Chapter VII: Alarums and Excursions

Colonel Tom Gaitskill and Dr. Sentelle stood on the street in front of the court house discussing the missionary meeting of the evening before and the sudden departure of Diada.

“Do you think Diada’s visit will quicken the missionary activities of the women of our church?” Dr. Sentelle laughed.

“Who knows?” Gaitskill grinned. “She certainly made an impression on me! An escaped heathen running at large in the vicinity of Tickfall might quicken all kinds of activities----”

Their attention was diverted by the sight of two negroes who stumbled down the middle of the street in the last stages of exhaustion, puffing like steamboats, covered with swamp-mud, their garments torn to shreds by their flight through the vines and underbrush.

“Hey--Hitch!” Gaitskill called.

The two negroes stopped, staggered to where Gaitskill was standing, and sank down upon the curbstone at his feet.

“We done got away, Marse Tom!” Hitch Diamond panted. “Us escaped jes’ like de Bible say--wid de skin off our teeth.”

“Where have you been?” Gaitskill asked.

“Me an’ Vinegar is been huntin’ dat Diader you sent me atter dis mawnin’,” Hitch answered; then in a tone of sharp complaint: “Marse Tom, whut you makin’ all dis splutter ’bout dat varmint fur? She ain’t right in her intellectuals!”

“I don’t believe you’ve been anywhere near that swamp,” Gaitskill grinned.

“We shore has, Marse Tom,” the negroes said in one breath. Then they began a recitation of their experiences, snatching the sentences out of each other’s mouths:

“She built a fire by rubbin’ two sticks----”

“She et raw sassages----”

“She danced a jig in dat cabin wid butcher-knives----”

“She had on a chop-tailed nightshirt----”

“An’ cute little pants jes’ de color of a rotten egg busted on ’em----”

Their recitation was interrupted by the sound of galloping hoofs. Two mules were coming down the road at full speed, one mule ridden by a bent-shouldered old man whose kinky white wool fitted his head like a rubber cap, and the other ridden by a diminutive, pop-eyed boy so black he could shut his eyes and become almost invisible.

At every jump the riders belabored their mules with clubs, thus giving them additional reasons why they should accelerate their operations; and even the mules seemed to realize that it was an urgent case.

They shook their heads, groaned like elephants in distress, and seemed to measure off ten or fifteen feet at a leap. The riders jolted to and fro like two gray squirrels in the storm-tossed branches of a tree, but they hung on to the shaggy manes of their mounts with one hand and operated their clubs with the other.

“Hey, you niggers!” Gaitskill called. “_Whoa!_”

The mules, hearing that last command, stopped.

Now when a mule stops, he stops with a suddenness; he stops all over and all at once; he stops like a wet dish-rag which drops upon the floor, like a stepladder which collapses and comes down flat upon the ground.

The mules stopped.

Isaiah and Little Bit did not. They went on. They dived ungracefully over the heads of their mules, struck the ground twenty feet ahead of them, rolled over and over in the moist sand, then got up in a most solemn and dignified manner, walked sedately to the spot where Vinegar and Hitch sat on the curbstone, and took a seat beside them.

“Bless gracious, Marse Tom!” old Isaiah panted. “I’s skeart plum’ outen my good sense!”

“What happened, Isaiah?” Gaitskill laughed.

“Marse Tom,” Isaiah answered, “dar’s a plum’ wild woman out in de Little Moccasin Swamp. She throwed a gun at me de yuther day an’ run me an’ Little Bit clear outen de hog-camp. Us rambled back dis atternoon, an’ dat wild woman wus still dar--settin’ on de po’ch steps bangin’ on Little Bit’s banjo an’ singin’ jes’ like a pig squeals when he gits hung in de fence. When she seed me a comin’, she riz up--she looked powerful mad to me----”

Isaiah broke off and chuckled. Then he continued, in solemn and convincing tones:

“Marse Tom, I’ve saw a pig git mad an’ bust outen de pen an’ fight an’ bite jes’ like a dog an’ run eve’y pig and nigger off de plantation. An’ I’ve saw a cow git mad an’ kick over de bucket of milk an’ hook de feller whut milked her. An’ I’ve saw a man git mad an’ cut up scand’lous an’ git tuck up an’ crammed in jail. An’ I’ve saw a woman git mad--plenty womans--but I ain’t never stayed an’ saw whut dey done. Naw, suh, I skedaddles. Dat’s how come me an’ Little Bit is here now. Dat wild woman looked mad!”

There was a loud whoop up the street, and the sound of galloping hoofs smote again upon the ears of the little group in front of the court house. As they turned to look a whole cavalry troop of horses and mules swung into the main street and galloped at full speed toward the court house square.

It was a perfect Mardi Gras procession.

One aged negro passed on a blind mule, holding a baby in his lap, while two little pickaninnies rode behind him--four on one animal. An immensely fat woman rode by astraddle of a pacing donkey; she balanced a bundle as large as herself on the neck of her mount--food and household comforts of that sort, wrapped up in a red bed-quilt.

A negro boy came by holding a sack whose contents wriggled and whined, and the mustang he rode was throwing fits--the sack contained four hound pups. Another coon rode by holding in his free hand a bucket of molasses; and strapped to his back, like a knapsack was an immense bird-cage containing a parrot, who clung desperately to his giddy perch and squawked: “Look out! Look out! Look out!”

Thus, in grotesque procession, there passed before the astonished eyes of Colonel Tom Gaitskill every negro tenant and workman from the Nigger-heel plantation--four hundred men, women, and children, with his overseer, Mustard Prophet, in the lead!

“Thunderation!” Gaitskill bawled in a mighty voice. “What’s the matter with you damnation niggers?”

Mustard Prophet wheeled his mule and stopped before Colonel Gaitskill.

The whole procession swung into a large open space beside the court house, set apart for the use of the country people as a hitching place for their horses. All the business men in Tickfall promptly shut up shop and assembled in front of the courthouse to learn what all the fuss was about--and every white man’s coat-pocket sagged down on one side about four inches lower than it did on the other, and he kept his hand in that pocket.

The negroes of Tickfall and the neighboring plantations outnumbered the whites by ten thousand.

Having a natural respect and generally a true friendship for the white people, following the peaceable pursuits of agriculture, raising cotton, cotton, and then more cotton; music-loving, laughter-loving, care-free as children and inoffensive as a bird, the negroes of Tickfall lived quietly with their white neighbors and employers.

But any unusual movement among them always awakened the white man’s suspicions and brought him forth full-armed, grim as death, white-faced and keen-eyed, to search the matter to the very bottom.

A white man jostled against Dr. Sentelle.

The venerable preacher thrust his hand into the tail-pocket of his clergyman’s coat and found himself in possession of a heavy pistol. Colonel Gaitskill backed quietly into the arms of a man standing behind him and found both side pockets of his coat weighted down with weapons.

Then Gaitskill stepped forward again and became the spokesman, his voice cracking like a bull-whip in the hands of a cowboy:

“What are you niggers doing in town?”

“Us comed to town to git away from de canned bull, Marse Tom,” Mustard Prophet informed him.

There was a barely audible “Ah!” from the throats of the white men, who had held their breath in intense desire to catch Mustard’s answer. The anxiety of the white men was instantly relieved. They did not understand, but if that crowd of men, women, and children were scared and running away from something, that put a much better light upon the matter.

“To get away from--_what_?” Gaitskill snapped.

“Dunno, suh,” Mustard replied, scratching his head. “I’s done heerd tell dat she eats ’em alive.”

“Eats--_what? who?_”

“Dey calls her de canned bull,” Mustard informed him in uncertain tones.

“I presume he means _cannibal_,” Dr. Sentelle suggested with a loud chuckle.

“Yes, suh,” Mustard acquiesced. “Dat whut I jes’ said.”

“What do you know about a _cannibal_?” Gaitskill growled.

“Hopey, de woman whut cooks fer you, sont me word, an’ old Isaiah an’ Little Bit fotch me de pertick’lers,” Mustard told him. “Ole Isaiah tole me dat he done saw dat wild woman fight a bear an’ she kilt it dead. He specify dat she gib dat bear de all-under holt an’ de fust two bites!”

“Isaiah is an old liar,” Gaitskill said.

“Yes, suh. But I knowed you didn’t want me to happen to no harm, so I hauled off an’ come to town.”

“What did you bring all these other niggers for?” Gaitskill asked.

“I didn’t fotch ’em wid me, Marse Tom,” Mustard declared. “I tried to git ’em to stay back, but sompein itched ’em right sudden to trabbel, an’ here dey all am.”

There was a loud burst of laughter from the white men, Gaitskill found his coat-pockets relieved of their heavy guns, Dr. Sentelle lost the six-shooter out of the tail of his Prince Albert coat, and the business men went haw-hawing to their stores, leaving Colonel Gaitskill and Dr. Sentelle to face the rabble of panic-stricken negroes.

Gaitskill’s mind revolved a number of plans before he found one to suit him. Finally he stood on the court house steps and made oration:

“Hey, you niggers! Listen to me: Go to the back door of my store and get your rations for the night. All you nigger men be at the old cotton-shed to-morrow morning by sunrise! Hear me!”

“Yes, suh!” a number of voices responded.

“Now, Mustard,” he said to his negro overseer, “you get all these coons to the cotton-shed on time. We want to get an early start!”