admiration. “Made a fire by rubbin’ two sticks ag’in’ each odder. I
done tried dat a thousan’ times, but I didn’t make nothin’ but sweat!”
“Whut you reckin she done built dat fire fer, Hitch?” Vinegar inquired
with chattering teeth.
“Mebbe she wants to dry out dem clothes she’s got on,” Hitch surmised.
“I dunno,” Vinegar responded in fearful tones. “It ’pears to me dat
it’s mighty nigh dinner-time, an’ I’s done heerd tell dat sometimes
dose here she-heathens _eats folks_.”
“Oh, hush, nigger!” Hitch mourned, sinking down upon a bench at the
far end of the room. “Don’t start no news like dat! Please, suh, Revun
Atts, git yo’ religium wuckin’ ag’in’ her right now!”
“I don’t know how!” Vinegar lamented. “I ain’t never had no expe’unce
on dis kind of job.”
“Whut do de Bible say do?” Hitch demanded.
“It say, ‘Watch an’ pray,’” Vinegar told him.
“Dat ain’t gwine do no good in dis case,” Hitch declared with
conviction. “You mought as well pour dem advices back into de jug.
Leasewise I cain’t figger out how it kin do any good. But ef you wants
to try it, you do de prayin’ an’ lemme watch.”
“I’s mos’ too close to dis fire, Hitch,” Vinegar remarked uneasily. “I
prefers to pray in de kitchen.”
“I’ll go wid you,” Hitch declared eagerly.
The two men entered the only other room to the log cabin, each blocking
the other in his eagerness to be the first to get through the door.
Diada promptly followed them, and the two men backed against the wall,
looking in vain for some way of escape for Diada was between them and
the door.
Hanging from the rafters in the kitchen were half a dozen strings of
smoked sausages in skins.
Diada reached up and clawed down one of the strings and proceeded to
eat the sausage raw. Like a child chewing a thread, she began at one
end and lapped up link after link of the sausage. When that had been
devoured, she snatched down another string and began on the end of
that. Then she snapped off a link and offered it to Vinegar Atts.
“No’m; thank ’e, mum,” Vinegar said. “I likes to watch you chawin’ it.
Fer Gawd’s sake, don’t nibble at dat sausage like dat--_eat a plenty_!”
Hitch Diamond pulled down two more strings of the sausage and handed
them to her.
“Honey,” he said in wheedling tones, “don’t encourage no delicate
appetite. Fill up--fill up! Wallop up dem sassages till you git whar
you cain’t do nothin’ but chaw because yo’ swaller is full up to de
top. Den, bless Gawd, dar won’t be no room in yo’ insides fer me!”
“Huh.” Vinegar Atts grunted, “I’d rather had a jackass chaw me dan dat
baboon. Look at her toofs!”
At last Diada concluded her feast, tossed the undevoured links of
sausage on the floor and started back toward the other room. The two
men followed because there was nothing else to do. When they had seated
themselves before the fire Vinegar said:
“Hitch, talk to her a little bit an’ git her feelin’ good, an’ mebbe
her’ll let us go back to town.”
“I dunno how to begin,” Hitch complained. “Ef a cullud lady won’t talk,
seems like I cain’t git no hand-holt to remark nothin’ to her.”
“Ax her inquirements!” Vinegar advised.
There was silence in the cabin while Hitch explored his brain for a
suitable question to ask. Outside the raidn fell in a torrent and the
jungle roared like thunder. Finally Hitch spoke:
“Diader, does you enjoy yo’ meals in dis country?”
Diada did not answer, but Vinegar Atts did.
“Git away from de subjeck of grub, Hitch. De sausages is done all been
et mighty nigh, an’ whut is dis she-heathen got to eat fer supper but
_us_?”
“I ain’t gwine be here fer supper!” Hitch informed him.
“Me neither--ef I makes no mistake,” Vinegar replied earnestly. “Go on
wid dem inquirements!”
Hitch took a new start:
“Does you had a good time, Diader? Enj’y yo’se’f?”
“Mebbe dat ain’t no polite question to ax dis kind of coon,” Vinegar
remarked when Diada made no answer. “Try somepin diffunt, Hitch!”
“How old is you, Diader?” Hitch asked desperately.
A discreet silence on the part of Diada.
“I knowed you pulled de stopper outen de wrong bottle _dat_ time!”
Vinegar commented. “Ax her somepin ’bout her kinnery!”
“Wus yo’ maw an’ paw feelin’ tol’able when you seed ’em las’?” Hitch
inquired timidly.
To all appearances Diada had not heard.
“Mebbe all her kinnery’s in jail,” Vinegar declared. “Anyway, she don’t
wanter talk about ’em. Stop axin’ fool questions, Hitch! You put yo’
foot in it eve’y time you opens yo’ mouf!”
“Looky here, Revun!” Hitch retorted in irate tones. “I fotch you out
here wid me to cornvert dis here heathen. You brag yo’ brags dat you
could, now lemme see you git at it! You ain’t axed her nothin’ since
you come--jes’ been rubber-neckin’ at her like a goggle-eye perch. Now
you git busy on dis dam’ ole baboon an’ ’suade her to be a Christian
like us is!”
Thus admonished, Vinegar Atts took a big breath, stared timidly at
Diada’s feet, and began:
“Diada, does you foller up de chu’ch?”
“Git pussonal, Revun, git pussonal!” Hitch advised, when Diada did not
reply. “Stop beatin’ de bush aroun’ de debbil.”
“Diader, does you take up wid religion?” Vinegar inquired. But Diada
made no reply.
“Ax her do she _expe’unce_ religion!” the prize-fighter prompted the
preacher. “Ax her do she know dat she’s a chile of Gawd!”
“Diader,” Vinegar asked timidly, “is you got any shore an’ certain
hopes of heaven?”
“Dat’s right! Git pussonal!” Hitch applauded.
But Diada steadfastly refused to make any confession of faith.
“Ax her is she committed any sins!” Hitch suggested. “Git pussonal!”
“Looky here, Hitch!” the preacher complained. “I don’t know how dis
cullud pusson sets her table an’ I’s skeart I’ll fall in de soup.
Whut’s de use axin’ pussonal inquirements when a feller don’t git no
kind of respondunce nohow?”
He leaned back, his face overshadowed with gloom and fear. He thrust
his hand into his pockets, and his face suddenly cleared.
“I got her now, Hitch! Look at dis!”
Vinegar held up a small round mirror with an advertisement on the back.
He looked at himself, then passed it to Hitch, who examined his own
features carefully, and who then passed the mirror to Diada.
With wondering faces the two men watched the eternal savage feminine to
see if it was like the other kind of eternal feminine. It was.
Diada placed the mirror about four inches from one big, protruding eye,
squinted into the glass, and then slipped the little mirror into her
hair, gave the hair a deft twist, and brought her hands down--empty.
“Dar now!” Vinegar mourned. “My little lookin’-glass is plum’ gone,
jes’ as good as ef she’d swallered it!”
“Dat’s right!” Hitch agreed. “Diader shore made a short cut-off.”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling in an attitude of religious
resignation, and saw Little Bit’s mandolin hanging on a nail above his
head. He reached up and took it down.
Seating himself, he swept his fingers across the strings. Diada’s mouth
opened in a wide grin.
“I’s got her. Vinegar,” Hitch boomed. “Now I’s gwine fetch her a few
lively toons, an’ while I plays you open dat do’. Mebbe I kin sing dis
heathen chile to sleep, but ef I cain’t, you keep yo’ eye on me an’ git
ready to scoot!”
Hitch got busy with the mandolin, and Vinegar availed himself of the
first opportunity and opened the door. The rain had ceased, and from
the hot ground a fog had risen like steam so thick and heavy that
objects were invisible at a distance of twenty feet.
Hitch sang a few songs, and at the conclusion of each song he moved
back from the fire under pretense of being too warm; but he moved every
time a little closer to the open door.
Then Diada rose and began a weird, awkward dance, marking the steps
by a peculiar guttural sound like a grunt. Under the weight of her
ponderous tramping feet the cabin trembled. The negroes trembled, too,
but they were having a chill. In a moment their fright had assumed the
proportions and powers of a dynamo propelling them out of that cabin.
“Git ready, Vinegar!” Hitch howled, as he madly played and sang. “I’s
done got in de notion to skedaddle. When I gives de word, you better do
it!”
Diada had begun to whirl like a dancing Dervish. Mrs. Gaitskill’s
silk kimono stood straight out from her mighty shoulders and Colonel
Gaitskill’s pajamas became a blear of color in her mad gyration.
Vinegar Atts rose and walked toward the door. Hitch Diamond stood up,
thumping madly upon the strings of his musical instrument, watching his
chance.
Just when the two men were ready to bolt Diada whooped, sprang
through the door, leaped into the open space in front of the porch,
and continued her mad rotary dance. There was a flash of steel, and
from somewhere on her person Diada produced what Hitch recognized
as Mrs. Gaitskill’s pearl-handled paper-cutter, and the large steel
carving-knife which Hopey used in the kitchen.
Then began a dance of steel which filled the negroes with horror.
Diada tossed the knives in the air where they whirled like steel
wheels, and beneath them she continued her wild gyrations; with
wonderful skill, she kept the two blades in the air above her, catching
them unerringly when they fell and tossing them up again, while a
strange, guttural shriek emanated from her throat, curdling the blood
in the veins of Vinegar Atts and Hitch Diamond.
Suddenly Hitch Diamond bellowed:
“Good-by ma honey! I’ve run out of money
Good-by, ma honey--I’m _gone_!”
Before the mandolin, which Hitch hurled from him, had struck the
ground, he and Vinegar were half-way across the clearing and a
race-horse could not have caught them for their first mile of travel
back to town.
Pounding up the street toward the Tickfall courthouse, Hitch Diamond
spoke for the first time in seven miles:
“Elder Atts, I don’t b’lieve you really favors furin missions!”
VII
ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS
Colonel Tom Gaitskill and Dr. Sentelle stood on the street in front
of the court house discussing the missionary meeting of the evening
before and the sudden departure of Diada.
“Do you think Diada’s visit will quicken the missionary activities of
the women of our church?” Dr. Sentelle laughed.
“Who knows?” Gaitskill grinned. “She certainly made an impression on
me! An escaped heathen running at large in the vicinity of Tickfall
might quicken all kinds of activities----”
Their attention was diverted by the sight of two negroes who stumbled
down the middle of the street in the last stages of exhaustion, puffing
like steamboats, covered with swamp-mud, their garments torn to shreds
by their flight through the vines and underbrush.
“Hey--Hitch!” Gaitskill called.
The two negroes stopped, staggered to where Gaitskill was standing, and
sank down upon the curbstone at his feet.
“We done got away, Marse Tom!” Hitch Diamond panted. “Us escaped jes’
like de Bible say--wid de skin off our teeth.”
“Where have you been?” Gaitskill asked.
“Me an’ Vinegar is been huntin’ dat Diader you sent me atter dis
mawnin’,” Hitch answered; then in a tone of sharp complaint: “Marse
Tom, whut you makin’ all dis splutter ’bout dat varmint fur? She ain’t
right in her intellectuals!”
“I don’t believe you’ve been anywhere near that swamp,” Gaitskill
grinned.
“We shore has, Marse Tom,” the negroes said in one breath. Then they
began a recitation of their experiences, snatching the sentences out
of each other’s mouths:
“She built a fire by rubbin’ two sticks----”
“She et raw sassages----”
“She danced a jig in dat cabin wid butcher-knives----”
“She had on a chop-tailed nightshirt----”
“An’ cute little pants jes’ de color of a rotten egg busted on ’em----”
Their recitation was interrupted by the sound of galloping hoofs. Two
mules were coming down the road at full speed, one mule ridden by a
bent-shouldered old man whose kinky white wool fitted his head like a
rubber cap, and the other ridden by a diminutive, pop-eyed boy so black
he could shut his eyes and become almost invisible.
At every jump the riders belabored their mules with clubs, thus giving
them additional reasons why they should accelerate their operations;
and even the mules seemed to realize that it was an urgent case.
They shook their heads, groaned like elephants in distress, and seemed
to measure off ten or fifteen feet at a leap. The riders jolted to and
fro like two gray squirrels in the storm-tossed branches of a tree,
but they hung on to the shaggy manes of their mounts with one hand and
operated their clubs with the other.
“Hey, you niggers!” Gaitskill called. “_Whoa!_”
The mules, hearing that last command, stopped.
Now when a mule stops, he stops with a suddenness; he stops all over
and all at once; he stops like a wet dish-rag which drops upon the
floor, like a stepladder which collapses and comes down flat upon the
ground.
The mules stopped.
Isaiah and Little Bit did not. They went on. They dived ungracefully
over the heads of their mules, struck the ground twenty feet ahead of
them, rolled over and over in the moist sand, then got up in a most
solemn and dignified manner, walked sedately to the spot where Vinegar
and Hitch sat on the curbstone, and took a seat beside them.
“Bless gracious, Marse Tom!” old Isaiah panted. “I’s skeart plum’ outen
my good sense!”
“What happened, Isaiah?” Gaitskill laughed.
“Marse Tom,” Isaiah answered, “dar’s a plum’ wild woman out in de
Little Moccasin Swamp. She throwed a gun at me de yuther day an’ run me
an’ Little Bit clear outen de hog-camp. Us rambled back dis atternoon,
an’ dat wild woman wus still dar--settin’ on de po’ch steps bangin’ on
Little Bit’s banjo an’ singin’ jes’ like a pig squeals when he gits
hung in de fence. When she seed me a comin’, she riz up--she looked
powerful mad to me----”
Isaiah broke off and chuckled. Then he continued, in solemn and
convincing tones:
“Marse Tom, I’ve saw a pig git mad an’ bust outen de pen an’ fight an’
bite jes’ like a dog an’ run eve’y pig and nigger off de plantation.
An’ I’ve saw a cow git mad an’ kick over de bucket of milk an’ hook
de feller whut milked her. An’ I’ve saw a man git mad an’ cut up
scand’lous an’ git tuck up an’ crammed in jail. An’ I’ve saw a woman
git mad--plenty womans--but I ain’t never stayed an’ saw whut dey done.
Naw, suh, I skedaddles. Dat’s how come me an’ Little Bit is here now.
Dat wild woman looked mad!”
There was a loud whoop up the street, and the sound of galloping hoofs
smote again upon the ears of the little group in front of the court
house. As they turned to look a whole cavalry troop of horses and mules
swung into the main street and galloped at full speed toward the court
house square.
It was a perfect Mardi Gras procession.
One aged negro passed on a blind mule, holding a baby in his lap,
while two little pickaninnies rode behind him--four on one animal. An
immensely fat woman rode by astraddle of a pacing donkey; she balanced
a bundle as large as herself on the neck of her mount--food and
household comforts of that sort, wrapped up in a red bed-quilt.
A negro boy came by holding a sack whose contents wriggled and whined,
and the mustang he rode was throwing fits--the sack contained four
hound pups. Another coon rode by holding in his free hand a bucket of
molasses; and strapped to his back, like a knapsack was an immense
bird-cage containing a parrot, who clung desperately to his giddy perch
and squawked: “Look out! Look out! Look out!”
Thus, in grotesque procession, there passed before the astonished
eyes of Colonel Tom Gaitskill every negro tenant and workman from the
Nigger-heel plantation--four hundred men, women, and children, with his
overseer, Mustard Prophet, in the lead!
“Thunderation!” Gaitskill bawled in a mighty voice. “What’s the matter
with you damnation niggers?”
Mustard Prophet wheeled his mule and stopped before Colonel Gaitskill.
The whole procession swung into a large open space beside the court
house, set apart for the use of the country people as a hitching place
for their horses. All the business men in Tickfall promptly shut up
shop and assembled in front of the courthouse to learn what all the
fuss was about--and every white man’s coat-pocket sagged down on one
side about four inches lower than it did on the other, and he kept his
hand in that pocket.
The negroes of Tickfall and the neighboring plantations outnumbered the
whites by ten thousand.
Having a natural respect and generally a true friendship for the white
people, following the peaceable pursuits of agriculture, raising
cotton, cotton, and then more cotton; music-loving, laughter-loving,
care-free as children and inoffensive as a bird, the negroes of
Tickfall lived quietly with their white neighbors and employers.
But any unusual movement among them always awakened the white man’s
suspicions and brought him forth full-armed, grim as death, white-faced
and keen-eyed, to search the matter to the very bottom.
A white man jostled against Dr. Sentelle.
The venerable preacher thrust his hand into the tail-pocket of his
clergyman’s coat and found himself in possession of a heavy pistol.
Colonel Gaitskill backed quietly into the arms of a man standing
behind him and found both side pockets of his coat weighted down with
weapons.
Then Gaitskill stepped forward again and became the spokesman, his
voice cracking like a bull-whip in the hands of a cowboy:
“What are you niggers doing in town?”
“Us comed to town to git away from de canned bull, Marse Tom,” Mustard
Prophet informed him.
There was a barely audible “Ah!” from the throats of the white men,
who had held their breath in intense desire to catch Mustard’s answer.
The anxiety of the white men was instantly relieved. They did not
understand, but if that crowd of men, women, and children were scared
and running away from something, that put a much better light upon the
matter.
“To get away from--_what_?” Gaitskill snapped.
“Dunno, suh,” Mustard replied, scratching his head. “I’s done heerd
tell dat she eats ’em alive.”
“Eats--_what? who?_”
“Dey calls her de canned bull,” Mustard informed him in uncertain tones.
“I presume he means _cannibal_,” Dr. Sentelle suggested with a loud
chuckle.
“Yes, suh,” Mustard acquiesced. “Dat whut I jes’ said.”
“What do you know about a _cannibal_?” Gaitskill growled.
“Hopey, de woman whut cooks fer you, sont me word, an’ old Isaiah an’
Little Bit fotch me de pertick’lers,” Mustard told him. “Ole Isaiah
tole me dat he done saw dat wild woman fight a bear an’ she kilt it
dead. He specify dat she gib dat bear de all-under holt an’ de fust two
bites!”
“Isaiah is an old liar,” Gaitskill said.
“Yes, suh. But I knowed you didn’t want me to happen to no harm, so I
hauled off an’ come to town.”
“What did you bring all these other niggers for?” Gaitskill asked.
“I didn’t fotch ’em wid me, Marse Tom,” Mustard declared. “I tried to
git ’em to stay back, but sompein itched ’em right sudden to trabbel,
an’ here dey all am.”
There was a loud burst of laughter from the white men, Gaitskill found
his coat-pockets relieved of their heavy guns, Dr. Sentelle lost the
six-shooter out of the tail of his Prince Albert coat, and the business
men went haw-hawing to their stores, leaving Colonel Gaitskill and Dr.
Sentelle to face the rabble of panic-stricken negroes.
Gaitskill’s mind revolved a number of plans before he found one to suit
him. Finally he stood on the court house steps and made oration:
“Hey, you niggers! Listen to me: Go to the back door of my store and
get your rations for the night. All you nigger men be at the old
cotton-shed to-morrow morning by sunrise! Hear me!”
“Yes, suh!” a number of voices responded.
“Now, Mustard,” he said to his negro overseer, “you get all these
coons to the cotton-shed on time. We want to get an early start!”
VIII
AT THE GAITSKILL HOG-CAMP
The next morning fifty-five negroes mounted on mules and horses waited
at the cotton-shed for Colonel Tom Gaitskill. Their only theme of
conversation was Diada.
“Revun Atts,” Mustard demanded of the pastor of the Shoofly church,
“when you got shet up wid dat wild woman in de hawg-camp, why didn’t
you ax her ’fess religion?”
“I did make a riffle,” Vinegar Atts responded, “but I couldn’t git my
mouf set right fer preachin’ de Word.”
“He seen his duty but he done it not!” Hitch Diamond bellowed.
“I didn’t had no light on _how_ to do it,” Vinegar said defensively.
“Excusin’ dat, I warn’t studyin’ how to save by grace; I wus ponderin’
how to save my grease.”
The conversation ended by the arrival of Colonel Gaitskill, dressed in
a hunting suit and riding his favorite black horse.
The negroes grouped their mounts close around him to hear what he had
to say.
“I want you niggers to ride out to the hog-camp with me and help
me bring Diada back to my house. All this talk about Diada being a
cannibal is a lie. She ain’t a pretty nigger woman, but she’s just like
other black folks. She won’t hurt anybody. When you find her, go right
up to her, just like you would to any other nigger woman. Hear me!”
“Yes, suh!” the voices answered.
“Marse Tom,” Hitch Diamond asked, “who’s gwine lead dis here peerade?”
“I am.”
“I’s powerful proud to hear dat, kunnel,” Hitch declared. “An’ please,
suh, kin I fotch up de rear an’ keep dese niggers from laggin’ back?”
“Yes, if you prefer that place.”
“Hitch needs he’p, kunnel,” Vinegar Atts declared promptly. “I’ll fetch
up behine wid Hitch.”
“All right,” Gaitskill agreed, stifling a desire to laugh. “Of course,
if Diada should attack us from the rear----”
“Huh!” Vinegar Atts interrupted him. “I’s gwine fetch up de exack
middle of dis here peerade.”
“Now, listen!” Gaitskill commanded in a loud voice. “I don’t want Diada
hurt in any way. Don’t use any clubs or guns or knives. Catch her with
your hands. Come on, men!”
The posse pounded down the swamp road for four miles, then started in
single file along the narrow bridle-path which led to the hog-camp
three miles distant in the center of the swamp.
From the moment they entered the swamp the shouts and laughter of the
negroes ceased.
They had all spent their lives within sight of that jungle and knew
well its fearful menace and entertained toward it a most wholesome
fear. They knew that three deep, broad bayous flowed into it, widened
into an enormous mud-puddle and disappeared, swallowed up by rank,
encroaching vegetation. They knew that the slow-moving, slimy water
was a breeding place for countless insects which stung and bit and
poisoned, and inhabited in pestilential swarms the only open breathing
spaces reserved amid the vegetation, and they had seen cattle stagger
out of that swamp, their nostrils, throats, and ears filled with tiny
insects, fall to the ground in convulsions, and die.
The ground around them was covered with vegetation, so ropy with vines
that a raccoon could not penetrate it; the branches of the immense
trees hung downward, and were draped with long, ropelike funereal
streamers and festoons of Spanish moss, so that it seemed that half the
vegetable world was growing from below upward and the other half was
growing from above downward, making a hot-house purgatory, shut off
from the sky above and the earth below, and enclosing the men who rode
that narrow path like a trap.
The dim ridge which their horses trod was the one route of ingress and
egress through that obscure, uncharted morass reeking with poison and
choked with a growth which seemed coeval with the dawn of creation
itself.
Gaitskill, noting the sudden silence of the negroes, became uneasy. He
knew that if the darkies were thrown into a panic they would spur their
mounts into the jungle to hide, and that would be the end of both the
horse and his rider.
“Marse Tom,” old Isaiah said in a trembling tone, “My hoss is a walkin’
lame.”
Gaitskill stopped and stood facing the long line of frightened negroes.
“All you niggers pull to one side and let Isaiah ride back to town!” he
called.
“Who? Me?” Isaiah bawled. “Naw, _suh_! Dis hoss ain’t so powerful
lame--not as much as he wus when I fust spoke. An’ even if his behine
leg wus twisted plum’ off, I’d shore make him hop along wid you-alls.”
“Any of the rest of you niggers got lame horses?” Gaitskill laughed.
“Naw, suh, kunnel,” Hitch Diamond yelled, the last man in the line. “My
hoss is walkin’ so spry I cain’t keep him behine by hisse’f. Lemme ride
up dar close to you!”
“Stay where you are, Hitch!” Gaitskill laughed. “You asked me to let
you ride behind. Come on, men!”