Part 5

Kneeling in the grass she picked up two tiny splinters of bark and rubbed them rapidly together. A small blue flame curled around her fingers and caught in the dry marsh grass. Running to another point she dropped the flame there.

Then a wild yell of horror swept across the prairie and she beheld four hundred men in a panic, fleeing for their lives.

Diada was safe from the fire because what little breeze there was blew landward from the lake. In an incredible time that prairie had become a furnace of fire, the racing flames pursuing the screaming men, making a scene resembling nothing so much as the picture of that hell so vividly described “where the smoke of torment ascendeth and there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth!”

The fire was checked when it reached the wide sandy road which led to the Tickfall landing.

By the mercy of Heaven the men reached that road unscorched by the flames! Mounting their horses, they looked across the charred grass of the prairie and beheld Diada trotting slowly onward toward the Mississippi levee.

With a wild shout they sent their steeds pounding down the road after her.

Then around the bend of the river came a beautiful sea-going yacht--an exquisite queen of the waters. Her whistle emitted four long, clear signals for the Tickfall landing.

“By George!” Colonel Gaitskill exclaimed, “that is Captain Lemuel Manse’s yacht. My telegram caught him at Vicksburg, and he turned around and came back!”

In a moment the yacht came opposite to where Diada stood upon the bank of the river. The watching men saw her lift her hands high toward the heavens. Then they heard a long, clear shout, ending with the familiar: “Whoosh! Whoo-ash!”

The yacht answered with two short, sharp whistle signals.

Diada ran swiftly down the levee, and then leaped high and plunged far over into the muddy waters of the Mississippi!

The wondering, watching men saw her head emerge from the waves, saw her swim like a fish to the yacht, saw her seize a rope which was tossed over the side, and climb hand over hand to safety and rest and peace and the care and protection of her friends!

“That’s all, men!” Gaitskill said in a voice which choked in his throat. “You may all go back home now. Diada is gone from Tickfall forever!”

XI

“WHU ATCH”

The yacht anchored in the middle of the river; a skiff went to shore and brought Colonel Tom Gaitskill and Sheriff Flournoy on board.

Sitting around a small table on the deck they told Captain Lemuel Manse the story of Diada’s sojourn in Tickfall.

Finally Gaitskill asked:

“Lem, what the devil did that wench mean by hollering ‘Whoosh!’ at everybody?”

“She was not saying ‘Whoosh,’” Captain Manse replied. “What she said was ‘_Whu atch!_’ That was the first expression she used to me when the cannibal chief brought her aboard the yacht.”

“Well, what does it mean?” Gaitskill persisted.

Captain Manse put his hand with a kindly gesture upon his friend’s arm and told him.

Gaitskill’s fine face turned ashen, and he winced as if a knife had pierced his heart.

The words mean:

“_Help! I am in trouble!_”

Getting Ready to Die

Sheriff John Flournoy loafed in the office of the Tickfall _Whoop_, and listened to the bark and splutter of a little one-dog-power engine attached to the printing press. The air was permeated with the odor of gasoline, machine oil, and printers’ ink. The cigar he was attempting to smoke tasted of all three, and he tossed it out of the window.

“Just before Christmas is the worst time of the year,” he sighed impatiently. “Everybody tries to be so blame cheerful and good-natured.”

He turned around in his screaking swivel-chair and glared at the typewriter on the table before him. He reached out an idle finger and touched a key; there was an immediate response in the sharp tap of the type upon the platen.

“I never did fiddle with one of these things,” he grinned to himself, as he picked up a sheet of paper and adjusted it in the machine. “But I’m never too old to learn.”

Then, with the ponderous middle finger of each giant hand, the big sheriff began to poke out letters which spelled words--sometimes. Tiny beads of sweat came out on his forehead; his iron jaws clamped; his lips tightened; and a strained look came into his eyes, accentuating the tiny wrinkles which formed crows’-feet on each side of his temples.

“Gosh!” he complained. “I never worked as hard in my whole life. Why in thunder don’t they arrange these letters alphabetically, instead of scrambling them all over the ranch so a feller can’t find them?”

After a long time he leaned back with a sigh of infinite relief and snatched the paper from the machine. A broad grin spread over his face at the sight of his handiwork.

“This is a fearful and wonderful thing,” he chuckled. “I didn’t know there were as many figures, punctuation marks, and capital letters in the world as I have interspersed gratuitously in this interesting communication.”

The bark and splutter of the gasoline engine suddenly ceased. Flournoy sprang up and opened the door of the office entering into the press-room.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Broke down?”

“Naw,” the one lone printer informed him. “I’m finished.”

“No, you ain’t!” Flournoy informed him. “Come in here a minute!”

Wonderingly, the printer entered the office. Flournoy handed him the sheet of paper on which he had been writing.

“How much space will that take in your paper?” the sheriff asked.

The printer finished reading, broke into a loud laugh, and answered:

“About two sticks.”

“All right,” Flournoy grinned. “You set that up, take some article of the same length out of your paper, and put mine in its place. Then run me off three copies.”

Half an hour later the printer entered the office with three damp copies of the Tickfall _Whoop_ and pointed to the contribution which Flournoy had furnished.

“These three papers are all you ran off?” the sheriff asked.

“Yep.”

“All right. You understand this piece of news is not for general circulation.”

Folding and pocketing the three copies, Flournoy walked slowly back toward his office in the courthouse.

Sitting on a stone step in front of the court house, trusting the December sun to limber up his rheumatic muscles, was old Isaiah Gaitskill. Motionless as a stone idol, his battered wool hat in his clawlike hand, toothless, his face wrinkled like the withered hull of a walnut, his snow-white wool fitting his head like a rubber cap, he made a characteristic picture of the South.

“Have you seen a copy of the Tickfall _Whoop_ this morning, Isaiah?” Flournoy asked.

“Naw, suh. I lef’ my specks to home, an’ so I didn’t git no paper,” Isaiah answered easily.

“Here’s one of ’em,” Flournoy grinned, taking it from his pocket. “You better look it over--there’s something about you in it.”

“How’s dat, boss?” Isaiah asked quickly. “Who knowed my name so good dat he writ’ me in de paper?”

“Your name isn’t mentioned,” Flournoy smiled. “It just speaks of the colored folks in general. Shall I read the article to you?”

“Yes, suh, ef you please, suh,” Isaiah answered eagerly. “I hadn’t oughter lef’ my readin’ specks at de hawg-camp. My Lawd, how come all de niggers got spoke about in de white folks’ paper?”

Flournoy impressively opened the sheet, adjusted his eye-glasses with dignity, frowned portentously, knowing well that the negro was watching every move. Having thus impressed Isaiah with the importance of the article, Flournoy read aloud what he had written a few minutes before:

DANGER! DANGER!

ALL THE NEGROES IN TICKFALL ABOUT TO DIE!

A mysterious disease has broken out among the negroes in Tickfall, resulting in a number of sudden deaths. The doctors of the town declare there is no cure. The parish health-officer, Dr. Moseley, pronounces the disease to be “ancestors,” and declares that all the negroes have them----

There was a lot more of the same sort, and it was read aloud by Sheriff Flournoy with due impressiveness, and with the design of striking terror into the hearts of the negroes of Tickfall. When he had finished reading, this incorrigible practical joker asked seriously:

“Would you like to have a copy of this paper, Isaiah?”

“Yes, suh, boss! Gimme two copies!” Isaiah exclaimed as he sprang to his feet. “I’s gwine down an’ tell de niggers somepin dey don’t know!”

Snatching the papers from the sheriff, old Isaiah started toward Dirty-Six with surprising speed for a man of his age and feebleness. The first person he met was the Rev. Vinegar Atts.

“How come all dis bust of speed, Isaiah?” the fat preacher grumbled. “Whut’s itchin’ on you to trabbel so peart?”

Isaiah thrust the paper into the hands of Vinegar Atts.

“Read!” he chattered. “Read dat paper an’ git ready to die!”

The fat, pot-bellied, squat-legged preacher spraddled his feet in the middle of the road like a Colossus and began to read. Suddenly his hand trembled, his feet began to shuffle in the sand, and he breathed heavily and audibly, like an asthmatic donkey. When he had finished, his hands dropped inertly to his sides, and with wide-open mouth, he sucked in a breath which threatened to consume all the air in Tickfall.

“My Gawd!” he bawled. “Isaiah, I tell you de honest truth--I ain’t fitten to die. I ain’t made no kind of arrangements to die!”

“Dat’s right!” Isaiah agreed mournfully. “Dis here terr’ble news is done kotch me up short, too!”

“Lemme sot down!” Vinegar panted, as he walked to the curb and sat down with his feet in the gutter.

The paper shook in his trembling hand, and Vinegar glared at it with horror-stricken eyes. One imagines that a condemned criminal would gaze at a cup of poison with such a look. The man’s thick lips turned ashen, and when he snatched off his hat his scalp had become furrowed with little ridges.

To one unfamiliar with the negro character, it is almost incredible how much importance the members of that race attach to the printed word. Since that time, over half a century ago, when every negro received a copy of the Emancipation Proclamation and by the magic of print found himself free from bondage, it has never occurred to one of them to question the veracity of any article in book, magazine, or newspaper. Printed words have the potency of words of Holy Writ.

“O Lawdy!” Atts bawled. “Ain’t dis awful? My gosh, I never had no notion befo’ whut a mean, wuthless, onery nigger I is! Isaiah, I’s a _bad_ nigger. Nobody don’t soupspicion how bad I is!”

“Gawd knows!” Isaiah remarked gloomily.

“Yes, brudder,” Vinegar whined, gasping for air. “Dat is whut is troublin’ my mind right now!”

“Sheriff John Flournoy gimme two papers,” Isaiah said. “I cain’t read nothin’. I’s gwine leave ’em wid you. I’s moseyin’ back to de hawg-camp to git ready to die!”

“Dat’s right, Isaiah,” Vinegar mourned. “Dat is all whut is lef’ fer us po’ niggers to do. Less all start to git ready to prepare to die!”

A few minutes later Vinegar Atts entered the Hen-Scratch saloon, dragged his lead-weighted feet over the sand-covered floor, and fumblingly spread out a copy of the paper upon the table before the eyes of Skeeter Butts, Hitch Diamond, and Figger Bush.

“Read dat, niggers!” he bellowed in awe-stricken tones. “Read an’ prepare fer de end!”

Skeeter Butts started to read the article aloud, but long before he had finished his voice was trembling until he could hardly enunciate the awful words. He stopped, placed his quivering hands over his face, tried to rub the stiffness out of the muscles of his lips and cheeks, and sighed:

“You finish it fer us, Revun! Dis is awful!”

When Vinegar Atts concluded, the three negroes groaned aloud.

“Whar did you git dat paper, Revun?” Hitch Diamond inquired, his giant form shaking with the palsy.

“Isaiah got it from Sheriff Flournoy,” Atts replied.

“Ef Sheriff Flournoy an’ Dr. Moseley is tuck it up, dar ain’t no hopes fer us,” Skeeter Butts lamented. “Dem white mens do bizzness wid niggers ’thout no pity. De pest-wagon is comin’ fer us all!”

Into each mind came the instant recollection of that dreadful time, thirty years before, when the yellow-fever had invaded Tickfall, leaving barely enough of the living to bury the dead; when two-wheeled carts had rumbled through the negro settlements of Tickfall at midnight, and the cart-driver had bellowed through a cloth saturated with carbolic acid and wrapped around his mouth: “Bring out your corpse!”

“Whu-whu-whut is ancestors?” Hitch Diamond stammered, glaring at the newspaper. “Whut kind of new ailment is dat?”

“De paper don’t say,” Skeeter Butts declared tremblingly. “But I figger it’s some kind of new worm or bug. All de niggers has ’em.”

“I wonder ef dat’s how come I feels so bad?” Figger Bush asked fearfully, pulling at his little shoebrush mustache. “I thought I needed a drink or somepin, but dis writin’ says it’s a epizootic!”

“No mo’ drinks fer you, Figger,” Vinegar Atts rumbled. “Ef you figger on havin’ any shore hopes of heaven, you better cut it out!”

“I--I--I swears off now!” Figger stuttered, looking at Atts with eyes which nearly popped out of his head.

“All us niggers better refawm,” Hitch Diamond declared. “I don’t b’lieve prize-fightin’ is a fitten occupation fer a nigger about to die!”

“Sellin’ booze shorely ain’t a heavenly job,” Skeeter said sadly. “I never thought ’bout dat befo’.”

“Preachin’ don’t he’p a nigger be as good as I wish it would,” Rev. Vinegar Atts lamented. “I’s a real mean nigger myse’f!”

“Ef all de niggers in Tickfall dies, whut’ll de white folks do fer wuck-hands?” Figger Bush asked.

“Huh,” Hitch Diamond grunted. “No white man wouldn’t miss you! You ain’t did a day’s wuck sense you wus bawned.”

“I wus bawned tired,” Figger said defensively. “I’s jes’ nachelly one of dese set-easy niggers!”

“You better git a hustle on you in yo’ las days,” Skeeter informed him. “De good Lawd ain’t got no use fer lazy folks.”

“Us better all git gooder dan we is,” Vinegar Atts said positively. “I been tellin’ dese Tickfall niggers eve’y Sunday ’bout deir devilmint, but ’tain’t done ’em no good. Now it’s plum’ too late!”

“Naw, Revun, ’tain’t too late,” Skeeter Butts said earnestly. “I b’lieve us’ll all listen to religium advices right now. Don’t gib us up--keep on tryin’!”

“Would you wish to he’p me refawm dese niggers?” Atts asked.

“Suttinly,” Skeeter said eagerly. “Ef dey don’t refawm, I’ll shoot daylights through ’em--I--I mean I’ll be powerful sorry for ’em.”

Skeeter took a big breath, sighed audibly, and wiped the cold sweat from his temples.

“Will you he’p in dis refawm, Hitch?” Vinegar inquired.

“Shore will!” Hitch informed him. “I’ll begin on de fust nigger you p’ints out to me. Jes’ one religium roun’ will be all Hitchie wants--I’s de real K. O. con of dis town.”

“Dat ain’t de right kind of talk to use, Hitch,” Vinegar said reprovingly. “You better learn some church-word talk befo’ you starts out on dis refawm.”

“Dem niggers will git my drift,” Hitch declared with conviction.

“Whut refawms is we gwine start?” Skeeter Butts asked.

“Lawd,” Figger Bush squeaked. “It’s a endless job--look at me for ninstunce!”

“Whut is yo’ mos’ upsettin’ sin, Figger?” Vinegar asked.

Figger meditated for a long time. Then he said:

“So many sins is done got me down dat I don’t rickolect which one fust upset me, Revun.”

“Aw, don’t waste no time on Figger!” Skeeter Butts said disgustedly. “He’s a hopeless job!”

“Don’t say dat, Skeeter!” Figger pleaded. “You know you is done led me inter all de devilmint I ever done!”

Skeeter gasped like a landed fish.

“Ain’t it de truth!” he mourned. “You ain’t never had sense enough to be bad by yo’se’f! I shore is made a bad impression on you, Figger--I’s awful sorry!”

“Less pass some rules ’bout dis refawm!” Hitch Diamond proposed. “We’ll bunch all de sins togedder an’ tell de niggers to quit ’em all!”

“Dat’s de idear!” Vinegar agreed. “Git me a pencil an’ a piece of write-on paper!”

Perfervid advocates of temperance and total abstinence violently proclaim without fear of successful contradiction that in the haunts of the demon rum are hatched out all the iniquitous schemes for the destruction of the morals of the people. Nevertheless, this is the record of the most extensive reform ever achieved in any community in the United States, and it was born in the Hen-Scratch saloon, in a negro settlement called Dirty-Six, in Tickfall, Louisiana, on a certain day in December.

For two hours the four negroes sweated and fumed, consuming cigarettes, and devising their code of morals. At last Vinegar Atts laid the sheet of paper on the table and they surveyed the result:

No lofen. No quorlen. No fites. No kussen. No drams. No gamblen. No steelen.

“My Lawd!” Figger Bush sighed. “Dat takes away all my employments. Ef a nigger cain’t do none of dem things he mought as well be dead!”

“You’se gwine be soon enough, Figger,” Vinegar Atts reminded him in mournful tones. “Don’t go shovin’ up dat happenstance by wishin’ fer it!”

“‘No fites,’” Hitch Diamond read. “Dat puts me outen bizziness.”

“I ain’t got no job,” Skeeter mourned, looking at the paper. “‘No drams, no gamblen.’”

“‘No lofen,’” Vinegar Atts lamented. “I’s a powerful fat nigger to git active right sudden, at my age.”

Suddenly Atts sprang to his feet and howled:

“Hol’ on, niggers--us needs anodder rule! I adds, ‘No cuttin’ out church!’”

“’Tain’t necessary,” Hitch snickered. “You cain’t keep de niggers outen chu’ch when terr’ble times comes!”

“I guess us better git out an’ succulate dis repote, niggers,” Vinegar said when he received this assurance. “Us ain’t got any too much time. De Shoofly chu’ch-bell rings to-night at eight o’clock.”

The grapevine telephone was promptly put into operation, and in twenty minutes every negro in Tickfall knew that a dreadful and mysterious malady was rife among them, and that death waited just around the corner with a sharp butcher-knife in his hand.

Laughter died in the throats of the most laughter-loving people in the world; the thrumming of the banjo ceased in the cabin; the chatter of care-free women and the shouts of happy pickaninnies sank away into silence; easy-smiling lips took on a pout of distress, and eyes which usually glowed with humor looked into the mystery and the dark of the unknown and were strained and fear-stricken.

Like old hens going to roost, the women began to assemble in the large, barnlike Shoofly church long before dark. The town began to fill up with negroes from the plantations and the swamps, and from every negro settlement in Tickfall, the feet of the negroes made straight paths toward the Shoofly church. The ringing of the church-bell was a signal for the belated to hasten, and the building was packed with people when Vinegar Atts rose and started a hymn. It was an old, familiar tune to them all, and for a moment the great volume of sound rolled out of the house and thundered into the ears of all the white inhabitants of the town. But as the congregation began to consider the meaning of the words they sang, they appeared ominous with warning and threat, and gradually the voices died away:

Some folks do not believe Dat a whale could Joner receive; But dat don’t make my tale at all untrue! Dar is whales on eve’y side, Wid deir mouths opened wide, An’ you better look out or one will swaller you!

Then Vinegar Atts announced:

“Mr. Muskeeter Butts will specify de puppus of dis meetin’!”

Skeeter arose, clawed at his high, white collar so that he could speak without strangling to death, adjusted his enormous cuffs so that he could hold the newspaper, and began in a trembling, squeaky voice:

“Marse John Flournoy gib dis here newspaper to Isaiah Gaitskill. Brudder Isaiah gib it to Revun Vinegar Atts. I reads a piece offen dis here front page.”

As Skeeter read, the negroes joined in with a wailing lamentation, which as the fearful news sank into their consciousness became thunderous.

“‘Danger! Danger!’” Skeeter read. “‘All de niggers in Tickfall about to die!’”

(“O Lawd, hab mussy! Dig my grave wid a silber spoon!”)

“‘A mysterious disease has broken out among the negroes in Tickfall, result-in’ in a num-ber of sud-den death----’”

(“Ah-ee. O he’p us! Gwine to die!”)

“‘De dorctors of de town de-clare dar is no cure--’”

(“Jes’ plum’ ’bleeged an’ bound to die!”)

All night long the negroes remained packed in the Shoofly church, actually too scared to go home in the dark. Song after song rolled like thunder from the building, a pathetic effort to drown their fears with music. Never had Vinegar Atts been as earnest in his prayers and exhortations, nor had the people of his parish ever before shown such earnestness in their responses. Every man and woman in the church professed religion that night. Never was a reform as instantaneous and as complete.

Along toward day the negroes began to rid themselves of their weapons of sin. Figger Bush came to the front of the congregation with the “jerks” and tremblingly laid upon the top of the table a cheap pistol, a pair of brass knucks, and a deck of greasy, soiled playing cards. His example was contagious, and in a few minutes the table was loaded with cards, whisky bottles, dice, brass knucks, daggers, razors, rabbit feet, and hoodoo-charms of all sorts.

“Cornfess yo’ sins!” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “Cornfess up!”

Negroes sprang up all over the house and bawled their iniquities into the ears of the people, but each negro was too intent on thinking of his own transgression to listen to the vices of his fellow, who spoke as a dying man to dying men!

When the rising sun dissolved the last lurking shadow, the all-night revival came to an end in this manner:

Hitch Diamond arose, holding in his hand the sheet of paper which contained the rules of reform devised in the Hen-Scratch saloon.

“I motions befo’ we turns out dat all of us promise to keep de rules wroted down on dis paper!” he bellowed.

After he had read the list the congregation unanimously adopted this new code of conduct and dispersed. The people walked home in groups, looking fearfully behind them at intervals, lifting their feet high like turkeys walking through mud, ready at an instant for precipitate flight.

* * * * *

The sudden reform among the negroes of Tickfall caused a sensation among the white people of the village.

As a general thing, a white man was accustomed to spending four days hunting for a negro willing to do half a day’s work; he secured promises from ten darkies to “be dar early in de mawnin’.” Then he waited ten days, and went out and did the work himself.

But by nine o’clock on this day, the Tickfall bank was crowded with negroes who wished to see Marse Tom Gaitskill about getting a job. Every merchant in the town was beset by applications for labor. Darkies walked from house to house, seeking employment, and every chance pedestrian upon the street was accosted with a greeting which after a while almost shattered the nerves of the white inhabitants of the village:

“Got any wuck fer a strong, willin’ nigger, boss?”

Of course the negroes spoke not a word which would reveal the reason for this sudden increase in industry, and the white people could only observe the amazing results and wonder.

Nearly every lawn in Tickfall held a boy busy with tools, cutting the grass, raking the dead leaves, hoeing out the flower-beds, and mending the fences. White people accustomed to seeing a workman take ten minutes to chop down one weed, and half an hour to light his corn-cob pipe, now observed that all were working with feverish haste, and at the same time with the most minute care and exactness as if it were a religious observance of some sort.

“What ails all these coons in town?” Gaitskill laughed as he looked down the street and saw not a single dusky loafer.

“Christmas is coming!” Flournoy laughed. “Day after to-morrow is Christmas. Had you forgotten?”