Part 7

Through the long day Maumer sat and brooded, neglecting the toddlers who had strayed onto forbidden ground; and stirring the cradles roughly with her foot,—Old Maumer, who had been trusted and revered for so long,—but she had not a grandchild then.

Ma’y Ann, the young assistant, played with acorn cups and bits of china under the old oak, unmolested, for Maumer was wrestling with a problem, and all of the latent, unsuspected savagery was rising.

Then by-and-by the little wooden cradles were empty, for the work-day was done; the mothers had taken their babies to their own cabins, and Maumer laid Cindy’s child on her shoulder and closed the door.

All night the candle glimmered through the cracks in Maumer’s cabin; all night she physicked and the baby cried; while Cindy, heavy-eyed and stupid, slept soundly until day. The door was closed; Maumer knew that she was disobeying orders, for Ole Miss had peremptorily commanded that she was to be notified in case of serious illness. But Maumer was sly and cunning; Ole Miss should not be told.

Convulsion after convulsion shook the tiny frame, all of the remedies were used without effect, and towards daybreak she tried the baby’s fortune, “come life er come death”; then Maumer made up her mind.

* * * * *

The old oak was casting its soft shade across the lawn, where the Nursery toddlers sat sedately munching the sweet corn pone that it was one of old Maumer’s duties to provide, while Ma’y Ann was just starting to the spring for a bucket of cool water.

“An’ min’, yo’ fetch me my gourd yo’ lef’ on de battlin’-bench ’side de branch, an’ min’ yo’ herries, ’fore I beat de life outen yo’!”

Ma’y Ann’s eyes widened and “bucked” at Maumer’s unwonted proposition, as she idly swung the bucket along the hill-path, singing an irrelevant, foolish little song.

The great bell would ring in a moment; Maumer knew it by the shadow of the oak, as well as by the old dial just across the lawn.

Should she do it? Up and down, both ways she looked; there was nobody even in sight, save Ma’y Ann, dawdling far down the spring-path; then the great bell clanged through the Quarters. A spasm stiffened the form of Cindy’s baby, and Maumer, with a stern face and trembling hands, stripped the long shirt and blue beads from Cely’s boy, and throwing them hastily upon her daughter’s child, she laid it in the twentieth cradle, changing Cely’s baby to the cradle just vacated.

Old Maumer, with shaking limbs, was raking up the smouldering coals upon the hearth when the lively throng of mothers came filing in to nurse their little ones.

“Hi! What ail Maumer? What de matter?” asked Judy, always foremost.

“Chill,” grunted Maumer, as she knelt to woo the fickle blaze. “Go fetch in some chips, Ma’y Ann!” for Ma’y Ann had returned.

* * * * *

Dancing, skipping, like a child let loose for a holiday, came Cely; she had even “hop-scotched” with Ma’y Ann that very morning. Nothing was the matter with her baby—Judy said so, Maumer said so—even old Maumer, who was so jealous; he was still her doll, and how he cooed and kicked for her just before she left him!

Down the long row of cradles she leaped rather than walked, in the fulness and exuberance of life.

“Yo’ Mammy’s comin’, boy, yo’ Mammy’s comin’!” and snatching the baby from the cradle, she tossed it gleefully above her head.

Then a shriek, that startled even the laborers who had not left the field—a shriek of agony, of fear, of a wild thing wounded in the heart, for the little cold mouth turned away from the warm breast so full of life and strength, and the tiny limbs convulsed, and then relaxed forever with the breathing of a sigh.

Holding the dead baby close, and rocking in her woe, the face of Cely seemed hardened and ashened in a moment, like that of an old woman, while, shrill and high, her voice carried even to the clearing.

“Maumer! yo’ pizened my boy! Yo’ kilt him, Maumer!”

But Maumer, with closed eyes, only mumbled over the coals and shivered, though the noon was warm.

* * * * *

Smiles came through Cely’s tears, smiles of gratification when Little Miss, with eyes and nose all red, refused to be comforted for the loss of her “little nigger,” and brought from the Big House more pretty baby things than Cely had ever seen; while Ole Miss put them on with her own hands; and smoothing down the dainty folds, laid in the brown, doll-like fingers the tiniest, whitest rose-bud that the early frost had spared. Then emotion was stirred to its depths again, and the wild blood of two continents ran riot in her veins, even to the verge of madness, when Cely came to know the meaning of a grave. And Ole Miss had her brought to the Big House, by way of comfort to Henry, who was Ole Marse’s foreman at that time.

Ole Miss tried to teach her to sew and to spin, but restraint was galling, the Big House with its civilization had no attraction after the novelty had worn off, and suddenly the wheel burred, the thread snapped, and Cely would leap like a tiger-cat through the doorway and beyond the wood-lot, where later they would find her, tenderly nursing in her arms a doll made of a folded towel.

But time was kinder even than Ole Miss, and after a while the laugh and smile came back, Henry’s cabin was cheery again, and before the picking was over, Cely was rivalling Susan and Rachel in the field.

* * * * *

Down in a little cabin by the cane-brake, old Maumer, now “the Other Maumer,” lived alone, weaving shuck mats, mending nets for the fishermen, and “hooking” mittens for the negroes against the coming of the winter; for Maumer was deposed, another Maumer reigned over the little wooden cradles, and _her_ foot was not permitted to cross the threshold; for Maumer had been tried and convicted of murder by a jury of her peers.

Ole Marse, upon careful investigation, could find nothing culpable in Maumer save the failure to report the illness, which was made the cause of removal. The charge, made by Cely and the other negroes, of poisoning could not be substantiated; though the attack appeared to have been very sudden, it could not be proved that the child had died from other than a dreaded infantile trouble.

Throughout the trial and investigation Maumer preserved a sullen silence. She neither appealed to Ole Marse nor to any of the negroes. She did not plead her long life of usefulness, and she denied none of the charges, that grew each day with the rapidity of Jonah’s gourd.

Now and again she smiled grimly as she looked upon the thriving child in sleepy Cindy’s arms and heard that Little Miss had taken him for her own. That was glory enough; that was honor, immortality. He would grow up a house nigger—“high quality”—_her_ grandchild, in the eyes of the world, in the eyes of even Cindy, for she could not trust Cindy with her secret, and Cindy was too stupid to know the difference.

Her eyes greedily took in the splendor of Little Miss’s gifts on each successive visit, carefully looking them over, clothes and beads and toys, like a miser counting gold, and it was enough. This sufficed for days alone in the cane-brake, for nights when the wind was high, even though she was now the Other Maumer and had been set apart.

* * * * *

The spring-time came around, but weeks and months were long, and the winter of loneliness was telling upon the Other Maumer.

She missed the spring-time crop of babies, the wooden cradles with their worn rockers—worn by _her_ foot; she missed the little toddlers that had outgrown the cradles, but more than all, she missed her dignity of position. In the brief time, so long to youth and age, the old back became more bowed, and childishness grew apace.

The butterflies possessed a wonderful fascination—the white and yellow—and the reed mats would drop from her hands in forgetful admiration. But when the brown ones hovered near her, poising on gorgeous velvety wings, the Other Maumer would shiver and cover up her head—“De soul er Cindy’s baby, oh, my Gord! kim back ter claim his place, er ’cusin’ me er de lie! Oh, my Gord!”

How she would fight the brown butterflies away, if they alighted on her doorstep! And carefully she gathered and crushed every wild flower that grew around her cabin, fearful lest they should prove to be an attraction. But the brown butterflies came and came; in swarms they filled and circled the Other Maumer’s cabin, by morning, noon, and evening. Then the nets hung on the racks unmended, the reeds dried unwoven, and the hands of the Other Maumer fluttered over the little heaps of red clay that she brought from beside the new well, to fashion into rude butterflies with outstretched wings. Scores and scores were drying in the sun, and yet the busy fingers worked nervously.

“Fly, fly,” she whispered, “an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!”

* * * * *

The cold moon shone through the cracks of the Other Maumer’s cabin; the Other Maumer did not like the moon; even in her sleep she was always hiding something from it, deep and dark, but the moon could always find it.

To-night it was the clay butterflies, and she woke with a start to search for them.

Not one could she find in the cabin, and with a cry of rage she wrung her hands; “Dey tryin’ ter steal de soul er Cindy’s baby! Dey done stole ’em fum me; dey done stole ’em!”

Then she remembered that she had carried her apron full to the river-bank, and had left them on the cotton bales to dry. “Lef’ ’em ter fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!” she assured herself; “but I cain’t lose none uv ’em!” and with her knotted hickory stick in one hand and a bunch of river reeds in the other, the Other Maumer hobbled slowly down the road.

* * * * *

It wanted but little to the holiday season, though Ole Marse had held his cotton back for a great “deal.” But now that he had sent word from New Orleans to ship it on, the old storehouse was full to overflowing, and it was piled all along the levee waiting for the boat, for Ole Marse had never made a better crop.

Perched upon one of the bales that lined the levee, conjuring with the recovered butterflies in the full of the moon sat the Other Maumer, happy in the abandonment of the moment.

All her world was asleep; even the guards stationed around the storehouse had gone off duty; and where was the need of them? People did not steal cotton, and then the boat was coming in the morning.

Tenderly the Other Maumer nursed her butterflies, careful of their frail, sun-baked wings—hiding them in her apron, her bosom, and now in her faded turban.

“Gwine ter fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby; yas, Lord, gwine ter fetch hit back—hain’t yo’, honey? Gwine ter lif’ dem putty wings an’ fly away!” The moon rose high and waned, but still the Other Maumer, shivering with the cold and damp, sat on the river-bank. The big brown butterflies had been gone so long; she was waiting for them to return. She had fought them and driven them away, but now she wanted them to come back and bring the soul of Cindy’s baby.

The cry of a child or a cat somewhere in the Quarters startled her, and she raised her head; suddenly she was conscious of the smell of something burning, and a tiny spark leaped through a crack in the storehouse. Then a shower of little sparks came through, and the Other Maumer rubbed her cold hands together gleefully. “Dey’s done come back—dey’s done come back; fly an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!”

But the odor of the burning cotton was stirring something else in the disordered brain.

Away back in the Other Maumer’s girlhood there had been a great conflagration. Big House, gin-house, cotton, everything was destroyed, and horror had fallen upon the plantation, for there had been loss of life as well. The Other Maumer was trying to remember. Slowly she drew her hand across her eyes, then shook her head.

“Ole Marse?” she queried; then, as the scorching smell grew stronger, she shouted, “De soul er Cindy’s baby!” and crushing her butterflies in her palm, she leaped on her knotted stick into the narrow road leading to the Quarters.

* * * * *

No one knew exactly how the Other Maumer roused the Quarters that night. Some said that she came on bat wings and fluttered against the chimney as she cried. Others said that she came on a great horse that struck fire with his hoofs as she beat upon each door with her hickory stick. Though to all the message was the same: “Fly, fly ter de ribber an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!” But the latter part of the admonition was lost in the weirdness of the command, and the frightened negroes tumbled out of their warm beds, wide awake for once.

Under the guidance of Henry, in the dark hour before the dawn, full fifty negroes had been rolling the outside cotton to a place of safety; and now the overseer, in the absence of Ole Marse, hesitated, for the opening of the storehouse would result in a bursting out of the flames; that moment would require coolness, courage, and rapid handling; and the negro, always obedient, shrank from taking the responsibility alone.

* * * * *

Then a peremptory command came from somewhere, and twenty strong men leaped back as the flames licked through the open doors like tongues.

“Strip, men! Git ter wuk lack debils!” called the impelling voice. “Roll ’em out! Roll ’em out! H— is hotter’n dis! Roll ’em out!” and Henry, awe-struck and thrilled, following the leading, dropped into line with the others.

Swiftly the work went on, and higher and higher rose the mysterious voice, urging to quicker action by prayer and execration, until the negroes, nerved to the limits of human endurance by superstitious fear, pushed forward until they felt their sinews crack.

“One mo’ time, heave ahead, boys!” continued the voice; then the work was discontinued, for the white flame leaped up like a living torch, lighting even the river with its weird splendor.

“Wuk, men, wuk, fur de soul er Cindy’s baby!” cried the voice, now rising in a wail. Then a horror seized upon the negroes, and the men rushed forward to the rescue, for on the roof of the burning storehouse, now revealed through the sickening glare, stood the Other Maumer, waving a bunch of river reeds.

“Look! look!” she shouted, reaching for the scurrying sparks; “de butterflies done come back—dey done come back!” Then folding her arms and smiling, as though she held a child, “De soul er Cindy’s baby!” The picture of the past had been photographed for an instant upon the disordered brain.

It was useless to try to save her; again and again the willing hands were driven back by the heat. Higher and higher crept the flames around her, but, oblivious of life or death, the bent figure swayed and hugged in ecstasy the dream of the recovered soul.

Then a gust swept through the rifled storehouse, the beams quivered, and the cumbersome roof fell in, smothering the flame, and leaving the levee in utter darkness.

It was from Henry’s throat, deep and tremulous, that the death-song rose, joined in by the treble of the women. The wondering Cindy knelt in the sand and hid her face. Then, as the truth broke in upon her consciousness, Cely snatched a sleeping child from the arms of the kneeling Cindy, and a wild note of joy rose high above the dirge.

STOLEN FIRE

“Dey done got hit all wrong!”

Mammy looked across the room to where the children were quietly playing, then knitted her brows and tenderly caressed the bosom of the Colonel’s shirt with her iron.

“Brer Bailey hain’t got no call ter ’low dat niggers is ’v’luted fum Afiker monkeys, fur dey ’v’lutes back inter monkeys, sho’ mun!”

“What did you say, Mammy?” asked Fred, who had been playing in the fire, holding his stick aloft, and eagerly scanning the shining face for a possible story.

“Tell me and Fred a tale,” lisped Margie, outlining her toe upon the spotless kitchen floor with the end of her charred stick.

“If yo’ chillens don’ quit playin’ in de fire, I lay I gwine mek Miss Margret whup yo’ bofe when she come fum up-town—see if I don’t!” and Mammy rolled her eyes ferociously behind her brass specs, at which the children laughed and teased the more.

“What about monkeys, Mammy? Go on!” said Fred.

“Back into monkeys!” echoed Margie. “Go on!”

But Mammy deliberately tested an iron, as the children waited anxiously, then she lifted the expectant Margie upon one end of her board.

“Now, honey, mek yo’ han’s min’ dey own business, or dey’ll git burnt,” said Mammy; “an’ Fred, you set right still dar on dat ar cheer!”

“Well, long time ergo de debil he kim up ter de yeth, he did, an’ went courtin’ er gal.”

“What’s courtin’?” asked Fred.

“Talkin’ putty, lack yo’ Paw talk ter yo’ Maw ’fore dey was married,” said Mammy. “An’ de gal was er mighty fine gal, wid long straight hair an’ blue eyes, an’ she could sing—laws er mussy! how dat gal could sing!

“Well, de debil ain’t heared no singin’ sence he was drapped in de bad place, an’ dey guv ’im de keys, an’ he was dat hongry fur singin’, he mek dat gal sing all de time, an’ he stan’ by de pianny, he did, an’ hide de foot dat got de hoof on hit. Yo’ know by dis time, he done los’ he tail, an’ w’ar er tall stovepipe, ’case he hatter keep up wid whi’ folks.”

“How did he lose his tail?” asked both of the children at once.

“Mammy cain’t tell yo’ now ’bout dat, but he done los’ hit. Anyway, he mek dat gal sing all day ter ’im, an’ de gal she was peart an’ lackly, an’ she sing twel her throat done plum dry, an’ de debil he see hit were gittin’ dark, an’ he say hit were time fur him ter go home. He was ’feared ’case hit were so late, an’ he herry, an’ herry, clop-flop, clop-flop—de man’s foot an’ de hoof foot keep him back, fur de hoof foot mek two steps ter de man’s one, an’ when he git home, he find dat his fire were done plum out.

“Hit were er mighty sorry time fur de debil, ’case dar hain’t nobody gwine give him none nor len’ him none, an’ he cain’t steal hit hisse’f, on account er de hoof foot.”

“Why didn’t he buy some matches in town?” asked Fred.

“Didn’t hab no matches den, honey, an’ folkes hatter tote coals kivered wid ashes, fur miles an’ miles, if dey let de fire go out.”

“’Count of the hoof foot,” repeated Margie, coming back to the story.

“’Count er de hoof foot,” said Mammy, “so de debil castes ’roun’ who he gwine git fur ter steal hit fur him.

“Fust he went ter de b’ar, an’ stan’ er long way off, ’case anybody kin beat de debil when his fire done out, an’ he say: ’Please, Mister B’ar, won’t yo’ fetch me er coal fur ter light my pipe?’ But de b’ar he growl, ’My hair’s too thick, an’ de fire’s too hot, an’ de road’s too long, an’ I ’feared I git het up, an’ die.’

“Kimmin’ back, he meet wid de rabbit, wid his mouf full er green, an’ de debil he say: ’Hello, Mister Rabbit! won’t yo’ fetch me er coal fur ter light my pipe?’ De rabbit he look meek an’ sad, an’ he ’low, ’I sorry, Mister Debil, but my baby chile’s done got er awful cramp, an’ I gwine fur ter mek him some catnip tea. Good-day, Mister Debil!’ an’ he lope right on, an’ de debil mek er mark whar de rabbit cross his path, an’ spit in hit.

“Den he kim an’ knock at de tarrypin’s door, but de tarrypin don’t put more’n his nose outside, an’ de debil he ’low, ’Please Mister Tarrypin, won’t yo’ fetch me er coal fur ter light my pipe?’

“De tarrypin he draw in his door er little more, an’ ’low, ’Yo’ knows I’d ’bleege yo’, Mister Debil, but I goes so slow ’count er de mis’ry in de heart, dat de spark ’ud be out ’fore I could fetch hit! Good-day, Mister Debil!’

“De debil he ’low he must git dat fire somers, ’case dey was er needin’ uv hit down dar, an’ he ’pear ter meet up wid de fox, unbeknownst, an’ he ’low ter be mighty cute, an’ he say, ’Good-evenin’, Mister Fox!’ an’ walk ’long side er him, lack dey was thick es peas in er pod, but Mister Fox he keep er poppin’ uv his tail. Bimeby, Mister Debil he ’low, ’I got two fine segars in my ves’ pocket—tek er smoke, Mister Fox?’

“But de fox he see de debil ain’ got no light, an’ he ’low, ’I sorry ter lose such good comp’ny es yo’ is, but I gwine tek tea wid Misser Dominick Rooster. Good-evenin’, Mister Debil!’

“So de debil he were hard up now, ’case dey keep er hollerin’ fur fire down dar, so he ups an’ goes ter de ole blue jay; de jay don’ eben tek he head fum unner his wing. ’Go ’way, an’ lemme ’lone,’ say de jay—’I done been totin’ wood fur yo’ all dis Friday long, an’ I’se tired an’ I’se sleepy,’ say de jay.

“‘Better kim down fum dar er I’ll roas’ yo!’ say de debil, gittin’ mad.

“‘Hain’t got no fire,’ laugh de jay, an’ he go back ter sleep ergin.

“Den de debil he go ter his nigger, de crow, an’ he ’low, ’Go git me er coal er fire dis minute, ’fore I w’ar yo des plum out!’

“De crow he git mighty sassy, ’case he know de debil cain’t do nuffin’ lessen he got er fire, an’ he say: ’I done toted corn fur yo’, Mister Debil, twel I’se got my wing des plum full er bird-shot; I cain’t fetch yo’ no fire!’

“Den de debil he ’low he ’bout ter gib hit up, twel he spy er worfless town nigger, er chawin’ an’ er spittin’ at er chip in de moon-shine, an’ de debil he know he ain’ got no call ter be keerful here, an’ he up an’ ’low, ’Say, boy! you want ter mek some money?’

“De town nigger plum keen, he don’ keer how he git de money, so he git hit, an’ de debil he say: ’Go git me er coal er fire—quick now—an’ I’ll gib yo’ er dollar!’

“Well, de town nigger he light out an’ ax two er three folks, but dey ain’ got no fire ter spar’, an’ he go ’long twel he kim ter er po’ widder ’oman, er blowin’ on one po’ little coal er fire ter mek er bed fur ter cook her hoe-cake, an’ de nigger he ’low—’Lady, I’se hongry!’

“An’ she say: ’I ’ain’t cook supper yit—wait er while, an’ I’ll gib yo’ er hoe-cake.’ Den de nigger he move up closter, an’ tell de ’oman how good she is, an’ he stretch out his han’s lack ter warm ’em, den all uv er suddent he retch an’ snatch dat coal, an’ go skootin’ wid hit ter de debil.”

Mammy paused to lay the last piece in the basket, but the children were too eager to wait.

“What did the devil do with him?” asked Fred.

“Skootin’ to de devil,” repeated Margie.

“Well,” said Mammy, “de debil gib him de dollar in two halves so’s de nigger could chink ’em; an’ de nigger went ’long, chinkin’ ’em, laughin’ at how smart he were ter steal de coal fum de po’ widder ’oman, an’ it nebber cost him nuffin—when his lef’ arm itch him, an’ he feel dat hit were sproutin’ hair, an’ he fin’ dat he were sproutin’ hair all ober, an’ he git skeered an’ run, but de hair keep er sproutin’ an’ er sproutin’, an’ he keep er changin’, an’ er changin’ so bimeby he des couldn’t talk, an’, bress goodness, honey! ’fore dat nigger git half-way home, he was er walkin’ half on his han’s an’ half on his feet, an’ wa’n’t nuffin but er plum Afika monkey!”

Both blue eyes and brown were wide and shining. “What did they do with him?” asked Fred. “Go on! go on!” urged Margie. “Dar kim yo’ Maw, chillen! dar she kim!” cried Mammy, clapping her hands—“Run, go see what she fotch yo’!”

THE BLACK CAT