Chapter IV: Foreword (3)

“Yo’ onnuh, I appeal to you as a juntlemun ub delicacy not to fo’ce me to tell de co’t w’y de material witness cannot be produce’ een co’t.”

But the appeal to the magistrate’s delicacy of mind was of no avail and he peremptorily ordered the case to proceed.

“Well, yo’ onnuh, my delicacy will not permit me to state een de English langwidge w’at is de reason w’y de material witness cannot be produce’ een co’t.”--just then a laugh from a gentleman of French extraction in the audience, caused him to turn his head, and he proceeded. “Yaas, suh, you kin laugh, but you cannot fo’ce me to use de English langwidge, en’ I will haffuh fall back on my French.” Then, wheeling around and facing the magistrate, “de reason, yo’ onnuh, w’y de material witness cannot be produce’ een co’t, is ’cause de material witness is”--just then a negro woman entered the room, and, hurrying up to Dickerson pulled him by the sleeve and whispered in his ear. Turning dramatically, he shouted, “may it please yo’ onnuh, I hab jus’ hear from de material witness en’ I kin now resume de English langwidge. De reason w’y de material witness cannot be produce’ een dis co’t, is ’cause _de material witness hab two twin_!”

On a certain summer day, twenty or thirty negroes from the Toogoodoo section, assembled at the office of the trial justice at Adams Run station to settle a legal matter. The dispute to be adjusted involved the ownership of a brindled ox, to which claims, apparently equally strong, were set up by two black ladies from “Down on de Salt.” One, Bina Youngblood, the “lawfully lady” of Scipio Youngblood, the other the lone, though not lorn, Clara Jenkins, for the moment unaffiliated. Scipio, the “sea-lawyer” of the Swinton plantation, undertook to plead his wife’s cause before the magistrate, while Clara, having money in her purse, because, perhaps, she had just then no man to support, had “done git de buckruh fuh write uh letter town, fuh tell Sam Dickuhsin fuh come fuh rupezunt me een de co’t.” At 9 o’clock Sam arrived from Charleston on “de shoofly strain,” as the negroes call the local which stops at all way stations. The ox, having caused mutual wool-pulling on the part of both claimants, had been put in the custody of the magistrate’s constable, and, tied to the picket fence surrounding a corn patch near the station, was chewing his cud complacently, viewing with drowsy eyes the human turmoil about him. Clara laid excited hands upon the Charleston advocate and pulled him into the presence of the ox, which she introduced. “Dish’yuh duh him, Mistuh Dickuhsin. Dish’yuh duh de oxin wuh me en’ Mis’ Nyungblood agguhnize ’bout. Uh buy dis oxin f’um Bredduh Izick Puhshay wuh lib tuh Slann’ Ilun’ en’ Buh Izick him buy’um f’um de Jew wuh hab uh sto’ to Wadmuhlaw, en’ ’e buy’um f’um de Jew ’cause de oxin gone een de maa’sh fuh eat, en’ ’e bog een de maa’sh, en’ de Jew stan’ ’puntop de bluff en’ ’e look ’puntop de oxin, en’ ’e ’f’aid ’e gwine drowndid, en’ ’e shake alltwo ’e han’ ’bout de oxin, en’ Buh Izick binnuh stan’up close’um, en’ de Jew try fuh sell’um de oxin, ’cause ’e t’ink de oxin gwine dead een de maa’sh, en’ Buh Izick tell’um him willin’ fuh g’em fibe dolluh’ fuh de oxin, en’ him will tek’um out de maa’sh ’eself, eb’nso ef ’e dead, en’ de Jew tell’um no, ’e yent fuh sell him oxin fuh no fibe dolluh’ ’cause him kin sell ’e meat fuh mo’n fibe dolluh’ eb’nso ef ’e done dead, but ’e say ’e willin’ fuh tek ten dolluh’ fuhr’um weh ’e stan’. Buh Izick tell’um him will nebbuh git’um out ef ’e dead, ’cause him well acquaintun wid uh quicksan’ dey een de maa’sh puhzackly weh de oxin duh bog’up een de maa’sh, en’ ’e say suh de quicksan’ gwine swalluhr’um up, en’ den de Jew ent fuh git nutt’n’. W’en de Jew yeddy ’bout de quicksan’, ’e dat ’f’aid him gwine loss ’e oxin, ’e sell’um tuh Buh Izick fuh de fibe dolluh’, en’ soon ez ’e buy’um en’ ’e done pit de money een de Jew’ han’, Buh Izick know berry well suh no quicksan’ dey een de maa’sh, en’ e’ gone weh de oxin duh stan’up een de mud, en’ ketch’um by ’e tail en’ twis’um two’t’ree time, en’ de oxin walk out de maa’sh jis’ ez good ez you en’ me, en’ Buh Izick git’um een de flat en’ fetch’um ’cross, en’ ’e nebbuh stop ’tell ’e git’um spang home weh ’e lib. Uh bin to Buh Izick house de berry day w’en him fetch de oxin home, en’ uh yent hab nutt’n’ fuh plow, en’ uh buy de oxin f’um Buh Izick fuh fifteen dolluh’, en’ pay’um ten dolluh’, en’ owe’um de odduh res’ uh de money.

“W’en de Jew fin’out how Buh Izick obuhreach’um, ’e dat bex ’e yent able fuh nyam ’e bittle, en’ ’e study all day ’bout how him kin git ’e oxin ’gen. ’E h’aa’t hebby ’bout de oxin, en’ ’e jaw drap eb’ry time ’e t’ink ’pun Buh Izick, ’cause him t’ink suh nigguh ent fuh smaa’t ’nuf fuh cheat no Jew. Nex’ day ’nuf nigguh f’um Swintun en’ Toale gone Wadmuhlaw full dig Irish tettuh, en’ dem gone tuh de Jew’ sto’ fuh buy gunjuh en’ nickynack en’ t’ing. Mis’ Nyungblood en’ ’e juntlemun alltwo gone to de sto’, en’ de Jew yeddy’um duh talk ’bout one brinly oxin wuh buy een dem nigguhhouse yaa’d, wuh come f’um Wadmuhlaw Ilun’, en’ de Jew tell’um yaas, duh him oxin, en’ ’e tell’um de oxin sell fuh true, but all de money ent done pay, en’ ’e sen’ ansuh fuh tell me wuh got de oxin fuh sen’um ten dolluh’ mo’ fuh de oxin, ’scusin’ him gwine tek’um ’way en’ sell’um ’gen. Buh Scipio en’ ’e lady alltwo fetch de Jew’ metsidge jis’ ez ’e come out ’e mout’, but uh nebbuh bodduh ’bout’um, ’cause uh know uh hab witness fuh de money uh done pay Buh Izick, en’ uh look tuh Buh Izick fuh puhteck me, but de nex’ week Mis’ Nyungblood gone Wadmuhlaw ’gen, en’ de Jew ’suade him fuh buy de oxin fuh fifteen dolluh’, en’ him pay’um t’ree dolluh’ on de oxin, en’ de Jew g’em uh paper fuh tek de oxin wehrebbuh ’e kin fin’um. W’en ’e git home, de ’ooman walk een my yaa’d wid de Jew’ papuh een ’e han’, en’ e’ walk swonguh, en’, please Gawd, ’e gone to de oxin weh ’e duh bite grass een de fench cawnuh, en’ ’e tek’um by ’e bridle en’ staa’t fuh lead’um out de yaa’d. Bubbuh, uh yent got no man ’bout de house fuh puhteck me, but uh got dese ten finger ’puntop alltwo me han’ fuh puhteck meself, en’ w’en uh see de ’ooman ’long de oxin, blood full’ alltwo me yeye! Uh peaceubble ’tell uh bex, but w’en uh bex, uh ready fuh dead, en’ uh light ’puntop’uh da’ ’ooman same lukkuh fu’lhawk light ’puntop’uh chickin! Me en’ him en’ de oxin, alltwo tanglety’up een de du’t ’tell dem man een de nigguhhouse yaa’d haffuh suffuhrate we. Nex’ day me’ en’ de ’ooman hitch ’gen, w’en him come een de yaa’d fuh onhitch de oxin de two-time, en’ uh ’cratch’ him face en’ him ’cratch’ my’own, en’ attuh dat, de trial jestuss yeddy ’bout’um en’ sen’ ’e counstubble fuh tek’way de oxin, en’ lef’ one metsidge fuh alltwo uh we fuh come Adam’ Run deepo fuh try de case, en’ uh glad dem fuh try’um teday, teday, ’cause me en’ da’ ’ooman en’ da’ oxin ent fuh lib tuhgedduh ’puntop no Swintun plantesshun!”

“Come eento co’t,” yelled the constable, and Clara and her counsel went within.

The two principals and their partisans, glowering at one another, ranged themselves on opposite sides of the little room, and the proceedings were opened. Bina came to the witness stand with a slowly healing gridiron of scratches covering her face, tokens of the efficiency of Clara’s finger nails, which courtesies she had handsomely reciprocated.

“Uh gone Wadmuhlaw fuh dig Irish tettuh, en’ w’en middleday come, me en’ all dem todduh man en’ ’ooman gone to de Jew fuh buy bittle fuh eat, en’ him yeddy suh we come f’um Swintun place, en’ him yeddy we duh talk ’bout one brinly oxin wuh come f’um Wadmuhlaw, wuh one uh we ’ooman buy f’um Izick Puhshay, en’ de Jew say suh de oxin duh him’own, en’ nex’ time me en’ my juntlemun gone Wadmuhlaw, de Jew say suh de oxin ent pay fuh, en’ him fuh sell’um ’gen, en’ w’en ’e say dat, uh buy’um en’ pay t’ree dolluh’ exwance on’um en’ de Jew gimme uh papuh fuh tek de oxin wehrebbuh uh fin’um, en’ w’en uh gone home uh tek de papuh en’ gone een de ’ooman’ yaa’d en’ tek de oxin out de fench cawnuh en’ staa’t fuh gone, en’ ’fo’ uh kin git out de yaa’d, da’ debble’ub’uh blacksnake ub uh ’ooman tek uh exwantidge w’en uh yent binnuh study ’bout’um, en’ him git een de fus’ lick, en’ ’e yent sattify fuh ’cratch me eyeball’ en’ fight deestunt lukkuh lady fuh fight, but him haffuh bite me een de same time, en’ ’e teet’ shaa’p ez ottuh’ teet’, en’ de ’ooman mek ’e fang’ fuh meet een me yez, but me Jedus help me fuh obuht’row’um, en’ befo’ dem man suffuhrate we, uh done spile ’e face ’tell ’e maamy yent fuh know’um! Uh gone t’ru’um sukkuh bulltongue plow gone t’ru blackberry wine! You shum stan’ dey? Duh me mek ’e mout’ fuh twis’up oagly same lukkuh him binnuh chaw green possimmun!”

With a curtsy to the court and a scornful glance at her opponent, Bina retired, and after Clara had repeated word for word the story previously related to her attorney--for some negroes have the faculty of memorizing and repeating a romantic story over and over again, omitting none of the mendacious minutiæ--Scipio, a stout, self-conscious black, rose to match his plantation wit with that of the experienced advocate.

“Jedge, w’en my lady ubtain dis cow f’um de Jew tuh Wadmuhlaw--”

Old Sam rose impressively. “Do my distinguish’ fr’en’ frum Toogoodoo allude to de annimel dat is now een de custody ub dis honuhrubble co’t ez _cow_?”

“Yaas, uh call’um cow! Cow duh ’e name! Mekso me yent fuh call’um cow! Uh call’um cow, uh dunkyuh ef e’ duh _bull_! Enty roostuh en’ hen alltwo is fowl? Uh call’um cow, yaas! Wuh de debble town nigguh’ know ’bout annimel?”

“Kin de ‘town nigguh’ eenfawm de distinguish’ counsel,” observed Sam, sarcastically, “dat he is berry well acquaintun wid uh sutt’n annimel dat eenhabit de jungle ub Aff’iky, but, ontell teday, he hab always obserb dis annimel fuh hab tail. Puhhaps de specie’ dat roam t’ru de fores’ ub Toogoodoo is bawn bidout tail!”

“Great King! ’E fuh call me _monkey_!” protested Scipio, as the audience exploded with laughter, for however resentful they may be of such characterization by the whites, in their lighter moments, the coast negroes, at least, delight in the exchange among themselves of “monkey,” “’ranguhtang,” “crow,” “buzzut,” “blacksnake,” “nigguh” and like terms of opprobrious endearment. “Da’ ’ranguhtang f’um town fuh call me monkey! _Him gran’daddy ’self duh monkey!_”

The magistrate put a stop to these amenities between counsel, but Scipio’s verbal machine gun was jammed and, too full for utterance, he took his seat, muttering wrathfully as Sam rose triumphant.

“Ef it please de co’t,” said Sam, “I repeah een dis tribunul fuh rupezunt dis defenseless female ub de Aff’ikin race f’um de paa’simony ub uh membuh ub de tribe dat tek Juhruzelum f’um de Christ’un t’ree t’ous’n’ yeah’ ago!”

“Now ’e duh talk’um!” commented a spectator.

“I am sattisfy’, yo’ onnuh, dat I kin repeal to yo’ onnuh’ sense ub jestuss fuh gib dis po’ ’ooman de puhtekshun to w’ich de po’ en’ weak am eentitle’ f’um de rich en’ de strong, ’cause, yo’ onnuh, een de langwidge ub uh distinguish’ membuh ub de Chaa’lstun baa’, w’enebbuh we enter de sacrid premussis ub uh co’t ub law, we all seddown onduhneet’ de eagle ub jestuss as de chicken seddown onduhneet’ de hen!

“Now, yo’ onnuh, what am de fack? Dish’yuh tenduh female, yo’ onnuh, bidout de puhtekshun ub uh man fuh gyaa’d’um f’um de human race, is t’rowed on his back fuh puhteck ’eself, lukkuh de wil’cat t’row ’eself ’pun ’e back onduhneet’ de harricane tree fuh refen’ ’eself ’genst de pack ub houn’ by whom she is attacktid.”

“Yaas, him ’cratch lukkuh wil’cat fuh true!” commented Mrs. Youngblood.

“Yo’ onnuh, dis tenduh female buy de ox een queschun f’um Izick Puhshay, uh respected citizen ub de Newnited State’, en’ she hab witness fuh proobe dat de money wuz to him een han’ pay, en’ to ’stablish his ’t’oruhty obuh de ox. De afo’sed Izick Puhshay buy de ox f’um de Jew, de paa’ty ub de fus’ paa’t, residin’ een de premussis afo’sed ’pun de Ilun’ ub Wadmuhlaw, een de State ub Sous Cuhlina. De Jew’ ox hab fall eento de pit, yo’ onnuh, en’ ’less ’e is fuh perish, de ox is sell to Izick Puhshay, dis respected citizen ub de Newnited State’ afo’sed, who by his ability twis’ de tail ub de ox en’ mek’um fuh ’bandun he puhsishun een de maa’sh, en’ betake himself to de high groun’. W’en de membuh ub de tribe ub Juhruzelum see dat de ability ub de Aff’ikin race sabe de life ub de ox, he feel disapp’int’ wid ’eself, en’ he seek to agen ubtain de proputty dat he hab loss, en’ ’e sell de ’denticul ox de two time, to de paa’ty ub de secon’ paa’t.

“Deyfo’, yo’ onnuh, I mek uh plea fuh dis tenduh female ub de human race, alldo’ his skin is black, dat jestuss be done, en’ dat his ox shall not be tek away.”

His plea was effective, for Clara returned joyfully to Toogoodoo with the restored ox tied behind the cart in which she had come, while Bina nursed her wrath to keep it warm until she could return to Wadmalaw to seek to recover her three dollars “exwance” from “de membuh ub de tribe ub Juhruzelum.”

SIMON, THE “SQUERRIL” HUNTER

As boys, a few years after the war, we knew him as a mighty squirrel hunter, and the negroes in the neighborhood knew him as a mighty slippery old scoundrel, whose smoothness had earned him the sobriquet of Okra--at once a tribute and a reproach--for the skill acquired in slaughtering “de buckruh’ cow en’ t’ing’” in the swamps, was sometimes used to lift a shoat from some nearby colored brother or sister when Simon did not care to hunt far afield, and, however commendable one’s prowess in preying upon “de buckruh,” who, for purposes of spoliation, stood in the same relation to the newly freed slaves that the esteemed Egyptians did to the children of Israel, it was regarded in dusky circles as somewhat unethical to steal from one’s own color.

Although always suspected, old Okra was never caught. When he killed a cow or other large game, the hide, and the head with its telltale ear-marks, were carefully buried in the woods, and part of the meat distributed among his cronies, insuring not only their protective silence, but a full crop of elaborate alibis for Simon, should suspicion ripen into accusation. “Nigguh haffuh stan’ by we colluh,” being the motto on all the plantations round about.

The squirrel hunter was as lean and hungry-looking as Cassius, with a shifty eye and a face deeply pock-marked. His footfall was stealthy and noiseless and he could walk the woods from dawn to dusk without tiring.

For several years following the war, many low-country negroes carried condemned army muskets which they bought for a dollar or two--long, heavy muzzle-loaders, straight of stock and hard of trigger. Although rifled, their proud owners rammed down and shot out of their grooved barrels anything and everything but ball. Shot of uniform size was not only held unnecessary, but really undesirable, an assortment of sizes running from No. 8 to No. 2, the latter called “high duckshot,” being regarded as a mixed dose seriously jeoparding the safety of rabbit or “squerril” at a distance of “two tas’”--two tasks (½ an acre).

Most of the new-fledged negro sportsmen were content to hunt the little cat squirrels that were plentiful in the wooded swamps and the oak and hickory knolls, but Simon was ambitious and habitually hunted the beautiful fox squirrels, grays and blacks, wary creatures, rarely met with and found only among tall pines--sometimes in the long leaf _palustris_ of the ridges, but oftener in the great “loblollies” skirting the bays, the height of the trees and the Spanish moss that clustered thick about their towering tops, making them safe retreats, once reached. One of these big squirrels would sometimes be surprised on or near the ground, offering a shot before he got far up the tall trunks which he always ascended rapidly with a great clatter of claws on the bark, cunningly keeping on the off side from the hunter, but never slackening speed till a fork or one of the higher branches was reached, upon which he would flatten out and keep absolutely still. Even a boy then knew it was wasting precious powder and shot to attempt to make him break sanctuary, but not so old Okra. He had implicit faith and infinite pride in the shooting powers of his old “muskick,”--“Ole Betsey, him cya’ shot fuh sowl,” and he would crack away as long as his ammunition lasted, at a gray or black spot at the tip-top of some forest giant; often indeed, at a dead squirrel, for these “foxes” have an exceedingly inconsiderate habit of digging their claws so deeply into the bark that they hang on after death and are hard to dislodge. Often the boy hunter roaming the woods, day-dreaming of the buck or big gobbler that was always about to spring up just ahead of him, to fall gloriously to his little single barrel, would hear at intervals the heavy “_duhbaw!_” of Simon’s ordnance and know that the indefatigable old sinner was, like most of us, reaching up after the unattainable.

Curiosity to learn how he was faring would sometimes overcome caution, for Simon always begged for powder, and his ingratiating “Mass---- so freehan’,” seldom failed to coax from the flask part of the boy’s scanty store, but woe to the scanty store if Simon was permitted to “po’rum.” “Berry well den, suh, you po’rum,” and into the deeply cupped palm of the avaricious hand he held out, the precious powder would trickle. Simon never stinted his gun, and as long as the donor would pour, the recipient had no scruples about drams running into ounces. Whatever you poured into his hand went into the gun, and when she responded in recalcitrance to a double charge, sending her owner staggering back among the gallberry bushes, he would grin proudly and remark, “Him duh tell we tengky fuh wuh we g’em. Betsey him hab uh hebby belly fuh powder.”

One crisp winter’s day, Simon and his half-grown son, “Boyzie,” were encountered on a high pineland plateau dotted with a chain of shallow, sedgy ponds. Suddenly, from the marge of a pond a hundred yards away, the plume-like tail of a big gray fox squirrel was seen waving jerkily over the ground as he ran for the timber. The party gave chase and succeeded in putting him up in a clump of tall long-leaf saplings before he could reach the big trees. Simon’s eyes shone like brown pebbles through the sunlit waters of a shallow brook. His slouch was gone and he was all alertness, apprehension.

“Weh him, Boyzie? Weh him?”

“Yuh him, Pa! Yuh him! Shum! Shum!”

“_Duhbaw!_” boomed Betsey, and Simon reeled from the recoil as the load cut the top from a sapling down which the squirrel raced to the ground and scampered off for a big pine not far away, rushing up the trunk in long spirals. “Watch’um, Boyzie! Don’ tu’n yo’ yeye loose off’um ’tell I git Betsey load’,” and Simon hurriedly rammed down his charge with many furtive glances at the watching sentinel to see that he didn’t “tu’n ’e yeye loose.” Extracting from a greasy rag a huge copper cap of the grandfather’s hat pattern, he fitted the nipple and cocked his musket, as strenuous an operation as pulling the trigger, for at half-cock Betsey’s hammer leaned back like the head of a strutting gobbler, while at the full, the cup yawned toward the heavens like the crater of a miniature Mauna Loa. Circling the pine he tried to locate the squirrel now lying flat in a crotch near the crown of the long-leaf, his long tail hanging down while his body was securely hidden. Boyzie pointed out the drooping tail. “Dey him, pa, dey him, but ’e too fudduh. You cyan’ reach’um.”

“_Who?_ Dat squerril? _Watch’um!_” The piece was raised, two sinewy fingers clutched the trigger with a jerk that would have disconcerted any aim, and the hammer, describing a parabola, fell upon the cap which exploded with a report like a parlor rifle, but Betsey’s muzzle remained glum and silent.

“’S’mattuh, Betsey? You got ’ooman name en’ you ent got ’ooman mout’? You cyan’ talk? De debble!” Another cap was fitted, another hopeful aim taken and another futile “paow!” echoed among the pines. Simon, now having only two caps left, accepted the suggestion that priming might help. He also accepted the powder which he poured with a liberal hand down the capacious nipple and rammed home with a lightwood splinter.

“Now watch’um come down.” Another careful sight at the tantalizing tail up aloft, another “popped” cap with a little blue smoke from the priming, and a sorely puzzled squirrel hunter.

“Witch mus’ be pit bad mout’ ’puntop Betsey. I ’spec’ ’e done cunjuh.”

“Pa, is you pit any powduh een dat gun?”

“Who? Me? Wuh gun? Betsey? C’ose I pit powduh een ’um.”

“Bettuh try’um,” said doubting youth, and he did. When the shot was drawn and the screw of the long iron ramrod clicked against the breech of the musket, old Okra’s face was a study. “Yaas, ef I did’n’ bin haffuh watch Boyzie duh watch de squerril, I wouldn’t bin fuhgit fuh load’um.” Consoling himself with this shifting of responsibility, he loaded deliberately and fired, bringing down, with a lot of pine needles, half the squirrel’s tail, which he stuck in the cord which bound his old hat with the remark, “Well, ennyhow I git all wuh I shoot at. _Ef man kin git all wuh ’e try fuh git, him oughtuh tengkful!_”

THE “CUNJUH” THAT CAME BACK

Lucy Jones, of Pon Pon, square and stout and widowed, had in her youth been as frequently husbanded as the Wife of Bath. One by one, however, through death, incompatibility of temperament, or indifference, she had lost these affiliations, and now, a “settled woman,” Lucy lacked the masterful ways and the loving club of a man about the house, for it is axiomatic among the Gullah ladies of the Carolina coast that love and physical chastisement are inseparable. “Ef man ent lick you, ’e yent lub you.” So, yearning for the touch of a vanished hoe handle or axe helve, Lucy languished. There was no longer satisfaction in “cawnhom’ny” or “tu’n flour.” There was no savor in “poke” greens or lamb’s-quarter. Fat bacon, while greasing her mouth, no longer anointed her soul. Her cabin was snug and comfortable, her bed was wide, and covered with a patchwork quilt that would have made Joseph’s coat look like a drab jacket of butternut jeans. This quilt, slowly fabricated of all the bits of bright cloth--silk, cotton and wool--that she had begged from “de buckruh” during a period of several years, she had stitched together with painstaking fingers and exalted soul, absolutely confident that with its completion would come a husband to share its chromatic glories. “All de time uh binnuh mek dat quilt uh bin agguhnize een me min’ duh study ’pun wuh kinduh husbun’ uh gwine git w’en ’e done finish. Sometime’ uh t’ink uh gwine git uh nyung nigguh, en’ den uh ’membuh suh dese’yuh nyung nigguh ent wut. Dem too lub fuh t’row bone. En’ den, ’nodduh time uh study en’ uh t’ink uh’ll git uh settle’ man, but uh know berry well uh haffuh git some kind’uh man ’cause uh lonesome tummuch, en’ uh keep on sew de quilt ’tell ’e done, en’ uh pit’um on de bed, en’ dat night w’en uh gone’sleep onduhneet’ de quilt, uh hab one dream, en’ one sperrit come to me een de dream en’ tell me suh me fuh marry Isaac Middletun.”

So the notion got into her head. Isaac was tall, as Lucy was short; Isaac was thin, as Lucy was stout, and Isaac was wary, as Lucy was predaceous. Himself an elderly widower, he was living alone when Lucy delicately intimated to him her desire to change the Welsh name of Jones for the aristocratic English patronymic of Middleton. Middleton, acknowledging the compliment, politely declined the offer, preferring to keep his lonely cabin to himself. “Uh tell’um wuh de sperrit say,” she said, “en’ uh tell’um de sperrit say him fuh come fuh marry me dat same night. Uh hab fait’ een de sperrit’ wu’d, en’ uh scour’ out de house en’ uh mek de bed, en’ uh pit de tea by de fiah, en’ still yet Middletun ent come. Uh nebbuh know shishuh eegnunt nigguh. W’en uh fin’ suh ’e yent come, uh gone deepo fuh fin’um, en’ uh tell’um ’gen wuh de sperrit say. Uh tell’um ’bout de quilt en’ de tea en’ t’ing’, en’ uh tell’um nemmine’ ’bout him house, cause myself hab house fuh alltwo uh we fuh lib een, but Middletun ent haa’kee to wuh uh tell’um ’bout de sperrit. ’E say suh de sperrit hab bidness fuh talk ’long nyung ’ooman ef de sperrit fuh send wife fuh him. Uh tell’um uh nyung ’ooman cyan’ specify fuh wife fuh settle’ man lukkuh Middletun, ’cause dem lub fuh dress tummuch, but seem lukkuh uh cyan’ git Middletun’ min’ straight.” So she “took her foot in her hand” and went home, dejected but not hopeless, for she determined to stick to the trail, as the hound to the slot, until she ran the wily quarry to earth, to wit, cabin, for she hankered after him with an intense hankering.

“Lucy Middletun,” “Mis’ Middletun,” how it filled the mouth and the ear, and exalted the spirit with satisfaction! Ever since emancipation the negroes have laid great store by their “titles,” prefaced by “Mistuh” or “Mis’.” Very dear to their hearts was the evolution of “Cuffee,” “Cudjo” and “Sancho” of slavery, into “Mistuh Scott,” “Mistuh Hawlback” and “Mistuh Middletun,” of freedom, and, in the twinkling of an eye, “Dinah” and “Bina” and “Bella,” the grubs, were transformed into “Mis’ Wineglass,” “Mis’ Chizzum” and “Mis’ Manigo,” the butterflies. So, as Lucy mused and spun the spider web of fancy in which she hoped to entrap the wary and unappreciative Isaac, her mind crossed the stormy seas of Endeavor, and, resting in the snug harbor of Achievement, she thought of the deed as done, and imagined herself as going to work on week days, to church on Sundays, and to class meetings in the evenings, carrying, as appurtenant to her person, the longed-for “title” of Isaac, and as she thought upon the occasions when on public road or by-path she should “pass the time of day” in the ceremonial salutations so dear to her kind, she was filled to the jowls with ecstasy and her eardrums vibrated with the melody of “Middleton.”

“Mawnin’, Mis’ Jones, how you do, ma’am?”

“Mawnin’, Mis’ Wineglass, uh tengk Gawd fuh life, but you know uh yent name Mis’ Jones now. Me duh Mis’ Middletun.”

“Dat so? I nebbuh yeddy ’bout Bredduh Jones dead.”

“No, ma’am, ’e yent dead, ma’am, but him hab anodduh lady, en’ me hab Isaac Middletun. You know dat same Mistuh Middletun lib close Adam’ Run deepo? Well, she duh my juntlemun now, en’ me duh Mis’ Middletun.”

“Yaas, ma’am, well, mawnin’, ma’am,” and so on.

And always as Lucy sat in the sunshine before the cabin door and smoked her short clay pipe, or in the loneliness of night lay pondering and ponderable under the quilt that looked like a county map of Texas, constantly she projected thought waves towards Adams Run station, near which abode the recalcitrant Middleton. Along this main-traveled roadway of the Atlantic Coast Line, many trains passed by day and by night. The shrill shriek of the local freight, as it took the siding at the distant station, reminded her that Middleton’s ears were filled with the same sound. The hoarse warning of the Florida Limited at the curve, as it rushed southward filled with Northern tourists, who,--viewing from observation cars the fruit-laden thickets of gallberry bushes covering the damp, flat pinelands--marveled at the prodigality of the Southern climate that ripened huckleberries in midwinter, every whistle that blew along the busy line reminded Lucy of the railroad, and the railroad reminded her of the station, and the station reminded her of Middleton. Theoretically, a member of the gentler sex has only to wish herself upon a man and the man is as good as wived, and the dogma that “a woman has only to make up her mind to marry a man and she gets him,” is probably as old as the Creation, for Adam, like the gentleman he was, accepted philosophically and uncomplainingly--even gallantly--the spouse which kind Heaven had wished upon him. But much thought had brought Lucy to the conclusion that in her chase of a husband she was after all a dachshund, while the elusive Middleton was a fox. His defenses having proved impenetrable by direct attack, she had tried sapping and mining without success, even the “sperrit” bomb projected Middletonwards had fizzled at the fuse, and her cabin and its encircling yard and garden were still, alas! “no man’s land!”

In her desperation Lucy decided to conjure! Like old Lorenzo in “La Mascotte,” she believed in “signs, omens, dreams, predictions,” and also in the potency of the dried frog, the blacksnake skin and the kerosene-soaked red flannel rag, as charms to pull a bashful wooer up to the scratch, to put a “spell,” resulting in sickness or death, upon an enemy, or for any other purpose suggested by the mind of the one preparing the charm, for, a sort of aftermath of voodooism, “cunjuhs” are still believed in by many of these superstitious people.

Lucy bethought her of old Simon, not an authenticated witch-doctor, for he demanded no fixed fees, but a wily old sinner, a sort of amateur in black magic, who gave advice free of charge, although his services were always rewarded with gifts of eggs, or sweet potatoes, or clean rice. As snake skins and dried frogs were component parts of almost all old Simon’s “charms,” the boys of the community frequently brought him those they killed or found dead by the roadside. These, at his convenience, old Simon skinned and salted, or rubbed with ashes and smoked and dried and put away, for use when occasion should require. The low-country negroes seldom pass a dead frog lying on its back, believing that if so exposed for any length of time, rain will inevitably follow, and those so found, if not turned over to prevent the floods from Heaven, were taken to old Simon and added to his store.

So in the dusk of the early night and the dark of the moon, for Lucy did not wish the black sisterhood to know her business, she locked her cabin door, put a shawl over her head and slipped away to Simon.

The weather was cold and Simon’s door was shut. She rapped faintly and furtively, and a fierce bark challenged from within. Simon hobbled to the door and opened it, a black cur growling at his knee. Kicking the dog away, he bade Lucy enter.

“Come een, sistuh, how you do?”

“Tengk Gawd fuh life, Unk’ Simun. Uh come yuh fuh ax you fuh gimme uh cunjuh fuh t’row uh spell ’puntop Isaac Middletun wuh lib Adam’ Run deepo, fuh mek’um haa’kee to de sperrit’ wu’d, wuh tell’um fuh hab me fuh wife, ’cause uh done tell’um _two time_ wuh de sperrit hab fuh say, but him ent study ’bout no sperrit, en’ ’e suck ’e teet’ at me, en’ him say suh him fuh marry nyung ’ooman ’cause him ent hab no appetite fuh marry settle’ ’ooman, en’ uh done tell’um suh nyung ’ooman cyan’ specify fuh settle’ man, but Middletun dat eegnunt en’ haa’d-head’, uh cyan’ git’um fuh do nutt’n’, en’ please suh fuh mek one hebby cunjuh, ’cause Middletun stubbunt sukkuh oxin en’ mule alltwo, en’ w’en you gimme de cunjuh, tell me wuh fuh do ’long’um en’ weh uh mus’ pit’um fuh t’row de spell ’puntop’uh Middletun, en’ uh fetch t’ree aig’ en’ some yalluh yam tettuh fuh you fuh eat.” And she took these gifts out of her apron and presented them to the weaver of spells.

Simon was a man of few words. Going to an old cupboard where he kept his store of raw materials, he fumbled about and at last drew forth the dried skin of a “copper-belly” moccasin, about three feet long. This he wound about a smoke-dried toad, to which had been added two rusty horseshoe nails. Around them all a dirty strip of red flannel, well soaked in kerosene, was tied, and the charm was ready. Wrapping it in a piece of brown paper he gave it to Lucy who, tremulous with happiness and excitement, tied it in a corner of her apron.

“Daughtuh, you f’aid fuh walk duh paat’ duh middlenight?”

“No, suh, uh yent ’f’aid fuh go Middletun’ house.”

“Berry well den, you fuh go Middletun’ house middlenight tenight. You fuh tek dis cunjuh en’ pit’um ’puntop de do’step to Middletun’ house, en’ you fuh walk easy so him ent fuh yeddy you. Onduhstan’?”

“Yaas, suh, tengk Gawd.” And she hurried homeward.

For awhile she dozed before her fire, and then, an hour before midnight, with that uncanny instinct which guides those who live close to nature, she roused herself, and with her precious charm, set out hot-foot for the station. As she hurried through the dark a raccoon padded noiselessly across the path. Farther on, a grey fox trotted fearlessly in front of her for a few yards then sprang into the bushes and disappeared. The terrifying shriek and wild laugh of a barred owl just overhead, as she passed along a dark aisle in the forest, made her heart stand still for an instant, but the thought of Middleton warmed its cockles again and she kept on her way. At last she reached Middleton’s cabin and, thanking her stars that he kept no dog, she cautiously lifted the latch of his yard gate and tiptoed up to the steps where, with a silent prayer for success, she deposited the precious “cunjuh” and quietly slipped away.

Just at the end of the “dog watch” of the mariners, just before the “day clean” of the negroes--the hour known to all night workers, when, with the imminence of the dawn, somewhat of the weight of the world seems lifted from their shoulders--Middleton rose from his cornshuck couch and opening his cabin door looked forth, as is the custom of the early-rising negroes, to scan the sky and appraise the promise of the coming day. A gibbous moon of dusky gold, new-risen, hung low in the East. Diana had been banting for ten days and altho’ her waist was waning, she yet shed sufficient light to open the eyes and engage the throats of all the roosters round about, and from the yards of lonely woodland cabin, and plantation quarters, their voices, shrill and clear, deep and raucous, came to Middleton’s ears as they saluted the fools’ gold of the moonlight in the belief that they were heralding the dawn.

“Fowl’ mus’ be t’ink day’ clean,” commented Middleton, and as he opened the door wider to get a better outlook, his bare toe came into contact with the gelid snakeskin and he sprang back in fear. Striking a match, he lit a lightwood splinter and discovered the “cunjuh” mysteriously placed at his very threshold. He scratched his puzzled head. “Eh, eh! wuh dis t’ing? Me nebbuh do nutt’n’ to nobody. Uh wonduh who duh try fuh t’row spell ’puntop me! Tengk Gawd, uh nebbuh ’tep obuhr’um,” secure in the belief that as he had not stepped over it, no harm could come to him. So, picking it up fearlessly, he put it away in a chink in the clay chimney until he should find use for the dread instrument which Providence had placed in his hands. All day he pondered, for, having no enemies, there was none to whom he wished harm. At last, as evening fell, dark thoughts came with the dusk, and a sinister purpose slid into his soul, which he lost no time in putting into execution. Venus was the evening star but she told him nothing, for there was no love in his heart and his mind held only the definite purpose to rid himself once and for all of the vexing importunities of the husband-hunter.

“Uh gwine tek dis t’ing to da’ ’ooman’ house en’ t’row one spell ’puntop’um fuh mek’um pit ’e min’ ’puntop some dem todduh man en’ lemme ’lone,” and walking briskly to Lucy’s house, where she slept unsuspiciously beneath the unalluring quilt, he carefully placed the charm in the middle of the top step and went his ways under the starlit heavens.

THE RACCOON HUNTER

All through the autumn, when golden-rod and sumac flaunted the colors of Spain from every neglected fence corner, and the ripening sun burned from the blue through the haze that hung over the earth, when the crows, uttering their care-free harvest note, flew over the tawny fields of corn, and negroes with nimble fingers pulled the reluctant locks from the half-opened Sea Island cotton bolls, when squirrels chattered and barked contentedly among the hickories as they commenced to gather their winter’s store, and wild pigs nosed about for acorns among the rustling leaves in the oak groves--all through these September and October days, the boy had pestered old Abram, the most successful ’coon hunter on Pon Pon, to organize a torchlight hunt and take him along. Abram White, or “’Bram,” as he was commonly called, was a slow-talking, slow-thinking, slow-moving old darkey; so deliberate that the mental effort involved in answering the simplest question would furrow his brow like an old-fashioned washboard. He had been allowed to clear up a piece of rich land on Cotton Hill, far removed from the “quarters” of the other negroes, and this field he held rent-free in return for the labor of bringing it under cultivation. The task occupied old ’Bram for several years. First building a substantial cabin for his smart wife, Delia, he proceeded to “ring” the forest trees and, leaving them to die, slowly grubbed up the smaller trees and undergrowth, planting in the little cleared plots patches of corn, peas and sweet potatoes, increasing his field bit by bit each year. He was employed regularly as night watchman for the plantation and, armed with his long “muskick”--a condemned army weapon--walked his beat about barn and stables from dark till dawn, returning from each round to drowse near the big fire which he invariably made in an open spot, summer as well as winter, for the coast negroes are true fire-worshipers and their love for the flames that leap and the embers that glow is as great as their skill in fire-making. Abram owned the best ’coon dog in the community, a black mongrel of medium size with a blaze in the face and a white ring around his neck. Devoted as he was to Delia, Abram’s love for “Ring” was almost as great, and his pride in the dog’s accomplishments and reliability was infinite. The abandoned rice field now overgrown, near old Abram’s new-ground, was full of raccoons and ’possums and the old hunter often got permission to put on a substitute watchman for part of the night, while he foraged the woods with almost invariable success, and all through the winter the jambs of his wide-throated clay chimney were hung with the smoked flesh of his spoils, while their pelts--ring-tailed and rat-tailed--adorned the outer walls of his log cabin.

The veteran ’coon dog will rarely follow any other animal than raccoon or ’possum--the lawful prey of his negro master--ignoring the frequently crossed trails of deer or fox. Puppies and undisciplined dogs often break away and run rabbits, of course, but they are always caught and thrashed and the occasional lapse is held derogatory to the dog’s master. Both objects of the chase are nocturnal feeders, sleeping most of the day in hollow trees or logs. Sometimes the hollow is high up in the fork of some forest giant, completely hidden by the lianas that run from the ground to the topmost branches. A dog will occasionally bark at a tree whence the ’coon has descended, or one from which the quarry has crossed on a limb or vine to another tree, and whenever the hunter finds that his dog has “treed” at a vacant tree, the poor animal is held to have “lied” and is given a severe whipping, so seasoned dogs make few mistakes and old Abram’s Ring was always true.

At last, as October drew to a close and the first white frost nipped the potato vines, the boy’s importunities bore fruit in a promise from Abram to take him on the first clear night in the dark of the moon, the condition being that the boy should furnish travel rations. The night appointed proved fine and frosty, with a sharp tang in the air, and an hour or two after dark the hunt assembled. Besides his single-barreled muzzle-loader, the boy “packed” a knapsack filled with smoked herrings and hardtack from the plantation commissary. Abram had his musket, and Tom Ford and Joe Smashum, two young negroes, their axes. All three carried bundles of “fat” lightwood for torches strapped to their backs. Sike, a half-grown black boy, carried himself. All the negroes were bare-footed, the horny soles of their feet having become so toughened as to make them indifferent to briars and snags. Ring wagged his tail expectantly and, like his master, looked contemptuously upon the two young curs that followed Joe.

And now they started single file, the boy in front, then old ’Bram, the torch-bearers last, throwing a flood of light ahead of them, the dogs at heel close to their respective masters. So, down the broad avenue of live-oaks, the great trees heavily bearded with the gray Spanish moss, assuming fantastic shapes in the flare of the torches, on across the old King’s Highway, past the Big Spring and over a low causeway that spanned an old rice field. Here the party hesitated between two “drives” that seemed equally promising, one to the right across the “half moon” dam to a thickly wooded island in the big savanna, the other with a slant to the left through a grove of big beeches toward the “Blue House” back water. While old Abram scratched his head for a decision which “the stubborn glebe” was slow to yield, Ring, who had been nosing about, dashed suddenly among the undergrowth of saw-palmettoes that covered the ground under the beeches and, giving tongue on a hot trail, ended his master’s cogitations. The other dogs followed the veteran in full cry, and in a few minutes Ring’s slow and measured barking apprised his master that he had “treed.” The negroes shouted encouragingly, “_speak, Ring!_” “_Speak to’um, boy!_” as the party pushed through the thicket and found Ring sitting before a loblolly pine, one of a group of three which grew close together with their upper limbs almost touching.

There are three methods of getting a raccoon out of a tree. By “shining” his eyes, which is done by holding the torch behind one, and shooting him; by cutting down the tree and trusting to the dogs to capture him before he gets away; or by climbing the tree and shaking him down or making him jump off. As Tom Ford was a noted climber and the tree was not too large for him to “hug,” it was decided to climb, after the “shining” method had been resorted to without success. Tom cut a stick about six feet long which he tied around his neck and dragged up after him. This was to be used to poke the quarry off the limb in case he came to close quarters. He threw off his jacket and cap and commenced swarming up the trunk which stretched full forty feet without a limb, lifting himself with his powerful ape-like arms and the cupped hollows of his bare, horny feet, with which he gripped the trunk. In a few minutes he reached the first limb and the excitement below him increased, both hunters and dogs looking earnestly upward as the climber stood on the limb and looked above and around him, trying to locate the quarry.

“Weh ’e dey, Tom?” called Abram. “You shum?”

“Uh yent shum,” was the laconic response.

Tom again hugged the tree, whose narrowed trunk now gave him a better hold, and went up ten or twelve feet to the next limb. Just as he pulled himself over it and got to his feet, there was a great rattling of claws on the bark of a long outstretching limb a few feet over his head, and, silhouetted against the patches of starlight that broke the leafage above him, he could make out the cunning ’coon running along the limb to its very end where it touched a far-reaching bough from the second tree of the group. Tom yelled, with the hope that he might frighten the animal into missing its step and falling, but the sure-footed creature passed safely and disappeared among the dark needles that veiled his sanctuary.

“Look out, Unk’ Ebbrum, look out! ’E done cross to de todduh tree,” Tom called, as he began to slide toward the earth. The group on the ground flared torches and looked anxiously at the new retreat, but no shining eyes were visible, and the futility of further pursuit of this particular ’coon was realized, as he had demonstrated that he could cross too readily from one to another of the three sister pines. The short chase had lasted only a few minutes and the hunt took up its equipment and returned to the Caw Caw Swamp Road, Abram, after much pondering, having decided to exploit the “Tombs” drive, a noted hunting ground. Half a mile farther and the party turned to the right and in a few minutes passed near “the Tombs,” one of the Colonial burying grounds found occasionally in the low-country forests.

The solitary negro will seldom pass one of these graveyards at night, and even with companions and torches the ’coon-hunters walked more rapidly until “the Tombs” was passed. As they entered an old field with several large persimmon trees full of ripening fruit, to Abram’s experienced eye a presage of ’possums, sure enough, in a moment, one of Joe’s curs, with a shrill yelp, struck a hot trail and off they went across the big field, followed rapidly by men and boys. The dogs overtook the quarry at the edge of the clearing and treed at a young oak, near whose top the torches revealed a big ’possum about thirty feet from the ground. As the tree was easy, Sike, the fourteen-year-old novice, was given the place of honor as climber, and up he went, full of the pride that goeth before a fall. Sike was short and fat, and spread-eagled himself like a great black frog as he laboriously worked his way upward. The going was heavy, and having his hands or his arms full, he did not take the precaution to look above him until he had almost put his hand on the animal. A sudden snarl from the hunted, and a frightened yell from the hunter, who lost his hold and fell six or eight feet toward the ground, clutching wildly at the branches on the way down, fortunately landing on one strong enough to bear his weight. He did not linger in the tree but slid to the ground as quickly as possible, where he was received with shouts of laughter. “Haw, Buck! ef oonuh ’f’aid _’possum_, how you gwine t’row down _rokkoon_?” But Sike said nothing, while Joe went up the tree and threw down the ’possum, which rolled into a ball as soon as he touched the ground, and, after having been mouthed over by the dogs, was tied up in a sack and given to Sike to carry.

And now into the big swamp that stretched from the Tombs to Long Life Spring, a noted water-hole that never failed in even the worst drought. Ring gave tongue querulously once or twice on a cold trail. “Rokkoon,” Abram laconically remarked, and, as a shrill outcry from Joe’s nondescripts rang through the woods in another direction, “rabbit,” he added contemptuously. The younger negroes soon caught and thrashed the rabbit-chasers and, as Ring had now developed his trail and was giving tongue more freely, the other dogs were hied away to join him and soon added their voices to his. The cry skirted the swamp and in a few minutes their barking indicated that they had treed a quarter of a mile away. The ’coon had taken refuge in a big rosemary, whose smooth bark and thick trunk presented difficulties to a climber, and Abram decided to cut it down. Tom and Joe on opposite sides plied their axes vigorously. How many magnificent forest trees have been sacrificed since the war by the wasteful negro hunters who have no compunction about cutting down a ten dollar tree, belonging to some one else, to capture a “two-bit” raccoon! And the negro who would grunt grievously if had to fell three or four big pines for a day’s work, will throw an equal number as a pastime, in an hour or two at night! Soon the tree began to crack, and the dogs were seized, to prevent them from rushing under the falling trunk in their eagerness to be on hand when the ’coon should jump out of the thick branches at the top. They were released as the tree crashed to earth. Although they quickly surrounded the top, the wary ’coon had already made a getaway, but the cry followed hot-foot and forced him up a white oak a hundred yards distant. The tree, of moderate size, was thickly branched and no glimpse of the ’coon could be discerned through the heavy leafage. Tom tied a long stick over his shoulder and was soon on the first big limb which he proceeded to explore, “cooning” it out, while the torch-bearers held their lights under the end of the limb, and thus the second and third limbs were explored, but no dark form appeared against the light, and Tom climbed to a fork thirty feet from the ground. He paused for a moment and looked about him, then yelled “Great Gawd, Unk’ Ebbrum, duh _two_ rokkoon!”

“Weh ’e dey, boy? _T’row’um down!_”

“Dem alltwo dey ’pun dish’yuh lef’ han’ limb.”

“Shine dem eye, Joe, lemme shoot’um,” said Abram.

“Tek’care oonuh ent shine my’own en’ shoot me!” cried Tom.

“Nigguh eye yent fuh shine,” Abram replied, but he was spared the embarrassment of having to distinguish between Tom’s eyes and the raccoons’, for one of the animals, a half grown individual, broke sanctuary, and, dashing past Tom, slid down the tree to a lower limb, from whose extremity he sprang to the ground, unhappily for him, only a few feet distant from the watching Ring, who was on him before he could get started. There was a furious scuffle for a few minutes but the veteran dog soon choked the ’coon to death.

Tom now commenced crawling out on the limb after the big raccoon, who growled menacingly and backed as the negro neared him. At last the limb began to sag under Tom’s weight and the ’coon at the very end, eight or ten feet beyond him, teetered uneasily, as the torches flared beneath him and the dogs yelped expectantly. The long stick was now brought into play and Tom straddled the bough while he tried to pry off the quarry, but in his zeal he overreached himself and slid too far. The bough buckled under him like a whip and he lost his balance, but while regaining his hold with monkey-like agility he clutched so frantically at the raccoon’s end of the limb as to dislodge its occupant, who fell in the very teeth of the dogs. In the fierce fight that ensued, the raccoon slit the ears of the younger dogs and mauled them severely before Ring could get the throat-hold he wanted. Once secured, however, he soon choked the ’coon to death. As midnight approached, it was decided to eat supper and go home.