Chapter V: Ready--Action--Go!

Shirley Rouke and Peter Pellet sat upon the sun-slashed porch of the Tickfall hotel smoking their after-breakfast cigars.

The day was as clear and beautiful and buoyant as a soap bubble, and the Gulf breeze, sweeping across one hundred miles of forest, tasted salt upon their lips, and made music upon the fluted tree tops.

Rev. Vinegar Atts and Sour Sudds ploughed across the sandy street, and stepped upon the porch, where the men reclined in their chairs in lazy enjoyment of the hour.

“Mr. Rouke,” Vinegar began, “when is us gwine start takin’ our koodaks?”

“You niggers ain’t got good sense,” Rouke replied indifferently. “I tried to take the pictures yesterday, and you coons rough-housed and made a pack of dang monkeys out of yourselves.”

“Yes, suh, dat’s so,” Vinegar acquiesced. “But I done de best I could. Dem niggers ain’t edgecated up to koodaks yit.”

“I guess not,” Shirley drawled.

“Me an’ Brudder Sudds is been talkin’ about it,” Vinegar went on, “an’ Sudds specify dat he don’t think he had a fair show. He wants to hab one mo’ try-on.”

“Dat’s right!” Sudds chimed in.

“What do you folks want to do?” Shirley asked curiously.

“Sudds, he specify dat he figgers dat a make-b’lieve weddin’ betwix’ him an’ dat N’Awleens gal would be jes’ de right do,” Vinegar proposed.

“Who’ll marry ’em?” Rouke asked, watching the smoke curl up from the end of his cigar.

“Me!” Vinegar proclaimed in an explosive tone. “Dat is my real bizzness. I marrifies all de niggers.”

“I see,” Shirley grinned. “You want to get into the picture yourself!”

“Yes, suh, I’ll take a real good picture. I ain’t got no whiskers an’ my head is bald--dar ain’t nothin’ to hide me.”

“All right,” Rouke laughed. “Get all the niggers together, and I’ll try it again. Maybe you folks will get used to the camera after a while, and I can put on my play. Where is that little wench named Lulu----”

“Laller?” Vinegar corrected him. “She wucks fer Sheriff John Flournoy. I’ll git her for you.”

“Get busy, then,” Rouke snapped, his mind beginning to work like a dynamo. “Get all the niggers together at the Shoofly church at twelve o’clock. Tell that Lulu--Laller, to dress herself up for a wedding. Hunt up that Skoot Butts, and tell him to get ready to act the part of the rejected suitor--he was certainly a dandy in that rôle yesterday! Hunt up that Diamond Hitch, and tell him he is to be the father of Lalla, and give her away at the wedding. That’s all!”

Vinegar knew that he was dismissed, but he still lingered.

“Well?” Rouke demanded sharply, “what’s blocking the wheels of progress now?”

“Boss,” Vinegar said bashfully “you an’ me made a trade--an’ I’s wucked powerful hard--an’ ’pears to me like a few loose money----”

“Sure!” Rouke said, reaching into his pocket. “I presume you and Sudds have earned five dollars each, but danged if I know what you did for it!”

The two delighted darkies snatched the money, crammed it into their pockets, and went stamping down the steps.

At the corner, Sour Sudds said:

“Elder, you go hunt up dem niggers Mr. Rouke tole you ’bout, an’ I’ll rack over to de cotehouse an’ git dem license!”

“Dat’s right,” Vinegar boomed. “Dat white man done plum’ fergot dem cotehouse papers, an’ dis is gwine be a real cotehouse wedding. I fetches ’em off fine, Sudds. You oughter see me git active in a mattermony pufformunce!”

The negroes separated, and three hours later, the wedding party had assembled at the Shoofly church, and Rouke and Pellet arrived, each with a camera.

Peter Pellet got his location, adjusted his machine fixed his side lines and announced himself in readiness.

Rouke studied his characters, then began his instructions:

“Elder Atts, you and Sour Sudds are to come into the picture together and await the arrival of the bride. Lalla Cordona comes in on the arm of Diamond Hitch. All the rest of you folks bunch up together behind the wedding party. Skeeter Butts, you establish yourself--stand out in front of the invited guests, and register pain because you have lost this beautiful bride. Now--ready--rehearse!”

Then Sour Sudds suddenly bethought himself, fumbled in his pocket, trotted into the church and came out with a little square-topped writing table and a chair, and placed them in full view of the camera.

“What the devil--” Rouke began to splutter like the fuse of a cannon-cracker about to explode.

“Dis here table is fer de witnesses to sign de license, boss,” Sudds explained, as he drew a paper out of his pocket, spread it out, and then from the same capacious pocket brought forth a pen and a bottle of ink. “Sheriff John Flournoy gimme dis paper an’ I come mighty nigh fergettin’ it! He didn’t charge me nothin’ fer dis license, neither.”

“I see!” Rouke exclaimed. “Set that table back a little--that’s it! Now you wedding guests come in and stand behind that table--that’s right! Now ready--rehearse!”

The rehearsal was perfect.

“That’s fine!” Rouke exclaimed.

“Naw, suh, ’tain’t!” Sour Sudds growled. “Don’t de preacher be allowed to say no words?”

“Sure!” Rouke told him, “but it is not necessary in a rehearsal!”

“Now, I tells you dis:” Sour Sudds responded in belligerent tones, “when de picture is took ef Elder Atts ain’t ’lowed to say all de words jes’ like dis wus a real weddin’, I ain’t gwine hab nothin’ to do wid it!”

“He’ll say ’em all right, Sour,” Rouke assured him. “Keep your shirt on--don’t disarrange your linen! Now we’re ready for the picture! Vinegar, you marry these people just like you would in a church at a sure-enough wedding. Ready--action--go!”

Sour Sudds laid his hand upon the elbow of Reverend Vinegar Atts and the two marched into the picture. Sudds was trembling all over and his lips twitched with nervousness so great that he constantly strove to wipe the emotion away by scraping the back of his hand across his mouth.

The wedding guests moved into the picture, taking their locations behind the little writing table, and Skeeter Butts established himself in full view, his battered, swollen face--a result of the fracas at the fishing camp the day before--successfully “registering” all the emotions of pain, chagrin, anger, and sorrow at his loss of the beautiful bride.

Hitch Diamond came into the picture with the bride on his arm--or rather, by the arm. Hitch was regal in his walk and manner, and his widespread, grinning mouth demonstrated beyond a doubt that he was delighted to give the bride away; while Lalla Cordona, shy, drooping, taking embarrassed glances from side to side, sometimes giving vent to an insane snicker, was a perfect imitation of the real thing in dusky brides.

She wore the proverbial bridal veil, wore it loosely, sloppily, resembling a wet dishrag thrown over the top of a post. Her bridal dress was popped open in the back where the buttons had burst, the lace at the bottom of her skirt had been torn by her walk to the church through the weeds.

That dress had evidently been, at one time, some young lady’s evening gown, and the glossy black of Lalla’s bare shoulders and arms in the glare of the noonday sun was not only startling--it was shocking. Short white kid gloves covered the damsel’s hands, which she kept folded in maidenly modesty across her breast.

Hitch held her by the arm with the air of a policeman conducting a prisoner to the lock-up, and when he surrendered her to Sour Sudds, Sour grabbed her elbow in the same official and authoritative manner.

“Dear-ly be-lub-bed!” Vinegar Atts bawled in a voice which could be heard a mile, and whining his words with a peculiar, sing-song intonation which no other people on earth can imitate:

“Dear-ly be-lub-bed, we am gathered togedder in de sight of Gawd an’ de ’socheation of dese witness to hitch togedder dis here man an’ dis here woman in de holy bonduce of mattermony, which am a powerful good thing but ain’t by nobody to be tuck up wid sudden-like, but atter prayerful study on de wharfore an’ de outcome. Ef ary one of you niggers knows a good cause why not dey should be married, bawl out right now, or forever--hol’--yo’--peace!”

Skeeter Butts moved uneasily, opened his mouth to speak, then muttered in a low tone:

“I s’pose dis is all a play-like, but it shore looks nachelly like de plum’ real thing to me!”

After an impressive pause, Vinegar continued, addressing his remarks to the principals:

“Ef ary one of you two niggers knows any jus’ an’ lawful an’ resomble cause whyfo’ you shouldn’t git married bawl it out right now, or else forever--hereinafter--hencefo’th--hol’--yo’--peace!”

No impediment being alleged, Vinegar Atts glared at Sour Sudds and howled:

“Sour, is you gwine take dis woman to be yo’ reg’lar cotehouse wife; is you gwine buy her vittles, chop her stove wood, pack her water, tote her washings to an’ fro from de white folks’ house, an’ excusin’ all yuther female womans, hang only onto her, so long as you bofe lives, so--he’p--you--Gawd, hope you may die?”

“I is!” Sour Sudds replied.

“Laller, is you gwine take dis man to be you’ reg’lar cotehouse husbunt; is you gwine cook his grub, patch his britches, clean up atter him, keep him in chawin’ terbaccer, an’ excusin’ all yuther men’s take in washin’ only fer him, an’ stick only to him so long as you bofe lives togedder, so--he’p--you--Gawd?”

“I’m are!” Lalla snickered.

“J’ine yo’ right hands!” Vinegar bellowed. “Let us pray!”

There was a moment’s silence, then, in a tone which throbbed with indignation and rebuke, Atts said to Sour and Lalla:

“You two niggers shet yo’ eyes! You got to shet yo’ eyes to pray!”

“De Good Book say, ‘Watch an’ pray,’” Sour protested.

Vinegar glowered at them until they shut their eyes; having satisfied himself that they would observe the proprieties during his petition, he howled:

“Oh, Lawdymussy! Pity dese here two people whut is done united deir lives an’ deir forchines. Don’t let ’em got no deevo’ce, even if dey wants it _bad_! An’ I shore hopes dar won’t be no quollin’ or fussin’ or fightin’. Amen!”

“O Lord!” Peter Pellet whispered in imitation of Vinegar, as he slowly turned the crank of the camera. He spoke only loud enough for Rouke to hear: “O Lord, deliver me henceforth and forever from such a film hog as this big fat slob of a preacher!”

“March over an’ sign de obscribe!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, waving his hand toward the little writing table. “Yes make yo’ mark, niggers! I’ll tell de clerk whose marks dey am, an’ he’ll write down de names!”

When the last scribe had straightened up from the table and laid down the pen Sour Sudds snatched up the license, walked over and waved it in the face of Lalla Cordona, and in a voice which rang with triumph he exclaimed:

“Now, you slick little nigger gal! I fit an’ bled an’ died fer you at de fish camp yistiddy, an’ you throwed me down flat--but I got you jes’ de same! Dis paper is a real, reg’lar license from de cotehouse, Vinegar Atts is done said de words, de obscribe is done been signed, an’ dat picture man is got a tintype of de whole weddin’! I got you! You is my lawful cotehouse wife!”

With a low, gurgling cry which ended in a scream, Lalla Cordona staggered backward, tottered as if about to fall, stumbled with pain-stricken face toward the two men standing by the clicking camera, then covered her face with her hands and sank, sobbing, to the ground.

There was a moment of intense silence while the surprising trick sank into the dull minds of the negroes.

Then Skeeter Butts screamed like a maniac and hurled himself at Sour Sudds. The two men went down under the mighty impact, and Sour dropped the license from his hand. When they arose, Sour was struggling for his life to wrest an automatic pistol from the hands of Skeeter, while the little barkeeper, absolutely insane with fury, was fighting murderously to free the weapon and to kill.

In the midst of the struggle the hand of one of the fighters touched the trigger while the weapon was poised in the air. There were ten shots and the dangerous gun was empty!

Screaming with baffled rage, Skeeter gouged and fought and bit, but Sour was cooler and stronger, and slowly forced Skeeter back, until he had him pressed against the little writing table. In a moment Skeeter’s back would have been broken.

“Hey, dar!” Hitch Diamond bawled. “Let dat little coon alone!”

The whole mass of negroes made a forward movement toward Sudds, and the darky saw that they would tear him to pieces. Releasing Skeeter, he jumped to one side, sought for some place of flight, then ran into the Shoofly church.

With a howl like a wolf-pack the mob rushed into the church after him.

Shirley Rouke seized his extra camera, ran behind the church and set it in position just as the mob came pouring out of the rear door.

Sour was aiming for the deep woods in the rear of the church, but as he started for them he confronted Skeeter with his automatic pistol. Sour had no means of knowing whether Skeeter had reloaded his gun, so he ducked and started at full speed around the church with the mob in hot pursuit.

He dived into the church through the front door again, leaped out of a side window and started for the woods. But the mob split into two parts in the church, some of them going out of the rear door and some out of the front, and they met half-way around the Shoofly church with Sour Sudds in the middle.

Struggling, panting, fighting, finally screaming for help, Sour plunged and kicked and bit and scratched, working his way around to the front of the church again.

And there stood Lalla Cordona, her shapely hands clutched across her heaving bosom, watching the fray.

“He’p, Laller, fer Gawd’s sake! Dey’ll kill me!” Sour shrieked, with arms outstretched toward her.

It was his last word.

He went down in the whirlpool of spinning arms and legs while the mob snarled like wild hogs and tore at his prostrate body.

The sight sickened the girl and she turned away with face agonized, horror-stricken. Then the wretched negro’s prayerful plea for help galvanized her into action.

By the side of the church there was a piece of scantling about the size and length of a baseball bat. Lalla picked it up and waded into that mob like an Amazon.

Biff! the scantling struck a head and the owner of the head ceased operations and sank heavily to the ground. Biff! Biff! Biff! Like Father Time with his scythe, Lalla mowed the men down, or made such a deep impression on their minds that they were glad to retire.

At last she worked her way down to where poor Sour Sudds lay. But he did not lie there very long. Recalling his duplicity and deceit with reference to the marriage ceremony, and appalled at the dexterity with which Lalla handled her club, he rose from that spot, broke the world record for a hundred yard dash, and disappeared in the woods, still running.

Tickfall saw him no more.

Lalla turned, walked across the grass to where the marriage license lay upon the ground and picked it up.

She glanced at it, laughed, then carried it up close to the camera and held it so Rouke and Pellet could see it, and the all-seeing eye of the clicking machine might record it on the film.

It was a legal document issued by the City of New Orleans, Parish of Orleans, State of Louisiana.

It was signed and sealed by John Flournoy, Sheriff of Tickfall Parish, and an incorrigible practical joker.

It was a Dog License!