hyeah, is
he—oomph! Well, what’s he ac’ lak? Want us to git down on ouah knees an’
crawl to him? If he do, I reckon he’ll fin’ dat Mt. Hope ain’t de place
fo’ him.”
The minister did not hear the answer, which was in a low voice and came,
he conjectured, from Aunt ‘Ca’line’; but the gruff voice subsided, and
there was the sound of footsteps going out of the room. A tap came on
the preacher’s door, and he opened it to the old woman. She smiled
reassuringly.
“Dat ’uz my ol’ man,” she said. “I sont him out to git some wood, so
’s I’d have time to post you. Don’t you mind him; he’s lots mo’ ba’k
dan bite. He’s one o’ dese little yaller men, an’ you know dey kin be
powahful contra’y when dey sets dey hai’d to it. But jes’ you treat him
nice an’ don’t let on, an’ I’ll be boun’ you’ll bring him erroun’ in
little er no time.”
The Rev. Mr. Dokesbury received this advice with some misgiving. Albeit
he had assumed his pleasantest manner when, after his return to the
living-room, the little “yaller” man came through the door with his
bundle of wood.
He responded cordially to Aunt Caroline’s, “Dis is my husband, Brothah
Dokesbury,” and heartily shook his host’s reluctant hand.
“I hope I find you well, Brother Gray,” he said.
“Moder’t, jes’ moder’t,” was the answer.
“Come to suppah now, bofe o’ you,” said the old lady, and they all sat
down to the evening meal, of crisp bacon, well-fried potatoes, egg-pone,
and coffee.
The young man did his best to be agreeable, but it was rather
discouraging to receive only gruff monosyllabic rejoinders to his most
interesting observations. But the cheery old wife came bravely to the
rescue, and the minister was continually floated into safety on the
flow of her conversation. Now and then, as he talked, he could catch a
stealthy upflashing of Stephen Gray’s eye, as suddenly lowered again,
that told him that the old man was listening. But, as an indication that
they would get on together, the supper, taken as a whole, was not a
success. The evening that followed proved hardly more fortunate. About
the only remarks that could be elicited from the “little yaller man” were
a reluctant “oomph” or “oomph-uh.”
It was just before going to bed that, after a period of reflection, Aunt
Caroline began slowly: “We got a son”—her husband immediately bristled
up and his eyes flashed, but the old woman went on; “he named ’Lias, an’
we thinks a heap o’ ’Lias, we does; but—” the old man had subsided, but
he bristled up again at the word—“he ain’t jes’ whut we want him to be.”
Her husband opened his mouth as if to speak in defence of his son, but
was silent in satisfaction at his wife’s explanation: “’Lias ain’t bad;
he jes’ ca’less. Sometimes he stays at home, but right sma’t o’ de time
he stays down at”—she looked at her husband and hesitated—“at de colo’ed
s’loon. We don’t lak dat. It ain’t no fitten place fu’ him. But ’Lias
ain’t bad, he jes’ ca’less, an’ me an’ de ol’ man we ’membahs him in
ouah pra’ahs, an’ I jes’ t’ought I’d ax you to ’membah him too, Brothah
Dokesbury.”
The minister felt the old woman’s pleading look and the husband’s intense
gaze upon his face, and suddenly there came to him an intimate sympathy
in their trouble and with it an unexpected strength.
“There is no better time than now,” he said, “to take his case to the
Almighty Power; let us pray.”
Perhaps it was the same prayer he had prayed many times before; perhaps
the words of supplication and the plea for light and guidance were the
same; but somehow to the young man kneeling there amid those humble
surroundings, with the sorrow of these poor ignorant people weighing
upon his heart, it seemed very different. It came more fervently from
his lips, and the words had a deeper meaning. When he arose, there
was a warmth at his heart just the like of which he had never before
experienced.
Aunt Caroline blundered up from her knees, saying, as she wiped her eyes,
“Blessed is dey dat mou’n, fu’ dey shall be comfo’ted.” The old man, as
he turned to go to bed, shook the young man’s hand warmly and in silence;
but there was a moisture in the old eyes that told the minister that his
plummet of prayer had sounded the depths.
Alone in his own room Howard Dokesbury sat down to study the situation in
which he had been placed. Had his thorough college training anticipated
specifically any such circumstance as this? After all, did he know his
own people? Was it possible that they could be so different from what he
had seen and known? He had always been such a loyal Negro, so proud of
his honest brown; but had he been mistaken? Was he, after all, different
from the majority of the people with whom he was supposed to have all
thoughts, feelings, and emotions in common?
These and other questions he asked himself without being able to arrive
at any satisfactory conclusion. He did not go to sleep soon after
retiring, and the night brought many thoughts. The next day would be
Saturday. The ordeal had already begun,—now there were twenty-four hours
between him and the supreme trial. What would be its outcome? There were
moments when he felt, as every man, howsoever brave, must feel at times,
that he would like to shift all his responsibilities and go away from
the place that seemed destined to tax his powers beyond their capability
of endurance. What could he do for the inhabitants of Mt. Hope? What was
required of him to do? Ever through his mind ran that world-old question:
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” He had never asked, “Are these people my
brothers?”
He was up early the next morning, and as soon as breakfast was done,
he sat down to add a few touches to the sermon he had prepared as his
introduction. It was not the first time that he had retouched it and
polished it up here and there. Indeed, he had taken some pride in it.
But as he read it over that day, it did not sound to him as it had
sounded before. It appeared flat and without substance. After a while he
laid it aside, telling himself that he was nervous and it was on this
account that he could not see matters as he did in his calmer moments. He
told himself, too, that he must not again take up the offending discourse
until time to use it, lest the discovery of more imaginary flaws should
so weaken his confidence that he would not be able to deliver it with
effect.
In order better to keep his resolve, he put on his hat and went out for
a walk through the streets of Mt. Hope. He did not find an encouraging
prospect as he went along. The Negroes whom he met viewed him with
ill-favour, and the whites who passed looked on him with unconcealed
distrust and contempt. He began to feel lost, alone, and helpless. The
squalor and shiftlessness which were plainly in evidence about the houses
which he saw filled him with disgust and a dreary hopelessness.
He passed vacant lots which lay open and inviting children to healthful
play; but instead of marbles or leap-frog or ball, he found little boys
in ragged knickerbockers huddled together on the ground, “shooting craps”
with precocious avidity and quarrelling over the pennies that made the
pitiful wagers. He heard glib profanity rolling from the lips of children
who should have been stumbling through baby catechisms; and his heart
ached for them.
He would have turned and gone back to his room, but the sound of shouts,
laughter, and the tum-tum of a musical instrument drew him on down the
street. At the turn of a corner, the place from which the noise emanated
met his eyes. It was a rude frame building, low and unpainted. The panes
in its windows whose places had not been supplied by sheets of tin were
daubed a dingy red. Numerous kegs and bottles on the outside attested
the nature of the place. The front door was open, but the interior was
concealed by a gaudy curtain stretched across the entrance within. Over
the door was the inscription, in straggling characters, “Sander’s Place;”
and when he saw half-a-dozen Negroes enter, the minister knew instantly
that he now beheld the colored saloon which was the frequenting-place of
his hostess’s son ’Lias; and he wondered, if, as the mother said, her
boy was not bad, how anything good could be preserved in such a place of
evil.
The cries and boisterous laughter mingled with the strumming of the banjo
and the shuffling of feet told him that they were engaged in one of their
rude hoe-down dances. He had not passed a dozen paces beyond the door
when the music was suddenly stopped, the sound of a quick blow followed,
then ensued a scuffle, and a young fellow half ran, half fell through the
open door. He was closely followed by a heavily built ruffian who was
striking him as he ran. The young fellow was very much the weaker and
slighter of the two, and was suffering great punishment. In an instant
all the preacher’s sense of justice was stung into sudden life. Just as
the brute was about to give his victim a blow that would have sent him
into the gutter, he felt his arm grasped in a detaining hold and heard a
commanding voice,—“Stop!”
He turned with increased fury upon this meddler, but his other wrist was
caught and held in a vice-like grip. For a moment the two men looked
into each other’s eyes. Hot words rose to the young man’s lips, but he
choked them back. Until this moment he had deplored the possession of
a spirit so easily fired that it had been a test of his manhood to keep
from “slugging” on the football field; now he was glad of it. He did not
attempt to strike the man, but stood holding his arms and meeting the
brute glare with manly flashing eyes. Either the natural cowardice of
the bully or something in his new opponent’s face had quelled the big
fellow’s spirit, and he said doggedly: “Lemme go. I wasn’t a-go’n’ to
kill him nohow, but ef I ketch him dancin’ with my gal anymo’, I’ll—” He
cast a glance full of malice at his victim, who stood on the pavement a
few feet away, as much amazed as the dumfounded crowd which thronged the
door of “Sander’s Place.” Loosing his hold, the preacher turned, and,
putting his hand on the young fellow’s shoulder, led him away.
For a time they walked on in silence. Dokesbury had to calm the tempest
in his breast before he could trust his voice. After a while he said:
“That fellow was making it pretty hot for you, my young friend. What had
you done to him?”
“Nothin’,” replied the other. “I was jes’ dancin’ ’long an’ not thinkin’
’bout him, when all of a sudden he hollered dat I had his gal an’
commenced hittin’ me.”
“He’s a bully and a coward, or he would not have made use of his superior
strength in that way. What’s your name, friend?”
“’Lias Gray,” was the answer, which startled the minister into
exclaiming,—
“What! are you Aunt Caroline’s son?”
“Yes, suh, I sho is; does you know my mothah?”
“Why, I’m stopping with her, and we were talking about you last night. My
name is Dokesbury, and I am to take charge of the church here.”
“I thought mebbe you was a preachah, but I couldn’t scarcely believe it
after I seen de way you held Sam an’ looked at him.”
Dokesbury laughed, and his merriment seemed to make his companion feel
better, for the sullen, abashed look left his face, and he laughed a
little himself as he said: “I wasn’t a-pesterin’ Sam, but I tell you he
pestered me mighty.”
Dokesbury looked into the boy’s face,—he was hardly more than a boy,—lit
up as it was by a smile, and concluded that Aunt Caroline was right.
’Lias might be ’ca’less,’ but he wasn’t a bad boy. The face was too open
and the eyes too honest for that. ’Lias wasn’t bad; but environment does
so much, and he would be if something were not done for him. Here, then,
was work for a pastor’s hands.
“You’ll walk on home with me, ’Lias, won’t you?”
“I reckon I mout ez well,” replied the boy. “I don’t stay erroun’ home ez
much ez I oughter.”
“You’ll be around more, of course, now that I am there. It will be so
much less lonesome for two young people than for one. Then, you can be a
great help to me, too.”
The preacher did not look down to see how wide his listener’s eyes grew
as he answered: “Oh, I ain’t fittin’ to be no he’p to you, suh. Fust
thing, I ain’t nevah got religion, an’ then I ain’t well larned enough.”
“Oh, there are a thousand other ways in which you can help, and I feel
sure that you will.”
“Of co’se, I’ll do de ve’y bes’ I kin.”
“There is one thing I want you to do soon, as a favour to me.”
“I can’t go to de mou’nah’s bench,” cried the boy, in consternation.
“And I don’t want you to,” was the calm reply.
Another look of wide-eyed astonishment took in the preacher’s face.
These were strange words from one of his guild. But without noticing the
surprise he had created, Dokesbury went on: “What I want is that you will
take me fishing as soon as you can. I never get tired of fishing and I am
anxious to go here. Tom Scott says you fish a great deal about here.”