From their high perch on top of the house, the eight negroes could look
down upon the entire village of Tickfall. Appalled by the unexpected
outcome of their ruse, they were terrified beyond description as they
beheld an entire village suddenly awake from slumber to most intense
excitement and activity.
First, they saw the electric lights flash up in every house in Tickfall.
A moment later a large shaft of light flared across the darkness as a
man opened a door, stepping out in front with shotgun or pistol. A
moment later a number of quick flashes of light in front of each house
and the sound of shots. It was thus that each man in the village sought
to arouse his neighbors, the promiscuous shooting being a fire signal in
all Louisiana villages.
Far over in the other end of the town the negroes beheld a great chimney
belching glowing sparks from its top, and then from that station a
siren-whistle sounded its weird screech, telling the inhabitants of
Tickfall that the immense water-pumps were working and the fire-plugs
were throbbing, waiting for the attachment of the hose.
In the center of the town two great lights began to whip the darkness,
and another siren sounded, indicating that the gasoline fire-engine was
leaving its station for its wild run up the hill to the Gaitskill home.
Then from all parts of the town came the honk of auto-horns and the
racket of cars running with the muffler open; and the noise of running,
shouting men hurrying to the scene, shooting firearms in the air; and
the rattle of hose wagons and ladder trucks pulling the steep grade;
while on top of the hill, standing on the Gaitskill lawn, was Vinegar
Atts, negro preacher, Boanerges, son of thunder, bawling in a voice that
would almost wake the dead:
“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”
Eight negroes, squatting like monkeys on the top of Colonel Tom
Gaitskill’s house prayed to die. They didn’t want to live another
minute. They did not think it was worth while. They were in the helpless
predicament of some man who has inadvertently started some powerful
piece of machinery and does not know how to stop it. They had certainly
started something. What the townful of fire-fighters would do to them
when they caught them was something they did not care to think about.
They preferred to die. If the chariot of the Lord would just swing low,
there would be eight eager passengers swinging to the back step, waiting
for the invitation: “Come up higher!”
The fire-engine stopped in front of the house; the ladder wagons
thundered into the horse-lot on the side of the lawn; the multitude of
fire-fighters came romping over the lawn; the hose was unwound
screechingly and dragged to the nearest fire-plug.
Eight terror-stricken negroes lay flat on their stomachs on the roof
moaning in anguish, pleading with de good Lawd to come an’ git ’em now,
befo’ de white folks got to ’em fust, while Vinegar Atts, raving like a
maniac, pranced up and down the lawn, bellowing like a bull of Bashan:
“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”
“Where is the fire?” a volunteer fireman screamed.
Vinegar gesticulated in the general direction of the Gaitskill homestead
and whooped: “Fie-ur-r!”
“Shut up, you fool!” Sheriff Flournoy whooped, hitting Vinegar in the
middle of the back with his fist, a blow like the kick of a mule. “Shut
up that noise and show us the fire!”
Up to that moment it seemed to Vinegar Atts that the whole hillside was
ablaze. He looked around with startled eyes. The Gaitskill home was in
total darkness. Not a glow of fire anywhere that needed the aid of the
fire department, for all the fires were those in the engine, the
automobiles, and the cigarettes and cigars of the men. For the first
time the thing looked to Vinegar like a false alarm. A number of men
gathered around him, and he became frightened.
“Befo’ Gawd, white folks,” he stammered hoarsely, “dar wus a fire a
little while ago, but I don’t know whar-at it is now. It must hab went
out.”
“You went to sleep and dreamed it!” Flournoy snapped angrily.
“Naw, suh, I ain’t been asleep at all!” Vinegar declared. “Of co’se, I
napped a little early in de night, but I cain’t really say I sleeped.
An’ I wus wid awake when de fire bu’st loose. I seen it wid my own
eyes.”
“What was burning?” Flournoy asked.
For a moment Vinegar could not recall. Then he remembered.
“Why, boss, my own coat-tail wus a burnin’! Look at it! All de
swing-tail part of my Prancin’ Albert coat is ruint—de lef’ hind tail is
plum’ burnt off!”
One of the men backed Vinegar to where he could stand in front of an
automobile light and inspected the rear of his preaching coat. Vinegar
was right.
“What do you make of it, sheriff?” someone asked.
“Aw, I don’t know,” Flournoy said with disgust. “You can’t get any sense
out of this old fool.”
“I’s tellin’ all I knows, Marse John,” Vinegar said defensively. “Ef dar
warn’t no fire, how come my coat-tail is burnt off?”
“You may have burnt your coat-tail off three days ago, for all I know,”
Flournoy remarked.
“Naw, suh; dis coat-tail smells of fresh fire, Marse John,” Vinegar
protested. “Ef you don’t b’lieve me, smell it yo’se’f!”
“You listen to me, Vinegar Atts,” Flournoy said angrily. “I’m going to
search this house and these premises for a fire, and if I don’t find one
I’m going to kick that burnt coat-tail of yours clear down the hill to
the jail, and I’ll put you in there for forty years for disturbing the
peace! Understand?”
He turned and walked to the house, stopping on the porch.
“Listen to me, everybody!” his authoritative voice commanded. “I am
going to search this house for fire. You men search all the stables and
outhouses.”
Vinegar’s hand reached back gingerly in the vicinity of his coat-tail.
That portion of his anatomy was a particularly soft and tender spot on
him. He decided not to wait for the sheriff to escort him to jail on the
toe of his official boot. Marse John could be powerful rough with cullud
folks if he wanted to be, and now he appeared to be mad about something.
Vinegar started down the hill toward the jail on his own volition; he
went straight to the jail, but he didn’t stop there. He went on, and he
kept going three days.
Eight negroes had heard the sheriff’s announcement that he was going to
search the house, and they crouched upon the roof with terror and
despair in their hearts. They knew the white man would look for fire on
the roof!
“Dar ain’t no hope now, niggers,” Pap Curtain moaned. “Us mought as well
jump off dis roof on our heads.”
“Mebbe Marse John won’t come up on dis roof,” Little Bit remarked
hopefully.
“Dat white man don’t never leave nothin’ ondone, Little Bit,” Skeeter
sighed mournfully. “He’ll be up on dis roof jes’ as shore as dar is a
top to dis ole house.”
“Yep, he’s comin’,” Hitch Diamond rumbled. “I wish I wus de tail of a
buzzard—I’d hab some chance to fly off from here.”
“Be still, folks; be still an’ lemme think!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed,
seating himself on the trap-door and clawing at his head with both
hands. “Mebbe I kin pull somepin off!”
“I wish somepin would pull me offen dis roof!” Mustard retorted.
While the search continued in the yard below, Skeeter sat and thought.
Not a place where a spark of fire might linger was left uninspected in
the yard, the outhouses, or the corners of the fence. Within the house,
Flournoy was just as particular and minute in his search. First the
entire lower floor was subjected to the closest inspection. Then he
moved up the steps and searched in every room and closet. Then he moved
up a third flight of steps, and stood looking at the contents of the
attic, the accumulation of cast-off stuff of years, sniffing for the
odor of smoke, glaring in the darkness for the smallest gleam of fire.
He knew that house through associations which carried him back to his
earliest childhood. With his electric flash-light he found the ladder in
the attic which led up to the roof. He remembered climbing that ladder,
or a ladder like that, fifty years before for a boyish view of the world
from that high point.
Slowly he climbed upward until his groping hands touched the trap-door
above his head.
Skeeter Butts suddenly rose from his seat upon the trap-door, belled his
hands around his mouth, and said in a loud whisper:
“Lay down flat on de roof, niggers, an’ say yo’ prayers! Lay down an’ be
still ef you wants to save you lives!”
Then the trap-door was slowly raised about a foot. Skeeter stepped upon
the door with his full weight and mashed it back into its place.
“Who is up on that roof?” Flournoy asked in a voice which cracked like a
pistol shot.
“By gosh, Marse John!” Skeeter squalled. “You mighty nigh skeart de
gizzard out of me. I thought a ha’nt was tryin’ to lift dat door!”
At the sound of Skeeter’s voice Flournoy laughed. In the many years that
Skeeter had been his “pet nigger,” his “favorite insect,” Flournoy had
found him in so many unexpected places that he had ceased to be
surprised.
“What are you doing up on this roof?” Flournoy asked, pushing up the
trap-door and looking at Skeeter’s outline in the dark.
“I climbed up to look fer fire on de roof, Marse John,” Skeeter said,
artfully blocking the door with his foot so that the sheriff could not
easily raise it higher. “Dis roof is powerful slick, Marse John. You
better not climb out. Dar ain’t no fire up here nohow!”
“Come on then; let’s go down,” the sheriff answered, backing down the
ladder.
Skeeter followed willingly, latching the trap-door securely behind him
as he descended.
At the foot of the ladder, the sheriff turned his flash-light into
Skeeter’s face.
“Where’s your shirt, Skeeter?” he asked.
“I didn’t take no time to put on no shirt, Marse John,” Skeeter
chuckled. “When I heard de kunnel’s house wus on fire, I jes’ nachelly
abandoned all de clothes I didn’t need.”
“That was right,” Flournoy approved. “You’re a white nigger!”
V
By the time Flournoy and Skeeter had reached the ground, the volunteer
firemen had grown weary and gone home. The engines, hose-wagon,
ladder-trucks, automobiles, all had gone home.
“I’ll leave you here for the rest of the night, Skeeter,” Flournoy
remarked as he turned his flash upon his watch to see the time. “I think
Vinegar Atts must have delirium tremens, or something like that.”
“He didn’t git ’em at de Hen-Scratch, Marse John,” Skeeter said
earnestly. “He buys all his drinks on credick, an’ I holds him down till
he’s mighty nigh teetotal prohibitionist.”
“You mean that you are the prohibitionist and he is of necessity the
almost total abstainer.”
“Yes, suh, it’s jes’ as much dat way as it is de way I said it.”
Half an hour later Skeeter sneaked up the steps, unlatched the
trap-door, and pushed it open. Seven negroes were standing with anxious
faces at the opening, and they welcomed Skeeter with exclamations of
thanksgiving which sounded like a Shoofly prayer and praise service.
One by one they climbed down the ladder, then marched in single file to
the kitchen.
Skeeter switched on the electric light, and the eight idiots stood about
in dejected attitudes, sleepy, winking at the light, worn with
excitement and fatigue, depressed by their frightful experiences.
Pap Curtain was a man of age and discretion; he had had various legal
experiences which had put a special emphasis for him upon the motto:
“Safety First.”
He looked his seven companions in evil over very searchingly, then
turned to them with these words:
“You niggers cross yo’ heart an’ body!”
They made the sign.
“Repeat dese here words after me,” Pap snarled. Then the words came in
short phrases, easy to repeat: “I solemnly swears on de Bible an’ all de
opossums dat I won’t say nothin’ about de doin’s of dis night, now an’
ferever, amen. An’ ef I does, I hopes I may die!”
“An’ ef anybody blabs, I’ll be de nigger dat’ll cause yo’ onhappy end!”
Pap warned them menacingly.
“Suppose de white folks ax questions?” Little Bit inquired.
“Dat’s easy,” Pap replied with a sneering grin. “Tell eve’ybody dat axes
you dat all us niggers thinks Marse Tom Gaitskill ole house is ha’nted.
Dat’ll be aplenty to say to white folks.”
Dazzle Zenor walked over and put her arms around Skeeter Butts.
“You is a brave cullud man, Skeeter,” she told him. “I loves you.”
Skeeter disengaged her arms and pushed her away.
“Wus you lyin’ to me when you telerphomed dat robbers wus in dis house?”
he asked.
“Naw, suh, I wus jokin’. I wanted to see wus you brave enough to come
an’ rescue me—an’ you wus, Skeeter, an’ I loves you mo’ dan ever.”
But Skeeter evaded her outstretched arms as she advanced again for a
clinch, and with a contemptuous wave of his yellow hand he delivered
this good-night message:
“Git away! You done made me burn up a shirt an’ waste a good night’s
sleep. Dat’s plum’ plenty fer you! I’m always a brave nigger!”
Then eight negroes uttered a low moan of fright. The electric light had
gone out, leaving them in darkness in that haunted house!
The electric lights went out every night at one o’clock, but they didn’t
think of that.
Eight negroes left that kitchen in a hurry. They sped away in eight
different directions, at various speeds, each according to his
capability. But everyone did his best, each chased by a “ha’nt”—for thus
doth conscience make cowards of us all.
------------------------------------------------------------------------