From their observatory upon the roof, our friends beheld a mob of men
surround the house and cautiously inspect all the lawn, the outhouses,
and the land surrounding. Half a dozen men under the direction of
Sheriff Flournoy searched the house, lighting up every room, looking in
every closet, examining every corner, and peering under every bed.
“I reckon the robbers, if any, got away, fellows,” Flournoy announced as
he came out on the front porch. “We cannot find anybody, and cannot see
that anything has been disturbed.”
“Where are the niggers who raised the alarm?” a voice asked.
“I guess they hit the grit,” Flournoy smiled. “I can’t imagine Hopey and
Dazzle staying to see what a burglar wanted, or returning to see what he
got.”
“Here’s one nigger has showed up!” a voice responded.
“White folks!” Vinegar Atts bawled as he was pushed into the light
through a crowd of men. “Whut done happened to Marse Tom’s house?”
“Where have you been?” Flournoy snapped.
“Jes’ got back from a chu’ch religious meetin’,” Vinegar explained.
“Marse Tom lef’ me an’ Hopey in charge of dis house, an’ he ain’t gwine
approve his lawn gittin’ trompled up wid white folks.”
“Somebody tried to rob this house while you were away,” Flournoy told
him.
Vinegar’s eyes opened until they glowed in the light from the porch like
two china door-knobs.
“Did you-all good white folks ketch de robber?”
“No.”
“Did de robber steal anything?”
“No.”
“Whar is Hopey at?”
“The robber may have kidnapped her.”
“You’s prankin’ wid me, Marse John,” Vinegar howled. “Dar ain’t no one
robber could kidnack Hopey. Dat wus a _band_ of robbers—I surmises about
fawty in de gang.”
Vinegar fumbled with his hat, and his breath came and went in labored
gasps.
“I’m glad de robbers never stole nothin’,” he sighed. “Dat house am
plum’ full of pretty doodads, an’ ef Marse Tom wus to come home an’ find
dem rooms empty, I’d hab to _esplain_ to him. An’ Marse Tom cain’t
onderstand nothin’—when a nigger esplains.”
Vinegar shook his head in great perplexity over this particular white
man’s mental fulness. One of the mysteries of his life was that he had
never put anything across with Colonel Gaitskill. He knew the end from
the beginning, and all the ramifications thereof, and with him,
Vinegar’s explanations never explained. They merely caused
complications.
“Whut is us gwine do now, Marse John?” he asked.
“I’m going to leave you to guard this house until daylight,” Flournoy
told him. “Then I’ll come and examine it more carefully.”
“I ain’t got to guard it from de inside, is I, Marse John?” Vinegar
asked in frightened tones.
“Yes—no, I think you had better stay outside,” Flournoy replied in a
meditative tone. “If you go inside, you’ll go to sleep. If you stay out,
the weather is ’most too cool to sleep comfortably, and you will have
intervals of wakefulness.”
“I ain’t gwine sleep wid no band of burglars trapesin’ aroun’,” Vinegar
assured him stoutly. “But I’ll feel a whole heap safer on de outside.”
“I’ll leave an automatic shotgun and two pistols with you, Vinegar,”
Flournoy said. “Now you sit down by that tree over there and keep watch.
Hear me?”
“I prefers to stand up an’ keep watch, Marse John,” Vinegar said as he
placed the two pistols in his pocket and reached out for the gun. “I
never could shoot good settin’ down.”
“You can’t run good settin’ down, either, can you?” Flournoy said
mockingly.
“Naw, suh, I cain’t git a real good runnin’ start,” Vinegar chuckled.
“If you see anybody, don’t you run—you shoot!” Flournoy snapped. “But
don’t shoot until we all get off this lot.”
“Dis here powder an’ shot don’t cost me nothin’,” Vinegar grinned. “I’ll
shore shoot—but I ain’t sayin’ dat I won’t run. My religium teaches me
to exoncise discretion.”
Thereupon the crowd, with much joking and loud laughter, wandered off
toward the town. They assembled in various popular resorts for liquid
refreshment, and then went home for the night.
Vinegar stood under the tree in the silence and darkness. His first
thought was that he would stand like a watchful sentinel all night long.
But the novelty of standing guard over a silent, unlighted house soon
wore off, especially when, as he expressed it, “standing up ailed his
feets.”
He sat down “to rest his feets,” removing his shoes for greater comfort.
He had spent many years of his life on that hill, and it had always
seemed to be a populous place up to that night. Now it was lonely and
lonesome; nobody to talk to but himself, a poor listener and an
unedifying conversationalist.
Sitting upright “ailed his back.” He shuffled along the ground on the
seat of his trousers until he felt the trunk of the tree as a support
for his spine. Holding the chilly barrel of his shotgun “ailed his
hands”; sitting upon the two pistols in his hip pockets “ailed his
thighs.” He laid his weapons aside within easy reach.
The ground was warmer than the trunk of the tree against which he was
leaning. It wouldn’t do for his back to get chilled—he might catch “de
Spanish fluence.” So he placed the spine of his back level with the
earth and permitted the genial warmth of the soil to permeate his
massive frame from his head to his heels. Lying flat upon the ground
“ailed his head.” He reached for his shoes, placed them under his head
for a pillow, looked straight up in the sky and counted three
stars—four—seven—fo’teen——
About that time, eight negroes who had been crouched in very cramped
attitudes on the steep roof, stood up to ease themselves and seek more
comfortable positions.
“How we gwine git word to Vinegar ’thout gittin’ our fool heads shot
off?” Pap Curtain whispered, looking down into the yard, where he could
see a dark mass under a tree.
“Telerphome him,” Little Bit suggested.
“Us mought start to sing a religious toon,” Figger Bush, vocalist,
proposed. “Dat’ll ca’m his mind an’ make him peaceful.”
“Wid all dem guns on him, we wants him to favor peace,” Skeeter agreed.
“Singin’ on top of de Shoofly Chu’ch mought ca’m his mind,” Hitch
rumbled doubtfully. “But ef he hears singin’ on top of dis house, it
mought trouble his mind.”
“Don’t whisper so loud,” Dazzle warned the men. “Ef de white folks ketch
us up on dis roof dey’ll kill us dead wid guns an’ put us in jail.”
“’Twon’t be no worse dan spendin’ de rest of our lives up on de top
shelf of dis house,” Pap Curtain retorted.
“’Tain’t no reason fer us to set up on top of dis roof,” Hitch Diamond
growled. “Us might git sleepy an’ roll off an’ bu’st ourselfs like a
water-millyum. Less git down through de trap-door into de attic.”
“Of co’se, dat’s de idear!” Skeeter applauded. “Vinegar ain’t guarding
but one side of dis house nohow. Us’ll slip out on de yuther side an’ go
away from here.”
He reached for the edge of the door and tried to lift it. It would not
move. The latch on the other side of that door had held the door in
place through Gulf storms which had snapped trees like toothpicks.
“Dis door is heavy, Hitch—git aholt!” Skeeter panted, straining at his
task.
Four negro men promptly lent their aid and lifted, but they did not lift
the door.
“My lawdymussy!” Hitch Diamond sighed with sudden enlightenment, as the
cold, nervous sweat popped out on his forehead with the realization of
their predicament. “I knows whut us is done. Dis dang door is got a
ketch-lock on de inside, an’ us is done locked ourselfs out an’ up on de
roof!”
“Is you plum’ shore, Hitchie?” Skeeter asked in a voice that was near to
tears.
“I knows it,” Hitch whispered. “Marse Tom sont me up here one time to
look fer a leak in de roof, an’ I locked myse’f out in jes’ dis same
way.”
“How did you git rescued, Hitchie?” Skeeter asked tearfully.
“I hollered fer he’p till Marse Tom come up an’ onlatched de door from
de inside,” Hitch told him.
“No fair hollerin’ fer Marse Tom now,” Skeeter said hopelessly. “We is
all dead niggers.”
“Mebbe ef we wait till day Vinegar will see us an’ exoncise some sense—”
Hopey began.
“Shut up, Hopey,” Skeeter interrupted. “Ef we waits till dat nigger
preacher gits sense, us’ll be here till he dies fer he ain’t never
aimin’ todes no sense. An’ ef he looks up in de dawn’s early light an’
sees eight kinky heads peepin’ at him over de edge of dis roof—he’ll
shoot, an’ dar’ll be eight blackbirds bakin’ in a pie!”
“Lemme go take a peep at Revun Atts now, befo’ day,” Little Bit said, as
he removed his shoes and began to crawl carefully through the darkness
toward the edge of the roof. He was gone a long time, and the others
waited his return in silence. At last he crawled back and said:
“I b’lieves dat Vinegar is asleep, brudders. It ’pears to me like he’s
layin’ down flat, an’ ef you listens real good I think us kin hear him
snore.”
“Dat don’t he’p us none,” Hitch Diamond grumbled. “Ef anything wakes him
up, he’ll be more skeart dan ever, an’ he’ll beller like a cow.”
They sat down on the trap-door and waited a long time, each one trying
to devise some plan of escape.
Finally, in desperation, Skeeter Butts removed his shoes and crawled to
the edge of the roof.
“Hello, Revun!” he exclaimed in a low tone. But Vinegar’s audible
breathing was undisturbed by the birdlike voice.
“Hey, elder!” Skeeter hailed, getting louder. Skeeter frightened himself
by the courageous loudness of his voice, but Vinegar heard nothing to
interrupt his dreams.
“Ho! Vinegar Atts!” Skeeter barked; and when he perceived no effect, he
howled: “Hey, you ole fool nigger preacher, wake up! Git up!”
“Hush, Skeeter!” Mustard Prophet warned him. “You’re hollerin’ loud
enough to wake up all de white folks in dis town, but it takes a real
whoopful tone to wake a nigger. Don’t fotch all de white folks up on
us.”
“How we gwine git dis old fool woked up?” Skeeter snapped.
“Take a brick off de top of de chimney an’ throw it down at him,” Little
Bit suggested.
They wrenched off a brick and threw it. It hit the ground with a loud
slap. Vinegar slept on.
“I knowed dat would be de come-out,” Hitch grumbled. “Bricks won’t wake
up a nigger onless dey land on his head!”
“Whut we gwine do?” Skeeter wailed. “I never wus as tired roostin’ on a
roof in my life.”
Nobody answered, and there was silence while all pondered the problem.
The next suggestion came from Figger Bush.
“I read in a book about a man dat escaped out of jail by tyin’ his
clothes togedder an’ makin’ a rope. Mebbe ef we tear up our clothes an’
make a rope an’ let Little Bit down to de groun’——”
“Who—_me?_” Little Bit demanded. “Naw! But I’ll he’p hold de rope while
Hitch Diamond climbs down.”
“I got de idear, niggers!” Pap Curtain put in. “Less set somepin on fire
an’ throw it down by de side of Vinegar. Dat’ll wake him up all right,
an’ it’ll gib a good light fer him to see his friends by.”
“How come you didn’t think of dat sooner, Pap?” Skeeter asked, as he
removed his coat and began to pull off his shirt. “I contributes my
shirt fer de blaze!”
Thereupon they tied Skeeter’s shirt into a tight wad, struck a match,
and set fire to it. When the blaze grew strong, they tossed it over the
edge of the roof.
Their aim was good—too good. When Vinegar waked up he found the lawn
glowing with light, and throwing fantastic shadows upon the sides of the
house—shadows that resembled giant figures, figures which possessed hoof
and wing and beak and claw and forked tail and leering looks and
sneering mouths, all the malice of deformity. And he also saw that the
rear portion of his swing-tail preaching coat was on fire!
Then he split the silence of the night with a cry which makes every
nerve quiver whenever it is heard. Vinegar’s voice had been trained for
vociferation by years of exercise in calling for strayed hogs in the
swamp, by preaching to somnolent negroes to whom his voice must carry
through slumberland, and by camp-meeting singing where sound took the
place of symphony. That cry was louder than any human voice had ever
uttered in Tickfall:
“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”
Smothering the fire on the tail of his Prince Albert coat with his
hands, Vinegar seized his automatic shotgun and fired six times in the
air. Then he emptied two automatic pistols into the circumambient
atmosphere, and above all the roar of his artillery he continued to
bellow:
“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”
The night watchman down in the town heard that cry and pulled a pistol
from his pocket, firing six times in the air. Running into the
court-house, he pulled frantically at the bell-rope, and the wild
clangor of the alarm reverberated through the empty streets. Then voices
answered:
“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”