Part 3

Micajah was stung to the quick, and dwelt upon his sorrow. At a wedding he was in his own particular province, and everybody knew it—that was where it wounded. They had even invited Milly before his eyes, and the messenger had sarcastically “‘lowed dat es Cage were erbove workin’ wid common niggers, he reckoned he were erbove playin’ an’ eatin’ wid ’em.” And the little fan-bearer suffered that day, for Micajah’s feet were very hot.

At last the momentous hour arrived, and there was much hurrying to and fro in the Quarters. Here and there Susanne was swishing her wedding-skirts and bandying saucy words with the older negroes, but she did not even pause at Micajah’s cabin.

But Ole Marse would permit him to witness the ceremony with the house-negroes because of his freedom, an honor which was never shared by the field-hands, and Micajah was secretly glorying, though the glory would be short-lived, for there was the long night before him with its bedlam of joy let loose in the Quarters, and he was not to be of it.

So he stood in the doorway a shiftless figure, an alien, as it were, for he was unused to the manner of the house-negroes and was abashed before them, and for the present he was not a field-hand, because of his freedom.

For a moment he lost himself; then the ceremony was over; Ole Mis’s said something high and grand, and Ole Marse said something funny, and the little procession filed out.

The night was close and sultry, and as he sat alone in his cabin door Micajah could hear the strains of fiddle and banjo—he was even near enough to hear the shuffling of feet. The fan-bearer was soundly snoring, after having sobbed himself to sleep, for Micajah had sternly declared “dat de slabe cain’t go whar he marster hain’t axed—you heah me, Amaziah?”

As the night wore on the fun waxed louder and louder, the spell was irresistible, and Uncle Cage was almost beside himself. He had never been left out before—and this was freedom!

At last the cake-walk was begun, and Micajah, forgetting his injured dignity, his position, and his broadcloth, slipped stealthily out to peep at the revellers through a chink; and there was Milly—his Milly—leading the walk with Cross-eyed Pete. Micajah dug his toes into the dust. Oh, how peacefully Milly smiled!

“Dat cross-eyed houn’ is er-callin’ me outen my name,” he muttered.

His Milly laughed slyly—and this was freedom!

“How I ebber gwine make dat nigger know her place ergin?” he groaned. “I gwine git back an’ know mine—dat I is. I gwine gib up dis fool freedom if I libs ter see ter-morrer, sho I is; an’ I gwine meet dem niggers on ekil groun’s, an’ I gwine split dat cross-eyed nigger inter kindlin’ wood—sho I is—if I libs. An’ I gwine ter make de high an’ mighty niggers ter-night ter eat dirt ter-morrer—dat I is—_yo’ heah me_! I larn dat Milly ter laugh at her betters ’hine dey backs, if I peels ever’ hick’ry on de place—dat I is! O Lord, pity dis heah big fool nigger dat hain’t got no mo’ sense ’n ter lis’en ter de word er Satan, an’ up an’ ax Ole Marse fur dis heah freedom! I’s done wid hit—I spits hit out. Des lemme git shet uv hit, an’ I wouldn’ wipe dese ole foots on hit!”

There was a movement at the door, and, fearing detection, Uncle Cage slipped away to seek uneasy dreams.

Through the long hot days the work had gone on cheerfully in the new land, and now it was so nearly accomplished that the frolic was joyfully discussed.

Micajah had all along secretly resolved that he would attend the frolic, with or without a welcome, on the ground of primeval right; but the negroes, informed by Milly, or more probably by the fan-bearer, who was a most untiring carrier of tales, openly resented his intention, and now passed his cabin without a recognition, sarcastic or otherwise.

Even the fan-bearer was growing unbearably sullen; no kick or cuff could bring him out of it; his biggest flow of words failed to intimidate, and Micajah felt that his position was perilous. He more than once approached his master, with the same result—he must wait until the time was up.

* * * * *

It wanted but four days more to the barn dance, and here was one whole miserable week of freedom, and, alas! his freedom from freedom would come too late to save the day, so he resolved to make one more effort, and, shame-faced and miserable, Micajah once more sought his master.

The Judge knitted his brows forbiddingly.

“What is the matter, Micajah, that you want to give it up? Haven’t you got all to go with it that you wanted?”

“Yas, Ole Marse.”

“Then what the devil is the matter?”

“Ole Marse”—Micajah’s voice was very low, and his humbleness was as the dust—“I done fotch back de book, an’ I done fotch back de freedom. One hain’t no betterer dan tuther ter er nigger. Dey bofe on ’em lies ter er nigger, an’ hit hain’t nuffin but miz’ry. Dey don’ ’spec’ me no mo’; dey don’ lis’en ter me talk no mo’. Eben Milly, my ole ’oman—dat I gwine frail ’din er inch uv her life when I gits shet er freedom—done lay er spell on me: I kin feel hit in my bones. Eben de little nigger what tote de palm-leaf fan done talk sass ter me, an’ I ’low I cain’t stan’ hit!”

His master smiled, then bit his mustache gravely.

“But, Micajah, you must command respect—command it, and you will get it.”

“I done ’mand hit, Ole Marse,” said Micajah, pitifully, “but I ’mands hit lack er nigger, er big fool nigger, an’ hit hain’t done no good. Gittin’ freedom on de outside don’ make freedom on de inside, Ole Marse. I’s ’bleeged ter you, Ole Marse, ’deed I is, but I wants you ter take hit back. I’s nuffin but er fool nigger, Ole Marse, an’ ’fore Gord I hain’t gwine cut up no mo’! I’se got all I want ’dout freedom, an’ I gwine be thankful fur hit!”

Micajah paused expectantly; there was a silence, which was broken by the master’s firm voice.

“I am a man of my word, Micajah. I have promised you a month of freedom, and you have accepted it; I cannot take it back until the time is out. Stop your foolishness, and go and make the best of it.” And Ole Marse rode away.

Micajah looked long and earnestly into the cloud of dust he left behind. The condition was desperate; something must be done.

Between the gate and the Quarters he collared his astonished little nigger with no uncertain gesture, and led him across the field towards the river, and when Micajah returned he was alone. Spying the palm-leaf fan, the emblem of his freedom and his misery, on the floor of the cabin, where it had dropped from the hand of the rebellious Amaziah, he silently tore it into shreds and tossed them from him with a contemptuous grunt.

* * * * *

That night a theft was committed on the plantation—a very small one, it is true, but made memorable because it was the very night that Micajah sent the little negro home. Such a thing was almost unheard of, and the overseer, a black Hercules, was very indignant.

The next night a similar depredation was discovered, and the negroes were at fever-heat. “Reckon Ole Marse ’bout ter lose he min’, ter set still an’ see things erg-wine on diserway an’ hain’t raise his han’; but I gwine raise mine, sho mun!” declared the overseer.

So a cordon of guards was formed, with regular reliefs, and the night-watch began. The midnight wore away, the stars winked out, and the last guard slept peacefully before the rising sun, and no marauder disturbed the stillness of the smoke-house. But something had happened. The house, the Quarters, the very air, was full of it. A runaway nigger had been caught on Major Stone’s plantation, was caught stealing, and was even now being carried in handcuffs to the court-house to await his owner.

The summer season was dull enough in the little village which had the honor of being the county-seat, and the passing of the Judge’s carriage was of sufficient moment to attract a knot of idlers. So, too, the little court-room was filled with the same material, even before the Judge had leisurely alighted, after his usual custom; for, as the negroes said, “Eben de toot er Gabrul moughten pester Ole Marse; he gwine ’bout he business, an’ hain’t gwine herry fur nobody!”

The runaway was secreted in an inner chamber; nobody had even seen him, and speculation ran high; but the Judge, in the most exasperating manner possible, calmly disposed of some minor matters, leisurely joking his constituents, as was his wont, utterly oblivious of the throng of eager faces.

At last every joke had been turned and every paper signed, when the Judge relapsed into sternness.

“Bring in the prisoner!”

The mysterious door opened, and Major Stone preceded the little procession, stroking his beard in a peculiar manner, but as grave as a chief mourner.

“I’ve got a good one on him now,” he whispered to Attorney Allen as he passed up the aisle.

Then followed the culprit, his crossed wrists in the little steel cuffs, his head bent low upon his breast. There was something painfully familiar in the figure. The now soiled and torn broadcloth, even upon its spare ebon rack, still held the Judge’s outline in its creases. Ludicrously pitiful the picture, and the crowd swayed and murmured.

The Judge rose to his feet. He was thinking of green fields and boyish days, of the clear brook beyond the pasture, of the pair of honest black feet that had timed their pace to his.

“Micajah!”

There was a world of pathos in the tone. It mattered not if the whole of his little world was there to hear it—attorneys, clients, negroes, and all.

“I’se comin’, Ole Marse!” The pitiful wail rang through the court-room, and the old slave, oblivious of any other presence, fell prone at his master’s feet.

“Take de cuss offen me, Ole Marse, an’ lemme die, fur dat freedom hit ride me lack er hant, an’ let loose de debil in ole Cage! Take hit back, Ole Marse, fur I got er whole week er dat mizerbul freedom lef’, an’ you wouldn’ take hit back! Dat what mek me brek in yo’ smoke-house fur, an’—oh, Lord! I’s er mizerbul sinnin’ nigger, all on ercount er dis heah freedom; an’ you nebber sont de oberseer ter whup me; but I were willin’—de Lord He know how willin’ I were—if I mought git shet er dis heah freedom!”

There was a pause, broken by Micajah’s sobs.

“Tell it all, Micajah,” said the Judge.

“Dat what I taken Marse Harry Stone’s tuckeys fur. I ain’ want dem tuckeys, Ole Marse—dey done tied out dar in de fiel’ now—but I wants ter get shet er dis heah freedom! I hain’t nuffin but des er po’ fool nigger, Ole Marse. I hain’t gwine ter ax fur nuffin ebber no mo’—nuffin but sumpen ter eat, an’ mighty little er dat! Yo’ knows what’s the bestes’ fur me, Ole Marse, an’ yo’ knows I hain’t fitten ter breave de bref er life! Kill me, Ole Marse, kill me; but ’fore yo’ does hit take de cuss er freedom offen my soul!”

* * * * *

A sudden gust must have blown dust in the Judge’s eyes, for he winked them hard, then blew his nose vociferously.

A whispered consultation was held with Major Stone.

“That’s entirely satisfactory to me, Judge”—the Major was smiling.

“The case is dismissed!” roared the Judge.

THE DEVIL’S LITTLE FLY

In the long ago, when the nether world was not so densely populated as it now is, and the days were not so full of interest, never having forgotten an early experience with a most beautiful woman, and often feeling the spirit of adventure strong upon him, the lord of that domain used to walk abroad upon the earth in the cool of the evening.

Many of these excursions were full of excitement and variety, and sometimes of great daring upon the part of Satan, as there was no need of the slightest disguise, for the world was not so wise as it is now, and those simple folk, both fine and poor, white and black, dallied with Satan without question.

But the subjugation of an entire plantation, from the “Quality” to the “Quarters,” required time—more time, often, than Satan could give consecutively—so there were certain emissaries to be employed during enforced absences.

Now, by way of practice, the devil had conquered the “Quarters” of a great plantation, even to every soul, with the exception of an old mammy and a certain Zacheus who was very cautious, and was preparing plans for the “Big House,” when something went wrong with the eternal fire below, and the devil was besought to depart in haste.

His old courier, the jay-bird, brought the message from the under world, whither he had gone to deposit his usual load of firewood; and he was in no fine humor, for every Friday he bitterly remembered the day he had sold himself, in an unguarded moment, to the devil, for a worm-eaten, half-filled ear of corn—“sight unseen,” complained the jay to Mrs. Jay, when he sometimes filled the air with vain regrets.

“Dey says dat dey want you mighty bad down dar; de fire hain’t half hot, an’ dar’s sumpen de matter wid de furnace,” said the jay.

“You right sho dey needs me?” asked the devil, for he had other fish to fry that Friday morning,

“Course I is,” said the jay, crossly, for he was very tired, and had carelessly gotten his feathers scorched in the lower regions. “Think I gwine come all de way back ter tell you er lie? Ax my cousin, de crow; he went wid me ter de do’ an’ heared ’em gib hit out!”

“Go back,” said the devil, getting angry, “an’ tell ’em I hain’ gwine come twel dis day week, an’ ter keep dat fire hot, if dey knows what’s good fur deyse’fs! I got er job er my own ter ’ten’ ter, ’dout any partnerships!”

“Go ter hell yo’se’f! I hain’t due dar twel nex’ Friday, an’ I hain’t gwine budge twel den,” said the jay-bird as he preened his scorched wing and flew away.

Now the devil had a love-affair on hand, one of those strange, inexplicable things that require very careful handling, and it was the same old cry down below—any ordinary devil who knew his business could attend to that.

So the devil importuned the crow to take the message; but Squire Billups had just planted a large field of corn; there was work enough in that for Mister Crow to do for a whole week; he was not compelled to serve the devil but a single day out of the week, and he had already given that service; besides, Mrs. Crow was just beginning to hatch, and no self-respecting _paterfamilias_ could fail to be within call during such an important event. The owl was too blind to go, for the journey had to be made by daylight; the black-snake was too sleepy, for his season was not yet fully arrived; the terrapin was too slow; and there was nothing left except the little fly; but the little fly was always ready, though his work must always be rendered upon the earth.

So, with many impatient stampings of his foot, the devil set about to take his departure. He got down upon his knees and blew his breath into a dandelion puff, and whispered to the seed, and a wind rose, and the seed scattered, and the down floated through an open window of the Big House and tickled Marse Charles’s ear as he lay asleep.

Now Marse Charles was come to attend the house-party of Marse Beverly Baillie, and was mad with love of Miss Demetria, Marse Beverly’s youngest daughter, who looked above the highest, and had no mind to marry any man. But Marse Charles, in his cloak of green-and-gold lace, swore upon his jewelled sword that he would win. Even now, as he slept, he held between his moist fingers a withered rose that had nestled upon the bosom of the cold Demetria.

It was such as this that the devil was loath to leave, and as he blew the seeds of the dandelion ball he sowed the seeds of jealousy in Marse Charles’s heart. Marse Charles sighed in his sleep, and clutched the withered rose; then the night became as daylight to him, and his eyes were wide open.

Biding his time, so that jealousy might breed the mushroom hate, the devil lingered, leaving the doubtful hours of the night to pass away; but between midnight and day, when the young man was wellnigh crazed with evil passions, the devil threw off all disguise and stood before him.

“Who are you?” cried Marse Charles, springing from his bed and stretching his swollen eyelids in the dusky light as his hand sought his sword.

“One who can do you a service,” said the devil, talking fine, for he always chose his language according to his surroundings.

Marse Charles’s brain was full of fever, and he put up his sword and listened, while he crushed nervously the rose within his palm.

“You are young, you are noble, you have the treasures of the earth before you,” said the devil, soothingly, “and yet you are the most miserable man in all creation.”

“What do you know about my misery?” cried Marse Charles, angrily.

“What do I _not_ know?” asked the devil, sagely. “I know that you love Demetria, that she disdains you, that you have a rival.”

“Ah!” sighed Marse Charles, “that is it—I have a rival! Whoever, whatever you are, aid me if you can, for I am mad with love. I have written a challenge to my rival, that we may settle this at daylight. I was about to send it when you called.”

“Not so fast,” said the devil, lifting a warning finger and drawing nearer. “Hot blood is the father of many regrets. Your rival is a better swordsman.”

“But ’tis honor! I do this for my honor!” said Marse Charles, loudly, puffing out his breast, frog fashion.

“Hush! not so loud! Your honor will do you much credit when you rot in the ground, run through with your rival’s sword,” sneered the devil, “leaving him in possession of Demetria’s favor. My plan is better than that.”

“What is your plan, and who the devil are you?” cried Marse Charles, writhing at the possibility of losing Demetria.

“That’s just it—I am he,” said the devil, chuckling; and, stretching out his arm, he touched Marse Charles with a hand as soft as velvet. “The world is mine, and I would sit upon a throne, my rightful seat, if it were not for this!” and he kicked out his hoof foot petulantly.

“Well, what is your plan? I haven’t time to listen to your miserable troubles; I’ve enough of my own,” said Marse Charles, impatiently.

“That’s so; I was talking to no purpose then,” said the devil, fingering Marse Charles’s ruffles. “But this, briefly, is to the point. Upon a certain condition, if you will do as I bid you, Demetria shall detest the very presence of your rival, disasters shall come upon him, and, lastly, Demetria shall smile upon your suit.”

“Words are cheap,” said Marse Charles, languidly. “What proof can you give me that you can do all of these things?”

“Look upon the occurrences of every day—look out upon the world—what better proof need I give?” said the devil, archly. “Moreover, if you wish, you shall know the innermost life of your lady as though you held a mirror ever before her face; her every act, her every sigh, nothing shall be hidden from you that you may have the desire to hear or know.”

Marse Charles pondered awhile, but the devil and the moonlight, together with his old-fashioned frenzy of love, had turned his head.

“Name your condition!” he cried, tearing the challenge into little bits; and there, in the beginning of the gray dawn, Marse Charles did what many a man, both before and since, has done.

* * * * *

It matters little to the story to give the exact specifications of the bargain, though Mammy, in the telling of it, was always very particular to describe minutely all of the virtues that go to make up the best part of a man—in other words, his soul. The awfulness of the bargain was duly impressed upon Mammy’s small listeners; how Marse Charles, for the love of a woman, had given up happiness forever and forever; how the eternal fires of hell were to be kept at white heat with fiendish delight by those who had made similar bargains; how the days of his coming were written in fiery letters upon the walls, and there would be no water in all hell for Marse Charles to drink, save the tears of the lost, which flowed forever, and they were exceedingly bitter and full of regret.

“Can’t he ever, ever get out, Mammy?” asked the little maid, whose lips were quivering, and whose great eyes were full of unshed tears.

“Yas, honey,” said Mammy, hastily, “if er good hoodoo kim erlong ’fore de bref leabe Marse Charles, er ’pentance kim ’fore de wo’ms ’stroy de body—an’ er good hoodoo sho gwine kim!—so don’ you cry, honey!”

But now, said Mammy, the devil had his man hard and fast, heart and hand, and when it became his time to leave the earth for a season he took Marse Charles out into a lonely place, and put into his hand a tiny snuff-box made of gold, curiously wrought upon the top.

“I will leave you now,” said the devil, “for the rest will be fair sailing. I have jaundiced your Demetria’s eyes to your rival. She sees that he has a squint, and talks with a drawl, and that he drags one foot in dancing. Misery is entering her soul, and she is very unhappy, for she believes that the squint is due to the hard counting of her father’s acres and slaves.

“In this box,” continued the devil, “I leave you my most useful possession, one that will never slumber and never sleep. You can keep watch upon Demetria when she goes abroad; but when the doors are closed between you, when you would know her every word and every act, just open the box, for nothing can be hid from the little fly. In two weeks I will come again, and in the meantime I wish you joy.”

So the devil went back to hell, chuckling as he went, for he carried Marse Charles’s conscience, fluttering like a wounded bird, in his hand, and Marse Charles put the little gold box beneath his lace ruffles and went on his way rejoicing.

* * * * *

Now it chanced soon after that there was a great meet, and the ladies and their gallants rode into the far woods. It was a fine company, for Marse Beverly Baillie had scattered his invitations broadcast, that the world might see the young Demetria. Marse Charles, on his great bay, rode sulkily alone, for his rival was in a high humor, having been paired to ride with the fair Demetria.

As he rode, Marse Charles was ready to question the efficacy of his bargain, when, just in the second mile, his rival’s horse went lame—so lame that he was forced to turn back, and Marse Charles, with much bantering and light laughter, gallantly rode forward with a dozen others to take his place. But the sun shone for Marse Charles and the world was fair, for Demetria gave him her sweetest smile.

Late in the day the rival came, upon a fresher horse; but Demetria had no eyes for him, all of her favors were reserved for Marse Charles; and as they rested upon a shady knoll after dinner, beside a bubbling spring, Marse Charles lost no time, and told his love in most vehement fashion.

But perplexities will creep in, even into the best-planned schemes, for as Marse Charles talked he thoughtlessly drew from his bosom the devil’s snuff-box, and as he toyed idly with the lid the sharp eyes of Demetria remarked its curious workmanship.

“A trophy!—a memento to mark the day!” she cried, throwing down a jewelled medallion, into which she had deftly slipped a ring of her own bright hair.

“A pawn of love as precious as heart’s blood!” cried Marse Charles, twirling his mustache and gallantly kissing the golden curl as he threw upon the grass an Egyptian bracelet, which he always wore concealed from view, and which held a tiny needle and a poisoned drop, forgotten by Marse Charles.

“No!” pouted the spoiled Demetria. “A manlier trophy—I would have the box—the little box you toyed with just now!”

The blood of poor Marse Charles ran cold. What would he not give to please the sweet Demetria? He almost reached his hand to yield it, but the little fly buzzed hard within, and, starting with a shock, he hid it in his bosom.

“A princess wore the bracelet once,” began Marse Charles. “It has a wonderful history. Make it more wonderful and wear it for me, sweet!”

“But I would have the box!”