The great bell was sounding the dinner hour, for it was twelve o’clock,
and the long line of negroes threw aside the gunny-sacks as they came
from the field and wiped their perspiring faces, for it was yet warm,
even though October had already touched the trees upon the hill.
The ringing of the bell was a welcome sound to Cely, one that she
had been longing to hear for a whole hour, as her fingers fluttered
restlessly over the bolls. She had not been working well; Susan and
Rachel, reckoned with Cely the fastest pickers on the place, were many
pounds ahead; but Cely did not care; her heart was not in her work
to-day.
Silently she made her way by the side of the hill to the long cabin
called the “Nursery,” where Maumer, weazen and bent, and long emeritus
as to field duties, tended the twenty little wooden cradles.
Maumer was sitting on the doorstep holding one of her little charges.
“My Cindy’s Paul got dat thrash ergin mighty bad. Calamus, catnip, and
groun’-ivy hain’t no good fur hit sometimes,” said Maumer, as Cely drew
nearer. “I tole Cindy dat, but she des want ’em, ’case Ole Miss gib ’em
ter Little Miss when she er baby. Cindy want Paul lack whi’ chillen,
but Ole Miss don’ tek no notice uv ’im, when she see yo’ baby, Cely,”
said Maumer, with a frown. “Allus sayin’ what er fine chile he am, an’
nebber gib Cindy’s chile nuffin but er blue chany mug.”
Cely was not listening; swiftly she glided by nineteen of the little
cradles, and lifted, with many soft tones and caresses, a tiny brown
and blue bundle from the twentieth, for Cely’s was the very newest baby
in the Nursery.
“Mammy little pickaninny! Mammy putty nigger!” cooed Cely, tossing up
the little bundle.
[Illustration: “HER HEART WAS NOT IN HER WORK”]
Maumer still mumbled on the doorstep. “You looks lack er Mammy!—an’
hain’t got yo’ coat ter yo’ ankles yit! Er settled man lack Henry
in mighty po’ business takin’ er chile lack yo’ is. Yo’s er nice
Mammy!” But Cely was used to Maumer’s moods, for she had been cross
ever since Henry married Cely instead of Cindy, Maumer’s stupid
daughter, and had grumbled continuously from the day the little new
baby was put under her charge.
“Wake up! wake up! hit yo’ Mammy, boy!” and the girl lifted the tiny
lids with her long slender fingers, but the baby only pressed his lips
lazily against the mother’s breast.
“What de matter wid him, Maumer? He hain’t eben hongry! He allus wake
up an’ play wid me!”
“Hush, yo’ fool; yo’ wake ’em all up! Hain’t nuffin de matter wid him.
He been yellin’ er hour, an’ dey hatter sleep some time.”
The other mothers were now coming in; for they had regular times to go
to the Nursery, especially those with very young infants.
“Hi, Judy!” said Maumer to a comfortable, rather elderly mother, who
had just taken her latest born, her fifteenth, from the cradle, “Cely
think dar sumpen de matter wid her baby, and ready ter ’cuse me wid
hit, ’case hit want ter go ter sleep. Think she got one er dem jumpin’
dolls lack Little Miss. Her an’ Henry keep hit wake all night er
playin’ wid hit, an’ hit gotter sleep some. Here, gimme dat chile, gal!
Yo’ dun’no’ nuffin ’bout babies!” There was a general laugh at Cely’s
expense. “Nuffin de matter wid de chile!” and Maumer tossed and tickled
him until he crowed.
But Cely looked at Maumer distrustfully.
“_Yo_’ sho’ dar hain’t nuffin de matter wid my baby, Judy?” Cely asked,
wistfully, as she put her forefinger into the brown, waxen fist that
belonged to the tiny bundle Maumer held.
“Naw, gal, naw!” laughed Judy, putting number fifteen, who began to
yell vigorously, back into its cradle. “Hain’t nuffin de matter wid
him, ’cep’in’ he so mighty little; fur yo’ sho’ does look lack er gal
er-totin’ er doll. Dar hain’t nuffin de matter wid him; he des sleepy.”
“Do er baby allus breave dat way?” Cely was twisting her apron
nervously. “Does dey allus ’beat, beat,’ in de top er de head an’ in de
chist dat er way? Tek off his clo’es an’ look, Judy.”
Maumer frowned and turned on her heel when Judy good-naturedly took the
little bundle from her arms and stripped the blue checked slip from
Cely’s latest doll.
“Hain’t he putty ’dout any clo’es?” cried Cely, beguiled from her fear
by her admiration of the brown, bow-legged Cupid squirming on Judy’s
knee.
“Cely proud fitten ter bus’; she des wanter show her baby off,” said
the mother of the ugliest baby in the Nursery.
“Hain’t nuffin wrong wid him, Cely, ’cep’in’ he little, an’ if he lib,
he’ll grow,” said Judy, oracularly, as she relinquished the child. “All
de young things—birds, an’ rabbits, an’ babies—beat dat er way in de
head an’ in de chist. Dar de bell now!” and Judy folded her sun-bonnet
and laid it, slats sidewise, on the top of her head.
Cely sighed as the teasing laugh of the women rang back to her; then,
with a parting caress, she laid her baby in the cradle and followed.
Old Maumer, bent and sullen, stood in the doorway until the last figure
had turned the hill-path.
“Think I dun’no’ nuffin ’bout babies, when I nussed dat berry Cely, wid
all de airs she gibs herse’f, right here in dis cradle. Heap er use
she got wid er baby, an’ she hain’t hardly er ’oman yit, an’ Ole Miss
an’ Little Miss myratin’ so.
“Cely got some putty whi’ clo’es wid lace on, an’ some blue beads too,
dat Little Miss tek offen her big doll fur de baby; an’ Cindy got
nuffin but er blue chany mug, an’ sumpen ter eat fum de Big House.
Cindy sech er hog; allus ax Ole Miss fur sumpen ter eat when she down.
If hit wa’n’t fur Cely, Cindy’d er got all dem beads an’ things, ’case
dey’s de two littlest babies, but dey’s des lack es two peas.” Maumer
had taken Cindy’s feverish child in her arms again; then moving with a
sudden impulse, she laid it in the cradle beside Cely’s baby. “Es lack
es peas in one pod,” she whispered. “If hit wa’n’t fur Cely’s, Ole Miss
would mighty much dis’n, ’case he de putties’ in de Nursery, ’cep’in’
Cely’s, an’ he de onlies’ gran’chile dat I got.” Cindy’s baby moaned as
if in pain, and Maumer took him up again.
“I dun’no’ what ail him—hain’t time fur ’is teef ter mek trouble, but
his mouf pester me mightily. I’s tired er de whi’ folkses’ physic; I
gwine fix my own truck. If he do git worser—if he do—” Maumer looked
at the blue beads around the neck of Cely’s sleeping baby, and then
into the face of the little sufferer before her, with a leer of latent
cunning.
* * * * *
In the olden time of slavery days, the mother of a new baby was the
subject of especial envy.
As a consequence, there were many privileges that attached, many
immunities, both before and after it came. Ole Miss always went to
the Quarters personally upon such occasions; the children followed
with gifts, and put in their claims to the little black baby with many
excited arguments.
Upon the self-same day, the two little new faces peeped into the
Quarters; the one, the child of stalwart Henry’s girl-wife, had been
chosen to be fought over and cried over; the other had been accorded
only ordinary honors, for Cindy was not a favorite among the children,
and hence old Maumer’s jealousy was aroused.
Through the long day Maumer sat and brooded, neglecting the toddlers
who had strayed onto forbidden ground; and stirring the cradles roughly
with her foot,—Old Maumer, who had been trusted and revered for so
long,—but she had not a grandchild then.
Ma’y Ann, the young assistant, played with acorn cups and bits of
china under the old oak, unmolested, for Maumer was wrestling with a
problem, and all of the latent, unsuspected savagery was rising.
Then by-and-by the little wooden cradles were empty, for the work-day
was done; the mothers had taken their babies to their own cabins, and
Maumer laid Cindy’s child on her shoulder and closed the door.
All night the candle glimmered through the cracks in Maumer’s cabin;
all night she physicked and the baby cried; while Cindy, heavy-eyed and
stupid, slept soundly until day. The door was closed; Maumer knew that
she was disobeying orders, for Ole Miss had peremptorily commanded that
she was to be notified in case of serious illness. But Maumer was sly
and cunning; Ole Miss should not be told.
Convulsion after convulsion shook the tiny frame, all of the remedies
were used without effect, and towards daybreak she tried the baby’s
fortune, “come life er come death”; then Maumer made up her mind.
* * * * *
The old oak was casting its soft shade across the lawn, where the
Nursery toddlers sat sedately munching the sweet corn pone that it
was one of old Maumer’s duties to provide, while Ma’y Ann was just
starting to the spring for a bucket of cool water.
[Illustration: “SHOULD SHE DO IT?”]
“An’ min’, yo’ fetch me my gourd yo’ lef’ on de battlin’-bench ’side de
branch, an’ min’ yo’ herries, ’fore I beat de life outen yo’!”
Ma’y Ann’s eyes widened and “bucked” at Maumer’s unwonted proposition,
as she idly swung the bucket along the hill-path, singing an
irrelevant, foolish little song.
The great bell would ring in a moment; Maumer knew it by the shadow of
the oak, as well as by the old dial just across the lawn.
Should she do it? Up and down, both ways she looked; there was nobody
even in sight, save Ma’y Ann, dawdling far down the spring-path; then
the great bell clanged through the Quarters. A spasm stiffened the form
of Cindy’s baby, and Maumer, with a stern face and trembling hands,
stripped the long shirt and blue beads from Cely’s boy, and throwing
them hastily upon her daughter’s child, she laid it in the twentieth
cradle, changing Cely’s baby to the cradle just vacated.
Old Maumer, with shaking limbs, was raking up the smouldering coals
upon the hearth when the lively throng of mothers came filing in to
nurse their little ones.
“Hi! What ail Maumer? What de matter?” asked Judy, always foremost.
“Chill,” grunted Maumer, as she knelt to woo the fickle blaze. “Go
fetch in some chips, Ma’y Ann!” for Ma’y Ann had returned.
* * * * *
Dancing, skipping, like a child let loose for a holiday, came Cely; she
had even “hop-scotched” with Ma’y Ann that very morning. Nothing was
the matter with her baby—Judy said so, Maumer said so—even old Maumer,
who was so jealous; he was still her doll, and how he cooed and kicked
for her just before she left him!
Down the long row of cradles she leaped rather than walked, in the
fulness and exuberance of life.
“Yo’ Mammy’s comin’, boy, yo’ Mammy’s comin’!” and snatching the baby
from the cradle, she tossed it gleefully above her head.
Then a shriek, that startled even the laborers who had not left the
field—a shriek of agony, of fear, of a wild thing wounded in the heart,
for the little cold mouth turned away from the warm breast so full
of life and strength, and the tiny limbs convulsed, and then relaxed
forever with the breathing of a sigh.
Holding the dead baby close, and rocking in her woe, the face of Cely
seemed hardened and ashened in a moment, like that of an old woman,
while, shrill and high, her voice carried even to the clearing.
“Maumer! yo’ pizened my boy! Yo’ kilt him, Maumer!”
But Maumer, with closed eyes, only mumbled over the coals and shivered,
though the noon was warm.
* * * * *
Smiles came through Cely’s tears, smiles of gratification when Little
Miss, with eyes and nose all red, refused to be comforted for the loss
of her “little nigger,” and brought from the Big House more pretty
baby things than Cely had ever seen; while Ole Miss put them on with
her own hands; and smoothing down the dainty folds, laid in the brown,
doll-like fingers the tiniest, whitest rose-bud that the early frost
had spared. Then emotion was stirred to its depths again, and the wild
blood of two continents ran riot in her veins, even to the verge of
madness, when Cely came to know the meaning of a grave. And Ole Miss
had her brought to the Big House, by way of comfort to Henry, who was
Ole Marse’s foreman at that time.
Ole Miss tried to teach her to sew and to spin, but restraint was
galling, the Big House with its civilization had no attraction after
the novelty had worn off, and suddenly the wheel burred, the thread
snapped, and Cely would leap like a tiger-cat through the doorway and
beyond the wood-lot, where later they would find her, tenderly nursing
in her arms a doll made of a folded towel.
But time was kinder even than Ole Miss, and after a while the laugh and
smile came back, Henry’s cabin was cheery again, and before the picking
was over, Cely was rivalling Susan and Rachel in the field.
* * * * *
Down in a little cabin by the cane-brake, old Maumer, now “the Other
Maumer,” lived alone, weaving shuck mats, mending nets for the
fishermen, and “hooking” mittens for the negroes against the coming of
the winter; for Maumer was deposed, another Maumer reigned over the
little wooden cradles, and _her_ foot was not permitted to cross the
threshold; for Maumer had been tried and convicted of murder by a jury
of her peers.
Ole Marse, upon careful investigation, could find nothing culpable
in Maumer save the failure to report the illness, which was made the
cause of removal. The charge, made by Cely and the other negroes, of
poisoning could not be substantiated; though the attack appeared to
have been very sudden, it could not be proved that the child had died
from other than a dreaded infantile trouble.
Throughout the trial and investigation Maumer preserved a sullen
silence. She neither appealed to Ole Marse nor to any of the negroes.
She did not plead her long life of usefulness, and she denied none of
the charges, that grew each day with the rapidity of Jonah’s gourd.
Now and again she smiled grimly as she looked upon the thriving child
in sleepy Cindy’s arms and heard that Little Miss had taken him for her
own. That was glory enough; that was honor, immortality. He would grow
up a house nigger—“high quality”—_her_ grandchild, in the eyes of the
world, in the eyes of even Cindy, for she could not trust Cindy with
her secret, and Cindy was too stupid to know the difference.
Her eyes greedily took in the splendor of Little Miss’s gifts on each
successive visit, carefully looking them over, clothes and beads and
toys, like a miser counting gold, and it was enough. This sufficed for
days alone in the cane-brake, for nights when the wind was high, even
though she was now the Other Maumer and had been set apart.
* * * * *
The spring-time came around, but weeks and months were long, and the
winter of loneliness was telling upon the Other Maumer.
She missed the spring-time crop of babies, the wooden cradles with
their worn rockers—worn by _her_ foot; she missed the little toddlers
that had outgrown the cradles, but more than all, she missed her
dignity of position. In the brief time, so long to youth and age, the
old back became more bowed, and childishness grew apace.
The butterflies possessed a wonderful fascination—the white and
yellow—and the reed mats would drop from her hands in forgetful
admiration. But when the brown ones hovered near her, poising on
gorgeous velvety wings, the Other Maumer would shiver and cover up her
head—“De soul er Cindy’s baby, oh, my Gord! kim back ter claim his
place, er ’cusin’ me er de lie! Oh, my Gord!”
[Illustration: “‘FLY, FLY,’ SHE WHISPERED”]
How she would fight the brown butterflies away, if they alighted on
her doorstep! And carefully she gathered and crushed every wild flower
that grew around her cabin, fearful lest they should prove to be an
attraction. But the brown butterflies came and came; in swarms they
filled and circled the Other Maumer’s cabin, by morning, noon, and
evening. Then the nets hung on the racks unmended, the reeds dried
unwoven, and the hands of the Other Maumer fluttered over the little
heaps of red clay that she brought from beside the new well, to fashion
into rude butterflies with outstretched wings. Scores and scores were
drying in the sun, and yet the busy fingers worked nervously.
“Fly, fly,” she whispered, “an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!”
* * * * *
The cold moon shone through the cracks of the Other Maumer’s cabin; the
Other Maumer did not like the moon; even in her sleep she was always
hiding something from it, deep and dark, but the moon could always find
it.
To-night it was the clay butterflies, and she woke with a start to
search for them.
Not one could she find in the cabin, and with a cry of rage she wrung
her hands; “Dey tryin’ ter steal de soul er Cindy’s baby! Dey done
stole ’em fum me; dey done stole ’em!”
Then she remembered that she had carried her apron full to the
river-bank, and had left them on the cotton bales to dry. “Lef’ ’em
ter fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!” she assured herself; “but I cain’t
lose none uv ’em!” and with her knotted hickory stick in one hand and a
bunch of river reeds in the other, the Other Maumer hobbled slowly down
the road.
* * * * *
It wanted but little to the holiday season, though Ole Marse had held
his cotton back for a great “deal.” But now that he had sent word from
New Orleans to ship it on, the old storehouse was full to overflowing,
and it was piled all along the levee waiting for the boat, for Ole
Marse had never made a better crop.
Perched upon one of the bales that lined the levee, conjuring with the
recovered butterflies in the full of the moon sat the Other Maumer,
happy in the abandonment of the moment.
[Illustration: “SHE CAME ON BAT’S WINGS”]
All her world was asleep; even the guards stationed around the
storehouse had gone off duty; and where was the need of them? People
did not steal cotton, and then the boat was coming in the morning.
Tenderly the Other Maumer nursed her butterflies, careful of their
frail, sun-baked wings—hiding them in her apron, her bosom, and now in
her faded turban.
“Gwine ter fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby; yas, Lord, gwine ter fetch
hit back—hain’t yo’, honey? Gwine ter lif’ dem putty wings an’ fly
away!” The moon rose high and waned, but still the Other Maumer,
shivering with the cold and damp, sat on the river-bank. The big brown
butterflies had been gone so long; she was waiting for them to return.
She had fought them and driven them away, but now she wanted them to
come back and bring the soul of Cindy’s baby.
The cry of a child or a cat somewhere in the Quarters startled her,
and she raised her head; suddenly she was conscious of the smell of
something burning, and a tiny spark leaped through a crack in the
storehouse. Then a shower of little sparks came through, and the Other
Maumer rubbed her cold hands together gleefully. “Dey’s done come
back—dey’s done come back; fly an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!”
But the odor of the burning cotton was stirring something else in the
disordered brain.
Away back in the Other Maumer’s girlhood there had been a great
conflagration. Big House, gin-house, cotton, everything was destroyed,
and horror had fallen upon the plantation, for there had been loss of
life as well. The Other Maumer was trying to remember. Slowly she drew
her hand across her eyes, then shook her head.
“Ole Marse?” she queried; then, as the scorching smell grew stronger,
she shouted, “De soul er Cindy’s baby!” and crushing her butterflies in
her palm, she leaped on her knotted stick into the narrow road leading
to the Quarters.
* * * * *
No one knew exactly how the Other Maumer roused the Quarters that
night. Some said that she came on bat wings and fluttered against the
chimney as she cried. Others said that she came on a great horse that
struck fire with his hoofs as she beat upon each door with her hickory
stick. Though to all the message was the same: “Fly, fly ter de
ribber an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!” But the latter part of the
admonition was lost in the weirdness of the command, and the frightened
negroes tumbled out of their warm beds, wide awake for once.
[Illustration: “‘DE BUTTERFLIES DONE COME BACK’”]
Under the guidance of Henry, in the dark hour before the dawn, full
fifty negroes had been rolling the outside cotton to a place of safety;
and now the overseer, in the absence of Ole Marse, hesitated, for the
opening of the storehouse would result in a bursting out of the flames;
that moment would require coolness, courage, and rapid handling; and
the negro, always obedient, shrank from taking the responsibility alone.
* * * * *
Then a peremptory command came from somewhere, and twenty strong men
leaped back as the flames licked through the open doors like tongues.
“Strip, men! Git ter wuk lack debils!” called the impelling voice.
“Roll ’em out! Roll ’em out! H— is hotter’n dis! Roll ’em out!” and
Henry, awe-struck and thrilled, following the leading, dropped into
line with the others.
Swiftly the work went on, and higher and higher rose the mysterious
voice, urging to quicker action by prayer and execration, until the
negroes, nerved to the limits of human endurance by superstitious fear,
pushed forward until they felt their sinews crack.
“One mo’ time, heave ahead, boys!” continued the voice; then the work
was discontinued, for the white flame leaped up like a living torch,
lighting even the river with its weird splendor.
“Wuk, men, wuk, fur de soul er Cindy’s baby!” cried the voice, now
rising in a wail. Then a horror seized upon the negroes, and the
men rushed forward to the rescue, for on the roof of the burning
storehouse, now revealed through the sickening glare, stood the Other
Maumer, waving a bunch of river reeds.
“Look! look!” she shouted, reaching for the scurrying sparks; “de
butterflies done come back—dey done come back!” Then folding her arms
and smiling, as though she held a child, “De soul er Cindy’s baby!”
The picture of the past had been photographed for an instant upon the
disordered brain.
It was useless to try to save her; again and again the willing hands
were driven back by the heat. Higher and higher crept the flames
around her, but, oblivious of life or death, the bent figure swayed and
hugged in ecstasy the dream of the recovered soul.
Then a gust swept through the rifled storehouse, the beams quivered,
and the cumbersome roof fell in, smothering the flame, and leaving the
levee in utter darkness.
It was from Henry’s throat, deep and tremulous, that the death-song
rose, joined in by the treble of the women. The wondering Cindy knelt
in the sand and hid her face. Then, as the truth broke in upon her
consciousness, Cely snatched a sleeping child from the arms of the
kneeling Cindy, and a wild note of joy rose high above the dirge.