Part 2

“Don’ yo’ ’Maumer’ me!” said the old woman, crossly. “What you come here ter me fur if hit hain’t ter fetch dem bobs ter Sairey? Hain’t I seed yo’ in de coals, ’way ’cross de fiel’, ’fore yo’ lef’ de cabin, mek up you’ min’ ter fotch dem year-bobs ter Sairey fur what I gwine tole yo’? What I tells yo’ worf er heap ter yo’, but hit nuffin ter me. Solon hain’t my ole man!”

Juno was sick at heart. She had given up the blue-edged china cup to save Solon, but the big moon ear-rings were the wealth of her whole life.

The hoodoo threw a chip at a great toad that was napping in an old shoe beside the hearth, and, shaking the ashes from her pipe, she refilled it from her pocket. “Hain’t nuffin ter ole Ysbel, gal—her day done ober; she don’ claim no man, dead ner libin’! But I done tole yo’ ’bout dat yaller gal, hain’t I? Yo’ done seed her wid you’ own eyes, hain’t yo’? An’ I done tole yo’ how ter git shet uv her. Hain’t my keerin’, but if yo’ don’ wanter know no mo’ ’bout her, yo’ des tote dem moon year-bobs back home wid yo’!”

Slowly the rings were removed from Juno’s ears, and the old woman, with a leer, popped them into her capacious pocket before resuming her professional attitude.

“Um! um! wall, de sap be up by ter-night, an’ ter-morrer yo’ play sick an’ cross de ribber, ’case yo’ gotter whup her on her own groun’. Yo’ cain’t tech her on you’ own, no matter what happin, ’case she kin ’do’ yo’ den, an’ she’s de bestes’ hoodoo in dis kentry, ’ceptin’ ole Ysbel, fur all dat she’s on’y er gal. Don’ yo’ say nuffin ter-night at de bre’k-down, ner do nuffin, but yo’ gwine ter see sights, if you does what I tells yo’. Mek lack ter Solon dat yo’ hain’t gwine sho’ ’nough, dat yo’ ailin’ er sumpen, an’ let him gin out dat he gwine ter see his daddy. Yo’ lay low twel yo’ hears dem fiddles des er-talkin’ in de middle er de night, des ’fore dey sarve de supper; den yo’ tek you’ foot in you’ han’ an’ git down dar; but don’ yo’ go in, an’ don’ yo’ do nuffin den, fur hoodoo ’oman hain’t lack odder ’oman, an’ you cain’t git eben wid ’em de same way; but wait twel hit bre’k up, den cut you’ grape-vine, an’ den yo’ ’ll run ’gin sumpen in de dark; hit Ole Cinder Cat. All yo’ hatter do is ter foller uv her, ’case I’se fixed her so’s she gotter sarve yo’; an’ den when yo’ sees what yo’ lookin’ fur, lay de grape-vine on, quick an’ fas’, ’case hain’t nuffin ail Solon but dat yaller hoodoo!”

It was turning twelve when Old Cinder Cat rose from the hearth, and, stretching herself, bounded through the doorway. Juno woke with a start.

“Um! Juno better be gwine too. Mighty fine business fur her ter be in, long er hoodoos an’ Ole Cinder, but she sho’ gwine wid ’em dis time, mun!”

The squeak of the old fiddle under Pompey’s fingers, mingled with the even patting, was wafted through the open door. Juno looked at the height of the moon.

“Hit’s turned midnight now, an’ I’m erg-wine.”

But she first sought the grape-vine by the spring. The bright moonlight flooded everything as with the light of day, and, carefully cutting the vine between certain joints, according to the formula of Maum Ysbel, Juno hid it beneath her skirt, and took the little path towards the sounds of midnight gayety.

The barn was radiant with tallow dips that winked and sputtered through the decorations of pine boughs like gorgeous fire-flies. A dance was in progress. The men were ranged in one line, the women in another; at a certain point they met and joined hands. But, arrayed in gorgeous apparel different from the others, a great red paper flower nodding in her hair, her white teeth shining between parted lips, the leader of the dance was the comely yellow girl whom Juno had seen before, and her delighted partner was none other than the prodigal Solon himself. Juno’s fingers instinctively sought the grape-vine for another purpose than that indicated by Maum Ysbel, but, clinching her hands, she withdrew into the outside shadows again, and the Cinder Cat suddenly rubbed against her dress and purred.

Solon danced like one possessed, regardless of time or tune, always keeping his eyes fixed upon the nodding crimson flower; and the yellow girl, with lips drawn tight over the white teeth, watched him with the eyes of possession.

Then, as he sank upon a bench, exhausted, for Solon was none of the youngest, the voice of an elder whispered in his ear: “Better g’long home ter de ole ’oman! We’ll hab you up in de chu’ch fur dis!”

The watching eyes in the darkness were burning like coals of fire, but Solon pulled loose from the detaining hand. “What I keer ’bout gwine home ter de ole ’oman? What I keer ’bout bein’ fotched up? I ’ain’ bothered!”

And, despite his age, in every dance Solon led, with the smiling face and crimson flower beside him. Others changed partners, but Solon’s was always the same.

Now the candles had burned out, the few that remained were guttering and flickering, and then there was one last dance, in which a madness seemed to seize Solon, and as he whirled he drew from his pocket a long string of blue glass beads and threw them around the yellow hoodoo’s neck. The watching eyes in the darkness glowed with passion, for Solon’s gift was Juno’s sole remaining ornament, now that the moon ear-rings had been bartered.

“Lemme hol’ on ter myse’f tight, O Lord!” she groaned. “Des fur er little while!” And again the Cinder Cat brushed her skirts and purred.

“I gwine foller you in er minit, Cinder! I gwine follow you!”

* * * * *

The silence that was golden lay upon Juno’s lips, and it was a repentant Solon who came to her next night, for the Cinder Cat was gone forever from the hearth, the charm was forever broken, and the comely hoodoo knew it.

Shamefacedly and ill at ease, Solon lolled and smoked, but, still preserving her silence, Juno prepared a sumptuous supper for her prodigal.

After they had eaten she threw a crimson paper flower, ragged and dirty, upon his knee, and, drawing her chair close, she lighted her pipe from his, for she knew that her woes were ended.

“A KINGDOM FOR MICAJAH”

“So you want your freedom, Micajah?”

The negro who had shambled up to the broad veranda dropped his eyes and shuffled uneasily, for there was a world of wonderment and kindliness in the master’s tone.

“And this is the meaning of all the devilment I’ve heard of lately—all this talking among the negroes?”

“I reckon so, sar.”

“At your age, Micajah, when you’ve been a self-respecting negro all your life, to go cutting up and making mischief among the other negroes because you want your freedom—that’s a fine way to get it! Haven’t you always gotten all you asked for? If you wanted freedom, why didn’t you come and ask for it?”

The master lifted his glasses to his forehead and looked reproachfully into the queer black face before him.

“Didn’t ’low, Ole Marse, as how you’d gib hit ter me,” said the negro, humbly, but persistently.

Judge Naylor looked from the rose-twined piazza across the spacious lawn, under whose oaks his own father had romped, and beyond whose limits had joyously hunted with another Micajah, as small and as black as the one before him. _He_ had never dreamed of freedom. Was this the innate craving of the human for something higher, or only a reflection of an external picture? The Judge resolved upon an experiment.

“You are mistaken,” said the Judge, gravely, as he knocked the ash from his pipe. “I will give it to you. And what sort of freedom is it that you want, Micajah?”

The old slave scratched his head and swayed uncomfortably.

“Why, des freedom, Ole Marse.”

“What kind of freedom, Micajah? What is it that you want? Speak out, for I am going to give you your freedom for a whole month, and you shall have all that you want to go with it,” added the Judge.

Uncle Cage gasped. The enormity of the idea was too much for him.

“And here were Ole Marse des er-talkin’ ’bout hit lack hit were er chaw er terbaccy—des es easy an’ quiet lack,” said Micajah, afterwards, in confidence.

“Well,” queried the Judge, “what do you want as a free nigger, Micajah?”

Micajah scraped the dust with his foot; twice he made a little mound of it with his toes and twice smoothed it out.

“I don’t wanter be no ’free nigger,’ Ole Marse. I des wants freedom.”

“Well, go on; don’t be afraid; you shall have what you want.”

Cage’s eyes sparkled, and at last his tongue was loosened.

“I don’ wanter work none, Ole Marse. I wants ter hear dat horn blow at five in de mornin’, an’ I wants ter git up, mad lack, an’ holler outen de winder, ’You derned ole raskil, what you wake me up dis time er day fur?’ Den I wants ter fling my boot-jack at him, an’ go on back ter sleep, I does. Um, um—an’ when de ole ’oman ’low, ’Cage, yo’ git up an’ make dat fire,’ I wants ter ’low back ter her, ’I hain’t er-makin’ fires fur niggers,’ an’ I wants ter go back ter sleep, I does—fur, Ole Marse”—here Cage bent closer and almost whispered—“I wants my freedom fum de ole ’oman too, den, an’ I don’t want her ter git freedom, nohow.”

“All right. Anything else to go with your freedom, Micajah?”

All timidity and sullenness were forgotten, and Micajah’s face was radiant.

“I don’ wanter hope do dat cl’arin’, Ole Marse, down by de ribber, an’ when de niggers is er-sweatin’ an’ er-workin’, I wants ter be takin’ er my ease. Um, um—an’ I wants some clo’se, white folks’ clo’se; an’, Ole Marse, I wants er book lack yo’ got in de house.”

“A book? When did you learn to read, Micajah?”

“Lord! Ole Marse, ole Cage cain’t read; he des want ter tote hit roun’ lack yo’ does.”

“You shall have it,” said the master, heartily. “Now what else?”

“I wants er little nigger, er little nigger, Ole Marse.” Here Micajah scratched his head thoughtfully. “None er mine, ner none on dis side er de ribber, but er little nigger dat ain’ know me ’fore I git freedom—dat ain’ _see_ me work. An’ I wants dat little nigger ter foller me ever’whar I goes, er-totin’ er palm-leaf fan, an’ I wants him ter fan dese foots when I sets down er lays down, an’ I wants ter holler at him when he ain’ move fas’ ernough, an’ cuss him when he move too fas’, but I wants him ter keep er-foll’in’ wid de palm-leaf fan.”

Micajah, from sheer ecstasy of contemplation, paused.

“But I don’ wanter be no ’free nigger,’ Ole Marse, lack Free Joe and Yaller Pete, ’case they hain’t nuffin but des niggers, ’douten er marster, errer home, ner nuffin; dey don’ eben know whar dey git dey nex’ sumpen ter eat fum; but I des wants ter taste freedom.”

“Very well, Micajah; you shall begin to taste it at once, and I hope that it will do you good. You need not go to the field to-morrow, and you can pick out your little negro from over the river this afternoon. Cindy will give you my old broadcloth—you can roll up the legs and sleeves if they are too long—and I will not forget the book; and, mind, if anybody asks you to do a lick of work for a whole month, you send them to me.”

* * * * *

The plantation work went on smoothly without Micajah’s presence, much to the disgust of Milly, his wife, who had been reprimanded more than once for berating Cage about his trifling ways. Micajah got his little nigger from over the river—one who had never seen him before, and who was as thoroughly abject and respectful as even Cage could wish; so the latter’s joy knew no bounds, and he was rapidly demonstrating, to his master’s great amusement, the close kinship of the tyrant and the slave.

Micajah’s freedom was a matter of wonderment to the negroes as he looked upon them at their work for a moment with a supercilious air, and made some dignified remark, with his book held carelessly under his arm, “perzackly lack Ole Marse,” Cage gleefully congratulated himself—for Cage was wonderfully changed, changed to befit his new condition; and as he turned, followed by the bearer of the palm-leaf fan, many were the envious glances cast.

Such ease, such glory, such a blended dream of shade, watermelons, and cob pipes smoked undisturbed, varied by the unspeakable delight of “cussin’” and yelling at the little negro!

But even this Arcadia had its shadow, for Cage had never had the ecstasy of flinging a boot-jack at his little slave. Boots and their accompaniment had been part of the requirements which his master had provided, with the promise that the jack could be flung if the boots were worn; but Cage had been an unshod child of nature, for in that equable climate a foot-covering at any season of the year was only a matter of effect, and the exquisite agony of the pegged cowskins was more than he could bear, even with his freedom; so, by her master’s direction, boots and jack were carried triumphantly back to the plantation store by Milly, who was more than happy to thus pluck one feather from the wing of freedom.

Milly in these last few days seriously questioned within herself the wisdom of Old Marse’s experiment, for it had very much upset the domestic equilibrium; but Milly was a philosopher too, in an humble way, and under the existing circumstances she resolved to make an experiment also, the issue of which she was more certain of than Ole Marse was of his.

“Think I gwine hab Cage layin’ roun’ here in de shade er w’arin’ er broadclorf ever’ day—an’ Ole Marse ain’ do dat—an’ er-settin’ up he ole foots ter be fanned lack dey was sumpen, an’ dey es big es all out-doo’s, an’ he er-pesterin’ me ’bout he fried chicken fur dinner lack he were white—an’ dey sen’ hit ter him, too. My Lord! Um—Ole Marse done los’ he head ter ’low dat; but I hain’t los’ mine, sho mun, and I gwine git eben wid Cage. Talkin’ ’bout freedom dis an’ freedom dat, an’ erlowin’ dat hit sumpen dat Milly cain’t git. Um—if hit make er body es low-down an’ es triflin’ es Cage be, I lay I don’ want hit!”

* * * * *

But it was glorious to be envied—a field-hand envied even by the house-negroes. So Micajah buried his bare feet in the dust when impressing a crowd, and rose in the dignity of his broadcloth. He was a king, though even for a day, and no ancestor by the far banks of the Congo ever ruled more royally.

He was abused behind his back, but the fruits of the earth were brought to his cabin. The horn blew in the morning, but Micajah turned over for another nap. Milly put the buttermilk on the table, but Cage had coffee from the big house; and at last freedom had grown so great that Micajah declared that Milly should stand while he was served—that a free man could not sit at table with a slave, even though she was his wife.

Then Milly rose in wrath, and laid two crossed sticks tied with hair in the chimney lock, but held her peace. Micajah shivered; ruefully he regretted his boldness, for the dignity of the free man could not overcome the superstition of the slave, and he had known Milly’s work of old. Alas for Micajah! In the splendor of his broadcloth and the deliciousness of freedom he had forgotten to transfer his own hoodoo—it was even then reposing in the pocket of the discarded blue-check trousers—and Milly’s charm would work!

* * * * *

The clearing down by the river was progressing. It was a kind of extra work, and a barn dance and barbecue had been promised in the Quarters when the task should be completed. So it was even pleasure, this sweating and hard labor, with the pot of gold, as it were, at the end; and, with the “whoraw” in the Quarters attending each morning’s departure, the spirit of habit even tempted Uncle Cage to join, for it was getting lonesome with nobody but the little nigger—not even Milly in the cabin to lord it over—and the laborers were too busy to listen to him if he went idle-handed to the clearing; but he was a free man, and freedom did not stoop to such without necessity.

But latterly the monarchy was not nearly so absolute as it had been; the negroes were not half so envious. Too much familiarity and boasting were breeding contempt, and though Milly was more than welcome among them, they looked at him askance whenever he sought to join in their recreations.

Growing bolder, they quizzed his little “nig” about him, to the former’s utter demoralization, poking fun at the bare feet and broadcloth; and one of the smart house-negroes disrespectfully propounded a conundrum, in effect, “If all work an’ no play make Cage er dull nigger, what do all play make him?” Milly’s brother, a field-hand, had actually shouted out, “A big fool nigger!” at which Cage and his fan-bearer walked away in dignified silence. But the fan-bearer was far from satisfactory; there was that in his manner which betokened sullenness rather than the awe with which he was at first infused; and though he habitually dodged, it was rather from the fear of the missile than of the man. There was even a symptom of rebellion, which Micajah, finding the arts of civilization deficient, promptly put down by threatening to hoodoo him with a ’gater.

The imp was quelled for a few days, and during that time he spent all the spare moments when Cage was asleep in the careful examination of his legs and arms for the first indication of the ’gater, guardedly holding his breath to feel an internal or external wiggle; but, as no signs appeared, he turned a pirouette on his great toe and whispered to the watermelons in the patch that “Marse ’Cajah wa’n’t nuffin but er nigger man, arter all.”

But something had surely gone wrong with Micajah’s fortunes. Was Milly’s charm working? There it lay in the chimney lock, and Cage dared not touch it. “I knows she put hit dar fur me ’case I mek her so mad ’bout stan’in’ when I eats, an’ now she won’t set down when I axes her; an’ if hit air workin’—my Lord! den I’m done fur!” moaned Cage.

So the Big-house coffee was not half as delicious as it had been, and Cage took to praising Milly’s buttermilk, sharing her side meat, and he courteously left her a piece of fried chicken on one occasion; but Milly would not touch it.

Then, after one sleepless night in which the crown of freedom pressed more heavily upon the monarch’s brow, Micajah sought his master, leaving the bearer of the fan sobbing in the cabin from a reprimand more vigorous than pleasant. The Judge was preparing to ride, and he smiled upon the forlorn figure of Micajah.

“Well, Micajah,” said he, flecking the head of a zinnia with his whip, “have you thought of something else to go with freedom?” Micajah studied his bare toes sheepishly, then covered them with dust.

“Naw, Ole Marse.”

The Judge drew nearer. “Are you sick, Micajah?”

“Naw, Ole Marse.”

“Then what do you want? Don’t stand there all day like a dolt.”

Micajah hesitated; something seemed to clog his throat, and he cleared it.

“I thought maybe, Ole Marse—I thought es how de time mought be up, an’ I come ter gib up de freedom and de book.”

“What? Are you tired already? Why, it is not half up. Go on and have a good time, Micajah.”

Micajah looked crestfallen, and ambled off as the Judge rode away. “Er whole mont’, an’ hit hain’t half up! Well, dar’s dis erbout hit, dat’s one comfort—dem niggers kin ’buse me lack dey pleases, an’ dey gwine sweat an’ groan fur dey fun; but dis freedom gwine ter fotch hit ter me lack I were white, ef I des set an’ wait. Dey don’ git tired er settin’ an’ waitin’ fur hit ter come ter ’em, an’ I des bardaciously gwine steddy some more white folks’ ways ’sides totin’ de book.”

But the blissful contemplation ended as he neared his own cabin. In the doorway sat the fan-bearer, his tears having been wiped away by Cage’s good dinner, which had arrived from the Big House during the consultation with his master, and to which the imp had bountifully helped himself. Micajah’s heart was sore, but he smothered his wrath until he had made his meal, while the fan-bearer, with a fragment of belief still in Micajah’s powers, employed the time in feeling again for the incipient ’gater. Then Micajah rapped imperiously upon the table.

“You Amaziah!” The little negro dodged. “You infernal lazy black raskil, Amaziah!”

“Huh!” whimpered the boy.

“You lim’ er Satan, you lizard-eyed nigger, don’ you say ’huh’ ter me! You git me er coal and light my pipe quick! Fill up dat pipe fust, you lazy purp! What you got holes in yo’ head fur, hah? Um, um. Now git dat fan an’ fan dese here foots twel I tells you ter quit. You heah me!”

The man of freedom was stretched at full length, with a wreath of smoke about his head and his eyes closed to the world; the little black piece of misery was crouched beside him; and so daylight waned and the twilight came on; then the fan dropped from the bearer’s hand; he was fast asleep, and so was Micajah.

* * * * *

There was great excitement on the plantation, for Susanne, the Madame’s maid, was to marry Henry, Major Stone’s man-in-waiting. Susanne had told the Judge of her desire, and, not wishing to sell Susanne, or to separate her from the husband of her choice, the Judge had promptly bought him for a good round sum. The Madame herself had looked to the details of Susanne’s wedding-gown, for the Madame set great store by Susanne, and the ceremony was to be performed in the dining-room. Then afterwards would come the feast and dance in the Quarters until daylight, in which the inmates of every cabin, by invitation of the bride, might join.

Micajah’s cabin felt the unwonted influence, and even the little fan-bearer was in a flutter about the wedding. Milly had been bidden; carefully she laid her small store of finery upon the bed, and was softly singing to herself before going to the field. Milly believed in feasting, though, unlike Micajah, who loved to scrape his foot to anybody’s fiddle, she only believed in a certain kind of terpsichorean exercise, which she called “de ’ligious dance.” Hers was only executed upon solemn occasions, or commemorated special emotions, but Milly was indulgent to the general fault in others.

* * * * *

These fair days of freedom were losing more and more of their beauty to Uncle Cage; the song of the mocking-bird was far less sweet, and even the crimson-and-black beauty of the watermelon had almost lost its lusciousness to the idle slave of freedom. But, most of all, the impudence of the jay-birds maddened him when they came to gather from the remnant of his meals.

Many an unpicked bone and half-finished biscuit was flung at them in the abundance, to be regretted in the after-time.

“I lay I gwine larn ’em,” muttered Cage, as he resumed his solitary dinner after a vigorous onslaught, which was about the only exercise the monarch would allow himself; and the fact was that Uncle Cage might be suspected of a first-class case of dyspepsia, for the life of irregularity and idleness was telling hardly upon his astonished organs and his temper. “I lay I gwine larn ’em—er-eatin’ er my vittles an’ er-callin’ me ’Cage! Cage!’ des es pat, ’dout eben er handle ter hit, an’ erlowin’ ’He got hit! he got hit!’ lack hit any business er thern ef I _is_ got freedom. I lay I larn ’em!”

* * * * *

As he grew more and more irascible the negroes drew entirely away from him, even his chosen few, and freely let him know that they could get along without him. But now the crowning insult had been offered—he had not been bidden to the wedding. It was Milly’s charm—he knew that it was Milly; the fact of his freedom could not alone have worked that change in his fellows; and Milly, finding her spouse exceedingly cross upon this particular morning, wisely refrained from any but necessary conversation.