UNCLE SHEBA'S EXPERIENCE
Many years have elapsed since the events narrated in the last chapter
occurred, and the thread of story is taken up again in the winter of 1886.
In a small dwelling, scarcely more than a cabin, and facing on an obscure
alley in Charleston, a rotund colored woman of uncertain age is sitting by
the fire with her husband. She is a well-known character in the city, for
she earns her bread by selling cakes, fruits, and other light articles
which may be vended in the street with chances of profit. Although "Aun'
Sheba," as she was familiarly called, had received no training for
mercantile pursuits, yet her native shrewdness had enabled her to hit upon
the principles of success, as may be discovered by the reader as the story
progresses. She had always been so emphatically the master of the house
and the head of the family, that her husband went by the name of "Uncle
Sheba." It must be admitted that the wife shared in the popular opinion of
her husband.
When in an amiable mood, which, happily, was her usual condition of mind,
she addressed him as "Unc.;" when some of his many short-comings exhausted
her good-nature--for Aun' Sheba had more good-nature than patience--he was
severely characterized as "Mr. Buggone." Since they had been brought up in
Major Burgoyne's family, they felt entitled to his surname, and by
evolution it had become "Buggone." Uncle Sheba's heart failed him when his
wife addressed him by this title, for he knew he was beyond the dead line
of safety. They dwelt alone in the cabin, their several children, with one
exception, having been scattered they knew not where. Adjacent was another
cabin, owned by a son-in-law, named Kern Watson, who had married their
youngest daughter years before, and he was the pride of Aun' Sheba's
heart. Uncle Sheba felt that he was not appreciated, or perhaps
appreciated too well, by his son-in-law, and their intercourse was rather
formal.
On the evening in question, supper was over, but the table had not yet
been cleared. Uncle Sheba was a good deal of an epicure, and, having left
not a scrap of what his wife had vouchsafed to him, was now enjoying his
corn-cob pipe. Aun' Sheba also liked a good square meal as much as any
one, and she had the additional satisfaction that she had earned it. At
this hour of the day she was usually very tired, and was accustomed to
take an hour's rest before putting her living-room in order for the night.
Although the twilight often fell before she returned from her mercantile
pursuits, she never intrusted Uncle Sheba with the task of getting supper,
and no housekeeper in the city kept her provisions under lock and key more
rigorously than did Aun' Sheba. After repeated trials, she had come to a
decision. "Mr. Buggone," she had said in her sternest tones, "you's wuss
dan poah white trash when you gets a chance at de cubbard. Sence I can't
trus' you nohow, I'se gwine to gib you a 'lowance. You a high ole
Crischun, askin' for you'se daily bread, an' den eatin' up 'nuff fer a
week."
Uncle Sheba often complained that he was "skimped," but his appearance did
not indicate any meagreness in his "'lowance," and he had accepted his lot
in this instance, as in others, rather than lose the complacent
consciousness that he was provided for without much effort on his part.
Supper was Aun' Sheba's principal meal, and she practically dined at the
fashionable hour of six. What she termed her dinner was a very uncertain
affair. Sometimes she swallowed it hastily at "Ole Tobe's rasteran," as
she termed the eating-room kept by a white-woolled negro; again she would
"happen in" on a church sister, when, in passing, the odor of some cookery
was appetizing. She always left, however, some compensation from her
basket, and so was not unwelcome. Not seldom, also, a lady or a citizen
who knew her well and the family to which she had once belonged, would
tell her to go to the kitchen. On such days Aun' Sheba's appetite flagged
at supper, a fact over which her husband secretly rejoiced, since his
allowance was almost double.
She was now resting after the fatigues of the day, and the effort to get
and dispose of a very substantial supper, and was puffing at her pipe in a
meditative aspect. Evidently something unusual was on her mind, and she at
last ejaculated, "I know dey'se poah."
"Who's?" languidly queried Uncle Sheba.
"Oh, you'd neber fin' out. Dey'd starve long o' you."
"I dunno who dey is. What 'casion I got to pervide for dey?"
"Ha, ha, ha, Unc.! You'se a great pervider. Somehow or oder I'se got de
notion dat you'se a 'sumer."
"I bress de Lawd my appetite am' failin' in spite ob de rheumatiz."
"If you rheumatiz was only in you jints, dere'd be a comfort in keerin'
fer you, Unc., but it's in you min'."
"You'll cotch it some day, an' den you know what 'tis. But who's dey dat
you got on you min'?"
"Why, de young Missy and de ole Missus to be sho'."
"I don't see how dey can be poah. Dey mus' hab kep' someting out all dey
had."
"So dey did, but it wan't much, an' I jus' b'lebe it's clar dun gone!"
"What! de plantation in Virginny all gone?"
"How often I tole you, Unc., dat I heard ole Missus say herself dat
plantation was all trompl'd in de groun' an' what was lef' was took fer
taxes."
"I forgits," remarked Uncle Sheba, his eyes growing heavy in his lack of
interest; "but ole Marse Wallingford mus' hab lef' de widder ob his son
someting."
"Now look heah, Unc., you'se haf asleep. You'se 'lowance too hebby dis
ebenin'. How you forgit when I tell you ober an' ober? You doan keer.
Dat's de foot de shoe's on. You know ole Marse Wallingford's plantation
was trompl'd in de groun' too--not a stick or stone lef' by Sherman's
sogers."
"Well, dey sole dere fine house on Meetin' Street, an' dat mus' a brought
a heap," protested Uncle Sheba, rousing himself a little.
"Mighty little arter de mor'giges an' taxes was paid. Didn't I help dem
pack up what dey tink dey could sabe, and see poah Missy Mara wrung her
han's as she gib up dis ting an' dat ting till at las' she cry right out,
'Mought as well gib up eberyting. Why don't dey kill us too, like dey did
all our folks?' You used to be so hot fer dat ole Guv'ner Moses and say he
was like de Moses in de Bible--dat he was raised up fer ter lead de culled
people to de promise' lan'. You vote fer him, an' hurrah fer him, an'
whar's yer promise' lan'? Little you know 'bout Scripter when you say he
secon' Moses. Don' want no more sich Moseses in dis town. Dey wouldn't
lebe a brick heah ef dey could take dem off. He'n his tribe got away wid
'bout all ole Missus' and young Missus' prop'ty in my 'pinion. Anyhow I
feels it in my bones dey's poah, an' I mus' try an' fin' out. Dey's so
proud dey'd starbe fore dey'd let on."
"'Spose you does fin' out, what kin you do? You gwine ter buy back de big
house fer dem?"
"I'se not de one ter talk big 'bout what I'se gwine ter do," replied Aun'
Sheba, nodding her head portentously as she knocked the ashes from her
pipe, and prepared for the remaining tasks of the evening.
Her husband's self-interest took alarm at once, and he began to hitch
uneasily on his chair. At last he broke out: "Now look heah, Aun' Sheba,
you'se got suffin on you' min' 'bout dem white folks--"
"Dem white folks! Who you talkin' 'bout?"
"Well, dey ain't none o' our flesh an' blood, and de Bible say shuah dat
dey dat don' pervide fer dere own flesh an' blood am wuss dan a inferdel."
"Den I reckon you'se an inferdel, Mister Buggone," retorted Aun' Sheba,
severely.
"I'se not," retorted her husband, assuming much solemnity, "I'se a 'umble
an' 'flicted sarbent ob de Lawd, an' it's my duty to 'monstrate wid you. I
know what's on you' min'. You'se gwine ter do fer dem white folks when you
got all you kin do now."
"Mister Buggone, don' you call Miss Mara white folks no mo'."
"Well, ain't she white folks? Didn't I slabe fer her granpar yeahs an'
yeahs, an' wat I got ter show fer 't?"
"You got no stripes on you back, an' you'd had plenty ter show ef you'd
wuked fer any oder man. I 'member all about you slabin' an' how de good
major use' to let you off. You know, too, dat he war so took up wid his
book dat you could do foolishness right under his nose. An' dar was my
poah young Missy Mary, who hadn't de heart to hurt a skeeter. You s'pose I
watch ober dat broken-hearted lam' an' her little chile an' den heah 'em
called white folks, as if dey'se no 'count ter me? How ofen dat poah dyin'
lam' turn to me in de middle ob de night an' say ter me, Sheba, you will
took keer on my chile ef it libe, an' I say to her 'fore de Lawd dat I
would. An' I did too. Dat po' little moderless and faderless chile lay on
my bosom till I lubed it fer hersef, and Missy Mara neber gwine to hab
trubble when I ain't dar."
Aun' Sheba's voice had been reaching a higher and higher key under the
influence of reminiscence and indignation. Although her husband was in
dire trepidation he felt that this point was too serious to be yielded
without a desperate effort. He had been put on short allowance once before
when his wife had gone to help take care of Mara in a severe illness, and
now he had a presentiment that Aun' Sheba would try to help support the
girl and her great-aunt as well as himself. Such an attempt threatened
privations which were harrowing even to contemplate, and in a sort of
desperation he resolved once more to assert his marital position. "Aun'
Sheba," he began with much dignity, "I'se been bery easy an' bendin' like
ter you. I'se gib you you'se own head dead agin de principles ob Scripter
which say dat de husban' am de head ob de wife--"
"Mister Buggone," interrupted Aun' Sheba in a passion which was bursting
all restraint, "you'se wrestin' Scripter to you'se own 'struction. Ef you
am de head ob dis fam'ly, I'se gwine ter sit down an fole my hans, an you
can jes' git out an earn my libin' an' yours too. Git up dar now, an'
bring in de wood an' de kinlin' fer de mawnin', an' when mawnin' come, you
make de fiah. Arter breakfas' you start right off ter work, and I'se sit
on de do' step and talk to de neighbos. You shall hab all de headin ob de
house you wants, but you can't hab de 'sition widout de 'sponsibilities.
I'se gwine now to take a res' an' be 'sported," and the irate wife filled
her pipe, sat down and smoked furiously.
Uncle Sheba was appalled at the result of his Scriptural argument. He
would like to be king by divine right without any responsibilities. His
one thought now was to escape until the storm blew over and his wife's
tolerant good-nature resumed its wonted sway. Shuffling cautiously around
to the door he remarked meekly as he held it ajar, "I reckon I'll drap in
at de prar-meetin', fer I tole brudder Simpkins I'd gib dem a lif' dis
ebenin'."
His heart misgave him as he heard his wife bound up and bolt the door
after him, but he was a philosopher who knew the value of time in
remedying many of the ills of life. It must be admitted that he could not
get into the spirit of the meeting, and Brother Simpkins remarked rather
severely at its close, "Mister Buggone, I'se feared you'se zeal am
languishin'."
Uncle Sheba's forebodings increased as he saw that his house was dark, and
he fell into something like panic when he found that the door was still
bolted. He knocked gently at first, then louder and louder, adding to the
uproar by calls and expostulations. A light appeared in the adjacent
cottage, and Kern Watson, his son-in-law, came out. "Wat de matter now,
Uncle Sheba?" he asked. "Does yer wan' ter bring de perlice? You'se been
takin' a drap too much again, I reckon."
"No, I'se only been to prar-meetin', and Aun' Sheba jes' dun gone and bolt
me out."
"Well, you'se been cuttin' up some shine, an' dat's a fac'. Come in an'
stop you noise. You can sleep on de lounge. We don' want to pay ten
dollahs in de mawnin to get you out ob de caboose."
Uncle Sheba was glad to avail himself of this rather equivocal
hospitality, and eagerly sought to win Kern's sympathy by relating his
grievance. His son-in-law leaned against the chimney-side that he might,
in his half-dressed condition, enjoy the warmth of the coals covered with
ashes on the hearth, and listened. He was a tall, straight negro of
powerful build, and although his features were African, they were not
gross in character. The candle on the mantel near him brought out his
profile in fine silhouette, while his quiet steady eyes indicated a nature
not stirred by trifles.
"You'se a 'publican, Kern, an' you knows dat we culled people got ter take
keer ob ourselves."
"Yes, I'se a Republican," said Kern, "but wat dat got ter do wid dis
matter? Is Aun' Sheba gwine ter take any ob your money? Ef she set her
heart on helpin' her ole Missus an' young Missy an' arn de money herself,
whose business is it but hers? I'se a Republican because I belebe in
people bein' free, wedder dey is white or black, but I ain't one ob dem
kin' ob Republicans dat look on white folks as inemies. Wot we do widout
dem, an' wat dey do widout us? All talk ob one side agin de toder is fool
talk. Ef dere's any prosperity in dis lan' we got ter pull tergedder.
You'se free, Uncle Sheba, an' dere ain't a man in Charleston dat kin
hender you from goin' to work termorrow."
"I reckon I'se try ter git a wink ob slepe, Kern," responded Uncle Sheba
plaintively. "My narbes been so shook up dat my rheumatiz will be po'ful
bad for a spell."
Kern knew the futility of further words, and also betook himself to rest.
With Aun' Sheba, policy had taken the place of passion. Through a
knot-hole in her cabin she had seen her husband admitted to her
son-in-law's dwelling, and so her mind was at rest. "Unc," she muttered,
"forgits his 'sper'ence at de prar-meetin's bery easy, but he mus' have a
'sper'ence to-night dat he won't forgit. I neber so riled in my bawn days.
Ef he tinks I can sit heah and see him go'mandizin' when my honey lam'
Mara hungry, he'll fin' out."
Before the dawn on the following day, Uncle Sheba had had time for many
second thoughts, and when his wife opened the door he brought in plenty of
kindlings and wood. Aun' Sheba accepted these marks of submission in grim
silence, resolving that peace and serenity should come about gradually.
She relented so far, however, as to give him an extra slice of bacon for
breakfast, at which token of returning toleration Uncle Sheba took heart
again. Having curtly told him to clear the table, Aun' Sheba proceeded to
make from the finest of flour the delicate cakes which she always sold
fresh and almost warm from her stove, and before starting out on her
vending tour of the streets, the store-room was locked against the one
burglar she feared.