The top of the cotton stalk glimmered with a purple bloom, but down
between the rows, among the dying leaves, the first bolls were opening.
The air was still hot, for at noontime the glare in the sandy road was
fierce, but the evening was cool, and from out in the gleaming dew came
a sweetly, lonesome chirrup, an alarm in the grass, the picket of the
insect army, crying the approach of frost. In the atmosphere was felt
the influence of a reviving activity; new cotton pens were built along
the borders of the fields, and the sounds of hammer and saw were heard
in the neighborhood of the gin-house. With the dusk of Saturday evening
"new" negroes came. In the city they had idled the summer away,
gambling, and had now come with nimble fingers to pick cotton during the
day and with tricky hands to throw dice at night. Gaunt, long-legged
birds flew from the North and awkwardly capered on a sand-bar. Afar off
there appeared to hover over the landscape a pall of thin, pale smoke;
but, like the end of the rainbow, it stole back from closer view, was
always afar off, lying low to the earth. The autumn rains had not yet
set in, and the water in the bayou was low and yellow. The summer
grapes were ripe, and in the cool, shaded coves at the base of the hills
the muscadine was growing purple. The mules, so over-worked during
plow-time, now stumbled down the lane, biting at one another. The
stiffening wind, fore-whistle of the season's change of tune, was shrill
amid the rushes at the edge of the swamp.
It was a time to work, but also to muse and dream while working. In the
air was something that invited, almost demanded reverie. Upon the fields
there might lie many a mortgage, but who at such a time could worry over
the harsh exactions of debt?
Nearly three weeks had passed, and not again in the Major's household
had Pennington's name been mentioned. But once, alone with his wife, the
Major was leading up to it when she held up her hands and besought him
to stop. "I can't bear to think of it," she said. "It stuns and
stupefies me. But it is of no use to say anything to her. She is of age
and she is head-strong."
There was a dry rasp in the Major's throat. "Don't you think that to say
she is a crank would be hitting nearer the mark?"
"No, I don't," his wife answered. "She is not a crank. She is a
remarkably bright woman."
"Yes, she shows it. When a man does a fool thing he is weak, off, as
they say; but when a woman jumps out of the enclosure of common sense
we must say that she is bright."
"I thought you were going to shame her out of it?"
"I will, but she hasn't given me a chance. But we'll let it go. I
believe she has repented of her folly and is too much humiliated to make
a confession."
His wife smiled sadly. "Don't you think so?" he asked.
"No, I don't."
"Well, I must say that you are very calm over the situation."
"Didn't I tell you that I was stunned and stupefied by it?"
"Yes, that's all right, and there's no use in worrying with it. Common
sense says that when you can't help a thing the best plan is to let it
go until a new phase is presented."
And so they ceased to discuss the subject, but like a heavy weight it
lay upon them, and under it they may have sighed their worry, but they
spoke it not. From Tom this sentimental flurry had remained securely
hidden. Sometimes the grave tone of his father's words, overheard at
night, and his mother's distressful air, during the day, struck him with
a vague apprehension, but his mind was not keen enough to cut into the
cause of what he might have supposed to be a trouble; and so, he gave it
none of his time, so taken up with his banjo, his dogs, his sporting
newspaper, and his own sly love affair. In Louise's manner no change was
observed.
One afternoon the Major, old Gid, and an Englishman named Anthony Low
were sitting on the porch overlooking the river when the Catholic priest
from Maryland, Father Brennon, stopped to get a drink of water. And he
was slowly making his way across the yard to the well when the Major
called him, urging him to come upon the porch and rest himself. "Wait,"
the Major added, "and I'll have some water drawn for you."
"I thank you," the priest replied, bowing, "but I prefer to draw it."
When he had drunk out of the bucket, he took a seat on the porch. He was
a man of middle age, grave, and sturdy. His eyes were thoughtful and his
smile was benevolent; his brow was high and broad, his nose large and
strong, and a determined conviction seemed to have molded the shape of
his mouth. His speech was slow, resonant, dignified; his accent of
common words was Southern, but in some of his phrases was a slight burr,
the subdued echo of a foreign tongue.
The Englishman was a stocky young fellow, with light hair and reddish
side whiskers, a man of the world, doggedly careful in his use of
superlatives, but with a habit of saying, "most extraordinary." He had
rented an old plantation and lived alone in a dilapidated log house,
with his briar pipe, Scotch whisky, sole leather hatbox, and tin
bathtub. He had thought that it would be a sort of lark to grow a crop
of cotton, and had hired three sets of negroes, discharging them in turn
upon finding that they laughed at his ways and took advantage of his
inexperience. He had made his first appearance by calling one morning at
the Major's house and asking to be shown about the place. The Major
gladly consented to do this, and together they set out on horseback.
The planter knew much of English hospitality, gathered from old
romances, and now was come the time to show a Britain what an American
gentleman could do. They rode down a lane, crossed a small field, and
halted under a tree; and there was a negro with whisky, mint and sugar.
They crossed a bayou, passed the "quarters," turned into the woods; and
there was another negro with whisky, mint and sugar. They rode across a
large field, and went through a gate, came to a spring; and there
waiting for them was a negro with liquor for a julep. They turned into
the "big" road, trotted along until they came to another spring, at
least three miles from the starting point; and there was a negro with
whisky, sugar and mint. But the Englishman's only comment was, "Ah,
most extraordinary, how that fellow can keep ahead of us, you know."
Several months had elapsed, and the Major had called on Mr. Low, had
shouted at the yard-gate, had supposed that no one was at home, had
stalked into the wide open house and there had found the Englishman
sitting in his bathtub, reading Huxley. And to-day Mr. Low had come to
acknowledge the receipt of that visit.
"You are on the verge of your busy season," said the priest.
"Yes," the Major replied, "we begin picking to-morrow."
"A beautiful view across the whitening fields," said the priest.
"You ought to see my bayou field," old Gid spoke up. "It would make you
open your eyes--best in the state. Don't you think so, John?"
"Well," the Major answered, "it is as good as any, I suppose."
"I tell you it's the best," Gid insisted. "And as a man of varied
experience I ought to know what best is. Know all about cotton. I gad, I
can look at a boll and make it open."
"Tell me," said the Englishman, "have you had any trouble with your
labor?"
"With the negroes?" Gid asked. "Oh, no; they know what they've got to do
and they do it. But let a cog slip and you can have all the trouble you
want. I gad, you can't temporize with a negro. He's either your servant
or your boss."
"All the trouble you want," said the Englishman. "By Jove, I don't want
any. Your servant or your master. Quite remarkable."
"Don't know how remarkable it is, but it's a fact all the same," Gid
replied. "You've had trouble, I understand."
"Yes, quite a bit. I've had to drive them off a time or two; the rascals
laughed at me. Quite full of fun they were, I assure you. I had thought
that they were a solemn race. They are everywhere else except in
America."
"It is singular," the Major spoke up, "but it is nevertheless true that
the American negro is the only species of the African race that has a
sense of humor. There's no humor in the Spanish negro, nor in the
English negro, nor in fact in the American negro born north of the Ohio
river, but the Southern negro is as full of drollery as a black bear."
"Ah, yes, a little too full of it, I fancy," Mr. Low replied. "I
threatened them with the law, but they laughed the more and were really
worse in every respect after that."
"With the law!" old Gid snorted. "What the deuce do they care about the
law, and what sort of law do you reckon could keep a man from laughing?
You ought to threatened them with a snake bone or a rabbit's foot."
"I beg pardon. A snake bone or a rabbit's foot, did you say? I really
don't understand."
"Yes, threaten to conjure them. That might have fetched them."
"Ah, I see. Quite extraordinary, I assure you."
The priest began to talk, and with profound attention they turned to
him. He sat there with the mystery of the medieval ages about him, with
a great and silent authority behind him.
"Have you gentlemen ever considered the religious condition of the
negro? Have you not made his religion a joke? Is it not a popular belief
that he will shout at his mourners' bench until midnight and steal a
chicken before the dawn? He has been taught that religion is purely an
emotion and not a matter of duty. He does not know that it means a life
of inward humanity and outward obedience. I have come to teach him this,
to save him; for in our church lies his only salvation, not alone of his
soul, but of his body and of his rights as well as of his soul. I speak
boldly, for I am an American, the descendant of American patriots. And I
tell you that the Methodist negro and the Baptist negro and the
Presbyterian negro are mere local issues; but the Catholic negro is
international--he belongs to the great nervous system of Rome; and
whenever Rome reaches out and draws him in, he is that moment removed as
a turbulent element from politics. Although slavery was long ago
abolished, there existed and to some small extent still exists a bond
between the white man and the black man of the South--a sort of family
tie; but this tie is straining and will soon be broken; a new generation
is coming, and the negro and the white man will be two antagonistic
forces, holding in common no sunny past--one remembering that his father
was a master, the other that his father was a slave. When that time
comes, and it is almost at hand, there will be a serious trouble growing
out of a second readjustment. The Anglo-Saxon race cannot live on a
perfect equality with any other race; it must rule; it demands complete
obedience. And the negro will resent this demand, more and more as the
old family ties are weakened. He has seen that his support at the North
was merely a political sentiment, and must know that it will not sustain
him in his efforts against capital, for capital, in the eye of capital,
is always just, and labor, while unfortunate, is always wrong. And when
the negro realizes this, remembering all his other wrongs, he will
become desperate. That is the situation. But is there no way to avert
this coming strife? I am here to say that there is. As communicants of
the Catholic Church the negroes will not listen to the labor agitator.
He will listen to the church, which will advise peace and submission to
proper authority."
The priest had not gone far into his discourse before the Major began to
walk up and down the porch in front of him, nodding at him each time as
he passed. And when the clergyman ceased to speak, the Major, halting
and facing him, thus replied: "There may be some truth, sir, in what you
have said--there is some little truth in the wildest of speculation--but
I should like to ask you why is not a Protestant negro in a Protestant
country as safe as a Catholic negro in a Protestant country? You tell me
that your religion will protect the negro, and I ask you why it does not
protect the laborer in the North? You say that the Protestant negro in
the South is a local issue, and I ask you why is not a Catholic laborer
in the North an international issue? If the negro of the South, yielding
to your persuasion, is to become a part of the great nervous system of
Rome, why are not Catholic laborers everywhere a part of that system? I
think, sir, that you have shrewdly introduced a special plea. Your
church, with its business eyes always wide open, sees a chance to make
converts and is taking advantage of it. And I will not say that I will
oppose your cause. If the negro thinks that your church is better for
him than the Protestant churches have proved themselves to be, why I say
let him be taken in. I admit that we are not greatly concerned over the
negro's religion. We are satisfied with the fact that he has his
churches and that he has always been amply provided with preachers
agreeing with him in creed and color of skin. I will concede that his
professions of faith are regarded more or less in the light of a joke.
But I want to tell you one thing--that the negro's best friends live
here in the South. From us he knows exactly what to expect. He knows
that he cannot rule us--knows that he must work for a living. The lands
belong to the white man and the white man pays the taxes, and the white
man would be a fool to permit the negro to manage his affairs. Men who
dig in the coal mines of Pennsylvania don't manage the affairs of the
company that owns the mines. I cannot question the correctness of one of
your views--that the old tie is straining and may soon be broken. The
old negroes still regard us with a sort of veneration, but if the
younger ones show respect it is out of fear. Into this county a large
number of negroes have lately come from Mississippi and South Carolina.
They have been brought up on large plantations and have but a limited
acquaintance with the white man. Instinctively they hate him. And these
newcomers will listen to the voice of the agitator and by their example
will lead their brethren into trouble. You are right when you say that
the Anglo-Saxon race must rule. It will rule a community as it must
eventually rule the civilized world. But I don't see how your church is
to be the temporal as well as the spiritual salvation of the negro."
The Major sat down; the priest smiled gravely, showing the shape into
which conviction and determination had molded his mouth. "My church is
not at all times able to prevent labor troubles in the North," said he,
"but it has often prevented the shedding of blood."
"Ah," the Major broke in, "that may be true; and so has the influence of
the other churches. But what I want to know is this: How can you protect
a negro here more than you protect an Italian in the North?"
"My dear sir, the Italian in the North is protected."
"I grant you, but by the law rather than by the church."
"But is not the church behind the law?" There was a shrewd twinkle in
the priest's eyes, and he was about to proceed with his talk when old
Gid snorted: "I gad, I hear that the public schools of the North are in
the hands of the Catholics, and if that's the case I reckon they've got
a pretty good hold on the court house. I understand that they daresn't
open a Bible in the public schools of Chicago; and they also tell me
that the children there have to learn Dutch. Zounds, ain't that enough
to make old Andy Jackson rattle his bones in his grave? I wish I had my
way for a few weeks. I'd show the world that this is America. I'd catch
low-browed wretches carrying all sorts of spotted and grid-ironed flags
through the streets. Dutch! Now, I'd just like to hear a child of mine
gabbling Dutch."
The priest addressed himself to the Major: "You ask how we are to
protect the negro in the South. I will tell you--by teaching him that
except in the Catholic Church he cannot hope to find perfect equality.
Our communion knows no color--save red, and that is the blood of Christ.
Our religion is the only true democracy, but a democracy which teaches
that a man must respect himself before he should expect others to
respect him. But, my dear Major, I am not here to convince you, but to
convince the negro. He has been buffeted about by political parties, and
now it remains for the church to save him. One of these days an act
rather than a word may convince you."
Tom had come out upon the porch. For a time he stood, listening, then
quickly stepping down into the yard, he gazed toward the dairy house,
into which, accompanied by a negro woman, had gone a slim girl, wearing
a gingham sun-bonnet. The girl came out, carrying a jug, and hastened
toward the yard gate. Tom heard the gate-latch click and then stepped
quickly to the corner of the house; and when out of sight he almost ran
to overtake the girl. She had reached the road, and she pretended to
walk faster when she heard his footsteps. She did not raise her eyes as
he came up beside her.
"Let me carry the jug, Sallie."
"No, I can carry it."
"Give it to me."
He took the jug and she looked up at him with a smile.
"How's your uncle, Sallie?"
"He ain't any better."
Her uncle was Wash Sanders. Twenty years had passed since he had first
issued a bulletin that he was dying. He had liver trouble and a strong
combination of other ailments, but he kept on living. At first the
neighbors had confidence in him, and believed that he was about to pass
away, but as the weeks were stretched into years, as men who had been
strong and hearty were one by one borne to the grave, they began to lose
faith in Wash Sanders. All day long he would sit on his shaky verandah,
built high off the ground, and in answer to questions concerning his
health would answer: "Can't keep up much longer; didn't sleep a wink
last night. Don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive." His cows appeared
always to be dry, and every day he would send his niece, Sallie Pruitt,
for a jug of buttermilk. He had but one industry, the tending and
scraping of a long nail on the little finger of his left hand. He had a
wife, but no children. His niece had recently come from the pine woods
of Georgia. Her hair looked like hackled flax and her eyes were large
and gray.
"I didn't think you could see me," said the girl, taking off her bonnet
and swinging it as she walked, keeping a sort of time with it.
"Why, you couldn't possibly come and get away without my seeing you."
"Yes, I could if it was night."
"Not much. I could see you in the dark, you are so bright."
"I'm not anything of the sort. Give me the jug and let me go on by
myself if you are goin' to make fun of me."
She reached for the jug and he caught her hand, and walking along, held
it.
"I wouldn't want to hold anybody's hand that I'd made fun of," she said,
striving, though gently, to pull it away.
"I didn't make fun of you. I said you were bright and you are. To me you
are the brightest thing in the world. Whenever I dream of you I awake
with my eyes dazzled."
"Oh, you don't, no such of a thing."
They saw a wagon coming, and he dropped her hand. He stepped to the
right, she to the left, and the wagon passed between them. She looked
at him in alarm. "That's bad luck," she said.
"What is?"
"To let anything pass between us."
"Oh, it doesn't make any difference."
"Yes, it does," she insisted. "No, you mustn't take my hand
again--you've let something pass between us."
He awkwardly grabbed after her hand. She held it behind her, and about
her waist he pressed his arm. "Oh, don't do that. Somebody might see
us."
"I don't care if the whole world sees us."
"You say that now, but after awhile you'll care."
"Never as long as I live. You know I love you."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"You might say you do, but you don't. But even if you do love me now you
won't always."
"Yes, as long as I live."
She looked up at him, and her eyes were full of beauty and tenderness.
"Your mother----"
"None of that," he broke in. "I am my own master. To me you are the most
beautiful creature in the world, and----"
"Somebody's comin'," she said.
A horseman came round a bend in the road, and he stepped off from her,
but they did not permit the horseman to pass between them. He did not
put his arm about her again, for now they were within sight of her
uncle's desolate house. They saw Wash Sanders sitting on the verandah.
Tom carried the jug as far as the yard gate.
"Won't you come in?" Sanders called.
"I ought to be getting back, I guess."
"Might come in and rest awhile."
Tom hesitated a moment and then passed through the gate. The girl had
run into the house.
"How are you getting along?" the young man asked as he began slowly to
tramp up the steps.
"Porely, mighty porely. Thought I was gone last night--didn't sleep a
wink. And I don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive."
"Wouldn't you like a mess of young squirrels?" Tom asked, as he sat down
in a hickory rocking chair. Of late he had become interested in Wash
Sanders, and had resented the neighbors' loss of confidence in him.
"Well, you might bring 'em if it ain't too much trouble, but I don't
believe I could eat 'em. Don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive."
He lifted his pale hand, and with his long finger nail scratched his
chin.
"What's the doctor's opinion?" Tom asked, not knowing what else to say
and feeling that at that moment some expression was justly demanded of
him.
"The doctors don't say anything now; they've given me up. From the first
they saw that I was a dead man. Last doctor that gave me medicine was a
fellow from over here at Gum Springs, and I wish I may die dead if he
didn't come in one of finishin' me right there on the spot."
There came a tap at a window that opened out upon the verandah, and the
young fellow, looking around, saw the girl sitting in the "best room."
She tried to put on the appearance of having accidentally attracted his
attention. He moved his chair closer to the window.
"How did you know I was in here?" she asked, looping back the white
curtain.
"I can always tell where you are without looking."
"Are you goin' to make fun of me again?"
"If I could even eat enough to keep a chicken alive I think I'd feel
better," said Wash Sanders, looking far off down the road.
"I never did make fun of you," the young fellow declared in a whisper,
leaning close to the window. "And I wish you wouldn't keep on saying
that I do."
"I won't say it any more if you don't want me to."
"But I can't eat and can't sleep, and that settles it," said Wash
Sanders.
"Of course I don't want you to say it. It makes me think that you are
looking for an excuse not to like me."
"Would you care very much if I didn't like you?"
"If I had taken another slug of that Gum Springs doctor's stuff I
couldn't have lived ten minutes longer," said Wash Sanders.
And thus they talked until the sun was sinking into the tops of the
trees, far down below the bend in the river.