Solon and Juno had quarrelled. Now a quarrel was not an unusual
occurrence in the Quarters, but Solon and Juno had been exemplars of
conjugal felicity for nearly eighteen years, and had been held up to
their dusky world as patterns to be zealously copied.
This unpleasantness, however, had been brewing for a long time; but
hitherto, if one had lost temper, the other had always prudently
remembered that they were in the fierce light that beats upon all
paragons, and wisely refrained from adding to the flame. But at last
there was a culmination behind closed doors, and when Solon and Juno
arose at daylight neither had yielded a single point.
The most mortifying part of the whole proceeding to Solon was the fact
that he had just “experienced religion,” and this disgraceful thing
coming close upon the second week was certainly a most painful “falling
from grace,” and he groaned in spirit lest the news should be noised
abroad.
Juno, however, had no such qualms of conscience, for, though she
went to “meeting” persistently, her service was of the even, regular
variety, and as she was never known to shout, and had never “come under
conviction,” ’Zorter Blalock, newly come into that fold, took her under
especial consideration, and prayed nightly for “dem needer hot, needer
cole, les’ dey be spit outen de mouf, O Lord!”
Juno raised no question as to the genuineness of Solon’s religion;
but she had her own grievance against him; for in her old age Juno
had grown jealous; and at last, from much dwelling upon some recent
occurrences simultaneous with Solon’s profession, Juno had become
suspicious.
Twice of late Solon had asked for a pass to the adjoining plantation;
the last time she knew he had to swim the creek, for the water was up,
there was no one at the ferry that time of night, and he couldn’t have
taken a mule without waking John, who was most unobliging in such
matters. Then, more positive proof than anything else, Solon’s head was
very wet when he came in, along towards day, and he was very surly when
questioned about it.
“Gittin’ ’ligion go mighty hard wid you, Solon,” said Juno. “Hit keep
you outen you’ bed when hones’ folks is all ersleep. You does lack you
tryin’ ter lay er ghos’, ’steader gittin’ peace.”
Juno, typical of her race, and particularly of her sex, though
possessing no occult gifts of her own, was very superstitious, and,
goaded by her suspicions, resolved to make use of the simple means
within her reach; so, begging some coffee-grounds of Aunt Susan, the
cook at the Big House, she “turned the three cups of her fortune,” for
she felt that something was going wrong.
The first and second cups were barren of information, they represented
youth, and the grounds did not even “wash.” But the third—ah! she knew
it—Solon was deep in mischief, for this was the way it read:
That spot represented herself. There was a cross by it; that
represented trouble—no, it did not mean death. That clear space
represented water—the cross pointed that way, towards the north.
Bowen’s plantation was north: that was where Solon went. Across
the water was another cross—trouble again. Beyond the cross was an
eagle—that meant luck; but between the cross and the eagle, close to
the cross—in fact, an arm of the cross pointed right to it—was a (Juno
rubbed her eyes and looked again, then she pulled her brass specs,
which she seldom used, down upon her nose and took the cup to the
window)—was a woman!
Her hand trembled a little with indecision, then, forgetful of the
borrowed cup, she threw it into the grove. So the quarrel had come
about without a happy solution of the difficulty, for Solon sullenly
but persistently declared his innocence of offence, while Juno as
persistently put the question.
Next morning saw the beginning of a series of omens and disasters,
showing that some dark power was at work, for, without cause or
warning, Juno’s skillet cracked right in two on the fire before the
hoe-cake was done; Solon’s rooster stood in the doorway and crowed
three times before he could shoo him away; and a chimney-swallow got
into the cabin and beat its wings bloody against the wall in its
efforts to get out.
A very thoughtful, silent pair joined the hands in the field that
morning, for everything seemed to be going wrong. Juno got a “miz’ry
in her side” long before noon, and just as the most unsatisfactory day
that they had ever spent together was closing, a “cotton-mouth” bit
Solon on the heel. Juno ran to kill a chicken to apply to the wound
to draw out the poison, for she had more faith in the warm chicken
than in Ole Marse’s whiskey, which was plentifully supplied. She did
not want to see Solon die with, as she said, “a lie in de mouf”; and,
hoping to avert evil, she killed the very rooster that had crowed so
inauspiciously early in the morning, thus opening upon her head the
vials of Solon’s wrath when he had recovered from his fright.
“Ju! you done los’ you’ head-piece sho’, you fool! Hain’t I done gib up
all I got ter git dat dominicker, an’ hain’t got but one, an’ here you
go an’ split him up fur er snake-bite lack any common chick’n! I lay
I larn you, ole ’oman, if I hatter frail you ever’ day ’twix’ now an’
Chris’mus!”
“An’ I lay, if you does, I’ll up an’ tell ’em in de meetin’ how you
done git dat rooster, Solon!”
Then, to the amazement of both, the story of the quarrel got out; the
faintest whisper of the midnight was exploited, as it were, upon the
house-tops; wagging heads were turned and loosened tongues clattered;
and at night Juno quilted in silence, and Solon sought his religious
counsellors without comfort.
So the days passed, and Juno could see that Solon was perfectly
miserable; but he kept his own counsel, and, despite his vehement
protestations, the visits over the creek continued.
Then Solon fell ill of fever and ague. The overseer said that the
trouble was malarial, caused by the weekly trips across the bottom,
and refused to grant further passes; but it was to Parson Blalock that
Solon poured out the burden of his woes.
“I done come ter gib up dat ’ligion. Parson Blalock”; and Solon yawned
and shivered in the sunshine, for his chill-time was coming on.
“Nebber hab no trouble ner nuffin ail me twel I git hit, an’ here I
gwine chillin’ ever’ udder day lack er po’ mizerbul lam’ dat done been
drapped too soon. Hit done go too hard wid me, Parson Blalock, an’ I
come ter gib hit up!”
[Illustration: “‘’CASE DE HOODOO AM ’ER ’OMAN’”]
The ’zorter and ’spounder scratched his head thoughtfully, then laid a
bar on the anvil—for Parson Blalock was a blacksmith on weekdays.
“Ter my min’, Brer Solon, you cain’t gib hit up. Once in de fol’, you
b’long ter de fol’; you cain’t git out; an’ er-doin’ lack you is now,
is how ever’ fol’ done git er black sheep in hit!”
“Hit hain’t struck in deep yit, an’ I hain’t got no use fur dat
’ligion, an’ I want ter let hit go!” moaned Solon.
Parson Blalock had let the iron cool, and, drawing close to Solon, he
whispered: “Hit hain’t no ’ligion dat wukin’ on you, Brer Solon; you’s
right; you hain’t neber got ernough fur dat! ’Cordin’ ter de signs er
de times, ter my min’, hit er hoodoo, an’ you better look out fur her,
’case de hoodoo am er ’oman!”
Solon smiled in a sickly, hopeless way, for the ague was upon him, and
turned away in the direction of his cabin. But Juno was not there.
Crouching low before the witch-fire of Maum Ysbel, there had been
poured into her ears enough of misery to last through a whole cycle,
the price of barter having been a coveted china cup.
There was no light in the cabin, save from the blue and green flames
that were now dying out, lighting fitfully the features of the
toothless, weazened negress who knelt before it, for the only opening
was barred by a roughhewn hickory log. On the red coals snake fat and
lizard skin, mixed with some strange, ill-odored stuff, were merrily
bubbling; and the oracle continued:
“‘Tain’t no use ter try dat cat; hain’t nuffin but Ole Cinder Cat;
you’ll fin’ her bloody bones hid out somers. Hain’t nuffin but er
hoodoo dat er ridin’ dat cat, des ter ’do’ you wid Solon; but if yo’
wants ter mek sho’, jes ketch her when she dozin’ in de ashes an’
put her in de tar bar’l dar by you’ do’ wid de head druv in, an’ set
fire ter hit. If hit Ole Cinder, you’ll fin’ her, ’dout eben her tail
scotched, er-grinnin’ in de hot ashes when de fire done die out. If
dat happin, den you gotter ketch her ergin—an’ she’s gwinter gib you
er putty hard run—an’ ’n’int her hin’ de years wid dis grease; den
foller uv her, an’ tek dis bone wid you—whatebber you does, don’ lose
dis. If she cross de creek, she gwinter cross by de dry bed, ’case she
hain’t gwinter wet her foots lessen she kin hope hit; an’ she gotter
go mighty fur way up fur ter git ober dry, so you mought tek sumpen
ter eat wid you. Don’ matter how tired you gits, keep er-foll’in’ de
cat, an’ es soon es yo’ git on t’uther side, mek er cross an’ spit in
hit, den rub you’ eyes wid dis bone, an’ tu’n roun’ free times. Dat
’ll mek de hoodoo gib up de Cinder Cat’s skin, an’ right dar es you
tu’n you’ll see de pusson dat been mekin’ all dis here trouble ’twix’
you an’ Solon. You’ll know her when yo’ sees her, but don’ say nuffin
ter her but ’Howdy?’ an’ don’ eat nuffin she gib yo’, ’case she mout
’fix’ yo’ lack she do Solon, an’ yo’ cain’t do nuffin yit. Yo’ gotter
wait twel de spring, when de sap ’ll git up. Don’ yo’ quoil wid Solon
’twix’ now an’ den; Solon’s er good man; he wouldn’ be no kin ter me
if he wa’n’t!—fur he’s des hoodooed an’ hain’t ’sponsible. But soon’s
de sap’s riz you git yo’ er good big piece er green grape-vine an’ lay
fur de ’oman, an’ hit her wid hit unbeknownst; ’case if she know yo’
arter her, she’ll go er mighty long piece outen her way ter git shet er
yo’, fur de grape-vine sho’ brek de charm—hain’t no hoodoo kin mek er
stan’ ’gin yo’ if you hit ’em wid er grape-vine when de sap’s up; but
be mighty sho’ she’s stan’in’ on her own groun’ when yo’ hits her. If
yo’ does what I tells you, gal, dat Solon ’ll come back ter yo’ in er
herry, des es meek an’ peaceable es er lam’.”
Be it far from the chronicler of the Scheherazade of the nursery to
narrate the marital infelicities of Solon and Juno for the space of
nearly a year, but Mammy solemnly declares that the Cinder Cat bore the
test of the fiery tar, and sat calmly grinning in the ashes when the
flame had died away; and Juno, remembering the admonition, anointed
the ears of the cat with Maum Ysbel’s ointment, pleaded illness to
the overseer, and, putting the wonderful bone that was to give her
superhuman sight into her basket, together with a hoe-cake, she
followed Old Cinder Cat.
The cat progressed by many devious ways, giving many an unusual twinge
to the rheumatic limbs, for often Juno had to go on hands and knees,
scratching and tearing her face as she heard most unholy conversations
between the cat and the cold-blooded things that creep and thrive in
darkness.
[Illustration: “SHE FOLLOWED OLD CINDER CAT”]
But at last the dry bed of the creek was crossed, and, doing as Maum
Ysbel had bidden, Juno met face to face the comeliest of yellow
girls coming from milking, with her pail upon her head.
“Howdy?” said Juno.
“Howdy?” rejoined the girl, smiling, as she offered Juno a tin cup of
the milk.
The temptation was sore, for the rough hoe-cake, eaten in haste without
water, had parched her throat; but, remembering the warning, Juno
swallowed hard.
“Much obleeged, lady, but I hain’t got time”; and, breathless and
bleeding from her scratches, Juno hurried back to report to Maum Ysbel.
But the depth of winter was upon the land; it would be many a day
before vegetation would wake; and Juno, with consuming patience, bore
the vagaries of Solon until the leaves were born. Twice, in despair,
Juno had tapped the grape-vine, and twice the sap had failed to flow,
but the last straw was broken in this wise:
There was to be a break-down in the Quarters, to celebrate the breaking
of some new ground on the river-side, that had been deadened some two
years before, and, in accordance with Ole Marse’s custom, the laborers
were permitted to invite the negroes upon the adjoining plantation.
It was to be a great event, and Juno was preparing for the same with
great interest, for even flesh and age could not bare as neat a pair of
heels as hers for certain intricate shuffles, when, all of a sudden,
Solon declared his intention of not attending. Such a thing had not
been known to happen in the whole course of Solon’s existence. For two
days before the break-down he claimed that he was sick, and took all
of Juno’s nauseous concoctions without a murmur. Then he besought Juno
not to go to the dance. It was devil trickery, he said, and it was
very hard on him, as he was trying to keep his religion that he had
gotten so painfully, and the devil would be sure to follow her home.
He proposed that Juno should remain quietly in the cabin as usual on
the night of the break-down, as an example to the weaker “professors,”
while he thought it might do him good to pay a dutiful visit to his old
“daddy” across the river—for Old Marse owned on both sides.
But though Juno physicked her spouse faithfully, she rebelled against
such imposition.
“Um! Ober de ribber you gwine? I lay you’ daddy hain’t gwine lay eyes
on yo’ fur dis day two weeks. Gittin’ mighty anxious ’bout you’ daddy
all uv er suddent! I’se gwine ter de bre’k-down. I hain’t pestered wid
_you_’ ’ligion. Hain’t nuffin de matter wid Juno’s head ner her heels,
sho’ mun!”
But Juno’s heart was not as light as she made it appear, for she had
fretted through a whole winter and a late spring, and after a restless
night she again invoked the aid of Maum Ysbel.
“I hain’t got nuffin ter pay yo’ wid, Maumer, but I’se dat miserbul I
hatter come,” said Juno with a sigh.
The hag ceased stirring the contents of the little pot, and setting it
off on the hearth to cool, she drew her wrinkled face into many more
wrinkles, and took an inventory of Juno from head to foot.
“Yas, yo’ is, honey—yas, yo’ is!” and as she grinned, her solitary
tooth was visible in her glee. “De coat yo’ got on am powerful ole an’
fady, an’ dat ap’un hain’t no ’count; yo’ gotter wash hit mighty easy
fur ter w’ar hit one mo’ time; but yo’ got you’ moon year-bobs!”
Juno winced, for those big brass ear-rings were the pride of her heart;
twice her lobes had been pulled through with the weight of them, but
there was always room for another piercing.
The old woman leered and nodded. “Yo’ got you’ moon year-bobs, an’ my
Becky’s Sairey been cryin’ uv her eyes out fur ’em ebber sence she seed
’em!”
“But, Maumer—” expostulated Juno.
“Don’ yo’ ’Maumer’ me!” said the old woman, crossly. “What you come
here ter me fur if hit hain’t ter fetch dem bobs ter Sairey? Hain’t I
seed yo’ in de coals, ’way ’cross de fiel’, ’fore yo’ lef’ de cabin,
mek up you’ min’ ter fotch dem year-bobs ter Sairey fur what I gwine
tole yo’? What I tells yo’ worf er heap ter yo’, but hit nuffin ter me.
Solon hain’t my ole man!”
Juno was sick at heart. She had given up the blue-edged china cup to
save Solon, but the big moon ear-rings were the wealth of her whole
life.
The hoodoo threw a chip at a great toad that was napping in an old shoe
beside the hearth, and, shaking the ashes from her pipe, she refilled
it from her pocket. “Hain’t nuffin ter ole Ysbel, gal—her day done
ober; she don’ claim no man, dead ner libin’! But I done tole yo’ ’bout
dat yaller gal, hain’t I? Yo’ done seed her wid you’ own eyes, hain’t
yo’? An’ I done tole yo’ how ter git shet uv her. Hain’t my keerin’,
but if yo’ don’ wanter know no mo’ ’bout her, yo’ des tote dem moon
year-bobs back home wid yo’!”
Slowly the rings were removed from Juno’s ears, and the old woman,
with a leer, popped them into her capacious pocket before resuming her
professional attitude.
“Um! um! wall, de sap be up by ter-night, an’ ter-morrer yo’ play sick
an’ cross de ribber, ’case yo’ gotter whup her on her own groun’. Yo’
cain’t tech her on you’ own, no matter what happin, ’case she kin ’do’
yo’ den, an’ she’s de bestes’ hoodoo in dis kentry, ’ceptin’ ole Ysbel,
fur all dat she’s on’y er gal. Don’ yo’ say nuffin ter-night at de
bre’k-down, ner do nuffin, but yo’ gwine ter see sights, if you does
what I tells yo’. Mek lack ter Solon dat yo’ hain’t gwine sho’ ’nough,
dat yo’ ailin’ er sumpen, an’ let him gin out dat he gwine ter see his
daddy. Yo’ lay low twel yo’ hears dem fiddles des er-talkin’ in de
middle er de night, des ’fore dey sarve de supper; den yo’ tek you’
foot in you’ han’ an’ git down dar; but don’ yo’ go in, an’ don’ yo’ do
nuffin den, fur hoodoo ’oman hain’t lack odder ’oman, an’ you cain’t
git eben wid ’em de same way; but wait twel hit bre’k up, den cut you’
grape-vine, an’ den yo’ ’ll run ’gin sumpen in de dark; hit Ole Cinder
Cat. All yo’ hatter do is ter foller uv her, ’case I’se fixed her so’s
she gotter sarve yo’; an’ den when yo’ sees what yo’ lookin’ fur, lay
de grape-vine on, quick an’ fas’, ’case hain’t nuffin ail Solon but dat
yaller hoodoo!”
It was turning twelve when Old Cinder Cat rose from the hearth, and,
stretching herself, bounded through the doorway. Juno woke with a start.
“Um! Juno better be gwine too. Mighty fine business fur her ter be in,
long er hoodoos an’ Ole Cinder, but she sho’ gwine wid ’em dis time,
mun!”
The squeak of the old fiddle under Pompey’s fingers, mingled with the
even patting, was wafted through the open door. Juno looked at the
height of the moon.
“Hit’s turned midnight now, an’ I’m erg-wine.”
But she first sought the grape-vine by the spring. The bright moonlight
flooded everything as with the light of day, and, carefully cutting the
vine between certain joints, according to the formula of Maum Ysbel,
Juno hid it beneath her skirt, and took the little path towards the
sounds of midnight gayety.
[Illustration: “THE CHARM WAS FOREVER BROKEN, AND THE COMELY HOODOO
KNEW IT”]
The barn was radiant with tallow dips that winked and sputtered through
the decorations of pine boughs like gorgeous fire-flies. A dance was
in progress. The men were ranged in one line, the women in another; at
a certain point they met and joined hands. But, arrayed in gorgeous
apparel different from the others, a great red paper flower nodding in
her hair, her white teeth shining between parted lips, the leader of
the dance was the comely yellow girl whom Juno had seen before, and
her delighted partner was none other than the prodigal Solon himself.
Juno’s fingers instinctively sought the grape-vine for another purpose
than that indicated by Maum Ysbel, but, clinching her hands, she
withdrew into the outside shadows again, and the Cinder Cat suddenly
rubbed against her dress and purred.
Solon danced like one possessed, regardless of time or tune, always
keeping his eyes fixed upon the nodding crimson flower; and the yellow
girl, with lips drawn tight over the white teeth, watched him with the
eyes of possession.
Then, as he sank upon a bench, exhausted, for Solon was none of the
youngest, the voice of an elder whispered in his ear: “Better g’long
home ter de ole ’oman! We’ll hab you up in de chu’ch fur dis!”
The watching eyes in the darkness were burning like coals of fire, but
Solon pulled loose from the detaining hand. “What I keer ’bout gwine
home ter de ole ’oman? What I keer ’bout bein’ fotched up? I ’ain’
bothered!”
And, despite his age, in every dance Solon led, with the smiling face
and crimson flower beside him. Others changed partners, but Solon’s was
always the same.
Now the candles had burned out, the few that remained were guttering
and flickering, and then there was one last dance, in which a madness
seemed to seize Solon, and as he whirled he drew from his pocket a
long string of blue glass beads and threw them around the yellow
hoodoo’s neck. The watching eyes in the darkness glowed with passion,
for Solon’s gift was Juno’s sole remaining ornament, now that the moon
ear-rings had been bartered.
“Lemme hol’ on ter myse’f tight, O Lord!” she groaned. “Des fur er
little while!” And again the Cinder Cat brushed her skirts and purred.
“I gwine foller you in er minit, Cinder! I gwine follow you!”
* * * * *
The silence that was golden lay upon Juno’s lips, and it was a
repentant Solon who came to her next night, for the Cinder Cat was gone
forever from the hearth, the charm was forever broken, and the comely
hoodoo knew it.
Shamefacedly and ill at ease, Solon lolled and smoked, but, still
preserving her silence, Juno prepared a sumptuous supper for her
prodigal.
After they had eaten she threw a crimson paper flower, ragged and
dirty, upon his knee, and, drawing her chair close, she lighted her
pipe from his, for she knew that her woes were ended.
“A KINGDOM FOR MICAJAH”
“So you want your freedom, Micajah?”
The negro who had shambled up to the broad veranda dropped his eyes and
shuffled uneasily, for there was a world of wonderment and kindliness
in the master’s tone.
“And this is the meaning of all the devilment I’ve heard of lately—all
this talking among the negroes?”
“I reckon so, sar.”
“At your age, Micajah, when you’ve been a self-respecting negro all
your life, to go cutting up and making mischief among the other negroes
because you want your freedom—that’s a fine way to get it! Haven’t you
always gotten all you asked for? If you wanted freedom, why didn’t you
come and ask for it?”
The master lifted his glasses to his forehead and looked reproachfully
into the queer black face before him.
“Didn’t ’low, Ole Marse, as how you’d gib hit ter me,” said the negro,
humbly, but persistently.
Judge Naylor looked from the rose-twined piazza across the spacious
lawn, under whose oaks his own father had romped, and beyond whose
limits had joyously hunted with another Micajah, as small and as black
as the one before him. _He_ had never dreamed of freedom. Was this the
innate craving of the human for something higher, or only a reflection
of an external picture? The Judge resolved upon an experiment.
“You are mistaken,” said the Judge, gravely, as he knocked the ash from
his pipe. “I will give it to you. And what sort of freedom is it that
you want, Micajah?”
The old slave scratched his head and swayed uncomfortably.
“Why, des freedom, Ole Marse.”
“What kind of freedom, Micajah? What is it that you want? Speak out,
for I am going to give you your freedom for a whole month, and you
shall have all that you want to go with it,” added the Judge.
Uncle Cage gasped. The enormity of the idea was too much for him.
“And here were Ole Marse des er-talkin’ ’bout hit lack hit were er chaw
er terbaccy—des es easy an’ quiet lack,” said Micajah, afterwards, in
confidence.
“Well,” queried the Judge, “what do you want as a free nigger, Micajah?”
Micajah scraped the dust with his foot; twice he made a little mound of
it with his toes and twice smoothed it out.
“I don’t wanter be no ’free nigger,’ Ole Marse. I des wants freedom.”
“Well, go on; don’t be afraid; you shall have what you want.”
Cage’s eyes sparkled, and at last his tongue was loosened.
“I don’ wanter work none, Ole Marse. I wants ter hear dat horn blow at
five in de mornin’, an’ I wants ter git up, mad lack, an’ holler outen
de winder, ’You derned ole raskil, what you wake me up dis time er day
fur?’ Den I wants ter fling my boot-jack at him, an’ go on back ter
sleep, I does. Um, um—an’ when de ole ’oman ’low, ’Cage, yo’ git up
an’ make dat fire,’ I wants ter ’low back ter her, ’I hain’t er-makin’
fires fur niggers,’ an’ I wants ter go back ter sleep, I does—fur, Ole
Marse”—here Cage bent closer and almost whispered—“I wants my freedom
fum de ole ’oman too, den, an’ I don’t want her ter git freedom, nohow.”
“All right. Anything else to go with your freedom, Micajah?”
All timidity and sullenness were forgotten, and Micajah’s face was
radiant.
“I don’ wanter hope do dat cl’arin’, Ole Marse, down by de ribber, an’
when de niggers is er-sweatin’ an’ er-workin’, I wants ter be takin’ er
my ease. Um, um—an’ I wants some clo’se, white folks’ clo’se; an’, Ole
Marse, I wants er book lack yo’ got in de house.”
“A book? When did you learn to read, Micajah?”
“Lord! Ole Marse, ole Cage cain’t read; he des want ter tote hit roun’
lack yo’ does.”
“You shall have it,” said the master, heartily. “Now what else?”
“I wants er little nigger, er little nigger, Ole Marse.” Here Micajah
scratched his head thoughtfully. “None er mine, ner none on dis side
er de ribber, but er little nigger dat ain’ know me ’fore I git
freedom—dat ain’ _see_ me work. An’ I wants dat little nigger ter
foller me ever’whar I goes, er-totin’ er palm-leaf fan, an’ I wants
him ter fan dese foots when I sets down er lays down, an’ I wants ter
holler at him when he ain’ move fas’ ernough, an’ cuss him when he move
too fas’, but I wants him ter keep er-foll’in’ wid de palm-leaf fan.”
Micajah, from sheer ecstasy of contemplation, paused.
“But I don’ wanter be no ’free nigger,’ Ole Marse, lack Free Joe and
Yaller Pete, ’case they hain’t nuffin but des niggers, ’douten er
marster, errer home, ner nuffin; dey don’ eben know whar dey git dey
nex’ sumpen ter eat fum; but I des wants ter taste freedom.”
“Very well, Micajah; you shall begin to taste it at once, and I hope
that it will do you good. You need not go to the field to-morrow, and
you can pick out your little negro from over the river this afternoon.
Cindy will give you my old broadcloth—you can roll up the legs and
sleeves if they are too long—and I will not forget the book; and, mind,
if anybody asks you to do a lick of work for a whole month, you send
them to me.”
* * * * *
The plantation work went on smoothly without Micajah’s presence, much
to the disgust of Milly, his wife, who had been reprimanded more than
once for berating Cage about his trifling ways. Micajah got his little
nigger from over the river—one who had never seen him before, and who
was as thoroughly abject and respectful as even Cage could wish; so the
latter’s joy knew no bounds, and he was rapidly demonstrating, to his
master’s great amusement, the close kinship of the tyrant and the slave.
Micajah’s freedom was a matter of wonderment to the negroes as he
looked upon them at their work for a moment with a supercilious air,
and made some dignified remark, with his book held carelessly under
his arm, “perzackly lack Ole Marse,” Cage gleefully congratulated
himself—for Cage was wonderfully changed, changed to befit his new
condition; and as he turned, followed by the bearer of the palm-leaf
fan, many were the envious glances cast.
Such ease, such glory, such a blended dream of shade, watermelons, and
cob pipes smoked undisturbed, varied by the unspeakable delight of
“cussin’” and yelling at the little negro!
[Illustration: “PERZACKLY LIKE OLE MARSE”]
But even this Arcadia had its shadow, for Cage had never had the
ecstasy of flinging a boot-jack at his little slave. Boots and their
accompaniment had been part of the requirements which his master had
provided, with the promise that the jack could be flung if the boots
were worn; but Cage had been an unshod child of nature, for in that
equable climate a foot-covering at any season of the year was only a
matter of effect, and the exquisite agony of the pegged cowskins was
more than he could bear, even with his freedom; so, by her master’s
direction, boots and jack were carried triumphantly back to the
plantation store by Milly, who was more than happy to thus pluck one
feather from the wing of freedom.
Milly in these last few days seriously questioned within herself the
wisdom of Old Marse’s experiment, for it had very much upset the
domestic equilibrium; but Milly was a philosopher too, in an humble
way, and under the existing circumstances she resolved to make an
experiment also, the issue of which she was more certain of than Ole
Marse was of his.
“Think I gwine hab Cage layin’ roun’ here in de shade er w’arin’ er
broadclorf ever’ day—an’ Ole Marse ain’ do dat—an’ er-settin’ up he
ole foots ter be fanned lack dey was sumpen, an’ dey es big es all
out-doo’s, an’ he er-pesterin’ me ’bout he fried chicken fur dinner
lack he were white—an’ dey sen’ hit ter him, too. My Lord! Um—Ole Marse
done los’ he head ter ’low dat; but I hain’t los’ mine, sho mun, and I
gwine git eben wid Cage. Talkin’ ’bout freedom dis an’ freedom dat, an’
erlowin’ dat hit sumpen dat Milly cain’t git. Um—if hit make er body es
low-down an’ es triflin’ es Cage be, I lay I don’ want hit!”
* * * * *
But it was glorious to be envied—a field-hand envied even by the
house-negroes. So Micajah buried his bare feet in the dust when
impressing a crowd, and rose in the dignity of his broadcloth. He was
a king, though even for a day, and no ancestor by the far banks of the
Congo ever ruled more royally.
He was abused behind his back, but the fruits of the earth were brought
to his cabin. The horn blew in the morning, but Micajah turned over for
another nap. Milly put the buttermilk on the table, but Cage had coffee
from the big house; and at last freedom had grown so great that Micajah
declared that Milly should stand while he was served—that a free man
could not sit at table with a slave, even though she was his wife.
Then Milly rose in wrath, and laid two crossed sticks tied with hair
in the chimney lock, but held her peace. Micajah shivered; ruefully
he regretted his boldness, for the dignity of the free man could not
overcome the superstition of the slave, and he had known Milly’s work
of old. Alas for Micajah! In the splendor of his broadcloth and the
deliciousness of freedom he had forgotten to transfer his own hoodoo—it
was even then reposing in the pocket of the discarded blue-check
trousers—and Milly’s charm would work!
* * * * *
The clearing down by the river was progressing. It was a kind of
extra work, and a barn dance and barbecue had been promised in the
Quarters when the task should be completed. So it was even pleasure,
this sweating and hard labor, with the pot of gold, as it were, at the
end; and, with the “whoraw” in the Quarters attending each morning’s
departure, the spirit of habit even tempted Uncle Cage to join, for it
was getting lonesome with nobody but the little nigger—not even Milly
in the cabin to lord it over—and the laborers were too busy to listen
to him if he went idle-handed to the clearing; but he was a free man,
and freedom did not stoop to such without necessity.
But latterly the monarchy was not nearly so absolute as it had been;
the negroes were not half so envious. Too much familiarity and boasting
were breeding contempt, and though Milly was more than welcome among
them, they looked at him askance whenever he sought to join in their
recreations.
Growing bolder, they quizzed his little “nig” about him, to the
former’s utter demoralization, poking fun at the bare feet and
broadcloth; and one of the smart house-negroes disrespectfully
propounded a conundrum, in effect, “If all work an’ no play make
Cage er dull nigger, what do all play make him?” Milly’s brother, a
field-hand, had actually shouted out, “A big fool nigger!” at which
Cage and his fan-bearer walked away in dignified silence. But the
fan-bearer was far from satisfactory; there was that in his manner
which betokened sullenness rather than the awe with which he was at
first infused; and though he habitually dodged, it was rather from
the fear of the missile than of the man. There was even a symptom of
rebellion, which Micajah, finding the arts of civilization deficient,
promptly put down by threatening to hoodoo him with a ’gater.
The imp was quelled for a few days, and during that time he spent all
the spare moments when Cage was asleep in the careful examination of
his legs and arms for the first indication of the ’gater, guardedly
holding his breath to feel an internal or external wiggle; but, as no
signs appeared, he turned a pirouette on his great toe and whispered to
the watermelons in the patch that “Marse ’Cajah wa’n’t nuffin but er
nigger man, arter all.”
But something had surely gone wrong with Micajah’s fortunes. Was
Milly’s charm working? There it lay in the chimney lock, and Cage dared
not touch it. “I knows she put hit dar fur me ’case I mek her so mad
’bout stan’in’ when I eats, an’ now she won’t set down when I axes her;
an’ if hit air workin’—my Lord! den I’m done fur!” moaned Cage.
So the Big-house coffee was not half as delicious as it had been, and
Cage took to praising Milly’s buttermilk, sharing her side meat, and
he courteously left her a piece of fried chicken on one occasion; but
Milly would not touch it.
Then, after one sleepless night in which the crown of freedom pressed
more heavily upon the monarch’s brow, Micajah sought his master,
leaving the bearer of the fan sobbing in the cabin from a reprimand
more vigorous than pleasant. The Judge was preparing to ride, and he
smiled upon the forlorn figure of Micajah.
“Well, Micajah,” said he, flecking the head of a zinnia with his whip,
“have you thought of something else to go with freedom?” Micajah
studied his bare toes sheepishly, then covered them with dust.
“Naw, Ole Marse.”
The Judge drew nearer. “Are you sick, Micajah?”
“Naw, Ole Marse.”
“Then what do you want? Don’t stand there all day like a dolt.”
Micajah hesitated; something seemed to clog his throat, and he cleared
it.
“I thought maybe, Ole Marse—I thought es how de time mought be up, an’
I come ter gib up de freedom and de book.”
“What? Are you tired already? Why, it is not half up. Go on and have a
good time, Micajah.”
[Illustration: “‘GO ON AND HAVE A GOOD TIME, MICAJAH’”]
Micajah looked crestfallen, and ambled off as the Judge rode away. “Er
whole mont’, an’ hit hain’t half up! Well, dar’s dis erbout hit,
dat’s one comfort—dem niggers kin ’buse me lack dey pleases, an’ dey
gwine sweat an’ groan fur dey fun; but dis freedom gwine ter fotch hit
ter me lack I were white, ef I des set an’ wait. Dey don’ git tired er
settin’ an’ waitin’ fur hit ter come ter ’em, an’ I des bardaciously
gwine steddy some more white folks’ ways ’sides totin’ de book.”
But the blissful contemplation ended as he neared his own cabin. In
the doorway sat the fan-bearer, his tears having been wiped away by
Cage’s good dinner, which had arrived from the Big House during the
consultation with his master, and to which the imp had bountifully
helped himself. Micajah’s heart was sore, but he smothered his wrath
until he had made his meal, while the fan-bearer, with a fragment of
belief still in Micajah’s powers, employed the time in feeling again
for the incipient ’gater. Then Micajah rapped imperiously upon the
table.
“You Amaziah!” The little negro dodged. “You infernal lazy black
raskil, Amaziah!”
“Huh!” whimpered the boy.
“You lim’ er Satan, you lizard-eyed nigger, don’ you say ’huh’ ter me!
You git me er coal and light my pipe quick! Fill up dat pipe fust, you
lazy purp! What you got holes in yo’ head fur, hah? Um, um. Now git dat
fan an’ fan dese here foots twel I tells you ter quit. You heah me!”
The man of freedom was stretched at full length, with a wreath of smoke
about his head and his eyes closed to the world; the little black
piece of misery was crouched beside him; and so daylight waned and the
twilight came on; then the fan dropped from the bearer’s hand; he was
fast asleep, and so was Micajah.
* * * * *
There was great excitement on the plantation, for Susanne, the Madame’s
maid, was to marry Henry, Major Stone’s man-in-waiting. Susanne had
told the Judge of her desire, and, not wishing to sell Susanne, or to
separate her from the husband of her choice, the Judge had promptly
bought him for a good round sum. The Madame herself had looked to the
details of Susanne’s wedding-gown, for the Madame set great store by
Susanne, and the ceremony was to be performed in the dining-room.
Then afterwards would come the feast and dance in the Quarters until
daylight, in which the inmates of every cabin, by invitation of the
bride, might join.
Micajah’s cabin felt the unwonted influence, and even the little
fan-bearer was in a flutter about the wedding. Milly had been bidden;
carefully she laid her small store of finery upon the bed, and was
softly singing to herself before going to the field. Milly believed
in feasting, though, unlike Micajah, who loved to scrape his foot to
anybody’s fiddle, she only believed in a certain kind of terpsichorean
exercise, which she called “de ’ligious dance.” Hers was only executed
upon solemn occasions, or commemorated special emotions, but Milly was
indulgent to the general fault in others.
* * * * *
These fair days of freedom were losing more and more of their beauty
to Uncle Cage; the song of the mocking-bird was far less sweet, and
even the crimson-and-black beauty of the watermelon had almost lost
its lusciousness to the idle slave of freedom. But, most of all, the
impudence of the jay-birds maddened him when they came to gather from
the remnant of his meals.
Many an unpicked bone and half-finished biscuit was flung at them in
the abundance, to be regretted in the after-time.
“I lay I gwine larn ’em,” muttered Cage, as he resumed his solitary
dinner after a vigorous onslaught, which was about the only exercise
the monarch would allow himself; and the fact was that Uncle Cage
might be suspected of a first-class case of dyspepsia, for the life of
irregularity and idleness was telling hardly upon his astonished organs
and his temper. “I lay I gwine larn ’em—er-eatin’ er my vittles an’
er-callin’ me ’Cage! Cage!’ des es pat, ’dout eben er handle ter hit,
an’ erlowin’ ’He got hit! he got hit!’ lack hit any business er thern
ef I _is_ got freedom. I lay I larn ’em!”
* * * * *
As he grew more and more irascible the negroes drew entirely away from
him, even his chosen few, and freely let him know that they could get
along without him. But now the crowning insult had been offered—he had
not been bidden to the wedding. It was Milly’s charm—he knew that it
was Milly; the fact of his freedom could not alone have worked that
change in his fellows; and Milly, finding her spouse exceedingly cross
upon this particular morning, wisely refrained from any but necessary
conversation.
Micajah was stung to the quick, and dwelt upon his sorrow. At a wedding
he was in his own particular province, and everybody knew it—that was
where it wounded. They had even invited Milly before his eyes, and the
messenger had sarcastically “‘lowed dat es Cage were erbove workin’ wid
common niggers, he reckoned he were erbove playin’ an’ eatin’ wid ’em.”
And the little fan-bearer suffered that day, for Micajah’s feet were
very hot.
At last the momentous hour arrived, and there was much hurrying to
and fro in the Quarters. Here and there Susanne was swishing her
wedding-skirts and bandying saucy words with the older negroes, but she
did not even pause at Micajah’s cabin.
But Ole Marse would permit him to witness the ceremony with the
house-negroes because of his freedom, an honor which was never shared
by the field-hands, and Micajah was secretly glorying, though the glory
would be short-lived, for there was the long night before him with its
bedlam of joy let loose in the Quarters, and he was not to be of it.
So he stood in the doorway a shiftless figure, an alien, as it were,
for he was unused to the manner of the house-negroes and was abashed
before them, and for the present he was not a field-hand, because of
his freedom.
For a moment he lost himself; then the ceremony was over; Ole Mis’s
said something high and grand, and Ole Marse said something funny, and
the little procession filed out.
The night was close and sultry, and as he sat alone in his cabin door
Micajah could hear the strains of fiddle and banjo—he was even near
enough to hear the shuffling of feet. The fan-bearer was soundly
snoring, after having sobbed himself to sleep, for Micajah had sternly
declared “dat de slabe cain’t go whar he marster hain’t axed—you heah
me, Amaziah?”
As the night wore on the fun waxed louder and louder, the spell was
irresistible, and Uncle Cage was almost beside himself. He had never
been left out before—and this was freedom!
At last the cake-walk was begun, and Micajah, forgetting his injured
dignity, his position, and his broadcloth, slipped stealthily out
to peep at the revellers through a chink; and there was Milly—his
Milly—leading the walk with Cross-eyed Pete. Micajah dug his toes into
the dust. Oh, how peacefully Milly smiled!
“Dat cross-eyed houn’ is er-callin’ me outen my name,” he muttered.
His Milly laughed slyly—and this was freedom!
“How I ebber gwine make dat nigger know her place ergin?” he groaned.
“I gwine git back an’ know mine—dat I is. I gwine gib up dis fool
freedom if I libs ter see ter-morrer, sho I is; an’ I gwine meet dem
niggers on ekil groun’s, an’ I gwine split dat cross-eyed nigger inter
kindlin’ wood—sho I is—if I libs. An’ I gwine ter make de high an’
mighty niggers ter-night ter eat dirt ter-morrer—dat I is—_yo’ heah
me_! I larn dat Milly ter laugh at her betters ’hine dey backs, if I
peels ever’ hick’ry on de place—dat I is! O Lord, pity dis heah big
fool nigger dat hain’t got no mo’ sense ’n ter lis’en ter de word er
Satan, an’ up an’ ax Ole Marse fur dis heah freedom! I’s done wid hit—I
spits hit out. Des lemme git shet uv hit, an’ I wouldn’ wipe dese ole
foots on hit!”
There was a movement at the door, and, fearing detection, Uncle Cage
slipped away to seek uneasy dreams.
Through the long hot days the work had gone on cheerfully in the
new land, and now it was so nearly accomplished that the frolic was
joyfully discussed.
Micajah had all along secretly resolved that he would attend the
frolic, with or without a welcome, on the ground of primeval right; but
the negroes, informed by Milly, or more probably by the fan-bearer, who
was a most untiring carrier of tales, openly resented his intention,
and now passed his cabin without a recognition, sarcastic or otherwise.
Even the fan-bearer was growing unbearably sullen; no kick or cuff
could bring him out of it; his biggest flow of words failed to
intimidate, and Micajah felt that his position was perilous. He more
than once approached his master, with the same result—he must wait
until the time was up.
* * * * *
It wanted but four days more to the barn dance, and here was one whole
miserable week of freedom, and, alas! his freedom from freedom would
come too late to save the day, so he resolved to make one more effort,
and, shame-faced and miserable, Micajah once more sought his master.
The Judge knitted his brows forbiddingly.
“What is the matter, Micajah, that you want to give it up? Haven’t you
got all to go with it that you wanted?”
“Yas, Ole Marse.”
“Then what the devil is the matter?”
“Ole Marse”—Micajah’s voice was very low, and his humbleness was as
the dust—“I done fotch back de book, an’ I done fotch back de freedom.
One hain’t no betterer dan tuther ter er nigger. Dey bofe on ’em lies
ter er nigger, an’ hit hain’t nuffin but miz’ry. Dey don’ ’spec’ me no
mo’; dey don’ lis’en ter me talk no mo’. Eben Milly, my ole ’oman—dat I
gwine frail ’din er inch uv her life when I gits shet er freedom—done
lay er spell on me: I kin feel hit in my bones. Eben de little nigger
what tote de palm-leaf fan done talk sass ter me, an’ I ’low I cain’t
stan’ hit!”
His master smiled, then bit his mustache gravely.
“But, Micajah, you must command respect—command it, and you will get
it.”
“I done ’mand hit, Ole Marse,” said Micajah, pitifully, “but I ’mands
hit lack er nigger, er big fool nigger, an’ hit hain’t done no good.
Gittin’ freedom on de outside don’ make freedom on de inside, Ole
Marse. I’s ’bleeged ter you, Ole Marse, ’deed I is, but I wants you ter
take hit back. I’s nuffin but er fool nigger, Ole Marse, an’ ’fore Gord
I hain’t gwine cut up no mo’! I’se got all I want ’dout freedom, an’ I
gwine be thankful fur hit!”
Micajah paused expectantly; there was a silence, which was broken by
the master’s firm voice.
“I am a man of my word, Micajah. I have promised you a month of
freedom, and you have accepted it; I cannot take it back until the time
is out. Stop your foolishness, and go and make the best of it.” And Ole
Marse rode away.
Micajah looked long and earnestly into the cloud of dust he left
behind. The condition was desperate; something must be done.
[Illustration: “HE COLLARED HIS ASTONISHED LITTLE NIGGER”]
Between the gate and the Quarters he collared his astonished little
nigger with no uncertain gesture, and led him across the field towards
the river, and when Micajah returned he was alone. Spying the palm-leaf
fan, the emblem of his freedom and his misery, on the floor of the
cabin, where it had dropped from the hand of the rebellious Amaziah,
he silently tore it into shreds and tossed them from him with a
contemptuous grunt.
* * * * *
That night a theft was committed on the plantation—a very small one, it
is true, but made memorable because it was the very night that Micajah
sent the little negro home. Such a thing was almost unheard of, and the
overseer, a black Hercules, was very indignant.
The next night a similar depredation was discovered, and the negroes
were at fever-heat. “Reckon Ole Marse ’bout ter lose he min’, ter set
still an’ see things erg-wine on diserway an’ hain’t raise his han’;
but I gwine raise mine, sho mun!” declared the overseer.
So a cordon of guards was formed, with regular reliefs, and the
night-watch began. The midnight wore away, the stars winked out, and
the last guard slept peacefully before the rising sun, and no marauder
disturbed the stillness of the smoke-house. But something had happened.
The house, the Quarters, the very air, was full of it. A runaway nigger
had been caught on Major Stone’s plantation, was caught stealing, and
was even now being carried in handcuffs to the court-house to await his
owner.
The summer season was dull enough in the little village which had the
honor of being the county-seat, and the passing of the Judge’s carriage
was of sufficient moment to attract a knot of idlers. So, too, the
little court-room was filled with the same material, even before the
Judge had leisurely alighted, after his usual custom; for, as the
negroes said, “Eben de toot er Gabrul moughten pester Ole Marse; he
gwine ’bout he business, an’ hain’t gwine herry fur nobody!”
The runaway was secreted in an inner chamber; nobody had even seen
him, and speculation ran high; but the Judge, in the most exasperating
manner possible, calmly disposed of some minor matters, leisurely
joking his constituents, as was his wont, utterly oblivious of the
throng of eager faces.
At last every joke had been turned and every paper signed, when the
Judge relapsed into sternness.
“Bring in the prisoner!”
The mysterious door opened, and Major Stone preceded the little
procession, stroking his beard in a peculiar manner, but as grave as a
chief mourner.
“I’ve got a good one on him now,” he whispered to Attorney Allen as he
passed up the aisle.
Then followed the culprit, his crossed wrists in the little steel
cuffs, his head bent low upon his breast. There was something painfully
familiar in the figure. The now soiled and torn broadcloth, even upon
its spare ebon rack, still held the Judge’s outline in its creases.
Ludicrously pitiful the picture, and the crowd swayed and murmured.
The Judge rose to his feet. He was thinking of green fields and boyish
days, of the clear brook beyond the pasture, of the pair of honest
black feet that had timed their pace to his.
“Micajah!”
There was a world of pathos in the tone. It mattered not if the whole
of his little world was there to hear it—attorneys, clients, negroes,
and all.
“I’se comin’, Ole Marse!” The pitiful wail rang through the court-room,
and the old slave, oblivious of any other presence, fell prone at his
master’s feet.
“Take de cuss offen me, Ole Marse, an’ lemme die, fur dat freedom hit
ride me lack er hant, an’ let loose de debil in ole Cage! Take hit
back, Ole Marse, fur I got er whole week er dat mizerbul freedom lef’,
an’ you wouldn’ take hit back! Dat what mek me brek in yo’ smoke-house
fur, an’—oh, Lord! I’s er mizerbul sinnin’ nigger, all on ercount er
dis heah freedom; an’ you nebber sont de oberseer ter whup me; but I
were willin’—de Lord He know how willin’ I were—if I mought git shet er
dis heah freedom!”
There was a pause, broken by Micajah’s sobs.
“Tell it all, Micajah,” said the Judge.
“Dat what I taken Marse Harry Stone’s tuckeys fur. I ain’ want dem
tuckeys, Ole Marse—dey done tied out dar in de fiel’ now—but I wants
ter get shet er dis heah freedom! I hain’t nuffin but des er po’ fool
nigger, Ole Marse. I hain’t gwine ter ax fur nuffin ebber no mo’—nuffin
but sumpen ter eat, an’ mighty little er dat! Yo’ knows what’s the
bestes’ fur me, Ole Marse, an’ yo’ knows I hain’t fitten ter breave de
bref er life! Kill me, Ole Marse, kill me; but ’fore yo’ does hit take
de cuss er freedom offen my soul!”
* * * * *
A sudden gust must have blown dust in the Judge’s eyes, for he winked
them hard, then blew his nose vociferously.
A whispered consultation was held with Major Stone.
“That’s entirely satisfactory to me, Judge”—the Major was smiling.
“The case is dismissed!” roared the Judge.