Chapter III: Foreword (2)

At church on Sunday, the Lewisburg negroes spread among their brethren from the other plantations the news of the coming of the lion, and the “locus pastuh” fervently touched upon the king of beasts. “Puhtec’ we, Maussuh Jedus, f’um da’ t’ing oonuh call lion. Lead’um, Lawd, to weh de buckruh’ cow en’ t’ing’ duh bite grass so him kin full ’e belly bedout haffuh nyam nigguh, en’ ef ’e _yiz_ haffuh tek nigguh fuh ’e bittle, do, Lawd, mek’um fuh tek dem sinful nigguh wuh ent wut, en’ lef’ de Lawd’ renointed. Mek’um fuh do wid de good sistuh en’ bredduh ’puntop dis plantesshun same lukkuh oonuh mek’um fuh do long Dannil--” “Yaas, Lawd,” shouted Monday, the hypocrite, “ef ’e _yiz_ fuh eat nigguh, mek’um fuh eat dem nigguh ’puntop’uh Bonny Hall ’cross de ribbuh, en’ tek ’e woice out’uh we pinelan’.” “Yaas, Lawd!” “Please suh fuh do’um, Lawd!” shouted the fervent brethren and sisters. And stealthily, about two hours after dark that night, while the emotional negroes were alternately laughing, shouting and praying, Monday put his Devil’s Fiddle into a sack, slipped into his canoe, and, crossing to the opposite shore of the river, roared frightfully along the Bonny Hall water line, terrifying the negroes on that plantation and filling the Lewisburg darkeys with thankfulness that their prayers had been answered.

Another week passed. Monday, playing with them as a cat plays with a mouse, kept quiet, until by Saturday night, no news having come of any damage at Bonny Hall, the Lewisburg negroes hoped that the lion had been captured by “de sukkus buckruh,” or had left the neighborhood, and soon after nightfall, half the plantation gathered at the store.

About nine o’clock, when the store was jammed with briskly trading negroes, from afar in the woods came the ominous roar of the hand-made lion. It was distant, and the negroes, while badly frightened, stood their ground to await developments, but a few minutes later the awful sound came again from a nearer point, and by the time the roaring had come within a quarter of a mile of the place, the negroes were panic-stricken, and most of them hurried from the store and ran to the quarters, where they bolted themselves in, to pass a night in fear and trembling, for at intervals until past midnight, their ears carried terror to their souls. On Sunday, Monday, wearing the sanctimonious expression of a cat that has just swallowed the canary, moved among them, listening with sympathetic ears to the tales of perilous adventures that some of them had experienced. “Bredduh W’ite,” said a church sister, “lemme tell you. Las’ night uh gone to Sistuh Bulow’ house attuh daa’k. Uh did’n’ bin to de sto’, ’cause las’ week de buckruh credik me, en’ uh ’f’aid ’e gwine ax’me fuh pay’um wuh uh owe’um, en’ uh gi’ Sistuh Bulow de money fuh buy me rashi’n’ en’ t’ing’, en’ uh seddown een ’e yaa’d fuh wait ’tell ’e come back. Him house ent dey een nigguhhouse yaa’d, ’e stan’ to ’eself ’pun de aige uh de pinelan’. Bumby uh yeddy da’ t’ing’ woice. W’en uh yeddy’um fus’, ’e bin fudduh, en’ uh t’awt ’e bin Jackass duh holluh, but w’en ’e git close, uh ruckuhnize ’e woice, en’ uh know ’e duh lion. Uh _dat_ ’f’aid, uh cyan’ talk. Uh trimble sukkuh mule’ shoulduh duh shake off cowfly. W’en da’ t’ing come t’ru de bush en’ look ’puntop me, me two eye’ pop’ out me head! ’E stan’ high mo’nuh Mass Clinch’ mule. ’E yeye shine lukkuh dem fiah buckruh does mek ’puntop’uh Jackstan’ duh pinelan’ duh summuhtime fuh keep off muskittuh! W’en ’e op’n ’e jaw, ’e t’roat red lukkuh beef haslett! ’E mout’ full’up wid teet’ sukkuh harruh, en’ blood duh drip out ’e jaw sukkuh water drap outuh nigguh mout’ w’en ’e look ’puntop’uh watuhmilyun! W’en uh shum stan’ so, uh drap’ ’puntop me two knee’ en’ uh baig’ me Jedus fuh sabe me! Uh dat ’f’aid, uh shet me yeye’, en’ w’en uh done pray en’ op’n’um’ ’gen, de t’ing gone!” And so on, each tale of dreadful experience told by one negro, being over-matched by the next, who, if one gave “free rein” to her imagination, would be sure to strip the bridle off her’s and throw it away. “Meself shum,” related a 20th Century Munchausen in petticoats. “Uh bin down de road uh piece ’bout two hour’ attuh daa’k fuh try fuh ketch da’ gal, ’cause uh kinduh ’spishun my juntlemun, en’ uh binnuh folluh ’e track fuh ketch’um, but uh nebbuh ketch’um yet, but uh gwine fuh ketch’um, ’cause uh got me yeye ’puntop da’ gal f’um W’ite Hall wuh tote dem bottle en’ t’ing onduhneet’ ’e frock fuh sell rum to all dese man eb’ry Satt’d’y night, en’ mek’um fuh t’row ’way dem money ’stead’uh g’em to dem wife en’ t’ing’, en’ uh bin swif’ ’pun da’ gal track, ’cause yistidd’y w’en my juntlemun git pay’off fuh ’e wu’k, ’e come en’ pit half ’e money een me han’ befo’ uh kin ax’um fuhr’um, en’ da’ t’ing mek me fuh know him duh fool me. Uh look ’puntop’um en’ uh shum duh grin. Sattifaction duh run roun’ da’ nigguh mout’ same lukkuh puppy run roun’ de yaa’d attuh ’e own tail! Uh know man tummuch, en’ w’en ’e stan’ so, ’e yent fuh trus’! Eb’ry time man gi’ money to ’e lawfully lady, ’e h’aa’t duh cry, en’ w’en him look lukkuh ’e glad fuh g’em, ’e face duh lie, ’e try fuh kibbuh up ’e h’aa’t, en’ ’e done mek’up ’e min’ fuh fool’um, but me! uh got uh ecknowledge fuh look t’ru ’e face, en’ w’en uh look ’puntop ’e h’aa’t, ’e stan’ crookety ez uh cowpaat’! Da’ gal kin fool some dem todduh ’ooman, but ’e yent fuh fool me! Him hab two petticoat’, one mek out’uh homespun clawt’, lukkuh we’own, en’ todduh one hab skollup’, lukkuh buckruh lady’ own. W’en him hab on de clawt’ petticoat, none de man nebbuh bodduhr’um, but w’en ’e walk t’ru Lewisbu’g nigguhhouse yaa’d wid da’ skollup’ petticoat staa’ch’ _stiff_, en’ ’e frock hice up high fuh show’um, en’ dem man look ’puntop de skollup en’ yeddy de staa’ch duh talk ‘_she, she, she_’ w’en ’e walk, dem _know_ suh ’e got rum fuh sell--dat duh ’e sign--dem t’roat’ biggin fuh dry, en’ dem eb’ry Gawd’ one pick uh chance fuh folluhr’um, but dem todduh ’ooman, dem t’ink suh man lub da’ skollup’ t’ing ’cause ’e stylish, en’ dem study ’bout git skollup’ petticoat demself fuh mek man fuh folluhr’um, but duh nutt’n’ but de pyo’ rum dem man dey attuh. Dem fuh folluh da’ gal ef ’e petticoat mek out’uh grano sack!

“W’en uh did’n’ ketch de gal, uh staa’t’ fuh gone home, en’ uh look ’way off t’ru de pinelan’ en’ uh see two t’ing duh shine sukkuh injine headlight! Uh look ’gen, ’e come close, en’ uh see ’e duh annimel eye! Bumby ’e op’n’ ’e mout’ fuh holluh. Spaa’k’ duh come outuhr’um en’ ’e woice roll ’tell de groun’ shake. Uh nebbuh hab no time fuh pray. W’en uh see da’ fiah come out ’e mout’, uh tell’um, ‘so long, bubbuh, _uh gone_!’ en’ uh hice me ’coat en’ uh tek me two foot een me han’ en’ uh nebbuh study ’bout no road. Uh gone slam t’ru de bush! Brian ’cratch’ me, uh dunkyuh. Jackwine’ ketch’ me foot en’ obuht’row me, uh jump up, uh gone ’gen! One harricane tree bin ’cross de paat’, uh bus’ t’ru’um sukkuh fiah gone t’ru broom grass fiel’. Nutt’n’ nebbuh stop me, ’cause, bubbuh, _uh run_! W’en uh git een de big road, uh hog binnuh leddown fuh tek ’e res’. Wen ’e yeddy me foot duh beat groun’, ’e jump up fuh run, but uh obuhtek’um dat swif’, me foot kick’um ez uh gwine, en’ uh yeddy’um holluh behin’ me sukkuh tarrier duh graff’um by ’e yez! Briah tayre off me frock ’tell, time uh git nigguhhouse yaa’d, uh yent hab nutt’n’ lef’ but me shimmy, en’ w’en dem nigguh look ’puntop me dem t’ink uh sperrit come out de ’ood. Uh run een me house, uh shet me do’, en’ uh nebbuh come out ’gen ’tell sunhigh!”

Monday inclined his ear and listened to the negroes, but he showed them no mercy, and before the end of the third week his lion became so bold that a roar came even in broad daylight from among the reeds along the river bank, frightening the laborers out of the fields and even prompting a neighboring planter to order his foreman to lock up the mules for safety when he saw the hands flying in terror from the ricefields! At last, to avoid industrial paralysis, the owner of the plantation, discovering Monday’s plot, suppressed the powder keg lion. And the master saved his people, the Halcyon nested again on the waves of the Combahee, bringing peaceful days and peaceful ways to the Lewisburg plantation, with nothing more exciting than the quest of “da’ skollup’ petticoat,” but--“that’s another story.”

THE LION KILLER

The lion of Lewisburg was dead. By order of former Governor Duncan Clinch Heyward, the Devil’s Fiddle with which Monday White, yellow-skinned plantation practical joker, had terrorized the negroes of the neighborhood for three weeks, had been hidden away, and the groaning roar of the powder keg lion was no longer heard in the land. Monday, the clerk at the store and the master of the plantation, guarded the secret carefully and the negroes, who no longer heard the terrible voice echoing through the woods at night, or along the reeds by the river, believed that the lion, exorcised by the spirit of prayer, had departed from among them and gone to some less regenerate community. Those who had told marvelous tales of the fierce creature whose flaming eyes had burned into their souls, whose bloody jaws had frozen them with fright, told and retold with elaboration and close attention to detail,--and finally themselves believed, the first told stories of their encounters with the monster. Some of those who had had no personal experience with the lion of Lewisburg believed only part of the oft told tales. Others were frankly skeptical, for, while practically all of them believed in the lion, few were willing to yield to the story-tellers the prestige of having come unscathed through such perilous adventures. These stories are always liberally discounted among the negroes, however. At a “baptizing” on the Combahee, the big black pastor had doused in the canal one after another of the “seeking” sisters. They emerged from the turbid waters gurgling and choking, but all were too full of water, or the spirit, for utterance. At last one lusty wench with better breath control than the others came up smiling, and with wind enough for speech. “Oh Jedus!” she yelled, determined to create a sensation, “uh see Gawd onduhneet’ de water! Uh fin’ me Gawd. _’E look ’puntop me!_”

“You lie!” said the envious sister who had just preceded her, “_’tis cootuh!_ Enty I shum?”

Gradually the negroes recovered their confidence, and resumed their nocturnal rambles, visiting from one plantation to another, but they usually went in small companies and seldom adventured alone, save when some bibulous man, glimpsing the “skollup’ petticoat” of the peripatetic bootlegger from White Hall as she swished her starched symbol through the Lewisburg quarters on Saturday nights, followed with parched tongue and arid throat to some convenient spot where coin could be exchanged for contraband.

In some way it was generally understood that, supplementing the plantation prayers, “Mass Clinch,” through personal magnetism or the exercise of some former-gubernatorial authority, had had a great deal to do with speeding the going leonine guest. This rumor traveled by grapevine thirty-odd miles from Combahee to Adams Run, the abiding place of Joe Fields, the former governor’s former slave, whose confidence in “Maussuh’s” powers of accomplishment, equalled the Mohammedan belief in the esteemed Prophet’s ability to stock the Hereafter with Houris. It was true that “Maussuh” had commanded the roaring to cease--and it did, but Joe’s imagination insisted upon supplying all the “corroborative detail.”

Joe foregathered with some of his friends at the railway station, for things were not going pleasantly at home. His wife Philippa was one of those hard-working, aggravating creatures who, by her very industry and self-abnegation, forced upon the lordly loafer by whom she was husbanded a sense of his own inferiority. Philippa worked out among the white people, cooking and washing and scrubbing, while Joe rode about on a mortgaged horse or ox and boasted as a Sir Oracle at the Cross Roads or the station. Philippa was always willing to feed Joe, but she was none the less ready to season his food with the sauce of her tongue, and whenever she came home, her sense of duty urged her to remind Joe of his shortcomings. Once a fighter, hard work and scanty food had worn her body and somewhat broken her spirit, and she no longer thrashed her grown daughter Christopher Columbus as she once did, “jes’ ’cause ’e look lukkuh ’e pa,” but Joe, having to take the sauce with the meat, seldom wasted time in replying that he could utilize in eating, and thus the more speedily put himself out of earshot. Once away among his cronies, however, he expressed himself boldly and truculently. “Da’ ’ooman keep on fuh onrabble ’e mout’ ’tell uh w’ary fuh yeddy’um. ’E stan’ sukkuh briah patch w’en blackberry ripe. ’E gi’ you bittle fuh eat, but ’e ’cratch you w’ile you duh eat’um! Him iz uh fait’ful ’ooman fuh true, en’ ’e lub fuh wu’k, but w’en him dey home, uh yent fuh hab no peace. Seem lukkuh nutt’n’ wuh uh do nebbuh suit’um. Ef uh seddown een me rockin’ cheer duh fiah fuh tek me res’ w’ile uh duh nyam me bittle, ’e fau’t me fuh dat. Same fashi’n ef uh git ’puntop me oxin fuh ride to de Cross Road, oonuh kin yeddy’um talk ’bout uh lazy man ent wut!”

“’E ebbuh fau’t you w’en you got axe, eeduhso hoe een yo’ han’?”

“Who, me? _Me_ fuh hab hoe een me han’? No, suh! Maussuh’ nigguh ent fuh hol’ hoe! Wuffuh me haffuh hol’ hoe w’en uh hab po’buckruh nigguh fuh wife? _Him_ fuh hol’ hoe! Philpuh’ maussuh duh po’ buckruh f’um town. Him binnuh bake bread ebbuh sence slabery time. Wuh him ebbuh do? _Him_ ebbuh kill lion?”

“_Kill lion!_ Wuh you duh talk ’bout nigguh? Whoebbuh you ebbuh yeddy kin kill lion?”

“My maussuh fuh kill’um!”

“Go’way, Joe! You duh dream. Een de fus’ place, no lion ent fuh dey een dis country, een de two place, you ent got no maussuh, en’ een de t’ree place, ef you iz bin hab maussuh, him ent able fuh kill no lion.”

“Me yent hab no maussuh! Enty you know suh uh nyuse to blonx to Mass Clinch Heywu’d to Lewisbu’g plantesshun ’puntop Cumbee? Oonuh eegnunt nigguh’, oonuh yent know suh him hab t’ree t’ous’n’ acre’ rice en’ mo’nuh t’ree t’ous’n’ nigguh’ en’ mule en’ t’ing’? Oonuh nebbuh yeddy ’bout da’ lion wuh git’way f’um de sukkus to Orangebu’g todduh day en’ gone down Sawlketchuh swamp ’tell ’e git Cumbee, en’ ’e run all Maussuh’ nigguh’ out ’e fiel’ en’ ’e mek Maussuh’ ob’shay, Mistuh Jokok, fuh climb tree?”

“Nobody nebbuh yeddy ’bout’um, Joe, en’ _you_ nebbuh yeddy ’bout’um. Hukkuh you fuh yeddy ’bout’um? You bin Cumbee?”

“Uh yent bin no Cumbee, but uh got uh tittie lib on Maussuh’ place Cumbee, dat how uh yeddy ’bout’um.”

“Wuh yo’ tittie tell you, Joe?”

“W’en de lion git’way out de sukkus ’e gone spang f’um Orangebu’g to Sawlketchuh swamp en’ ’e nebbuh stop ’tell ’e git Lewisbu’g!”

“Wuffuh him haffuh stop Lewisbu’g, Joe?”

“Enty you know suh Maussuh’ nigguh’ fat? Maussuh’ nigguh’ fat fuh sowl! Lion hab sense ’nuf fuh know fat nigguh w’en ’e shum, en’ him kin smell _fat_ nigguh mo’ fudduh den him kin smell _po’_ nigguh, en’ Maussuh mek shishuh hebby crap uh rice en’ ’tettuh en’ t’ing dat him nigguh’ fat mo’nuh all dem todduh nigguh’ ’puntop Cumbee ribbuh!

“Soon ez de lion git Lewisbu’g, ’e stop. ’E know suh him bittle dey dey, en’ ’e mout’ biggin fuh run water. Bumbye duh night-time, ’e woice roll een Maussuh’ pinelan’ en’ all dem nigguh’ tarrify’ sukkuh chickin tarrify’ w’en fu’lhawk’ wing t’row shadduh obuhr’um! Dem nigguh’ ’f’aid ’tell dem fool! Dem lock demself een dem house duh night, en’, alldo’ ’e duh summuhtime, dem mek fiah fuh bu’n so de lion cyan’ come down de chimbly. W’en de lion cyan’ git no nigguh’ fuh eat ’cause dem all lock’up, ’e gone duh ’ood en’ meet uh cow en’ ’e kill _him_ fuh ’e bittle. W’en ’e done nyam de t’ree cow--”

“_T’ree cow!_ Joe, hukkuh him kin eat t’ree cow’ w’en ’e only kill one?”

“Him nyam t’ree cow’, enty? Him kin nyam’um uh dunkyuh ef ’e yent dead. You ebbuh see lion? Wuh Pon Pon nigguh know ’bout lion? Seem lukkuh w’en ’e done nyam dem t’ree cow’, ’e jis’ mek’um fuh hongry good, en’ ’e gone back nigguhhouse yaa’d fuh see ef him kin git uh chance fuh nyam nigguh’. ’E walk up en’ down, ’e t’rash’ ’e tail, ’e gnash’ ’e teet’ en’ ’e holluh sukkuh jackass en’ alligettuh en’ bull all t’ree one time! You kin yeddy dem nigguh’ een dem house duh pray. Dem eb’ry Gawd’ one prommus dem Jedus fuh folluh Him wu’d, ef ’e only spayre dem life. One tell’um suh ef Him tek de lion’ jaw off’um, him nebbuh t’ief Maussuh’ rice no mo’, en’ eb’ry one tell de Lawd ’bout some uh dem light sin wuh dem willin’ fuh t’row’way ef dem life sabe.”

“Light sin! Mekso dem ent prommus fuh t’row’way dem hebby sin?”

“No, man, dem ent fuh t’row’way dem hebby sin, uh dunkyuh ef lion crack dem bone’. Een slabery time nigguh baig ’e maussuh’ paa’d’n fuh t’ief ’e fowl w’en ’e git ketch, but w’en ’e kill _cow_, ’e nebbuh crack ’e teet’, en’ eb’n so ef ’e maussuh ketch’um duh skin de cow, him fuh tell ’e maussuh ’e fin’um dead een de ’ood, en’ ’e duh skin’um fuh tek de hide to ’e maussuh fuh sabe’um f’um buzzut! No, man; oonuh fuh hol’ oonuh hebby sin sukkuh sheep buhr hol’ mule’ tail, ’tell Gabrull blow ’e hawn en’ de Lawd tek’um off!”

“Bumbye w’en dayclean en’ de lion nebbuh git no nigguh, ’e gone en’ kill fo’ mo’ cow’, en’ w’en ’e done nyam’um ’e gone duh ’ood en’ leddown fuh tek ’e res’, en’ nobody nebbuh yeddy’um ’gen ’tell Sat’d’y night come. All t’ru de week de nigguh’ swonguh en’ sattify een dem min’ ’cause dem t’ink suh dem pray’ mek de lion fuh gone’way en’ le’m’lone, but ’e yent duh no pray’ mek’um fuh gone, duh dem fo’ cow’ wuh ’e nyam, mek’ ’e belly full ’tell ’e yent hab no room fuh nigguh!”

“W’en Sat’d’y night come, de lion holluh ’gen en’ all de nigguh’ run out de sto’ en’ gone een dem house fuh hide. Monday come, en’ de nigguh’ ’f’aid fuh gone een Maussuh’ fiel’ fuh wu’k. Mistuh Jokok dunno wuh fuh do. Him sen’ uh ansuh to Cuhlumbia fuh tell Maussuh ’cep’n’ him come Lewisbu’g, all him nigguh’ fuh eat. Maussuh ride de train. ’E come. ’E git off W’ite Hall deepo, ’e git ’pun ’e hawss, ’e tu’n to ’e ob’shay, ’Jokok,’ ’e say, ‘Weh da’ annimel fuh hide? Lemme shum!’”

“Mistuh Jokok tell’um de las’ time dem yeddy ’e woice, ’e bin een de t’icket en’ reed en’ t’ing by de ribbuh bank. Maussuh nebbuh wait fuh yeddy no’ mo’. ’E snatch ’e rifle out’uh Mistuh Jokok’ han’, ’e jam ’e two spuhr een e’ hawss’ belly, ’e hawss jump’ nine foot off de groun’ een de ellyment, en’ ’e gone! Maussuh run ’e hawss ’tell ’e git ’cross de causeway ’pun de ribbuh bank, den ’e biggin fuh ride slow en’ t’row ’e yeye befor’um fuh see weh da’ t’ing fuh hide. W’en ’e git close de briah en’ t’ing, ’e hawss cock’ ’e yez befor’um, ’e snawt’ en’ ’e ’tan’up ’trait ’pun ’e hine foot. W’en ’e do dat, Maussuh know suh de lion dey een dem bush! De hawss come down ’pun ’e fo’ foot. ’E duh shake sukkuh rice t’rasher shake. Maussuh yeddy sump’nurruh duh groan een de t’icket. Bumbye de lion come out. W’en ’e op’n’ ’e mout’ ’e teet’ long sukkuh cawncob! Maussuh t’row ’e rifle to ’e yeye. ’E only hab one ball een’um en’ ’e know suh ef him ent kill da’ t’ing _dead_, da’ lion fuh nyam him en’ ’e hawss alltwo. Maussuh tek aim at ’e t’roat. ’E cut loose, ‘_bam!_’ W’en de gun crack, ’e look! De lion’ head roll down de bank ’tell ’e fall een de ditch! Maussuh cantuh up to Lewisbu’g. ’E tell Mistuh Jokok fuh sen’ uh waagin en’ fo’ mule’ fuh fetch’um to de yaa’d. Dem medjuhr’um en’ ’e stan’ t’irteen foot long! W’en de nigguh’ yeddy suh ’e dead, dem stop wu’k en’ dem fuh mek fiah en’ shout roun’ da’ lion de Gawd’ night! Bumbye buckruh’ come fuh look ’puntop’um en’ w’en dem yeddy suh ’e seb’nteen foot long, dem ’stonish!”

“Yaas, uh ’spec’ nigguh’ en’ buckruh’ alltwo fuh ’stonish ef dem kin yeddy you fuh tell’um, Joe. Da’ lion duh git mo’ longuh! W’ile ago you bin fuh mek’um t’irteen foot long.”

“Fus’ time dem medjuhr’um ’e yent bin hab no head. Enty ’e fuh medjuh mo’ attuh dem tie ’e head back ’pun ’e neck weh Maussuh’ ball cut’um off? Oonuh mus’be fool!”

“Joe,” said another doubting crony, “hukkuh da’ leely ball kin fuh cut off da’ lion’ head? ’E tek soad, eeduhso axe, fuh do da’ t’ing?”

“Who’ Maussuh kill da lion! Duh yo’ Maussuh, enty? Enty uh tell oonuh eegnunt nigguh’ suh de hawss skayre ’tell ’e shake, en’, same time Maussuh pull’ ’e trigguh, de hawss trimble’ ’tell ’e mek da’ ball fuh wabble ‘cross de lion’ neck ’tell _’e cut ’e t’roat f’um yez to yez_!”

“OLD BARNEY”

Old Friday Giles was the English purist of Penny Creek. A former “driver” and slave of Mr. Edward Barnwell, his manners were pompous, though ingratiating. His speech was unusually good save for his ludicrous use of “she” and “her” for all things singular, animate or inanimate.

For many years “Old Barney,” an Ayrshire bull acquired from the Barnwell family, was the terror of all the negroes roundabout. True to his Scottish breeding, Barney was both stubborn and acquisitive and lived up to

“The good old rule * * * the simple plan
That they should take who have the power
And they should keep who can.”

Barney had the power. Therefore he took. He loved green peavines as the Scot loves his haggis, and whenever he fancied them he had but to lean against the miserable fences enclosing the negroes’ patches, walk through, and help himself. The negroes would shoot him up with firearms and ammunition of all sorts and his hide was constantly full of lead of every size from mustard seed to swan shot, but fear kept the marksmen from getting near enough to hurt him seriously, so Barney philosophically took the lead without, and the peavines within, and after eating his fill would lie down in the field and chew his cud complacently, walking out later through the owner’s front yard, pausing to paw the dirt contemptuously and pull a few mouthfuls from the Seewee bean vines that climbed about the garden palings.

One day Friday’s field was invaded, and, hat in hand, he came to the doorstep to complain. “Missis,” he said, “dat bull Baa’ney, she is ridickilus! Missis, I mek my fench ten rail high. I stake her and I rider her, but ole Baa’ney she put her breas’ agains’ my fench, she lean on her, she break her down. She enter my fiel’, she eat my peas. I shoot her, but she is indifferent to my shot. When she conclude eatin’ my peas, she lie down, and, Missis, she was so full that she could not rise!” But Friday was a gentlemanly old darkey and treated his sturdy, quick-talking wife, Minda, with great gallantry, _practical_ gallantry, too, as she bore him (and raised) 17 sons and daughters, thereby earning the well-done of her kindly though thrifty old master. “Maussuh lub me ’cause uh hab chillun so fas’,” she boasted. “I fetch’um uh fine nigguh eb’ry year Gawd sen’!”--meaning that the old gentleman had a pre-Rooseveltian objection to race suicide on the plantation.

Although old Bo’sun Smashum, the herdsman, who had raised Barney from a calf, would twist his tail in the barnyard and chevy him about with impunity, the bull was truculent toward outsiders and on more than one occasion disputed the highway with planters of the neighborhood, who were forced to turn back and drive a mile or so out of the way in the interest of safety; while negroes riding or driving oxen, on sighting Barney in the road half a mile away, would take to the woods or the fields and make a wide and respectful detour. The danger would be enhanced should the animal between the shafts of the primitive cart be one of the “bull yellin’s” so much affected by the freedmen for combination purposes. The silly song, “Everybody works but father,” had not then been evolved from the near-brain of the writer of music hall lyrics, and the labors of a beast of burden were held not incompatible with the paternity of a bovine family. So these little creatures multiplied and continued to lead their double lives. Barney held in utter contempt even the authenticated bulls of the community, but he so terrorized the little harnessed scrubs that their owners could hardly avert a stampede when the great bull bellowed in the vicinity.

One hot Sunday afternoon three or four hundred negroes were holding services at the old log church near the Parker’s Ferry cross-roads. Too numerous for the building, they were using outdoor bush shelters covered with green boughs and with hewn saplings for seats. At the tail of a “distracted meetin’” that had been running for several days, while grass grew in their crops, they were in a state of exaltation, and the high, sweet voices of the women blended in harmony with the deep, rich basses of the men in the perfect rhythm characteristic of African music. Old time hymns and “sperrituals” alternated. At first, only two or three voices followed the leader, then one by one the singers joined in major and minor keys, until at the last the entire congregation swelled the diapason that floated away on the summer wind. The little oxen and bulls, whose harness permitted the indulgence, lay down at their hitching posts, the less fortunate stood between the shafts and chewed their cuds, drowsing with half-closed eyes in the soft, warm air of the pineland, fragrant with the blossoming partridge peas.

The singers walked up and down the aisles of the open-air church, working up enthusiasm in camp meeting fashion.

“Sistuh Chizzum, won’t you meet me yonduh?” Sister Chisolm would, so she responded to the masculine invitation, “Oh yaas, Lawd!”

“Bredduh Hacklus, won’t you meet me yonduh?” And Brother Hercules, a wizened little member of Sister Chisolm’s “class,” shouted in acquiescent gallantry, “Oh yaas, Lawd!”

The meeting drew to a close, the last inspiring “sperritual,” of African suggestiveness, remained to be sung. Who should raise the tune? Simon Jenkins the “squerril” hunter, a devout old rascal, called to his brother-in-law, John Chisolm, “hice’um, Chizzum! You hice de chune.”

John’s resonant voice rolled out--

“Jedus, hol’ de lion jaw,
Jedus, hol’ de lion jaw,
Jedus, hol’ de lion jaw,
’Tell I git on de grazin’ groun’,
Oh, ’tell I git on de grazin’ groun’,”

“_Hol’um, Jedus!_”
“_Don’ tun’um loose, Lawd!_”
“_Maussuh Jedus, hol’ ’e jaw!_”

came the responses in bass and treble, then, as the refrain again swelled and died away, “Oh-h ’tell I git on de grazin’ groun’,” an ominous “mmmm, mmmm, mmmm, mmh! mmh! mnmh!” rolled through the woods. “_Duh Baa’ney! Great Gawd, duh Baa’ney!_” shrieked the panic-stricken women who scattered in every direction, while the men ran to release their hitched animals as old Barney leisurely approached, routing sonorously. “Mek’ace, gal, mek’ace! Him duh walk sedate but ’e bex,” shouted a man to a leggy, dry-boned black girl who, although guiltless of shoes and stockings, had worn to the meeting an antiquated hoopskirt which now impeded her progress. “Hice’um, gal! Hice yo’ ’coat en’ _run_!” She “hiced” her petticoat and ran, but the crinoline billowed about her knees as she passed Dick Smashum on her way to the Savage plantation. Dick was duck-legged and as slow of speech as of foot, but discretion had urged him to get an early start and he was well out of the danger zone. Later, when Atalanta’s mother overtook him and asked, “You see my gal? Weh ’e gone?” he replied. “Uh yiz see one sump’nurruh duh run like de debble, gwine Sabbidge. ’E pass me duh paat’, en’ ’e binnuh trabble so swif’ uh yent ruckuhnize um ’zackly, but ’e stan’ sukkuh two blacksnake duh ’tretch out een one bu’dcage.”

“BILLYBEDAM”

Billybedam was bibulous.

None knew how he achieved his devilmaycare nickname--the only name he had, but everybody around Pocotaligo knew that he came by his thirst through patient industry, and that he loved his work. No round-paunched monk of the Middle Ages, no Falstaff of the English taverns, ever absorbed dusky Tuscan wine or Sherris Sack with more appreciative avidity than Billybedam soaked up the “Fus’ X” corn sold on the sly by Yemassee blind tigers and bootleggers, for Billybedam had acquired his “liquorish mouth” during the days, the glorious, honorable days, of the State Dispensary, when, under the operation of that “Great Moral Institution,” certain sons of “Grand old South Carolina” had shown the world that the Caucasian was not “played out,” but could, upon occasion, graft like any freedman of the good old days of Reconstruction!

So the bibulousness of Billybedam became a byword all about “de Yamassee,” where “de Po’ Trial” Railway--significant name--crosses the Atlantic Coast Line, and, not infrequently, the tempers of passengers bound for Beaufort and Port Royal.

Perhaps it was the frequent pouring of libations--his gods were all in his gullet--that enabled Billybedam to crook his elbow so expertly, but this facility, and a marvelous twist of the wrist, contributed to his success as a fisherman, and the greater part of what he ate and drank and wore, came from the brown waters of the Salkehatchie, whose deep and narrow current flowed between wooded banks a mile or so away. With rod and line he fished the stream by day, and many a string of bream and redbreast perch was sold at the station to buy the precious whiskey, while the narrow-mouthed “blue cats,” caught on his set lines over night, were traded among the negroes in exchange for his scanty food and shelter, for Billybedam was a bachelor and a vagabond, unattached and unaffiliated, and called no roof his own.

Sometimes in the spring when the sturgeon were running, the fisherman would get the big-game fever, and, armed with a “grain” which he threw as the whaler throws a harpoon, stationed himself on some log that jutted out over the water, or in the fork of a low, overhanging tree, and took toll from the passing thousands. During the sturgeon run, when, too, mulberries and blackberries were plentiful, the negroes grew fat and “swonguh” and became more than usually irresponsible.

The heavy, sensuous Southern spring was in the air. The bayous or “backwaters,” which irrigated the inland swamp ricefields, were dotted with the sweet white pond lilies, or aflame with the yellow lotus, while over the broad leaves of lily and lotus, purple gallinules tripped daintily. Every log that floated and every stump that rose above the water carried a string or a cluster of terrapins, their glistening backs reflecting the sunshine. The sloping trunks of the willows that fringed the banks were festooned with water snakes, basking in the grateful warmth. Here and there on tussock or muddy flat, rough-backed alligators lay dozing. Blue flags flaunted along the marges. Tall white cranes stalked slowly about the shallows, pausing now and then with spear-like bill poised, watching, waiting.

Billybedam was full of the magic of the spring-time, but it was not altogether a satisfying fullness, and as he pushed the shallow flat-bottomed skiff off from shore, he laid down the paddle long enough to eat a hunk of coarse corn bread and swallow a nip from his “Fus’ X” flask. And then, thoroughly satisfied with the world, he dipped his blade and, with alternate strokes to right and left, pushed the clumsy snub-nosed bateau across the backwater to a famous “drop,” a deep pool just below a gap in the dam where the dark waters flowed slowly through from an upper reservoir. This was Billybedam’s favorite preserve whenever high water in the Salkehatchie forced the river fishermen to seek their living elsewhere.

Today, however, he made an unpropitious start. After his earthworm bait had been repeatedly stripped from his hook by the troublesome silver fish, whose small mouths enabled them to nibble it away piecemeal without getting hooked, his cork bobbed furiously, and he jerked quickly, only to bring swinging over the boat one of the malodorous little black turtles commonly called “limus cootuh” by the low-country negroes. This unwelcome catch he disengaged from the hook and threw as far away from him as possible. “You good fuh nutt’n’ _nigguh_! Yunnuh t’ink me come spang f’um Macfuss’nbil fuh ketch limus cootuh, enty? Who eenwite you fuh eat ’long fish? You ebbuh see nigguh eat ’long buckruh? De debble!” Running his cork a foot or two higher up the line, he fished at a deeper level and soon began to haul in fine perch, which he strung on the willow withes he had provided. At the end of two hours he had several strings of marketable fish, and, as the sun had set, he paddled to shore, threw away his now empty flask, tied his boat to a snag, and started for Yemassee to convert his catch into cash.

An hour later, with silver jingling in his pocket, he encountered in the dusk, Miss Maria Wineglass, a much sought-after ornament of colored society. Miss Wineglass was, in a manner of speaking, a peripatetic paradox. Altho’ dour-looking and glum, she was noted for her spirits (80 proof); bootless and bare-legged, she was McPhersonville’s most daring and accomplished bootlegger, and so circumspect and resourceful that she seldom met the law face to face.

When her course crossed that of Billybedam, she was traveling an unfrequented path on the outskirts of the settlement, and, with little need for caution, she walked rapidly, giving out as she moved a faint, hollow sound like the subdued tones of a xylophone. She hailed the bibulous one as a regular and valued customer.

“Weh you gwine, bubbuh?”

“Wuh you got? I gwine ’tell I fin’um.”

“I got ’nuf.”

“Gimme uh pint;” and he held out half a dollar.

“Gimme seb’nty fi’ cent. Dishyuh t’ing hol’ mo’n uh pint.”

“Wuh kinduh t’ing dat? Lemme shum.”

“Yuh him,” and Miss Wineglass fumbled under her skirt and, from a marvelously durable and comprehensive pair of bloomers made of two cottonseed meal sacks sewed together at the top, produced a gourd holding about three half-pints, and passed it over. The gourd was bottle-shaped and cob-stoppered and ingeniously laced about with hickory bark, as flasks of Chianti are wrapped with flags. The knocking together of half a dozen of these gourds, tied around her waist and suspended within her bloomers, had produced the xylophone music. The money paid, they parted.

Billybedam went his ways. Whatever the nature of the nepenthe the “Fus’ X” extracted from the calabash, it so ’whelmed his wits that oblivion lurked in the bottom of the gourd and overcame him. He fell among thieves, who stripped him of a new shirt he wore and left him, in his trousers only, by the roadside, where a local constable found him next morning and haled him before the magistrate for being inadequately clothed on the public highway.

“What have you to say for yourself?”

“Cap’n, uh yent hab nutt’n’ fuh say. Uh gone fish duh backwatuh, en’ een de fus’ gwinin’ off, uh did’n’ hab no luck, ’cause silbuhfish tek me bait en’ uh nubbuh ketch’um, en’ one limus cootuh grab de hook en’ uh ketch _him_ en’ t’row’um’way, en’ den uh ketch ’nuf fish, en’ uh gone Yamassee en’ sell’um, en’ uh binnuh walk duh paat’, en’ uh meet one gal duh walk duh paat’, name ’Riah Wineglass, en’ uh yeddy’um befo’ uh shum, ’cause ’e mek one soun’ w’en ’e walk sukkuh cow foot crack w’en him duh run, en’ w’en uh _yiz_ shum close, ’e frock duh bunch out all roun’um sukkuh cootuh ’tring out ’puntop’uh log, en’ uh ax’um, ’gal, wuh you got fuh fifty cent?’ en’ ’e say ’e yent got nutt’n’ fuh fifty cent but ’e hab ’nuf fuh seb’nty fi’ cent, en’ I tell’um ’lemme shum,’ en’ ’e hice ’e frock, en’ him hab one t’ing onduhneet’ him frock, dem call’um bloomuh, uh nubbuh see shishuh debble’ub’uh t’ing befo’ sence uh bawn! ’E hol’ ’bout t’ree-fo’ bushel, en’ ’e mek outuh grano sack, en’ britchiz duh ’e farruh en’ frock duh ’e murruh, en’ ’e stan’ sukkuh alltwo. Den de gal graff een da’ t’ing wunnuh call’um so, en’ ’e full’uh de pyo’ killybash ’long Fus’ X, en’ ’e ketch’out one en’ gimme, en’ uh gone off en’ drink’um, en’ fus’ t’ing uh know uh yent know _nutt’n’_, ’tell de counstubble fin’ me dis mawnin’, en’ las’ night w’en uh bin een one strance, some dem Macfussn’nbil nigguh’ t’ief one new shu’t off me back, en’,” said Billybedam, “uh tengk Gawd uh did’n’ bin hab on uh new _britchiz_!”

A SHORT CUT TO JUSTICE

Ever since the days of Solomon, the courts and tribunals of the law in all lands have sought short cuts to justice, but one of the straightest and strangest in the history of jurisprudence was achieved by one Daniel W. Robinson, colored, sometime Magistrate or Trial Justice of the sovereign State of South Carolina, for the Bailiwick of Jacksonboro, in lower Colleton County.

Under the trying days of Reconstruction in South Carolina, the white men and boys living in the so-called “black belt,” comprising the coastal counties of the State, were constantly seeking to lure the black voters into the fold of Democracy, with but indifferent success, for the wary freedman, under the secret instructions given him by the leaders of his own race and the white-skinned spoilers, native and alien, who controlled his political activities for their own profit, was hard to wean away from the idols set up for him within “the awful circle” of the Republican fold.

These poor, deluded negroes, absolutely dependent upon their former masters, the landholders, for food, for clothing, for shelter, for remunerative work--often for free medicines and medical treatment in communities where there were no doctors and no drug stores--though making profuse lip service for benefits received, forgot them all on election day when, under the influence of the knaves who manipulated them, they turned away from their best friends and, hurdled at the polls like sheep, voted blindly the ballots put into their hands by the corruptionists.

At one of these elections the Republican ballot was headed with the national flag in colors, swathed around the ample loins and spreading hips of the figure of Liberty, with the legend “Union Republican ticket.” One of these flamboyant affairs was secured from the printer a day or two before the election and the Democratic tickets were also printed in red ink with a rooster at the top, in the hope that some of the negroes might accept and vote them for Republican ballots. One of these rooster ballots was offered an old darkey at the polls by a Democratic negro worker, but the wary old fellow had been rehearsed in his lesson too well, and he rejected it indignantly, saying: “No, man! uh yent want da’ t’ing! Gimme da’ ticket fuh wote wuh hab de gal wid de Balmuhral sku’t wrop roun’um!” And he got it.

Then came ’76 and the “Straight-Out” campaign. Every white man and boy who could raise two or three dollars to buy a few yards of flannel, sported a red shirt, usually put together by the loving hands of some member of his family, but, occasionally, fearfully and wonderfully made by a sweetheart or feminine acquaintance--some perhaps “a little more than kin,” but all “less than kind.” The boys, however, upon whom had been wished the needlework activities of their lady friends, wore them jauntily nevertheless, absolutely indifferent to the want of co-ordination of “seam and gusset and band.”

As the campaign progressed and enthusiasm increased, an occasional courageous black, taking his life in his hands and braving the hatred and ostracism of his fellows, even of his church and his family, would boldly put on a red shirt and ride with the whites to political meetings or rallies. One of these, old Clitus Wilson, a life-long Democrat, who, as his master’s body servant, fought with him in the battle of Gettysburg, flaunted his red shirt bravely and defiantly. Another was Paul Jenkins, a thrifty, property-owning negro, whose courageous work in the first Hampton campaign was remembered by the whites, who elected him county commissioner soon after the Democrats came into power. Paul, a wiry, coal-black negro, was once beset by several members of the Grant family, “Free-Issue” mulatto Republicans, and cruelly beaten. In the courts of radicalism there was no redress for a negro Democrat, but Paul bided his time and, meeting one of the Grants alone, retaliated so vigorously that the mulatto was laid up for a week. The victim went before Trial Justice Robinson, over the river at Jacksonboro, and swore out a warrant, charging Paul with aggravated assault and battery.

Paul, summoned to appear on the following Saturday, came in great trouble to a stripling planter of the neighborhood who willingly accompanied him to see that the Democrat got justice, and to go on his bond in case he should be sent up to a higher court.

On Saturday morning the deep and swift Edisto, lacking a ferry, was crossed in a shallow bateau, the saddle-horses, held by their bridles, swimming alongside, and the accused and his protector soon appeared before the august Court, sitting in a small shanty, facing an imposing layout of writing materials and a copy of the statutes. The young planter told the Court that he had come over with Paul to look after his interests and see that he got justice. The Court responded graciously that he was “glad to welcome the distinguished counsel from across the river” and took pleasure in extending to him the courtesies of his Court.

A jury was asked for and Justice Robinson, calling up some of the idle negroes who hung about his office, selected five elderly darkeys, all of them as black as crows. To these five jurors the magistrate added “the distinguished counsel from across the river,” whom he graciously requested to consent to serve as foreman. In the interest of justice the request was complied with.

Grant, the aggrieved, appeared as prosecuting witness, “tore a passion to tatters” in describing the sudden and furious onslaught made upon him by the black Democrat, and rantingly demanded justice. Paul simply told the story of the attack made upon him by the Grant family and admitted his retaliation, which he held was justifiable, and the jury withdrew to a vacant room nearby which was indicated as the place of deliberation.

The foreman was given a primitive split white-oak chair with a rawhide seat, while his five dusky associates ranged themselves like roosting buzzards upon a teetering bench, whose supports, two short boards sawed into the semblance of legs at the bottom, were placed so close together that the utmost skill was required on the part of the sitters to maintain their equilibrium, for if the central section rose, both end men had to sit tight until they could rise simultaneously, else the laggard would be in jeopardy.

And now the jurors were ready for the case. Paul, having beaten his man fairly and in righteous retaliation, was entitled to an acquittal and to this end the foreman directed his efforts. As a preliminary, Paul was called to the shanty window, provided with sixty cents, and despatched to Arnold’s store for a quart of corn whiskey. Upon his return with the pallid pop-skull, there was an excited shifting of five seats on the shaky bench and five pairs of eagerly expectant eyes rested their kindly regard upon the messenger of Bacchus as he withdrew, leaving his fate in their hands.

The lone and crafty Caucasian, playing Iago to five Othellos, picked out a gorilla-like old codger on the near end of the bench as the dominant personality among them, and extending the flask told him to take a drink and serve his fellows. Hacklus Manigo jumped up with such alacrity, and was followed so quickly by the negroes who sat next him, that the near end of the bench, relieved of their combined weight, flew up, and the two remaining jurors tumbled ignominiously and indignantly to the floor. The grumbling of the fallen and the derisive guffawing of the risen, ceased suddenly, however, as eight saucered and fascinated eyes fastened upon old Manigo’s Adam’s apple which moved up and down his neck in perfect unison with the “glug, glug,” of the liquid flowing so easily down his throat. The drinker’s ocular and auricular demonstration of hydraulics was too much for his associates, who cried out in indignant protest. “Tek’care, man! We’own dey een da’ t’ing!” “Cap’n, please, suh, mek’um tek ’e mout’ off da’ bottle. ’E gwine drink eb’ry Gawd’ drap!”

Manigo, having absorbed almost one-fourth of the contents of the flask, gave it into the nearest of the eager hands held out to receive it, drew his coat sleeve with a great swipe across his wet and glistening mouth, gave a grateful grunt, “umh, da’ t’ing _good_! Tengky, Boss, tengky, suh!” accompanied by an elaborate scrape of the foot and a low obeisance, and took his seat in the center of the bench, where he was soon flanked by the four, whose watchful eyes, each upon the other, had not permitted their attainment of Manigo’s state of exaltation.

“Now, Manigo, and you boys,” said Iago. “This is a plain story. Three or four yellow men double-team a black man and beat him up. He doesn’t take them to court but waits his chance, and when he catches one of these yellow men away from his gang, why the black man beats him to pay him back for what the yellow man helped to do to him. Now, that’s what Paul did to this free-issue yellow fellow Grant. Paul is black like all of you. Do you want to send him to jail for laying hands on a mulatto, just because mulattoes think themselves better than you blacks?”

“Great Gawd, _no, suh_!” shouted Manigo, springing up. Turning half way round out of respect to the foreman, he alternately jumped in the air and squatted like a gigantic frog, while he whirled his arms and harangued his fellow blacks, cutting his eye around now and then for a nod of approval from Iago. “De debble! Punkin-skin’ nigguh fuh beat black nigguh en’ black nigguh ent fuh beat’um back, enty? Oonuh ebbuh yeddy ’bout shishuh t’ing sence you bawn? Me fuh ’low yalluh nigguh fuh knock me en’ me yent fuh knock’um back! No, man! Uh knock’um ef uh dead!”

“Yaas, man, _knock’um, knock’um_!” came the cries of approval as old Hacklus, having put up his yellow man of straw, leaped about as he proceeded to bowl him over.

“Uh yent fuh wait ’tell ’e knock me fus’. Uh gwine knock’um befo’ ’e hice ’e han’! Uh knock’um een ’e yeye, uh kick’um on ’e shin, alltwo one time. Den uh butt’um een ’e belly. Uh double’um up ’cause ’e too swonguh, ’e too ’laagin’! Cap’n, who dis yalluh nigguh nyuse to blonx to een slabery time?” he asked the foreman.

“To nobody. He was free. He belonged to himself.”

“Great Gawd! Cap’n, all dese’yuh mans blonx to quality! All uh we yuh nyuse to blonx to Baa’nwell, eeduhso Heywu’d en’ Wandross. All duh juntlemun’ nigguh. Nigguh stan’ sukkuh ’e maussuh. Ef ’e blonx to juntlemun, him gwine mannusubble, ef ’e blonx to po’buckruh, him ent nutt’n’, ’cause uh po’buckruh nigguh _ent wut_, but ef ’e blonx to ’eself, ’e blonx to nigguh, en’ da’ yalluh t’ing wuh blonx to nigguh tek ’t’oruhty ’puntop ’eself fuh knock nigguh wuh blonx to juntlemun, en bex w’en de nigguh knock’um back! No, suh, ’e mus’ be fool! Leh we tu’n Bredduh Paul loose!”

“Yaas, man, _tu’n’um loose, tu’n’um loose_!” came the chorus.

“Well, boys, before we go, you’d better finish the flask.”

“_Tengk Gawd, suh!_” ejaculated old Hacklus whose mouth was now as cottony as a stump-tailed water moccasin’s, as he lifted the flask to his lips, “me t’roat dry. Uh binnuh talk.”

“_Hol’ on, man!_”

“_Don’ tek’um all!_”

“Manigo drink’ too hebby!”

“’E gwine dreen’um dry!” came the protests, but Manigo had swallowed the lion’s share before he passed the flask to the next man. “Boss, we fuh pit da’ yalluh Grant een jail, enty?” and he was much disappointed when told it couldn’t be done.

The jury returned to the Court room with their verdict of acquittal, and received the thanks of the Court, who assured them all, “and especially the distinguished foreman,” of his appreciation of the expedition with which they had dispatched the business of the Court. As Paul and his protector mounted their horses for the homeward ride, Daniel stood bare-headed at the Court room door, and expressed the hope that he might again welcome to his temple of justice “the distinguished counsel from across the river.”

SAM DICKERSON

For many years after the war, Sam Dickerson, a former slave of the Horlbeck family, ranted around the courts of the lower counties of South Carolina in the practice of the legal profession, which he had acquired in a jack-leg sort of way soon after his emancipation. Tall, black, pompous, and as voluble as an overshot water-wheel, he cut his grotesque antics in higher and lower courts to the intense amusement of blacks as well as of whites. He habitually carried with him a bag of tawdry and greasy law books, which he hauled out and spread upon tables, wherever the space was available, to impress jurors and court-room spectators with his importance. With monkey-like imitativeness he copied the court-room gestures and mannerisms of prominent lawyers of the white race, and he had memorized certain passages from the statutes and the law blanks, which he spouted whenever opportunity offered. Upon one occasion Dickerson was defending in a magistrate’s court a negro accused of larceny. The word written on the indictment pleased him and he mouthed and slobbered over it as one mouths the pit of a clingstone peach. “Dis man bin chaa’ge’, yo’ onnuh, wid laa’ceny! He bin chaa’ge’ wid laa’ceny! W’at am laa’ceny, yo’ onnuh?”

“Do you know what it is to steal?” retorted the court.

“Of co’se uh does, yo’ onnuh. Laa’ceny is t’ief, en’ t’ief is steal, en’ uh man w’ich steal is uh man w’ich enter anodduh man’ house een de dead ub night en’ did mos’ feloniously steal, tek, carry away en’ appropriate to he own use de whole or uh paa’t dereof uh de juntlemun’ proputty. But de chaa’ge, yo’ onnuh, am laa’ceny!”

Dickerson was so well known about the magistrates’ courts of the City of Charleston that many prominent white citizens were attracted to the trials when it was known that this simian-like advocate was going to participate in the proceedings, and it was quite the thing to take Northern visitors or the captains of vessels in port, to the court room to see the black perform, and sometimes the magistrate, or the opposing counsel, would be given a hint to stir him up for the entertainment of the visitors.

In a trial before a Charleston magistrate, the black lawyer once sought to have a bad case continued because of “the absence of a material witness,” that threadbare plea so frequently urged in our courts. The magistrate, inclined to bait him, insisted that the material witness be produced in court forthwith.

“Yo’ onnuh, I hope you will not insis’ upun de material witness bein’ produce’ een dis co’t.”

The court demanded his reason.

“Yo’ onnuh, de material witness am a female en’ she cannot cunweenyuntly be produce’ een dis co’t.”

“Why can’t a female witness be produced in court? What is the matter with the witness?”

“Yo’ onnuh, I hope you will not compel me to state w’at is de matter wid de material witness w’y she cannot be produce’ een dis co’t.”

“Unless you can give me good reasons why the material witness should not be brought to court, I will insist upon going on with the case,” said the court.