Chapter V: Foreword (4)

A lot of dry wood was gathered and a big fire made in a little glade. The younger negroes sat around the flames waiting for the coals upon which to broil the smoked herrings. Old ’Bram stretched out on the ground with the soles of his bare feet toward, and almost in, the fire, and, true to the traditions of a night watchman, he soon fell asleep. The flames crackled. Tom and Joe and the solemn Sike blinked at the light and nodded, the dogs licked their wounds and whimpered at the sharper twinges of pain. Suddenly old Abram grunted and “sniffed the tainted gale.”

“Eh, eh! Uh smell foot duh bu’n! Somebody’ foot mus’ be duh bu’n! Uh wunduh who’ foot duh bu’n?” Then, as he sat up and saw the curling smoke rising from the thick horny sole of one of his own feet, “Great Gawd, duh _my’own! Duh my foot duh bu’n!_ Tom, oonuh binnuh seddown duh fiah duh look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n, hukkuh you nubbuh tell me?”

“Me shum duh bu’n fuh true, Unk’ Ebbrum, but oonuh binnuh sleep en’ uh t’awt ’e would bex you fuh wake.”

“Oonuh had no bidness fuh t’awt nutt’n’! You seddown duh fiah en’ look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n en’ nubbuh tell me. Joe, oonuh binnuh seddown duh fiah duh look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n, hukkuh you nubbuh tell me?”

“Unk’ ’Bram, I shum duh smoke, but uh nebbuh t’ink ’e bu’n bad ’nuf fuh hot you.”

“Co’se ’e didn’ bu’n bad ’nuf fuh hot me, but ef uh yent bin had sense ’nuf fuh smell’um en’ know suh somebody’ foot duh bu’n, ’e might uh bu’n off, en’ you seddown duh fiah en’ look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n en’ nubbuh tell me. Sike, oonuh binnuh seddown duh fiah duh look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n, hukkuh you nubbuh tell me?”

“Me nebbuh shum, suh, uh binnuh sleep.”

“Meself binnuh sleep. Enty uh smell somebody’ foot duh bu’n en’ mek me fuh wake? Oonuh boy’ grow up sence freedum, oonuh _ent wut_!”

The herrings were broiled and eaten with the hardtack, the spoils were slung around the shoulders of the hunters, the fire beaten out, the torches relit, and a short cut taken for home. As old Abram relieved his substitute at the watchfire in the barnyard, his voice rumbled through his beard like the muttering of slow and distant thunder, “Uh done tell Mas’ Rafe suh dese’yuh nigguh’ grow’ up sence freedum, dem ent wut! Dem good fuh nutt’n’ _debble’ub’uh_ no’count boy, dem seddown duh fiah duh look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n en’ dem nubbuh tell me suh my foot duh bu’n. _Dem nubbuh tell me!_”

THE TURKEY HUNTER

Sabey, a queer, misshapen mulatto, almost an albino, with green eyes and yellow wool lighting and thatching a shrewd and twisted, though good-natured, monkey face, lived, a few years after the war, on Pon Pon. His wife, Bess, a good-looking black girl, was devoted to him as a good husband and a first-rate provider. When twitted by the other negro women with her husband’s lack of personal pulchritude, she was always ready with a retort.

“Mekso you marri’d monkey fuh man, Bess?”

“Sabey oagly en’ him look lukkuh monkey fuh true, but him iz uh good puhwiduh en’ no odduh man haffuh come een him house fuh feed him wife, en’ _Stepney_ nebbuh come een needuh.”

Sabey lived in a cabin at the edge of the woods, far away from the other plantation settlements, seldom mixing with the other negroes, who rather feared him, having a vague sort of belief in his ability to throw spells. When not hunting, he worked, but he was usually hunting in winter, and hunting successfully, for although his piece was one of the condemned army muskets carried by so many low-country negroes after Freedom, he was a good shot and possessed infinite patience and considerable woodcraft. Energetic, too, his twisted legs carried him for miles through the forests and along the backwaters and abandoned ricefields where, creeping on all-fours and worming his way through cane-brakes and briars, he frequently surprised summer ducks, and occasionally mallard and teal, feeding on the grass seeds along the margins, or the rich acorns from the live-oaks whose far-flung boughs stretched over the canals, and Sabey was an economist and seldom wasted shot on a single bird. On frosty mornings when he peeped over the embankments and saw green-wing teal strung upon a floating log basking in the first rays of the wintry sun, he would maneuver and crawl around, regardless of bogs or briars, until he got into a position where he could line them up, when, after his old “muskick” had spoken, he would sometimes gather up a dozen or more, which he sold to “de buckruh” on the plantations, or at the railway station; but it was as a turkey hunter that Sabey achieved distinction in the community.

Wild turkeys were very plentiful in the low-country soon after the war, and in the winter season flocks sometimes came up in the live-oak avenues and tangled gardens of the war-ruined plantations, making a boy’s heart thump against his ribs as he watched them picking up the acorns just out of gunshot of his little single-barrel. In roaming the woods, Sabey knew every dogwood knoll between the Stackyard and Beaver Dam, and when, in midwinter or later, he saw where the turkeys had “scratched” among the leaf mould for the glossy red berries that form their favorite wild food, he scattered handfuls of peas or rough rice about and returned a day or two later to see if the turkeys had taken the bait. If the scattered grain was untouched, he would offer temptation elsewhere until the wary birds had overcome suspicion and established relations with the rich man-grown food placed before them. The bait once taken, Sabey returned at two or three-day intervals and spread the feast anew, which after a while came to be to the turkeys as their daily bread. Then, behind some hurricane tree or old log nearby, the hunter prepared the “blind”--usually a pit three or four feet deep, camouflaged with boughs or great pieces of pine bark, with a gun opening toward an open space where, in a shallow trench, grain was scattered. From the scratching ground under the dogwoods, a trail would be laid to the trench, which was visited and replenished day after day until the greedy birds had become fearless and came regularly to their breakfast table. Then “one fine day,” just at dawn, Sabey would shamble off to the forest and creep within his blind, where he almost held his breath in “watchful waiting” for the coming of his quarry.

Nothing save Sir Walter’s conception of the mutability of the feminine mind, is quite so uncertain as the hour of the coming of wild turkeys to a blind. Sometimes at daylight, as they fly from their roosts on the topmost limbs of the great pines, they go at once to the bait. The next day, perhaps, they may roam the woods for hours and not reach the blind until noon, and on yet other days the fickle creatures resist temptation altogether, so “it is well understood” that whoso would shoot turkeys at a blind must have abundant patience and a certain complacent attitude toward his own society.

Who can tell what thoughts moved through Sabey’s brain cells as he sat “steadfast, ummovable” through the waiting hours. Did the tips of Aurora’s rosy fingers mean anything to him as she lifted the somber curtains of the night and ushered in the radiant God of day? Did the harsh yet homey “chauw, chauw” of the brown thrasher--the first winter bird to awaken in copse or forest--take his thoughts to the lonely cabin where Bess dreamed of the Sunday calico or the new shoes that would follow Sabey’s successful shot? Did the last hoot of the barred owl as, his night hunting over, he slipped away on muffled wing to the thick woods to drowse his days away, tell him anything of the human prototypes of all birds of prey? They, too, the selfish and the predatory, clutter up the by-ways of the world, closing their eyes to the light of service and the pulsing of humanity about them till, with the falling shadows, their eyes open and they prowl in quest of the unwary!

But whatever Sabey’s musings, he crept morning after morning into his blind and waited patiently as the hours slipped by, for the game that never came. Perhaps the wary birds had sensed danger at the blind--perhaps they had found a more convenient food supply elsewhere--but late every morning for a week Sabey had returned home weary and empty-handed, but, with a true sportsman’s spirit, determined to try again. Sunday intervened. A strong superstition in the negro’s mind, that to fire a gun on Sunday is to “hab sin,” kept him out of the woods, and he shambled off to church, but four o’clock the next morning, an hour before dawn, found him at the tryst which, through thought-waves, he believed he had made with the flock of turkeys.

They kept the tryst. The dawn came up slowly and silently, bringing in one of those rare windless, low-country winter days, when all the air is pale blue and gold and the forests are green and purple and brown. The first rays of the sun touched with pallid flame the topmost boughs of the tall pines and glanced from the myriad glistening needles that hung motionless in the chilly air. As the sun climbed yet higher, its sensuous warmth drank up the white frost that lay like a crystal blanket upon the open spaces and the light vapors that hung over the dark places in the forest, and, as the warmer and softer air fell about Sabey, he drowsed at his post.

The outdoor negroes of the coast need neither watch nor clock to tell the time of day. From “middlenight” or “fus’ fowl crow,” on through the procession of the hours to “dayclean,” “sun’up,” “one,” “two,” “t’ree hour attuh sun’up,” to “middleday,” and then on, as the sun slants downward, through “t’ree hour,” “two hour,” “one hour to sundown,” and “fus’ daa’k,” he makes a close approximation. So, as Phœbus shot with flat trajectory across the Southern sky, Sabey, snuggled down among the dry pine needles with which he had nearly filled his trench, dozed and listened and dozed, and waking, muttered “middleday,” and dozed again.

A slight rustling of dead leaves like the whisper of gently falling rain, and ten beautiful gobblers entered the little glade and going straight to the trench, began picking up the grain greedily. The sunlight flashed from their gleaming breasts as from planished bronze. Their iridescent plumage showed all the tints of glorified autumn leaves, and, as they stooped to feed, their long beards touched the ground. A braver sight to a hunter’s eye than bear or buck or any other game that roams the Southern forests!

Sabey slowly opened his eyes and stiffened like a setter at the point. His long musket, already aligned to rake the trench, rested securely in a forked stick driven into the ground. As a sibilant whistle came from his twisted lips, ten heads uprose like the armed men from the mythical dragon’s teeth, and came in line with the leveled gun. At a warning “putt” from their suspicious leader, they stood on tiptoe for a breakaway, but Sabey pulled his clumsy trigger, and following the heavy roar, he clambered out of the blind and ran forward to find seven great birds fluttering on the ground, while the others ran at race-horse speed for thirty or forty feet (your turkey, like your condor and your aeroplane, must take wing from a running start) and, rising on a long slant with a great beating of the air, topped the pines a quarter of a mile away and sailed off beyond “the Cypress.” The big birds, shot in the head, soon lay still and Sabey’s simian face wrinkled with satisfaction. “Tengk Gawd, uh git oonuh at las’,” he chuckled. “One, two, t’ree, fo’, fibe, six, seb’n,” he slowly counted--“t’ree git’way.” And then he scratched his head. Sabey was undersized, “him leetle but ’e ole,” the negroes observed, and could he pack far more than his weight in turkeys to the “big house” a mile away? It seemed a task too great for his strength, but his spirit was high, and, as he thought of the wildcats and gray foxes that abounded in these forests so seldom entered by hunter or woodman, he shook his head, pulled out a formidable-looking clasp knife and began to peel the bark from a young hickory. “No,” he said to himself, “uh yent fuh lef’ none. Uh tote’um all ef ’e tek me ’tell sundown fuh git Pon Pon. All wuh Mas’ Rafe ent buy, uh gwine tek deepo. No fox, needuhso wil’cat, nebbuh git ’e teet’ een dem tuckrey!” and he quickly removed the outer bark from the long strips he had skinned from the sapling and scraped and twisted the tough inner fibre into serviceable thongs. This strong hickory bark is the common cordage of the plantation negroes and serves for girths, bridles and harness for horse and ox, and is also plaited into the long whips used by herdsmen and bird-minders, the “pop” of whose lash or “cracker” is as far-sounding as the report of a rifle. Sabey tied six of the birds in pairs by their long necks, distributing them as comfortably as he could about his ungainly person--one pair over each shoulder, while the other, hanging forward, supported by the back of his neck, was balanced by the seventh bird hung at his back, suspended from the barrel of his musket. Thus laden like a pack donkey, he threaded the thick woods, avoiding as best he could the tangled vines and dangerous stump holes, and came at last to the open clearing of “Cotton Hill.” Here he laid down his burden and rested, “fuh ketch me secun’ win’.” Half an hour later he took up his load and, mindful of the fact that he had been poaching, avoided the direct way through the fields to the settlement and, skirting the old ricefield, traversed with furtive eye the negro burying ground where, shaded by giant live-oaks, seven generations of slaves and freedmen slept under the thick mould. For many of the far-scattered family negroes still bring their dead to rest in these hallowed places on the old plantations. Apart from the sentiment, it gives them standing among the low-caste darkeys who had belonged to “po’ buckruh” and whose forbears slept in no ancestral graveyards. Passing behind the “Echo Oak,” Sabey reached the big road and, a quarter of a mile beyond, tramped boldly up the great avenue to sell “Mas’ Rafe” his own game. He made a dramatic entrance into the yard, his deformed body completely covered by the splendid birds, their black beards hanging from their burnished breasts and their feet nearly touching the ground. The hounds, which had run out with bristling backs and open mouths at the unwonted sight, wagged their tails and whimpered as they caught the familiar scent of the game.

“Well, you copper-colored imp of Satan! Where did you shoot those turkeys?”

“Uh shoot’um Beabuh Dam.”

“No, Sabey. Beaver Dam is more than two miles off, and I heard a gun in the Stackyard.”

“Yaas, suh, but duh Beabuh Dam uh shoot’um. Uh mek uh bline’ on da’ po’ buckruh’ groun’, ’cause him all-time duh mek bline’ ’puntop’uh yo’ groun’, en’ uh shoot him tuckrey fuh pay’um back, en’ uh ’spec’ da’ gun you yeddy shoot duh da’ po’ buckruh wuh bin attuh da’ gang uh tuckrey wuh use een dem dogwood t’icket. Meself been yeddy uh gun shoot Stackyaa’d w’en uh bin Beabuh Dam.” “Mas’ Rafe” passed his hand admiringly over the glossy breast of the largest bird while deftly feeling his crop. “What did you bait these turkeys with?”

“Uh bait’um wid cawn, ’cause uh nebbuh mek no peas las’yeah, needuhso no rice.”

“Did you work here last week?”

“Yaas, suh, uh wu’k Chuesday and T’ursday ebenin’.”

“What did you do?”

“Uh beat rice, suh.”

“How much rice did you take home in that bag you carried?”

“Eh, eh, Mas’ Rafe! You see me wid bag? You t’ink suh me t’ief yo’ rice? Wuh nyuse me hab fuh rice? Me en’ Bess alltwo lub fuh eat cawn hom’ny tummuch.”

“You didn’t bait these turkeys with rice, did you?”

“Who? Me! Mas’ Rafe, you hu’t me feelin’s fuh talk ’bout bait dese tuckrey wid rice! Weh me fuh git rice? Dese tuckrey nebbuh see uh rice sence dem bawn!”

“How did the rice get in their crops?”

“Dem got rice een dem craw? Mas’ Rafe, dem tuckrey mus’be bin spang Willtown dis mawnin’ fuh use een Baa’nwell’ ricefiel’, en’ full dem craw, en’ attuh dat dem come six mile to de bline’ weh uh kill’um.”

“But it is only five miles from Willtown to Beaver Dam, Sabey, and six miles to the Stackyard, where you _didn’t_ kill the turkeys!”

Completely cornered, Sabey grinned. “Mas’ Rafe, you sho’ hab uh good onduhstan’ fuh know nigguh! Nigguh ent fuh fool you! No, suh!”

And then the former slaveholder bought the game shot on his own land and baited with his own grain, from the freedman who had stolen both, which is not infrequently the way of former slave-holders in dealing with former slaves.

THE GATOR HUNTER

Crook-legged, pumpkin-colored, yellow-wooled, green-eyed Sabey--the mightiest turkey hunter on Pon Pon--sat in the midsummer sunshine at his cabin door and talked, partly to himself and partly to his black wife, Bess, who busied herself within. A protracted drought was over the land, and Sabey’s summer harvest was at hand. Hunting turkeys and ducks in the winter, he was equally successful in his summer quest for the much-esteemed fresh water terrapins which abounded in the backwaters and the sluggish lily-covered canals that intersected the abandoned inland ricefields. They found a ready market on the plantations or at the railway station, whence they were shipped to Charleston, to appear on the tables of her discriminating gourmets in the form of highly spiced soups and stews. These big terrapins were frequently offered for sale by negroes who surprised the slow creatures while crossing the road or path on their way from one canal or pond to another, or trapped them in some shallow water hole. A few negroes even hunted them occasionally, the only equipment necessary being an empty crocus bag and a pair of legs--naked or trousered--with bare feet attached. Sneaking as close as possible to the floating log on which the terrapins sunned themselves, the hunter crept up until they became alarmed and slid off into the water, when he jumped in after them, and if the water was not more than three or four feet deep he could usually locate them by feeling about on the bottom near the log with his bare feet, when he would bob his head and his hands under, and the prize would go into the sack hung about his neck. But Sabey followed successfully, not only the ordinary methods of capture, but during dry spells adopted the hazardous expedient of going down into the alligator holes after them. As Prairie dogs, owls and rattlesnakes live together in the same burrows on the Western plains, terrapins are always found in alligator holes with their hosts in dry spells when the water is low, and he who would secure them must either get the alligator out first, or go down into the hole with him--one a difficult, the other a dangerous, adventure.

In the cruel midsummer droughts that sometimes occurred in the low-country, even the wet savannas and backwaters were parched to desert dryness. The muddy bottoms, ordinarily covered with water, even the shallower canals and ditches, sun-baked and cracked open, were abandoned by the life that sometime swam or waded in the waters now receded. Only the deeper places held water, and these roiled with the teeming fish and eels and terrapins that cluttered up the muddy pools. Crane and heron--greater and lesser--flew squawking overhead, or stalked along the marges taking heavy toll of their helpless prey, while in the mud round about countless tracks of otter, mink and raccoon showed that, like lions at the African water holes, these lesser creatures, too, held nightly carnival at the water. Now came the human spoilers--negroes with “jampots” or “churnpots”--cylindrical contrivances about fifteen inches in diameter by thirty inches in height, made of canes tied together with hickory bark thongs, and looking like tall, bottomless waste-baskets. Wading in the shallow waters, the fisherman holds his jampot by the upper rim with both hands, churning the water in front of him. Apprised by splash or flutter that a fish has been trapped, he reaches one hand into the cage, withdraws his catch, which he bestows in a bag hung about his neck, and “churns” again. When conditions were favorable for this form of fishing, the negroes, in the years immediately following the war, caught not only the coarse mudfish and “cats” which they so affect, but destroyed also countless thousands of trout and bream and other fine food fish. In Sabey’s time, almost every other negro in the well-watered districts owned a jampot, and the making of this was an important side line of the old plantation chair and basket-makers, but, synchronously perhaps with the destruction of the fish, the art, or the practice, of “churning” passed away, and it is seldom heard of now.

Now that a “hebby dry drought” was on, Sabey licked his chaps in pleasant anticipation. No rain was in prospect. The roaring of alligators is regarded by low-country weather sharps as a sign of coming rain, but, although the old bulls had bellowed lustily at dawn on several consecutive mornings, the sun still blazed from a cloudless sky and the heat waves danced and shimmered in the breathless air, giving point to the saw that in a drought all signs fail, which was once strikingly illustrated by an old-time plantation driver, whose master, needing rain, drew comfort from the persistent bellowing of the alligators. “Did you hear those ’gators this morning, Scipio? That should bring rain.”

“Yaas, Maussuh, uh yeddy’um, but dis duh Dry Drought, enty?”

“Yes, a very severe drought.”

“Berry well, suh. Enty you know, Maussuh, suh Dry Drought duh him own maussuh, en’ him ent ’f’aid alligettuh? En’, Maussuh, Dry Drought him haa’d-head’ ez de berry Satan! Nobody ent fuh mek’um fuh do nutt’n’! All dem todduh kinduh wedduh dem berry ’f’aid alligettuh. W’en alligettuh belluh fuh rain, dem big Bloodynoun frog dem jine’um, ‘_come’yuh rain, come’yuh’ rain, come’yuh rain!_’ Den dem po’ leely frog een de tree, dem hab shishuh mo’nful woice, dem biggin fuh cry. Bimeby, rain come. But Dry Drought, him ent stan’ so. W’en Dry Drought come, bullfrog know suh alligettuh cyan’ mek’um fuh wedduh, en’ you yeddy’um holluh ‘_’e yent fuh rain, ’e yent fuh rain, ’e yent fuh rain!_’ Alligettuh bex. ’E holluh ’gen. Dry Drought suck ’e teet’ at’um. ’Scuse me fuh cuss, Maussuh, but Dry Drought him ent care uh _dam_ ’bout alligettuh, uh dunkyuh ef’ ’e holluh ’tell ’e belly bus’!”

So, as the unterrified “Dry Drought” burned about him, Sabey prepared to start his campaign. The waters, long drying up, were now low enough. Many alligators had been forced to move, and the smaller ones were frequently encountered in the road--sometimes even on the high pineland plateaus--as they traveled toward the river or adventured in search of deeper canals or water holes. They always showed fight, too, swelling up like pouter pigeons, standing high off the ground, and hissing like geese, while they watched for a chance to lash out with dangerous tail. But, with the conservatism of age and wealth, the big old fellows seldom moved from their favorite pools on which opened their subterranean holes or burrows, excavated with their forefeet, like those of other burrowing creatures. Here in the deep pools were fish at hand, and nearby were the pig paths along which unwary shoats, going to the water, or nosing about in the soft earth for succulent roots, would often come in reach of the sweeping tail, and add to the variety of the big ’gator’s fare. In these deep underground holes, the ugly creatures hibernated from autumn to spring, until, with the earliest warm sunshine, first the nose and eyes would appear cautiously above the water which covered the entrance to the hole, and, growing bolder day by day, as the weather became warmer, next the head, and, at last the entire body would be exposed, lying on the muddy bank, or on a tussock among the rushes. Here, perhaps, he would be descried by some adventurous boy, who, sighting carefully despite his palpitating heart, would shatter the ’gator’s skull with a rifle bullet or reach his heart by a well-aimed charge of buckshot behind the shoulder; but, barring the boy, the days of the big ’gators were long in the land, for they became more wary with advancing years and seldom fell to the negroes’ firearms.

While the drought was yet young, the heaviest alligator in the community had been located by Sabey at the “Half Moon” dam, and now the deep pool into which his hole opened contained all the water that was left in the great savanna. The yawning mouth of the big ’gator hole, ordinarily covered with water, now disclosed a parched throat wide enough to have taken in a barrel. From day to day during the pendency of the drought, Sabey had sneaked up to the pool hoping to surprise the ’gator out of his hole and by a lucky shot get him out of the way and clear the path to the terrapins, but he had not been fortunate enough to see him, although he knew he was there by the tracks and the impress of his great body in the baked mud that lay between the pool and the entrance to his hole. Even had Sabey found him, he could have slain him only with a close shot in the unprotected region just under the arm, for the negro seldom shoots anything larger than number two shot, which would have glanced harmlessly off the tough scales with which the ’gator was almost completely armored.

Forced to oust the householder, in order to get at his unbidden guests, the terrapin hunter was now turned ’gator hunter. Although almost invariably hunting alone, pulling the smaller ’gators out of their holes with an iron hook and killing them with his axe, the master of the Half Moon pool was too ugly a customer to be so easily disposed of, and, after pondering long, Sabey determined to organize a ’gator hunt for the following day and call to his aid some of the plantation negroes.

On Saturday morning a dozen negroes, men and boys, met Sabey at the Half Moon. They were making holiday and laughed and chaffed in high spirits. A few carried jampots, intending to churn the waters for their favorite mudfish. Others, directed by Sabey, had brought strong plow lines which they had borrowed without leave from “de buckruh’,” and three or four were provided with axes. Besides his musket, Sabey carried on his shoulder a stout seven-foot hickory staff, at one end of which the village blacksmith had attached an iron ring, while at the other he had riveted a strong iron shaft shaped somewhat like a medieval pike--a spear-like point with which to prod and stir up his ’gatorship, and a sharp, though heavy, hook with which to drag him out of his retreat. Although Sabey was the master craftsman of them all in this form of adventure, the two or three old darkeys in the bunch could not refrain from giving advice. “Git een de hole, Sabey, git een de hole,” said old Cato Giles, the plantation foreman. “Tek de plow line en’ tie’um to ’e foot, den we mans kin drag’um out.”

“Duh me gwine een de hole, enty? Hukkuh uh gwine git at da’ alligettuh’ foot bedout git at ’e head fus’? Me fuh pit my head een ’e mout’ w’ile uh duh tie ’e foot, enty? No, suh!”

Cutting a long, supple pole from a nearby thicket, Sabey ran it down the hole in order to determine its underground course and locate its occupant. He knelt at the opening and ran his sapling down carefully, listening for the scraping of the far end against the rough scales of the alligator. The hole, which slanted downward at an angle of 45 degrees, proved to be almost straight, and, when twelve feet of the pole had been shoved in, Sabey heard the grating sound he had been listening for, and knew what work was before him. Withdrawing the pole, he first made fast a double plow line to the ring end of his staff, while he tied another line around one of his ankles and prepared to go down into the hole. “Tek off yo’ shu’t, man,” advised old Cato. “Ef da’ ’gatuh bite you ’e gwine spile’um, en’ no use fuh t’row’way uh shu’t.”

“Yaas, man,” another said, “tek’um off. You kin slip een da’ hole bettuh bedout’um.”

So Sabey cast off shirt and hat, and, with a warning to his companions to pull him out quickly if he should call, went down on his hands and knees and crawled head-foremost into the hole, pushing his billhook before him. Wriggling like a snake, he dragged himself slowly and cautiously downward, and, about the time he had gone down far enough to leave only his toes sticking out of the mouth of the hole, the sharp point of his staff rattled against the ’gator’s skull as he lay head on toward the entrance. The strong, musky smell of the great saurian would have suffocated one less tough than Sabey, but he paid no attention to it, and prodded with his staff until he had maneuvered the sharp point of his hook under the ’gator’s throat when, with a quick upward jerk, he fastened it in the creature’s lower jaw, and, as a hissing sigh met him in the face, he shouted and kicked his heels at the same time as a signal that he wished to come up. They pulled so lustily that his crooked leg was almost jerked out of its socket, and his head came out, grumbling and scolding, “Oonuh t’ink me duh alligettuh ’long fo’ foot, enty? Wuh me fuh do fuh foot attuh oonuh pull off dem wuh uh got? Oonuh mus’be fool! Oonuh nebbuh pull nigguh outuh alligettuh hole befo’?”

But they were now too excited to quarrel, and, seizing the double plow lines, they began, under Sabey’s direction, to pull slowly on the ’gator. Had Sabey hooked him in a less sensitive part, they could not have budged him. He was too well braced for hanging back, but his throat was comparatively tender, and inch by inch he began to come up, while the negroes shouted and chanted with delight, their excitement increasing as the line shortened and the quarry neared the mouth of the hole, till at last the ugly snout was pushed forward, and then the head, full two feet long, appeared as the fore feet followed, and the ’gator reared up. Frightened, the negroes retreated to the very end of the line. Meanwhile, Sabey had seized his musket and executed a flank movement, and realizing that, as the ’gator’s tail was still underground, there was little danger in a close approach, crept up and, firing when the muzzle of his gun almost touched the ’gator’s side, tore a great hole just behind the shoulder. The negroes shouted with joy, for they realized that the wound was mortal. But ’gators take a long time to die, and they kept pulling, and he kept crawling, until his entire length of nine feet had been drawn out of the hole. Sabey was wary, and insisted on their retaining hold of the staff, which was still hooked in the ’gator’s throat, and he warned his companions of the danger in approaching within reach of the treacherous tail, but after awhile, as the great creature slowly bled to death, several of the younger negroes walked too near, and, while appraising with gastronomic appreciation the great tail, which many of the negroes eat with avidity, it lashed out suddenly. A feeble effort, but with force enough to send the frightened negroes on both sides of him sprawling and rubbing their bruised legs which the ’gator’s sweep, delivered with full force, could have broken like pipe stems.

And now that the Dragon that guarded the treasure had been haled from the dungeon and put _hors de combat_, Sabey tied a couple of empty sacks, each to a plow line, and essayed a second nose dive into the pit of promise. There is always danger of getting jammed or stuck in exploring a ’gator hole, but Sabey was experienced and cautious, and the hole was large, so down he went, taking the sacks with him, and soon reached the bottom, which had widened into a considerable cavity eighteen feet from the mouth. His exploring hands, feeling in front of him, found a small pool of water literally alive with terrapins. Having ample room to turn around, Sabey lost no time in filling one of his sacks with terrapins, which, at a jerk of the line, was hauled up out of his way. The second sack held all that remained, and, when this had followed the first, he turned, and, facing upward, decided to go head-foremost, preferring to crawl out like a self-respecting caterpillar, under his own steam, rather than be hauled up by the heels like a slaughtered shoat. But, fearing suffocation in the close quarters underground, he had admonished the men above, who managed the rope attached to his foot, to pull him up quickly at the first jerk, and, as he turned upward, his free leg became entangled with the tied one. In kicking loose, he gave the line a jerk, to which his friends responded so suddenly that they hauled his legs up under him, trussing him into the semblance of a bronze statuette of a squatting Buddha. Sabey yelled with pain and anger, for the hole, while large enough for a man to pass extended, was too close for him doubled up, and Sabey was stuck in the barrel. His muffled cries reached his friends, but they thought them calls for more speed, and the harder they pulled, the tighter they jammed the unhappy wretch.

“Eh, eh! Da’ felluh pull _hebby_!”

“Yaas, man, Buh Sabey pull hebby sukkuh alligettuh.”

It was old Cato who noticed that they had not budged him an inch. “_’Top_, oonuh man, _’top_!” he shouted. “’Ee yent duh moobe. Slack de rope.”

As they stopped pulling, Sabey hauled in the slack, released his legs, and, hauling on the rope hand over hand, was soon at the mouth of the hole, where he lay for several minutes to fill up with fresh air. When, recovered sufficiently to get mad, he rose on all-fours like an alligator, he presented a fearful sight. His yellow wool, his face, and his copper-colored arms and torso were smeared and streaked with black mud, his ragged trousers, water-soaked and muddy, clung to his crooked legs, and he looked like a composite of iguana and ape.

Though ordinarily a taciturn negro, Sabey, under the spur of anger, galloped through his vocabulary of invective at top speed. “Oonuh good fuh nutt’n’ debble’ub’uh _no’count nigguh_! Oonuh ent _wut_! Uh tell oonuh ’sponsubble fuh haul de rope w’en uh pull’um ’long me han’, uh nebbuh tell oonuh fuh haul’um w’en uh kick’um ’long me foot! Oonuh ent know de diff’unce ’twix’ man’ han’ en’ ’e foot? Ef man tell oonuh fuh tek uh cucklebuhr outuh mule _yez_, oonuh gwine saa’ch fuhr’um een ’e _tail_, enty? Oonuh mus’be tek me fuh annimel!”

“Ef you ent wash off dem mud en’ t’ing ’fo’ you gone home, Bess gwine tek you fuh cootuh, eeduhso fuh ’ranguhtang, en’ him ent gwi’ leh you fuh gone een him house,” they chaffed.

Sabey washed in the muddy pool, resumed his shirt, tied the two sacks of terrapins together, hung them over the gun barrel at his back, and prepared to shake the mud of the Half Moon off his feet. “W’en uh done sell dese yuh yalluh-belly cootuh en’ gone een me house wid alltwo me han’ full’up wid money, Bess gwine lub me tummuch, ef uh _yiz_ look lukkuh ’ranguhtang. Monkey hab fo’ han’, en’ de mo’res’ han’ man hab, de mo’ ’ooman lub’um! Oonuh black Aff’ikin _Guinea nigguh_! Oonuh kin nyam da’ alligettuh, en’ w’en oonuh _yiz_ nyam’um, _oonuh duh cannibel_!”

“THE WILES THAT IN THE WOMEN ARE”

For many years old John, as country coachman for the late Governor Aiken, periodically drove a pair of switch-tailed mules to the Governor’s carriage, making round trips between Jehossee Island and Adams Run station, whenever his employer came from Charleston to visit the great rice plantation. John was a trim and finicky old darkey, with quite a manner, and, in his old beaver hat and long-tailed coat, made a notable figure among the darkeys usually loafing about the station.

Low-country negroes never miss a train. Journeying by rail, they take no chances, but invariably reach the station several hours ahead of train time, where, chattering and gossiping, the waiting time passes quickly and pleasantly.

Among these groups old John, with his long-handled whip of plaited buckskin, correctly looped, and carried coachman fashion, moved and exchanged pleasantries. He, too, was always ahead of time, and his docile mules, switching their long, untrimmed tails about, and hitched to the only closed carriage in the community, were always objects of interest to the station idlers.

“Uncle John, mekso oonuh ent shabe dem mule tail?” inquired one of a group that squatted upon the platform.

“Sistuh, you ebbuh yeddy ’bout Johossee muskittuh’?”

“No, suh.”

“Ahnhn, uh t’awt so. Gal, you ebbuh see blackbu’d’ ’puntop’uh rice rick? You _is_ shum, enty? Berry well; dem muskittuh’ een Johossee maa’sh stan’ same fashi’n. W’en dem light ’puntop’uh mule, dem kibbuhr’um ’tell oonuh cyan’ see dem haa’ness! One time, jis’ attuh daa’k, uh binnuh dribe comin’ een late f’um Adam’ Run, en’ w’en uh ’trike de causeway, all ub uh sudd’nt uh nebbuh yeddy no mule’ foot duh trot ’puntop’uh de groun’! De cyaaridge duh moobe, but uh yent yeddy no soun’ f’um de mule’ foot. Uh say tuh mese’f, eh, eh, duh warruh dish’yuh? Uh look ’gen, en’, uh ’cla’ tuh goodness, de muskittuh’ _dat_ t’ick ’puntop de mule’ belly, dem hice’um up off de groun’, en’ duh flew t’ru de ellyment duh cya’um ’long! Dem wing’ duh sing sukkuh bee duh swawm, en’ de mule’ duh trot wid all fo’ dem foot, but ’e nebbuh tetch no groun’! Uh nebbuh do nutt’n ’tell uh cross de bridge, ’cause de bridge mek out’uh pole, en’ dem berry slip’ry duh night time, en’ uh glad de mule’ ent haffuh pit dem foot ’puntop’um, but attuh uh done cross de bridge, uh tek me lash en’ uh cut de mule’ two’t’ree time onduhneet’ dem belly, en’, uh ’cla’ tuh my Mastuh, t’ree peck uh muskittuh’ drap ’puntop de groun’ en’ uh yeddy de mule’ foot duh trot ’gen een de road! So, attuh dat, uh nebbuh shabe de Gub’nuh’ cyaaridge mule’ tail no mo’, en’ now you shum stan’ dey, dem kin lick muskittuh’, fly en’ t’ing’ same lukkuh hawss.”

So old John, coachman and raconteur, a faithful and respected servant, lived his days, which were long, and when at last he was gathered to his fathers, his funeral was the talk of the colored countryside, and his grave, ornately decorated with broken bits of old blue china and the stone bottles in which Bass’ ale had once been imported, was much admired by those whose sad occasions brought them to the plantation God’s-Acre under the spreading live-oaks.

“Eh, eh, Buh John sho’ hab uh fine grabe.”

“Yaas, tittie, ’e fine fuh true. You see da’ blue chaney, enty? Dat chaney bin ’e Missis’ pitchuh ’tell de pitchuh’ mout’ done bruk out. One time ’e missis sen’ one leely nigguh gal duh big spring wid ’e blue pitchuh fuh fetch watuh. De gal full’ de pitchuh en’ pit’um ’puntop ’e head duh walk duh paat’ comin’ fuh de house. De gal duh walk ca’less like, duh swing ’e han’, en’ ’e yeye high, en’ ’e nebbuh look ’puntop de paat’, en’ one limus cootuh binnuh cross ’e paat’, en’ him git to de paat’ same time de gal git dey, en’ de gal ’tump ’e toe ’puntop de cootuh, en’ de cootuh t’row’um down, en’ de pitchuh fall off de gal’ head en’ ’trike ’puntop’uh root, en’ de pitchuh’ mout’ bruk out en’ de gal gone back duh big spring en’ full’ de pitchuh ’gen, en’ pit’um ’puntop ’e head en’ gone big house duh paat’, but ’e dat ’f’aid suh limus cootuh gwine hit’um ’gen, ’e ’tep’ high, en’ w’en ’e ’tep’ high de watuh wuh ’e fetch f’um big spring ’plash’ out de pitchuh’ bruk mout’ en’ drap’ ’puntop de gal two eye’ en’ run down ’e face en’ gone een ’e mout’, en’ w’en de gal git duh big house, ’e missis look ’puntop all de watuh en’ t’ing’ dey ’puntop ’e face en’ ’e missis t’ink de gal cry tuh dat, en’ ’e missis sorry fuhr’um en’ ’e nebbuh lick’um nuh nutt’n’, en’ ’e gi’ de bruk mout’ pitchuh to de gal, en’ w’en de gal grow up, Buh John hab’um fuh wife, en’ da’ de way Buh John git de pitchuh, en’ attuh Buh John done dead, ’e wife wuh ’e lef’ tek hatchitch en’ bruk de pitchuh ’gen, en’ pit eb’ry Gawd piece ’puntop Buh John’ grabe, en’ da’ w’ymekso ’e stan’ so.”

“’E grabe look stylish fuh true, but uh know berry well w’en _my_ juntlemun dead me yent fuh bruk no pitchuh en’ t’ing fuh pit ’puntop _him_ cawpse, ’cause da’ nigguh _ent wut_, ’e too lub fuh drink rum, en’ w’en ’e fetch’um home, him fuhrebbuh duh fall down en’ bruk de bottle wuh ’e fetch’um een, en’ uh hab all dem bruk bottle pile’ een de fench cawnuh fuh pit ’puntop him grabe w’en ’e dead. Two’t’ree time Joe seem lukkuh ’e kinduh spishus ’bout de bruk bottle, en’ ’e ax me wuffuh uh duh sabe’um, but uh tell’um uh sabe’um fuh beat’um up ’long pessle, fuh pizen buckruh’ dog, en’ dat sattify ’e mine’ en’ ’e lemme ’lone.”

“You sho’ hab uh good onduhstan’, tittie, ’cause man ent fuh know tummuch. Ef ’ooman tell’um de trute ’e nebbuh sattify. ’Ooman haffuh fool’um fuh mek’um easy een ’e mine’!”

“You duh talk trute, tittie, him _lub_ you fuh fool’um. Fool’um duh de only t’ing him gwine b’leebe.”

“Yaas, man, meself hab uh good ecknowledge fuh fool’um. One time Paul, him duh my juntlemun, binnuh wu’k to de maa’l, duh dig rock, down to John Ilun’. Monday mawnin’, him git up soon, ’e gone deepo, ’e ketch de shoofly strain, en’ ’e gone! Uh nebbuh shum ’gen ’tell Sattyday night. Wuh me fuh do? Seddown een me house ’tell him come home en’ watch ’tettuh duh bile? No, suh! Uh lub fuh talk tummuch! Soon ez uh yeddy de strain blow, en’ uh sattify’ my juntlemun gone, uh tek me two foot en’ uh gone Paa’ker’ Ferry Cross Road’ weh da’ buckruh hab ’e big sto’. All dem boy’ wuh ent hab nutt’n’ fuh do, dey dey duh talk, en’ ’nuf ’ooman’ dey dey duh hol’ cumpuhshashun ’long de man en’ t’ing. W’en daa’k come, uh gone home. Uh cook, uh eat, uh leddown duh bed, uh sleep. Chuesday mawnin’, uh gone same fashi’n, en’ eb’ry Gawd’ day ’tell bimeby Sattyday come ’gen. Uh clean de house, uh wash, uh sweep de yaa’d, en’ uh gone Cross Road’. Uh pass de time uh day ’long dem todduh nigguh’ ’tell uh yeddy de strain f’um town blow deepo, den uh gone home fuh wait ’tell Paul come. Befo’ uh lef’ de sto’, Sancho Frajuh binnuh drink rum en’ ’e t’row’way ’e money berry freehan’, en’ ’e buy ’bout two quawt’ uh candy, dese’yuh ’ticky kind’uh t’ing, dem hab ’ooman name, de buckruh call’um Carrie Mel, but eb’n so, ’e mek out’uh pinegum en’ muhlassis, en’ ef oonuh chaw’um ’e gwine hol’ yo’ jaw ’tell t’unduh roll. De buckruh hab’um een ’e sto’ sence las’ yeah en de t’ing haa’d ez uh i’un. Sancho gi’ eb’ry ’ooman two han’ful’. Uh wrop one de han’ful’ een uh papuh en’ drap’um een me ap’un pocket. Uh t’row de todduh han’ful een me mout’ en’ biggin fuh chaw. Uh chaw, en’ uh chaw, uh chaw, en’ uh chaw. De t’ing sweet’n’ me fuh true, but ’e ketch me jaw’ en’ ’e hol’um same lukkuh pinegum plastuh! De mo’ uh chaw’um de mo’ ’e swell. Time uh git tuh me house, de t’ing wrop roun’ eb’ry teet’ een me head lukkuh jackwine wrop roun’ tree. Alltwo me jaw’ stan’ same fashi’n ez mufflejaw fowl, en’ me mout’ swell’up same lukkuh Buh Quash’ mout’ stick out w’en ’e bex! W’en uh git tuh de do’, Paul dey dey duh wait fuh me! ’Fo’ him kin ax me no squeschun, uh smaa’t ’nuf fuh t’row me ap’un tuh me mout’ fuh hide’um, en’ uh kibbuhr’um up en’ biggin fuh moan. Uh moan, en’ uh moan. Paul ax me wuffuh uh mek shishuh hebby cumplain. Uh ’ca’cely kin able fuh talk, but uh tell’um uh binnuh walk roun’ de fench en’ uh walk ’puntop yalluh jacket nes’ en’ de t’ing ’ting me tuh dat. ’E ax me w’ich one de jaw ’e ’ting me ’pun. Uh p’int tuh me lef han’ jaw. ’E ax me ’smattuh mek alltwo de jaw’ swell. Uh tell’um gumbile mek todduh one fuh swell. Den uh biggin fuh cry. Watuh stan’ een me two eye’. Uh baig’um fuh gone deepo en’ baig some dem buckruh’ fuh g’em some linniment fuh de mis’ry een alltwo me jaw’. Paul say suh him kin gone Cross Road’ en’ buy’um, but uh ’f’aid ef him gone Cross Road’, Sancho dem gwine tell’um suh me bin dey, en’ uh tell’um no, uh yent want’um fuh t’row’way him money ’cause uh lub’um tummuch, en’ uh mo’ redduh him fuh baig de buckruh’, den fuh buy’um out him own money. Dat mek’um sattify, en’ ’e gone deepo. Soon ez ’e gone, uh try fuh git da’ debble’ub’uh ’ceitful Carrie Mel out me mout’. De t’ing ’tick same lukkuh Buh Rabbit ’tick tuh Taar Baby. ’E won’ tu’n me loose! Den me bline’gawd tell me fuh greese’um. Uh gone duh house, uh mek fiah, uh pit one fat bakin een de pan, en’ w’en de meat done fry, uh tek’um een me mout’ en’ biggin fuh chaw. Bimeby de greese biggin fuh loose de Carrie Mel, en’ uh tek alltwo me han’ en’ uh pull’um out me mout’, en’ uh t’row’um ’way, en’ uh t’row’um _fudduh_!

“W’en Paul come back wid de buckruh linniment, uh duh hol’ me two jaw’ en’ uh dull moan. Him gimme de t’ing, uh rub’um, en’ attuhw’ile, w’en him done cook de bittle wuh ’e fetch f’um John Ilun’, uh call’um fuh look ’puntop me two jaw’ weh de swell’ done gone, en’ ’e dat sattify, ’e gimme de money wuh him bin fuh buy linniment duh Cross Road, en’ ’e nebbuh yeddy ’bout no Sancho!”

“Yaas, tittie, ’ooman fool’um fuh true! Him _done_ fuh fool’um!”

A RICEFIELD IDYLL

A brilliant tropical day in late August. A strong breeze from the river moved the glistening leaves and swayed the long pennons of gray Spanish moss that swung from every bough and twig of the great live-oaks, whose spreading arms stretched their protecting shade over the plateau upon which stood the Big House, crowning the highest point of Prospect Hill. A mile away swept the flowing tide of the broad and beautiful Edisto, whose shimmering waters, opposed by the summer wind, danced and sparkled in the sunlight. Upon the lower levels between the uplands and the river lay the great fields of early rice, now ready for the sickle. Intersecting the fields or “squares” at regular intervals, and contrasting with their green and gold opulence, shining silver-blue canals ran from river to headland. Far across the river on “the Island,” the eye rested upon an emerald expanse of June rice which would come to harvest six weeks later. From the ripening fields the “harvest flow” had been taken off, the squares dried, and on this Monday morning 100 hands had gathered by sunrise, for, by the mysterious grapevine telegraph through which negroes on one plantation hear almost instantaneously what is going forward on other plantations miles away, the news had gone about that rice-cutting was to commence at Prospect Hill, and the gregarious negroes, deserting the smaller settlements, flocked hither to the big plantation where, working in gangs, they could exchange quip and jest and gather the gossip of the countryside. Some of the best rice-cutters were the sturdy young women, who, with skirts tied up above their knees and wearing men’s wool hats to mitigate the heat of the sun, kept pace with the best of their masculine associates. Cutting and tying by piece work, an active hand could readily complete his task, the allotment for a day’s work, an hour before noon, and some of those who had walked six or seven miles in the morning would knock off as soon as the task was finished and loaf around the quarters until sundown, while others, pushing their luck, held on until the evening, putting two days’ work into one. Armed with the saw-edged, sickle-like “rice hooks,” the cutters stretched across the squares, each seizing with her left hand as large a bundle of the heavy-headed stalks as she could conveniently grasp, which, with one stroke of her right arm, she quickly severed a few inches above the ground, laid the bundle on the stubble ready for those who tied into sheaves behind her, and, with a sweep of her left, gathered another handful for the embrace of the crescent-shaped blade. Down the steaming field moved a skirmish line of lusty black wenches, bare-armed, bare-footed and bare-legged, their skirts drawn above their knees by a cord about the waist, which took up the slack. Here and there among them worked men, and these, often physically inferior to the females of the species, were subjected to constant raillery and frequent challenges to equal the self-appointed tasks of the women.

Venus Chisolm and Diana Smashum, two strapping Amazons, were the most expert of the women rice-cutters, and excelled most of the men in efficiency. Scipio Jenkins, a smart young buck, was the special butt of the gang of which Diana and Venus were the leaders. Scipio was unusually black, with the common combination of yellow eyes and blue gums, and upon this color scheme his tormentors lit like bee martins on a crow.

“Blue gum, yalluh eye,
Black nigguh berry sly;
Yalluh eye, blue gum,
Black nigguh lub rum.

Yalluh eye, w’en you shum,
Black nigguh lub rum.”

“Yaas, tittie, ’e stan’ so fuh true. Sat’d’y night da’ nigguh gone Cross Road’. ’E buy uh killybash full uh rum f’um de buckruh. ’E drink’um eb’ry Gawd’ drap. ’E nebbuh gi’ nobody none. ’E gone home. Sunday, _’e dead_! ’E nebbuh know nutt’n’ ’tell Sunday night ’e maamy full’ uh piggin full uh watuh out de well en’ t’row’um ’puntop’uh Scipio, weh ’e duh leddown ’puntop de flo’, fuh mek’um fuh wake. De nigguh binnuh leddown ’puntop ’e back fuh sleep. ’E sleep’ haa’d. ’E groan’ en’ ’e groan! ’E groan’ en’ ’e groan’! ’E mout’ op’n roun’ same lukkuh snake hole. W’en de watuh full’ ’e mout’, ’e blow lukkuh de ’strucshun strain injine duh blow off steam w’en ’e duh load grabble! De t’ing ’trangle’um. ’E choke! ’E jump out ’e maamy’ do’ en’ ’e gone t’ru de briah-patch dat fas’ ’e lef’ half ’e britchiz ’puntop de briah! Bumbye, w’en ’e maamy gone duh ’ood fuh fine’um, please Gawd, de nigguh binnuh leddown flat ’puntop ’e belly een de du’t, duh swim! Da’ piggin full uh watuh hab shishuh cuntrady tas’e een ’e mout’, ’e mek’um t’ink suh him dey een de ribbuh! ’E ’tretch out all fo’ ’e han’ en’ ’e foot. ’E ten finguh’ duh grabble een de du’t. Bumbye, w’en ’e han’ loos’n de du’t, ’e feel uh pinetree root. ’E graff’um een alltwo ’e han’! ’E holluh. ‘_Tengk Gawd_,’ ’e say, ‘_uh done sabe! Uh yent fuh drowndid no mo!_’ En’ da’ fool nigguh pull ’pun de pinetree root fuh hice ’eself out de ribbuh! Da’ rum do’um _bad_!”