Part 6

“An’ I look back-er, an’ I seed dat it had er head-er, er head-er, er head-er!”

“What den, chile?”

“An’ er long body-er, body-er, body-er! An’ legs-er, fo’ long legs-er. Yes, yes, chillun, an’ fo’ legs-er!”

While this was going on I could not keep my eyes off of Parson Honeycutt, the large, striking-looking preacher, who was very superstitious. I was afraid he would go into convulsions. His eyes were stretched, his nostrils distended and his mouth in a quiver. He leaned over the pulpit and listened intently at Arabella. He was anxious to hear her prediction. The suspense was telling on his nerves, and his heart.

“What wuz it, sister?” he cried in his agony.

“An’ I look back-er, an’ seed dat it had a long pair years-er,” continued Arabella.

The excitement had reached its zenith. The tension was greatest, and the crowd could constrain itself no longer. The spell was broken when Elder Brown shouted: “An’ thank Gawd it were a mule-er!”

“Amen!” added the parson.

“Hold me, hold me, hold me, ef you don’t I’ll fly away to glory an’ leave you all,” bellowed Arabella.

“Brother Simpkins, hold yo’ wife,” cried a voice.

Cæsar Simpkins rose from his seat and started toward Arabella, who was prancing up and down the center aisle, but when she saw him coming she waved her hand at him and sung:

“G’way, Cæsar, g’way, I don’t want you to hold me, I’s gut sugar an’ molasses in my soul, An’ I want’s Brer Honeycutt to hold me.”

Parson Honeycutt hurried down from the rostrum, caught Arabella by the right arm, and they went up the aisle singing “Glory hallelujah!”

Arabella went into a trance, fell in Brother Honeycutt’s arms, and was carried out and laid upon the grass beneath a large oak tree, where she was permitted to cool off and “come around.”

The sequel: That afternoon, while on his way home, Brother Honeycutt was thrown from his roan mule, Napoleon Bonaparte, who became frightened at a toad hopping across the road, and had his left forefinger broken.

“I told you so!” said one and all. “Dat nigger’s vision allers comes true.”

A NEGRO AND HIS FRIEND

On a sultry morning in August, nineteen hundred and two, an ex-Confederate soldier, who had fought under Lee and Jackson, hobbled across Independence Square, bearing heavily upon his cane, on his way to the Mecklenburg county courthouse. From the opposite direction came a young fellow, with ruddy complexion, beaming face and springy step, en route to the railway station to take an early train for a neighboring town. The two, unexpectedly, came together in front of the Central Hotel and extended their right hands to each other.

“Why, father,” exclaimed the younger man, “what are you doing here this time of day?

“Have you driven all the way from home this morning?”

“Yes, son, I left the farm about daylight, and just this moment arrived.

“Jim is in trouble again.”

“Another church row?”

“Yes; a camp meeting this time.”

“Well, father, I think if I were in your place I would let that negro go to the roads. The ball and chain might improve him. He has given you no end of trouble and cost you some money; let him take his medicine.”

“I don’t know about that, Harry; your mother and I have decided to stand by him once more. He is a mighty good boy about the place and we have implicit confidence in him.”

“Yes, but he is forever fighting and getting in court. Let him go!”

“Well, son, his daddy, Old John, was a good darkey, and your grandfather would not like it if we were to let one of his old carriage driver’s boys go to prison if we could help it.

“I know Jim is pretty bad about fighting negroes, but he is a good hand, and we get on well with him.”

“How many negro meetings has he broken up since you hired him?”

“I don’t know exactly, but would say four or five. He has a sort of mania for that. He is always polite to us and never complains when asked to do extra work. We call on him to go errands at all hours of the day or night, and he goes cheerfully. I do not see how we could get on without him; he milks the cows if the cook is sick, cuts the stove-wood and carries it in, churns if there is nobody else to do it, feeds and curries the horses, helps your mother to make preserves, or pickles, or put up the fruit, and drives the carriage to church on Sunday.

“Yet, Harry, if I had not known John and Mary, his parents, I might let him go without putting up a fight for him, but his daddy or mammy would have done anything for your mother, and your grandfather would turn over in his grave if he could know that I had not done my duty toward Jim.

“I don’t know how serious this last affair is, but I will employ a lawyer and fight it out.”

Harry Brown did not leave the city that day but remained at home to see if he could be of service to his aged and decrepit father. He went to the jail and had a talk with Jim, who had been his childhood playmate, and learned his side of the case.

“Mr. Harry, you think de jedge will make it putty hard on me?” asked Jim, as the young white man turned to leave.

“I can’t say, Jim, but he is a strict church man--a Scotch-Irish Presbyterian--and it would be difficult to predict the result. If it is possible to keep your fighting record out of court I think we can get him to be merciful, but if some one lugs your past in, then, with this Puritanical judge, you may take a tumble toward the chain-gang.”

“Orh, Mr. Harry, you don’t think no white jedge wud send a good nigger lak me to de roads des fur breakin’ up a nigger camp meetin’, do you?”

“Things have changed, Jim. You can’t tell nowadays, since the people have become so particular about drinking, gambling, and the like, what a judge will do. I’m a little uneasy about you.”

“Well, Mr. Harry, tell Marse Henry to stan’ by me des one mo’ time, an’ den I’ll do better. Ef I gits out dis time I sho’ will ’have mysef.”

Jim Parks was the kind of negro that one finds about oldtime Southern country homes: as black as the ace of spades, with a mouth full of pretty white teeth, every one as sound as a silver dollar, and muscular and active. There were but few things about the farm that he could not do when he tried. Everybody, even the other negroes, liked him. With white people he was mannerly, pleasant and obliging, always, and those who knew him at the Brown home, as he went about his work, could not believe the stories they heard of his midnight brawls and dark-house fights at negro gatherings. Usually he was such a happy-go-lucky chap that his white friends could not imagine him in the role of a bully.

But Jim Parks at home, among his white folks, and Jim Parks abroad, with the people of his own race, were different persons--a Dr. Jekel and a Mr. Hyde.

At noon, Saturday, the last day of the Mecklenburg court, Judge Shaler presiding, Solicitor Bluelaw called the Zion Camp Meeting case, and put Rev. Archie Degraffenreid LaFayette Small, colored, on the stand.

“Parson,” said the prosecuting attorney, “tell the court what took place at the camp ground that Sunday.”

“Yes, sir; it wuz lak dis: I’d been in de pulpit about two minutes, gettin’ ready to preach de eight o’clock sermon, when I seed a commotion in de grounds, about two-hund’d yards away, an’ twuzn’t long ’fo’ I heard a pistol crack, an’ dere wuz a scatteration of people.”

“Who used the weapon?”

“I heard ’em say it wuz dis here Jim Parks--dat boy over dere.”

“Don’t tell what you heard,” said Col. Calvin Tedder, attorney for the defense, “but what you actually saw.”

“Yes, sir; well de moist dat I seed wuz folks runnin’--gittin’ away frum dere.”

“Did you hear more than one pistol shot?” asked the solicitor.

“Yes, sir; some several shots. In fact, sir, dey come so fas’ dat I couldn’t give out de hymn fur hearin’ ’em.”

“You were pretty badly frightened, were you not?”

“’Cose I wuz, sir, an’ I ain’t shame to say it. I felt my legs trimblin’, an’ I couldn’t keep my eye on de book.

“Yes, sir, de public worship wuz already disturbed. Ef de shootin’ had stopped dere de law wuz done broke.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is this defendant the man who created the disturbance in the yard?”

“Yes, sir; he’s de one, fur I knows him well. He’s de one dat tuck Brother Jones’ watermillons.”

“How is that?” asked the court, interested.

“Yes, sir, please yo’ honor, it wuz lak dis: Brother Jones, uv de Sandy Creek kermunity, focht a load uv watermillons an’ wuz sellin’ ’em, when dis man Parks come out uv one uv de tents an’ pick out a big millon an’ ’low: ‘I’ll des take dis one wid me.’

“‘Not till you give me thirty-five cents,’ says Brother Jones, dis lak dat.

“‘Take dat,’ said dis boy, pitchin’ Brother Jones a nickel.

“Dat wuz de start uv it, an’ one word brought on another ’till Parks jerked out his gun an’ fell to shootin’.”

“Who did he shoot at?”

“Brother Jones.”

“What did Jones do?”

“Run, sir. De last time I seed ’im wuz when he struck de woods ’bout half mile away.”

“It’s generally time to run when this negro gets after you with a revolver, ain’t it?” asked the solicitor.

“Yes, sir. He’s gut de reputation uv bein’ mighty handy wid his gun.”

“What followed? Tell the whole story.”

“Well, sir, befo’ Brother Jones wuz out uv sight good, dis Jim Parks come to de arbor an’ saunter down de aisle.”

“Did you see him?”

“’Cose I did; I wuz makin’ out lak I wuz readin’ de hymn, but de truf wuz I had my eye on dat nigger, ’cause I knowed ’im uv old.”

“Go ahead; tell what you saw.”

“Yes, sir. I know’d dat I couldn’t hold de ’tension uv de crowd arter he ’peared on de scene, but I wuz gwine to try to tame ’im. Brother Smith, one uv my right-hand men, had done had some ’sperience wid de boy, an’ he fainted over in de amen corner, fell off de bench an’ rolled under it. When I seed dat, I wuz sorter confused, fur I wuz lookin’ fur Brother Smith to he’p me out.

“Dis Jim, he come on down de aisle, grinnin’, until he gut ’bout half way to de pulpit, an’ den he stop an’ take out his ’volver, a black lookin’ one, as fur as I kin reckerlec’, an’ look at me an’ say: ‘Big Nigger, we ain’t gwine to have no eight o’clock service dis mornin’. Church is out.’”

“What did you say to that, Parson?”

“Not wantin’ to cross ’im, I ’low: ‘’Cose it is, ’cose it is--we ain’t gwine to argify ’bout dat, Brother Parks.’”

“You called him Brother Parks?”

“Yes, sir, I wuz tryin’ to make up to ’im.”

“What did he do then?”

“He take aim at me an’ say: ‘Come on down, Big Nigger! Come on down! An’ don’t be so long ’bout it!’

“Seein’ dat he wuz meanin’ bizness I ’low: ‘Yes, Brother Parks, I’s comin’,’ but ’fo’ I coul’ git it out he wuz pintin’ his gun at me.”

“Go on!” demanded the solicitor, in an excited tone of voice.

“I heard de pistol say ‘click, click.’ I don’t know what happened arter dat fur I lef’ dere right den, goin’ th’ough de hole at de back uv de pulpit. As I lef’ he wuz cockin’ de ’volver but when I heard de ’port I wuz crossin’ Mr. Bob Bell’s paster fence several hund’d yards away.”

“Did he shoot directly at you?”

“I can’t say as to dat, but as I went over de fence I heard de ball ajunin’ putty close to my year.”

“What became of the congregation?”

“Moist uv it went th’ough de woods des a little ahead uv me. Yes, sir. I think some uv de younger ones staid an’ fout.”

“That will do, don’t tell what you think,” shouted Col. Tedder.

“Well, dat’s all I seed fur I never went back no mo’ ’till nex’ day, an’ de fightin’ crowd wuz gone.”

The essential features of Parson Small’s testimony were corroborated. Several of the officers of the church gave their versions of the affair. Everybody seemed to be against Jim.

Col. Tedder was afraid to put his client on the stand lest his court record be produced. He rested his case after making a short rambling speech. After remaining out three minutes the jury came in and rendered a verdict of guilty.

Col. Tedder spoke eloquently for mercy for his negro, saying that he was a good darkey, except now and then when he drank a little too much.

“Stand up here, Jim Parks,” said the judge, when Col. Tedder sat down.

“What do you mean by disturbing public worship?

“Why do you persist in breaking up camp meetings?

“Don’t you know that it is wrong?”

“Yes, sir, Jedge, an’ I ain’t gwine to do it no mo’. Ef you’ll des let me off dis time, so dat I kin go home wid Marse Henry, I’ll be a good nigger de res’ uv my life.

“No, sir, Marse Jedge, you needn’t worry ’bout dis nigger no mo’, ’cause he ain’t gwine to come back here ef he live a hund’d years.”

“That is very fine talk but you don’t mean it,” declared the court. “Nothing short of the chain-gang will cure you. I will sentence you--”

“Hold on, boss, ain’t you gwine to let Marse Henry say a word fur de ole nigger?”

“He’s already said that you were all right except about fighting negroes. The court must protect all classes of citizens. I will give you nine months.”

“Amen!” whispered Parson Small.

’Squire Brown dropped his head to keep from meeting Jim’s tearful eyes, as the boy marched out to the jail, handcuffed to two other culprits.

“That was about as I anticipated,” said Harry to his father, as they left the courthouse. “Jim’s reputation hurt him with the judge. If you had been in Judge Shaler’s place you would have done the same thing.”

“Yes, I think you are right, but I don’t like to see the boy go that way. It would cost close to seventy dollars to get him out; he owes me something now; I have not the money to spare, and cannot afford to pay him more than ten dollars a month if I have him.

“He will have to go this time.”

This was the sorrowful admission of ’Squire Brown.

“I think you are right; let him try the road awhile,” added the less sentimental son.

“Now, good-bye; if I run upon a respectable-looking negro that I think would suit you and mother, I will send him to you.”

’Squire Brown collected his packages and set out for home, a long, lonesome ride through the country, over seventeen miles of macadam road, that hot, dusty night. He needed Jim, and did not like to see him go to prison, but could not prevent it. The old place would not seem the same without the little black negro, with his merry laugh and shining face.

“I don’t understand why the little rascal cannot behave,” said the ’Squire to himself, as his horse jogged along.

That evening, when he drove up to the lot gate, Mrs. Brown, who had been looking for him for hours, called out in a strident voice: “Well, did you bring Jim?”

“No, I am sorry to say, he went to jail in spite of all I could do; the judge was prejudiced against him. He will have to serve nine months on the chain-gang.”

“That is too bad,” said Mrs. Brown. “Jim is a good darkey.”

“Yes,” put in the ’Squire, “but he will break up camp meetings.

“I did all I could, employed a lawyer, spoke to the solicitor, and swore a half-lie about Jim’s character.”

Bright and early Monday, ’Squire Brown and his son, Harry, met on the Square in Charlotte, just as they had met two mornings before.

“I am surprised, Dad, to see you here again?” said the boy, frowning.

“Why, your mother and I, after thinking the matter over yesterday, decided to take Jim out; it will cost $65, but I am going to do it. I have borrowed the money, and will take the negro home with me.”

“You are a good one, father--you and mother--taking Jim out of jail, but there is something about that sort of thing that I like,” said the son, smiling. “Race problem? Negro haters? Why ask who is the negro’s friends when incidents like this occur every day?”

Harry, who had been traveling in the East and West for four or five years, did not feel about the negro as he once did. Being in constant touch with the old cornfield darkey ’Squire Brown had a different viewpoint. The kindly feeling that the younger man once had was passing away.

Late that afternoon, in a cloud of summer dust, ’Squire Brown and Jim Parks, his negro, drove out South Tryon street toward Pineville, and in passing in front of _The Observer_ building Jim caught sight of Harry, turned in the buggy and shouted back: “Good-bye, Mr. Harry, me an’ Marse Henry’s gwine home to see your Maw. Be a good boy, an’ don’t let de jedge git you. ‘Have yo’se’f, an’ stay out uv cote, but ef you do git in, by accident, des lak I done, don’t have Col. Tedder to ’fend you, onless you spects to go right on to jail.”

“No wonder the old folks like the black scamp,” said Harry, laughing to himself. “He’s an interesting negro.”

There was great rejoicing on the Brown place that night when the ’Squire and Jim arrived. Ella, Jim’s wife, was beside herself, and ’Squire and Mrs. Brown were almost as happy. Everybody, white and black, was delighted.

The following December, after the cotton, the corn, the potatoes, and the fruit had been gathered, Harry visited his parents at the old place. In driving down the lane he observed that the little log cabin, formerly occupied by Jim and Ella, was empty, and when the black worthy failed to show up to take the horse, as he had done many times before, he asked of his father what had become of the negro.

“He’s gone to South Carolina,” said the ’Squire.

“Left?”

“Yes.”

“What did he leave for?”

“Why, he got in a little trouble out at Jones’ Chapel, where the colored people were having some kind of a church festival, and the officers were after him.”

“He jumped the game, and left you in the lurch?”

“No; I told him to run so that they could not serve a warrant on him.”

“And you a justice of the peace, too?”

“Yes; I wasn’t elected to try my own negroes.”

“How much does Jim owe you?”

“I don’t know, exactly.”

“A pretty good sum, I guess?”

“That sixty-five and a little more for rations.”

“Will you ever get it?”

“Oh, yes, if Jim is ever able he will pay it.”

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH

The burial of Uncle Billy Malone, of Jackson county, by his intimate friends and boon companions, was one of the strangest funerals ever held in North Carolina, or anywhere else; it was a clear case of birds of a feather flocking together even unto the grave.

Everybody in Jackson knew or knew of Uncle Billy Malone, the blacksmith-horse-trader; he was one of the few very interesting characters of the county. His chief end in life seemed to be a burning desire to satisfy an unquenchable thirst for strong drink. He was a confirmed toper, and all of his personal friends were of the same persuasion.

Uncle Billy and his associates made it a rule for years to assemble at Washington, the county seat of Jackson, every off day--every Saturday, every wet day, every holiday, in fact, every day they could, and drink the health of each other, the state and the nation. It was a jolly lot and Uncle Billy, the dean, was the oldest of them all; his son Sid, the youngest, and Col. William LaFayette, the wisest. The little circle numbered eight, and it was a close corporation while the cup passed around. Whiskey was the besetting sin of each and every one of them, who drank whenever he could, and wherever he could.

Col. LaFayette was a tenant farmer--a typical tenant farmer of a class that lived in the cotton-producing section of the South after the civil war. During the days of slavery he served as overseer for small slave-owning landlords. Most of his kind moved to the towns of the Piedmont counties of the Southern States when cotton mills began to flourish and put their children at work at the spindle and the loom. The sorrier ones became vampires.

In appearance Col. LaFayette was a freak, but in manner, a sort of shabby-genteel Chesterfield. He was a cadaverous-looking fellow, with long body, long legs, and long arms, and thin, sharp, pointed face. The oldest citizen of his county did not remember to have seen him in well-fitting clothes. His shirt sleeves were too short, and his trousers never reached the top of his shoes. He habitually wore a slouch hat, with one side up and the other down, and went with his shirt front open and his shoes loosely laced.

Picture him in your mind, trudging his way to town to join his chums at The Merry Bowl, Jim Roediger’s saloon! Any excuse took him in, for he was always certain that his friends, all of whom, save Uncle Billy, were fellow tillers of the soil, would meet him there. No particular day was set but the little band of drinking cronies came together like iron filings to a magnet. If any one failed to appear something serious had happened to prevent his coming. Jim Boggs, Pete Blue, Sam Helms, Mike Broom and Bob Sink belonged to the coterie.

Such were the running mates of Uncle Bill Malone; all good fellows, and harmless, except to their own constitutions. They stood in their own light but no one could say aught against any of them, barring the fact that he drank to excess, and that was a common complaint at that time. They had lived together so long, and enjoyed one another’s society to such an extent that, up to the time of Uncle Billy’s death, with the exception of a few business associations, they shunned the rest of mankind, not that they were ashamed but that ordinary men bored them. Their circle was complete.

On a cold--bitter cold--night in December, 18--, the angel of death knocked at the cabin door of Uncle Billy Malone. Without warning, and suddenly, the call came. The old man had not been feeling well for several days, but he had not complained to his companions. The facts concerning his last moments are not known to the outside world. The curtain is down and no one can say how Uncle Billy passed from life to eternity. But the charitable must believe that he was sober and clothed in his right mind.

The day before the summons came De Ate, as the party was known, foregathered at The Merry Bowl and drank until late. Sid and his father got home just before dark. The next morning, when the son went to arouse his father, he found his body cold in death.

But, let us turn to the funeral!

Sid Malone behaved like a child in the presence of death. The very thought of being alone and face to face with a dead kinsman seemed to unnerve him. There was but one definite idea in his head and that was that his father had to be buried.

“Who is to do it?” he asked himself.

“Why, his friends!” was the natural answer.

“Who, Col. LaFayette, and the others of De Ate?”

Those were the only friends he knew. He had not been to church in forty years, and no preacher had ever put foot in his home.

“Is there no woman or minister of the gospel?” asked Sid.

“Not one,” echo answered.

With these thoughts running through his mind Sid mounted his mule and started to the several homes of his friends to announce the sad news. He had not gone far when he met Col. LaFayette and others, riding through eight inches of snow, on their way to Washington for a drinking frolic. Thinking of nothing but the exhilarating glass that awaited them at The Merry Bowl, they did not recognize Sid Malone as he came riding down the road.

The death of his father had softened Sid, and his heart was sore. When his companions came in sight he was thinking of the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death, a subject he had never considered before. The turning place for him, he argued, had come. But alas! he met his old cronies, and the flow of serious thought was diverted.

“Turn back, boys, don’t go to town to-day,” said Sid, as he recognized his pals. “Turn back, my daddy’s daid!”

“Oh, Sid, don’t tell me that your daddy air daid,” cried Col. LaFayette, throwing up his hands at the unexpected and shocking announcement. “How kin it be?”

“It shore is the truth, and I want you fellers to help me give him a decent burial.”

“Well, Sid, there ain’t nothin’ that I wouldn’t do for Uncle Billy Malone, daid or alive, and as quick as I go up town and tend to a little bizness I’ll be wid you.”