Jeremiah Anderson was free. He had been free for ten years, and he was
proud of it. He had been proud of it from the beginning, and that was
the reason that he was one of the first to cast off the bonds of his old
relations, and move from the plantation and take up land for himself. He
was anxious to cut himself off from all that bound him to his former
life. So strong was this feeling in him that he would not consent to
stay on and work for his one-time owner even for a full wage.
To the proposition of the planter and the gibes of some of his more
dependent fellows he answered, "No, suh, I's free, an' I sholy is able
to tek keer o' myse'f. I done been fattenin' frogs fu' othah people's
snakes too long now."
"But, Jerry," said Samuel Brabant, "I don't mean you any harm. The
thing's done. You don't belong to me any more, but naturally, I take an
interest in you, and want to do what I can to give you a start. It's
more than the Northern government has done for you, although such wise
men ought to know that you have had no training in caring for
yourselves."
There was a slight sneer in the Southerner's voice. Jerry perceived it
and thought it directed against him. Instantly his pride rose and his
neck stiffened.
"Nemmine me," he answered, "nemmine me. I's free, an' w'en a man's free,
he's free."
"All right, go your own way. You may have to come back to me some time.
If you have to come, come. I don't blame you now. It must be a great
thing to you, this dream--this nightmare." Jerry looked at him. "Oh, it
isn't a nightmare now, but some day, maybe, it will be, then come to
me."
The master turned away from the newly made freeman, and Jerry went forth
into the world which was henceforth to be his. He took with him his few
belongings; these largely represented by his wife and four lusty-eating
children. Besides, he owned a little money, which he had got working for
others when his master's task was done. Thus, bur'dened and equipped, he
set out to tempt Fortune.
He might do one of two things--farm land upon shares for one of his
short-handed neighbours, or buy a farm, mortgage it, and pay for it as
he could. As was natural for Jerry, and not uncommendable, he chose at
once the latter course, bargained for his twenty acres--for land was
cheap then, bought his mule, built his cabin, and set up his household
goods.
Now, slavery may give a man the habit of work, but it cannot imbue him
with the natural thrift that long years of self-dependence brings. There
were times when Jerry's freedom tugged too strongly at his easy
inclination, drawing him away to idle when he should have toiled. What
was the use of freedom, asked an inward voice, if one might not rest
when one would? If he might not stop midway the furrow to listen and
laugh at a droll story or tell one? If he might not go a-fishing when
all the forces of nature invited and the jay-bird called from the tree
and gave forth saucy banter like the fiery, blue shrew that she was?
There were times when his compunction held Jerry to his task, but more
often he turned an end furrow and laid his misgivings snugly under it
and was away to the woods or the creek. There was joy and a loaf for the
present. What more could he ask?
The first year Fortune laughed at him, and her laugh is very different
from her smile. She sent the swift rains to wash up the new planted
seed, and the hungry birds to devour them. She sent the fierce sun to
scorch the young crops, and the clinging weeds to hug the fresh
greenness of his hope to death. She sent--cruellest jest of all--another
baby to be fed, and so weakened Cindy Ann that for many days she could
not work beside her husband in the fields.
Poverty began to teach the unlessoned delver in the soil the thrift
which he needed; but he ended his first twelve months with barely enough
to eat, and nothing paid on his land or his mule. Broken and
discouraged, the words of his old master came to him. But he was proud
with an obstinate pride and he shut his lips together so that he might
not groan. He would not go to his master. Anything rather than that.
In that place sat certain beasts of prey, dealers, and lenders of money,
who had their lairs somewhere within the boundaries of that wide and
mysterious domain called The Law. They had their risks to run, but so
must all beasts that eat flesh or drink blood. To them went Jerry, and
they were kind to him. They gave him of their store. They gave him food
and seed, but they were to own all that they gave him from what he
raised, and they were to take their toll first from the new crops.
Now, the black had been warned against these same beasts, for others had
fallen a prey to them even in so short a time as their emancipation
measured, and they saw themselves the re-manacled slaves of a hopeless
and ever-growing debt, but Jerry would not be warned. He chewed the
warnings like husks between his teeth, and got no substance from them.
Then, Fortune, who deals in surprises, played him another trick. She
smiled upon him. His second year was better than his first, and the
brokers swore over his paid up note. Cindy Ann was strong again and the
oldest boy was big enough to help with the work.
Samuel Brabant was displeased, not because he felt any malice toward his
former servant, but for the reason that any man with the natural amount
of human vanity must feel himself agrieved just as his cherished
prophecy is about to come true. Isaiah himself could not have been above
it. How much less, then, the uninspired Mr. Brabant, who had his "I told
you so," all ready. He had been ready to help Jerry after giving him
admonitions, but here it was not needed. An unused "I told you so,"
however kindly, is an acid that turns the milk of human kindness sour.
Jerry went on gaining in prosperity. The third year treated him better
than the second, and the fourth better than the third. During the fifth
he enlarged his farm and his house and took pride in the fact that his
oldest boy, Matthew, was away at school. By the tenth year of his
freedom he was arrogantly out of debt. Then his pride was too much for
him. During all these years of his struggle the words of his master had
been as gall in his mouth. Now he spat them out with a boast. He talked
much in the market-place, and where many people gathered, he was much
there, giving himself as a bright and shining example.
"Huh," he would chuckle to any listeners he could find, "Ol' Mas'
Brabant, he say, 'Stay hyeah, stay hyeah, you do' know how to tek keer
o' yo'se'f yit.' But I des' look at my two han's an' I say to myse'f,
whut I been doin' wid dese all dese yeahs--tekin' keer o' myse'f an'
him, too. I wo'k in de fiel', he set in de big house an' smoke. I wo'k
in de fiel', his son go away to college an' come back a graduate. Das
hit. Well, w'en freedom come, I des' bent an' boun' I ain' gwine do it
no mo' an' I didn't. Now look at me. I sets down w'en I wants to. I
does my own wo'kin' an' my own smokin'. I don't owe a cent, an' dis yeah
my boy gwine graduate f'om de school. Dat's me, an' I ain' called on ol'
Mas' yit."
Now, an example is always an odious thing, because, first of all, it is
always insolent even when it is bad, and there were those who listened
to Jerry who had not been so successful as he, some even who had stayed
on the plantation and as yet did not even own the mule they ploughed
with. The hearts of those were filled with rage and their mouths with
envy. Some of the sting of the latter got into their retelling of
Jerry's talk and made it worse than it was.
Old Samuel Brabant laughed and said, "Well, Jerry's not dead yet, and
although I don't wish him any harm, my prophecy might come true yet."
There were others who, hearing, did not laugh, or if they did, it was
with a mere strained thinning of the lips that had no element of mirth
in it. Temper and tolerance were short ten years after sixty-three.
The foolish farmer's boastings bore fruit, and one night when he and his
family had gone to church he returned to find his house and barn in
ashes, his mules burned and his crop ruined. It had been very quietly
done and quickly. The glare against the sky had attracted few from the
nearby town, and them too late to be of service.
Jerry camped that night across the road from what remained of his former
dwelling. Cindy Ann and the children, worn out and worried, went to
sleep in spite of themselves, but he sat there all night long, his chin
between his knees, gazing at what had been his pride.
Well, the beasts lay in wait for him again, and when he came to them
they showed their fangs in greeting. And the velvet was over their
claws. He had escaped them before. He had impugned their skill in the
hunt, and they were ravenous for him. Now he was fatter, too. He went
away from them with hard terms, and a sickness at his heart. But he had
not said "Yes" to the terms. He was going home to consider the almost
hopeless conditions under which they would let him build again.
They were staying with a neighbour in town pending his negotiations and
thither he went to ponder on his circumstances. Then it was that Cindy
Ann came into the equation. She demanded to know what was to be done and
how it was to be gone about.
"But Cindy Ann, honey, you do' know nuffin' 'bout bus'ness."
"T'ain't whut I knows, but whut I got a right to know," was her
response.
"I do' see huccome you got any right to be a-pryin' into dese hyeah
things."
"I's got de same right I had to w'ok an' struggle erlong an' he'p you
get whut we's done los'."
Jerry winced and ended by telling her all.
"Dat ain't nuffin' but owdacious robbery," said Cindy Ann. "Dem people
sees dat you got a little some'p'n, an' dey ain't gwine stop ontwell
dey's bu'nt an' stoled evah blessed cent f'om you. Je'miah, don't you
have nuffin' mo' to do wid 'em."
"I got to, Cindy Ann."
"Whut fu' you got to?"
"How I gwine buil' a cabin an' a ba'n an' buy a mule less'n I deal wid
'em?"
"Dah's Mas' Sam Brabant. He'd he'p you out."
Jerry rose up, his eyes flashing fire. "Cindy Ann," he said, "you a
fool, you ain't got no mo' pride den a guinea hen, an' you got a heap
less sense. W'y, befo' I go to ol' Mas' Sam Brabant fu' a cent, I'd
sta've out in de road."
"Huh!" said Cindy Ann, shutting her mouth on her impatience.
One gets tired of thinking and saying how much more sense a woman has
than a man when she comes in where his sense stops and his pride
begins.
With the recklessness of despair Jerry slept late that next morning, but
he might have awakened early without spoiling his wife's plans. She was
up betimes, had gone on her mission and returned before her spouse
awoke.
It was about ten o'clock when Brabant came to see him. Jerry grew sullen
at once as his master approached, but his pride stiffened. This white
man should see that misfortune could not weaken him.
"Well, Jerry," said his former master, "you would not come to me, eh, so
I must come to you. You let a little remark of mine keep you from your
best friend, and put you in the way of losing the labour of years."
Jerry made no answer.
"You've proved yourself able to work well, but Jerry," pausing, "you
haven't yet shown that you're able to take care of yourself, you don't
know how to keep your mouth shut."
The ex-slave tried to prove this a lie by negative pantomime.
"I'm going to lend you the money to start again."
"I won't----"
"Yes, you will, if you don't, I'll lend it to Cindy Ann, and let her
build in her own name. She's got more sense than you, and she knows how
to keep still when things go well."
"Mas' Sam," cried Jerry, rising quickly, "don' len' dat money to Cindy
Ann. W'y ef a ooman's got anything she nevah lets you hyeah de las' of
it."
"Will you take it, then?"
"Yes, suh; yes, suh, an' thank 'e, Mas' Sam." There were sobs some place
back in his throat. "An' nex' time ef I evah gets a sta't agin, I'll
keep my mouf shet. Fac' is, I'll come to you, Mas' Sam, an' borry fu' de
sake o' hidin'."
_Eleven_