Part 19

But the Black Swan had escaped the slaughter, and the negroes watched her with breathless interest as she trailed the rescue party until they came to a narrow defile in the mountains. She climbed the mountain side and stood, at last, silhouetted against the sky, as graceful as the bird whose name she bore, looking down upon the posse in the valley below. She called to her faithless lover, hurled a javelin through his body, then turned and fled, leaping like a deer from rock to rock.

With tense bodies and aching eyes, the negroes watched the flight of the girl and the pursuit of the posse until the girl was cornered, stopping at last on a high, sharp crag, overlooking the sea.

Then as the rifle bullets of the pursuing mob splashed against the rock at her feet she poised like a bird prepared for flight, leaped far out from the precipice, curved like an arrow in its course, and plunged head foremost into the rolling flood of the ocean beneath.

The picture vanished and the negroes found themselves looking with popping eyeballs at a bare, white screen!

“Dar now!” Hitch Diamond bellowed in a mighty voice. “Whut do Gawd A’mighty think about dat?”

“Lawdymussy!” Figger Bush squawked. “Dat little gal dived so fur she’ll stick head down in de mud in de bottom of dat puddle like a cypress stump!”

“Dat white man shore got his’n,” Vinegar remarked. “’Tain’t no way fer a white man to do--hangin’ aroun’ nigger cabins like dat!”

The electric light flashed up, and Mr. Rouke, stepped to the front.

“Now, folks,” he began, “you understand what a moving picture play is. There is no talking. The people act. I have a fine act for all of you to take part in, and I want you to meet me at the Shoofly church this afternoon at one o’clock. That’s all now!”

The negroes filed out in silence and scattered to different parts of the town.

Rouke and Pellet went to the hotel for lunch, and at the time appointed walked out to the church.

There was not a negro on the place. They waited for three hours and not one appeared, not even Vinegar Atts.

They began a search for Atts, and found him whitewashing a fence for Colonel Tom Gaitskill.

“What’s the matter, Atts? Why didn’t you niggers show up?”

Vinegar wiped the splashes of whitewash off of his black face and answered:

“Dey said dey didn’t want to come, boss.”

“Who said?”

“All of ’em, excusin’ dat little gal named Lalla Cordona, whut says she visitin’ here from N’Awleens. She wus game fer it, but nobody else wouldn’t mess wid it no more!”

“Why not?” Rouke snapped.

“Dey say dey wusn’t gwine play no play whar de white folks peeped at ’em through de bushes----”

“Aw, that’s not in the play--” Rouke began.

“Yes, suh ’tis! Dat’s wut de movin’ picture wrote down on de wall at dat little theater----”

“Yes, I know, but you don’t understand--where are all those people?”

“Dey’s all gone out to Lake Basteneau fishin’, boss. I’se gwine out as soon as I git dis fence whitewashed. A new coon done come to town and tole me he was de beau of dat Lalla Cordona. He’s done fotch her a red ruben necklace an’ a ruben ring, an’ I guess dat’s so. He hired me to drive him out dar.”

“I’ll go out there and bring them back,” Rouke said.

“’Twon’t do no good, boss. Dey won’t ack. All dem mens and womens say dey ain’t gwine do it. Dey got conscience scruples.”

“What’s the trouble?”

Vinegar scratched his head and answered, choosing his words with care:

“Well, suh, dey is all agreed dat dey ain’t gwine hab deir pictures took sashayin’ aroun’ in de woods widout no pants on!”

Rouke sat down on the end of a log and fanned himself with his hat. Then he said:

But why record what Shirley Rouke said?

Nothing but the _Diabolos Gazette_ printed on asbestos paper on O-hell street in Purgatory Bottom would dare to publish the language of anger and disgust and exasperation to which Rouke gave vocal utterance.

Vinegar Atts, appalled to the core of his ecclesiastical soul by this thunderous fulmination of anathema, picked up his whitewash bucket and slunk away.

Turning a distant corner, he stopped and peeped behind him.

“Lawdymussy!” he sighed. “Dat yuther man is done j’ined in now! Dem white mens is shore tellin’ Gawd all about us niggers!”

Ten minutes later, Rouke, having relieved his mind, looked up and grinned at Pellet.

“Peter,” he said in a quiet voice, “would you mind leading me to the private office of Colonel Tom Gaitskill in the Tickfall bank? Since I’ve been associating with the negro inhabitants of this village, I don’t believe I have sense enough to find that office.”

IV

STUNT STUFF!

Five personages arrived at the fishing camp on Lake Basteneau early the next morning.

First came Rev. Vinegar Atts and Miss Cordona’s New Orleans lover, the latter wearing clothes of the newest model and a slick smile of the most recent duplicity--a tall, slim, smooth-faced negro of the typical Ethiopian features and the air of a race-track tout.

Next came Miss Lalla Cordona in a hired buggy, as dressy as a cheap Christmas doll, radiant with smiles and quivering with vivacity and vital magnetism.

Then an automobile puffed along the swamp road and stopped in front of the camp and Shirley Rouke and Peter Pellet dismounted and unloaded their moving picture cameras.

“Dar now!” Vinegar Atts boomed. “Whenever a white man shows up at a nigger chu’ch, de niggers lose deir religion right away. Nobody bawls ‘Amen,’ nobody whoops ‘Hallelujah,’ an’ nobody gits happy. An’ when white mens shows up at a nigger fishin’ picnic--boof! de fun is done all over. Excusin’ dat, dem white men ain’t real pious--dey cuss!”

Skeeter Butts beat the New Orleans lover in a foot race to Miss Cordona’s buggy, helped her out, and engaged her in a rapid-fire conversation while he hitched her horse to a tree.

“Dem jewelry you got on yo’ pusson is shore squinchin’ to de eyes, Laller,” he proclaimed in admiring tones.

“Yes, suh,” Lalla remarked with self-satisfaction, as she preened herself before him revealing every excruciating gaud and gewgaw she could buy from the ten-cent store. “De man whut sold it to me told me dat ev’y piece was _rolled_ gold--he specify dat wus de purest kind of gold whut is!”

“Dat’s right!” Skeeter agreed. “You’s gwine be de only dazzle on dis fish camp--nobody cain’t shine while you is aroun’.”

When Skeeter beat him to the buggy, the city beau had simply lifted his hat to Lalla and walked away. At that moment the automobile arrived, and the stranger found consolation in watching the white men and their cameras.

Impelled by curiosity, the other negroes had gathered around, and the new coon saw a good opportunity to show off.

“Boss,” he inquired of Mr. Rouke, “is you-alls movin’ picture mens?”

“Yes.”

“Is you gwine take pictures of dis here lake?”

“Yes,” Rouke replied, as he busied himself setting up his machine.

The darky took off his hat, rubbed his head, hesitated a moment, then said in a pleading voice:

“Please, suh, boss, would you wish to take a picture of me doin’ some kind of stunts? I used to wuck in de movies an’ I likes it.”

“Who? You?” Rouke snapped, gazing at the negro with incredulous eyes. “What did you do in the studio?”

“I wucked fer a feller whut took de pictures. He lemme tote his extry films, and lemme hold his hat, an’ sometimes he gimme a board wid a number on it, an’ lemme stan’ in front of de picture-box while he turned de crank an’ tuck my tintype.”

Shirley Rouke saw that this speech had made an impression upon the negroes gathered around. He hesitated a moment, then said:

“What’s your name?”

“Dey calls me Sour Sudds.”

“All right, Sudds. You seem to have had considerable experience as a movie actor. Now if you can get some of these other people to get in it with you, I think I will take a picture of you all.”

“Come on, niggers!” Sudds bellowed in delighted tones. “Eve’ybody is gwine hab his tintype took! Hustle! Dese here white mens ain’t got no time fer foolishness!”

Under the leadership of Sour Sudds, the picnic party was eager to get into the picture.

“Is you gwine show us how to do, boss?” Sudds inquired.

“Certainly,” Rouke answered.

While Peter Pellet was adjusting his camera and placing his side lines, Rouke went into the fishing camp and brought out a small table and two chairs, which he placed in front of the camera.

“That won’t do, Pete!” he called, pointing to some lines which Pete had drawn in the sand. “You better get your cord and stretch it for your side lines like you do in the studio. These coons won’t pay any attention to a mark on the ground!”

Rouke hastened to the automobile and brought out a tray, two glasses, and a bottle of cheap wine, while Pellet readjusted his lines.

Then Vinegar Atts put in.

“Mister Rouke, I’s gwine be de umpire of dis here show because you an’ me done made a trade to dem effecks.”

“That’s right,” Rouke agreed, as his eyes ran over the crowd of negroes. “Get that black, dressy wench sitting beside that saddle-colored man!”

“Dat’s Laller an’ Skeeter!” Atts informed him.

“Get that black with the kinky hair and the shoebrush mustache!”

“Dat’s Figger Bush!”

The three actors were conducted to the front of the camera and Rouke gave his directions:

“Lalla, you and Sour Sudds sit down in the chairs beside that little table. Sour, you make love to the girl with all your might. Hold her hand, make goo-goo eyes, act like you loved her more than any other woman in the world----”

“Lemme do dat!” Skeeter Butts broke in.

Had there been a proneness to apoplexy in the Rouke family, Shirley would now be dead. As it was, Skeeter Butts never knew how near his interruption had brought him to a sudden and violent death. It is safe to say that nothing like that had ever happened before in the moving picture world.

“Buck up, Rouke!” Pellet spoke sharply. “Don’t scatter the beans!”

Rouke swallowed four times, then spoke in a voice as gentle as the tones of a butcher conducting some Mary’s little lamb into the slaughterhouse after the said lamb had butted him down:

“No, Skeeter. I’ll tell you what to do in a minute. I might also tell you where to go and some other things, but duty restrains my inclination.”

Then he turned to Figger Bush:

“Now, Figger, listen: when I give the word, you come over here and get this tray with the glasses and the wine bottle and bring it in and set it on the table between Lalla and Sudds. Then retire. Get me?”

“Yes, suh. I fotch it in an’ git out!”

“Sudds, you register love, infatuation--aw, I said that before! Lalla, you register maiden modesty, timidity, growing love. Now, Skeeter Butts, when I give the word you enter, walk up to the table where Sudds and Lalla are sitting, register jealousy, anger, desire for revenge; then catch Sour Sudds by the shoulder, lift him out of the chair, and take the seat yourself. Sudds, you walk off. Lalla, you look after him and register love.”

The actors moved to their places and Rouke gave the command:

“Now--ready--rehearse!”

The rehearsal was perfect. Rouke and Pellet were delighted.

“Now we are ready to take the picture!” Rouke exclaimed. “All of you act just like you did before!”

Then he gave the command which in the moving picture world starts the camera crank to turning:

“Ready--Action--Go!”

Thereupon, Reverend Vinegar Atts walked out and sat down on the table between Lalla and Sudds.

“Hol’ on, dar!” he bellowed, shaking his finger at the camera. “Don’t I git my picture took, too? You an’ me made a trade----”

“Cut!” Rouke snapped, which is the technical word of command to the camera artist to stop the picture.

“Get away from there, you fat fool! What you cut across the front for and spoil the picture? Get out!”

Rouke’s tone and gestures were so threatening that Vinegar jumped ten feet, tripped over a side line and fell on his head.

“Aw, the devil!” Pellet snarled savagely. “Now I got to set up that line again!”

He stooped and clawed around on the ground to find a rock to throw, but rocks are as scarce as ice-cream cones in a Louisiana swamp.

“Huh!” Vinegar grunted as he moved farther and farther away from the irate white men. “Dem white gen’lemens is done poured me back in de jug!”

“Now, we’ll start again!” Rouke proclaimed. “Ready, action, go!”

Lalla and Sour Sudds began their love play, the camera clicking off their perfect action.

“Now, Figger!” Rouke bawled. “Come on! Pick up the tray and walk to the table!”

Figger came on. And Rouke nearly threw a fit.

Seizing the tray in both hands, Figger held it in front of him in a strained, awkward manner; he side-stepped into the focus of the camera, set his eyes straight at the lens where the country photographers used to tell us the “little bird” could be seen, and marched face-on to the table; he set the waiter down without changing his full-face position toward the camera, backed ten feet, side-stepped out of the focus, then squealed and kicked up his heels much as a mule colt would act when turned into a pasture!

“My--good--gosh!” Shirley Rouke shrieked. That is to say, this is the only remark he made which the law would permit of publication. “What did you mean by that stunt?”

“I wus havin’ my picture took, boss,” Figger informed him in frightened tones, for Figger was appalled by the language he had heard.

“But--but--why didn’t you act natural?” Rouke spluttered.

“Dat ain’t no way to do, boss,” Figger declared. “When us niggers gits our tintypes koodaked us is got to show bofe foots, bofe hands, bofe eyes, and bofe ears. We don’t take no sideways picture. Ef us don’t show all of ourse’ves, de niggers will figger dat one eye done got gouged out, or one ear done been cut off. Yes, suh, dat’s right.”

“Shore!” a chorus of negro voices answered. “Us ain’t gwine hab our pictures took no way but straight on!”

In hopeless impotence, Shirley Rouke turned to Peter Pellet for aid and comfort, and beheld that artist doubled up, helpless with laughter.

“What’s the matter with you, you blue-mass pill?” Rouke bawled.

“Oh, lordy, Roukey,” Peter howled. “That’s the funniest stunt ever pulled before a camera! It’ll get a laugh from Broadway to the Chinese Yellow Sea. Buck up, and go on with the show!”

Rouke felt greatly mollified.

“All right! Get ready, now! Pour the wine in those glasses, Sudds! Ready! Action! Go!”

The steady click of the camera amid a breathless silence; then Rouke’s command:

“Come on, Skeeter! Come on!”

Skeeter came on!

He bounced into the picture with a perfect imitation of a she-bear approaching a man who was holding her squealing cub by the ear. Sour bad been too realistic in his acting, and Skeeter was jealous. He grabbed Sudds by the nose, shook him as a dog shakes a rat, grabbed the wine bottle and broke it over Sour’s head, then administered a punch on the jaw which sent Sudds reeling out of his chair to the ground.

Then Sudds came back. Seizing Skeeter by the nape of the neck, he pounded his head against the table until it rattled like a snare drum. Skeeter twisted and squealed until he managed to land a mighty kick in the pit of Sour’s stomach, then he sprang up, grabbed a chair and proceeded to use it as a club.

Sour seized the little deal-table, poised it above his head like a shield, and pranced around, receiving Skeeter’s frenzied blows on the top of the table instead of the top of his head.

Lalla Cordona backed slowly away from the fray, her shapely, beautiful hands clasped over her heaving breast, her breath coming in quick gasps, her face expressing emotions which alternated between fear and hope and horror and despair.

Then she swept forward with a grace and power simply majestic in its action, held out her hands to the furious men and spoke one word:

“Please!”

The negroes, whose view of the fight had been obscured by the camera and the bodies of Rouke and Pellet, started around them toward the front, where they could see.

“Keep out of the picture!” Rouke screamed. “I’ll kill the first nigger that moves!”

Skeeter and Sudds ceased their combat, dropped their weapons of war, and each held out his hands to Lalla Cordona, pleading, beseeching, each asking her approval of the part he had taken in the fray.

The girl stood for a moment looking from one to the other, hesitant, indignant.

“Don’t pay no mind to dat Sudds, Missy,” Skeeter pleaded. “His name proves dat he ain’t nothin’ but dirty dishwater, an’ his maw wus a cheap washlady. Come along wid me, an’ be my frien’! I loves you mo’ dan he do!”

“You niggers hike!” Lalla spoke.

Her voice bit into their souls like acid, and the men turned and started slowly away.

The girl stood looking after them a moment, then she ran to the tree where her horse was standing hitched.

Skeeter and Sudds sprang after her.

“Come back, Miss Laller!” they bawled in a duet. “Us’ll be real nice gen’lemens!”

“No!” she said sharply, as she untied her horse and sprang into the buggy. “I done had enough rough-housin’ to last me a long time. I’s gwine back to Tickfall!”

Drenched with perspiration, his face as red as blood, Shirley Rouke mopped the sweat from his forehead and gazed inquiringly at Peter Pellet.

Peter was panting like a hot dog, but his eyes blazed in triumph.

“I got it all, Roukey!” he said.

V

READY--ACTION--GO!

Shirley Rouke and Peter Pellet sat upon the sun-slashed porch of the Tickfall hotel smoking their after-breakfast cigars.

The day was as clear and beautiful and buoyant as a soap bubble, and the Gulf breeze, sweeping across one hundred miles of forest, tasted salt upon their lips, and made music upon the fluted tree tops.

Rev. Vinegar Atts and Sour Sudds ploughed across the sandy street, and stepped upon the porch, where the men reclined in their chairs in lazy enjoyment of the hour.

“Mr. Rouke,” Vinegar began, “when is us gwine start takin’ our koodaks?”

“You niggers ain’t got good sense,” Rouke replied indifferently. “I tried to take the pictures yesterday, and you coons rough-housed and made a pack of dang monkeys out of yourselves.”

“Yes, suh, dat’s so,” Vinegar acquiesced. “But I done de best I could. Dem niggers ain’t edgecated up to koodaks yit.”

“I guess not,” Shirley drawled.

“Me an’ Brudder Sudds is been talkin’ about it,” Vinegar went on, “an’ Sudds specify dat he don’t think he had a fair show. He wants to hab one mo’ try-on.”

“Dat’s right!” Sudds chimed in.

“What do you folks want to do?” Shirley asked curiously.

“Sudds, he specify dat he figgers dat a make-b’lieve weddin’ betwix’ him an’ dat N’Awleens gal would be jes’ de right do,” Vinegar proposed.

“Who’ll marry ’em?” Rouke asked, watching the smoke curl up from the end of his cigar.

“Me!” Vinegar proclaimed in an explosive tone. “Dat is my real bizzness. I marrifies all de niggers.”

“I see,” Shirley grinned. “You want to get into the picture yourself!”

“Yes, suh, I’ll take a real good picture. I ain’t got no whiskers an’ my head is bald--dar ain’t nothin’ to hide me.”

“All right,” Rouke laughed. “Get all the niggers together, and I’ll try it again. Maybe you folks will get used to the camera after a while, and I can put on my play. Where is that little wench named Lulu----”

“Laller?” Vinegar corrected him. “She wucks fer Sheriff John Flournoy. I’ll git her for you.”

“Get busy, then,” Rouke snapped, his mind beginning to work like a dynamo. “Get all the niggers together at the Shoofly church at twelve o’clock. Tell that Lulu--Laller, to dress herself up for a wedding. Hunt up that Skoot Butts, and tell him to get ready to act the part of the rejected suitor--he was certainly a dandy in that rôle yesterday! Hunt up that Diamond Hitch, and tell him he is to be the father of Lalla, and give her away at the wedding. That’s all!”

Vinegar knew that he was dismissed, but he still lingered.

“Well?” Rouke demanded sharply, “what’s blocking the wheels of progress now?”

“Boss,” Vinegar said bashfully “you an’ me made a trade--an’ I’s wucked powerful hard--an’ ’pears to me like a few loose money----”

“Sure!” Rouke said, reaching into his pocket. “I presume you and Sudds have earned five dollars each, but danged if I know what you did for it!”

The two delighted darkies snatched the money, crammed it into their pockets, and went stamping down the steps.

At the corner, Sour Sudds said:

“Elder, you go hunt up dem niggers Mr. Rouke tole you ’bout, an’ I’ll rack over to de cotehouse an’ git dem license!”

“Dat’s right,” Vinegar boomed. “Dat white man done plum’ fergot dem cotehouse papers, an’ dis is gwine be a real cotehouse wedding. I fetches ’em off fine, Sudds. You oughter see me git active in a mattermony pufformunce!”

The negroes separated, and three hours later, the wedding party had assembled at the Shoofly church, and Rouke and Pellet arrived, each with a camera.

Peter Pellet got his location, adjusted his machine fixed his side lines and announced himself in readiness.

Rouke studied his characters, then began his instructions:

“Elder Atts, you and Sour Sudds are to come into the picture together and await the arrival of the bride. Lalla Cordona comes in on the arm of Diamond Hitch. All the rest of you folks bunch up together behind the wedding party. Skeeter Butts, you establish yourself--stand out in front of the invited guests, and register pain because you have lost this beautiful bride. Now--ready--rehearse!”

Then Sour Sudds suddenly bethought himself, fumbled in his pocket, trotted into the church and came out with a little square-topped writing table and a chair, and placed them in full view of the camera.

“What the devil--” Rouke began to splutter like the fuse of a cannon-cracker about to explode.

“Dis here table is fer de witnesses to sign de license, boss,” Sudds explained, as he drew a paper out of his pocket, spread it out, and then from the same capacious pocket brought forth a pen and a bottle of ink. “Sheriff John Flournoy gimme dis paper an’ I come mighty nigh fergettin’ it! He didn’t charge me nothin’ fer dis license, neither.”

“I see!” Rouke exclaimed. “Set that table back a little--that’s it! Now you wedding guests come in and stand behind that table--that’s right! Now ready--rehearse!”

The rehearsal was perfect.

“That’s fine!” Rouke exclaimed.

“Naw, suh, ’tain’t!” Sour Sudds growled. “Don’t de preacher be allowed to say no words?”

“Sure!” Rouke told him, “but it is not necessary in a rehearsal!”

“Now, I tells you dis:” Sour Sudds responded in belligerent tones, “when de picture is took ef Elder Atts ain’t ’lowed to say all de words jes’ like dis wus a real weddin’, I ain’t gwine hab nothin’ to do wid it!”

“He’ll say ’em all right, Sour,” Rouke assured him. “Keep your shirt on--don’t disarrange your linen! Now we’re ready for the picture! Vinegar, you marry these people just like you would in a church at a sure-enough wedding. Ready--action--go!”

Sour Sudds laid his hand upon the elbow of Reverend Vinegar Atts and the two marched into the picture. Sudds was trembling all over and his lips twitched with nervousness so great that he constantly strove to wipe the emotion away by scraping the back of his hand across his mouth.

The wedding guests moved into the picture, taking their locations behind the little writing table, and Skeeter Butts established himself in full view, his battered, swollen face--a result of the fracas at the fishing camp the day before--successfully “registering” all the emotions of pain, chagrin, anger, and sorrow at his loss of the beautiful bride.

Hitch Diamond came into the picture with the bride on his arm--or rather, by the arm. Hitch was regal in his walk and manner, and his widespread, grinning mouth demonstrated beyond a doubt that he was delighted to give the bride away; while Lalla Cordona, shy, drooping, taking embarrassed glances from side to side, sometimes giving vent to an insane snicker, was a perfect imitation of the real thing in dusky brides.