Part 10

“Uh yent know wuh you call so, Jedge, but uh nebbuh do none uh dem t’ing wuh da’ papuh call dem name. Ef Jedus yeddy me, uh nebbuh do uh Gawd’ t’ing but cut da’ ’ooman, en’ uh nebbuh hab uh chance fuh cut’um _good_, ’cause ’e hab ’e frock tie’up ’roun’ ’e wais’, en’ w’en uh cut at ’e hanch en’ de rice hook ketch ’e frock weh ’e roll’up behine’um, dat sabe de ’ooman’ meat, en’ uh only able fuh ’cratch ’e skin, but uh ’cratch’um ’nuf fuh mek’um holluh same lukkuh hog’ holluh w’en oonuh cut dem yez fuh maa’k’um, en’ alldo’ uh yent puhzac’ly _cut_ de ’ooman, uh _try_ fuh cut’um, but uh cut ’e frock en’ uh only able fuh ’cratch’um, en’ ef uh _yiz_ bin cut’um, duh Scipio mek’ me fuh do’um, ’cause him come duh ricefiel’ wid da’ bluegum mout’ uh him’own full’uh pizen talk fuh bex me nuh Benus, en’ uh always yeddy suh ef uh bluegum nigguh bite you ’e gwine pizen you same lukkuh moccasin, en’ same fashi’n de talk wuh come out da’ nigguh’ jaw pizen alltwo uh we en’ mek we fuh fight, but, Jedge, uh nebbuh cut Benus lukkuh da’ papuh say, ’cause ef uh had’uh cut’um _fuh true, true_! da’ ’ooman would’uh haffuh stan’up ’puntop’uh ’e two foot fuh t’ree week!”

“Received as information,” observed the magistrate, and he called Venus, who came up smiling. “You have heard Diana’s story. What have you to say?”

“Uh yeddy’um, suh. But ’e cut me.”

“Where did she cut you?”

“Suh?”

“Where did she cut you?”

“’E cut me een Mas’ Edwu’d’ ricefiel’, suh.”

“Yes, I know you were all in the ricefield, but where did she cut you?”

“’E cut me een ten acre, suh.”

“Cut you in ten acre!”

“’E cut me een da’ ten acre square wuh stan’ close to de baa’nyaa’d, suh.”

“Well, you have given the location in the ricefield, now, where on your person did Diana cut you with a rice hook?”

“Suh?”

“Your person is your body. Did she cut you on your body?”

“Yaas, suh, ’e cut me.”

“Well, on what part of your body did she cut you?”

“Da’ same place wuh you call ’e name, suh.”

“What place?”

“’E cut me on me _pussun_, suh, en’, Jedge, de t’ing sweet’n’ me so bad, ef uh could’uh ketch da’ ’ooman ’fo’ uh ketch me foot en’ fall obuhr’um, da’ ’ooman would uh _dead_!”

As there was murderous intent in the sudden heat and passion of both Venus and Diana, the court imposed upon the defendant a fine only sufficient to rehabilitate the wardrobe of the prosecuting witness, who sailed out of court thoroughly satisfied with the new frock in prospect and the present enrichment of her vocabulary by the buckra word “pussun.”

THE DOWER HOUSE

The “Dower House,” which Abram Drayton had inherited from his father, old John, now resting under the great live-oaks of the plantation burying ground, was quite a pretentious affair, two stories high, with two chimneys and a leak. The stories were not very high, only six or seven feet in the clear, but it was sometimes convenient to be able to reach up and touch the ceiling, and, after all, it was a two-story house and, like all two-story houses among the negroes, added greatly to the prestige of the owner’s family. In the usual one-story negro cabin, the boarded-over “loft,” reached by ladder, is at once the sleeping room for the children, the granary for corn and peas, and the hay mow for whatever straw or fodder the householder possesses, but the Dower House had a real second story, attained by steps, narrow and teetering ’tis true, which the ascending biped usually “cooned” on all-fours, but they were steps, not rungs, and, however vigorously the negro expresses in hymns and spirituals his willingness, indeed anxiety, to “climb up Jacob’s ladder,” in the present life he prefers the creak of a board under his foot.

Under the law of primogeniture, arbitrarily established by old John for the disposition and control of his landed property, the “Two-Chimbly House” was bequeathed by word of mouth to his eldest son, and similarly settled upon his eldest grandson, and so on, as long as the line lasted, or until the shingles fell off, when dynastic difficulties would inevitably intervene. Perhaps he had heard of primogeniture and dower houses while waiting at the table of his English-bred master in the old times, but however the idea came into his kinky head, once in, it stuck, and he determined that a Dower House he would leave, and a Dower House entailed. “Uh gwine tie de ’tail ’puntop da’ house fuh hol’um _fas’_! Uh tie’um fus’ ’puntop my boy, Ebbrum, en’ den ’e fuh tie ’puntop _him_ boy, my gran’, en’ de ’tail ent fuh tek’off! De ’tail ent fuh tie ’puntop no ’ooman. ’Ooman ent fuh hab no house. Man fuh hab’um en’ him fuh hol’um, so him kin fetch de ’ooman to ’e han’!”

So, the “’tail” still tied to Abram, in due time he came into the Dower House, and here, in the woods on the road from Adams Run Station to Caw Caw Swamp, he lived and reared a family.

At the tail of the summer his wife partook “not wisely but too well” of watermelon and buttermilk, and through the unfortunate combination was forthwith translated from the bosom of Abram to that of Abraham. The widowed man resigned himself to the will of the Lord, and accepted his bereavement not the less philosophically that his crop was already made and partly gathered. “Ef de Lawd haffuh tek’um, uh glad ’E yent tek’um ’tell de crap done mek,” he reflected gratefully and reverently. In a week he had picked and sold the last of his cotton, and out of the proceeds outfitted his old mare with a new saddle, bridle and cloth, notwithstanding which, the ungrateful creature, with true feminine perversity, “gone en’ leddown en’ _dead_, jis’ ’cause uh yent feed’um fuh two’t’ree day. Uh nebbuh know da’ mare gwine hongry to dat! ’E hongry ’tell ’e dead, en’ now uh haffuh tek me two foot en’ walk!”

Abram, being now more than a “settled” man, jogged along in single harness uneventfully for several months. “Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor so old as to dote on her for anything,” he now, in the autumn of his days, became somewhat critical in the matter of feminine needlework. His grown daughter esteemed herself a competent, almost a skilful, patcher of broken, frayed or frazzled raiment. She knew very well how to put crocus or burlap patches on the knees of the jeans or blue denim trousers affected by her sire, but though she could attach them in such fashion that they would hold, the edges always overlapped like the strakes of a clinker-built whale boat. But whatever these patches lacked in symmetrical attachment, they served well enough, for, as Abram advanced in years, he did not kneel so often as he sat. The seats of his trousers, however, yawned in pathetic neglect for, however acceptably his daughter repaired his broken knees, the half-soling of the seats was a much more serious matter, which she lacked the high spirit to undertake, and he carried about with him, whithersoever he went, gaping wounds in his sartorial equipment where, according to Hudibras, “a kick in that part more hurts honor than deep wounds before.” Not that anyone would ever have kicked him, for he was of a quiet and inoffensive disposition.

Most observers of humanity have noted with interest the close resemblance of certain types of the “wild (and tame) animals one has known.” The horse, the ass, the bulldog, the pug, sheep and goat, fox, raccoon and rat, the ’possum, grinning with pious hypocrisy, and the Berkshire pig with slanting eyes and champing jowls, are all marked likenesses frequently reproduced in human faces, representing the stupid, the sly, the selfish, the grasping, the predaceous, the stubborn, the sensual, the combative, the treacherous--all of them to be avoided, or warily appraised, for the good of one’s soul--and of one’s pocket. Unhappily, those who have been blessed with so rich an experience as to have suffered both fools and knaves, seldom learn to read the buoys with which nature has wisely marked the dangerous reefs in her physiognomonic charts, until the keels of their craft grind upon the rocks! But Abram’s face was that of the mild-eyed, introspective ox. There was no militant personality in the neighborhood to “walk a mile out of his way to kick a sheep,” and, even had there been, to have kicked Abram would have been anatomically impossible, for the unsportsmanlike may shoot a sitting bird, but he cannot kick (offensively) a sitting man, and Abram was usually sitting! So, having held inviolate against the insulting toe the seats of his trousers, which he had lost only through the slow attrition of honest sloth, he retained his self-respect, though he was a peripatetic scandal whenever he went abroad upon his “peaceful occasions.” With praiseworthy propriety, he now came in late to church or prayer-meeting, and, a vigorous and devout “class leader,” coached his class from the bench, dreading the publicity of the sidelines. Then he sat discreetly at the close of the services until “de ’ooman en’ t’ing” had gained an offing and sailed away, when, as he showed a fairly presentable front, he would follow after them and engage in long distance conversation.

“Come on, Bredduh Drayton. Mekso you walk so slow?”

“Uh haffuh walk slow, tittie, ’cause dese debble’ub’uh britchiz bus’, en’ dem ent wut. Da’ gal uh my’own able fuh pit uh berry deestunt patch ’puntop de knee, but seem lukkuh him ent able fuh do nutt’n’ ’long de seat. Da’ w’ymekso dish’yuh britchiz do berry well fuh man fuh seddown een’um, but dem cyan’ specify fuh walk.”

“Wuh mekso you ent tek anodduh lady fuh wife? You got big house en’ ’nuf groun’ fuh mek crap, mekso you ent fuh hab ’ooman?”

“Uh hab house en’ groun,’ fuh true. Uh got uh two-chimbly house, but ’ooman shishuh onsaa’t’n t’ing, uh kinduh ’f’aid fuh tek anodduh chance. Ebbuh sence my lady nyam dem watuhmilyun en’ buttuhmilk en’ him Jedus tek’um, uh yent hab nutt’n’ fuh bodduh me. Uh kin seddown een de sunhot eenjurin’ de whole day en’ nebbuh yeddy no ’ooman’ woice duh call fuh tell me fuh git’up. Uh kin seddown tell uh fuh gone ’sleep.”

“Yaas, my Bredduh, you binnuh seddown, fuh true!” a church sister laughingly retorted. “Da’ de reas’n w’ymekso you shame’ fuh stan’up fuh lead yo’ class! Long seddown mek short stan’up, you know.”

“Go ’way, gal! ’Nuf man wuh hab wife een dem house, dem britchiz ent able fuh specify. Dem wife lazy tummuch fuh patch’um.” And so Abram, always backward in company, put on the best front he could for a while and, unlike Edward Bellamy, never looked behind him. At last the raillery told on him, however, and he made up his mind to take another plunge into the roiling waters of married life. Not the “uncertain sea of matrimony” beloved of poets, but just the black and sluggish current of the branch or run, in which, among snags and cypress knees, swam the slimy catfish and the venomous moccasin. The hazard was not great, for, however forbidding they looked, the waters were shallow, and the low-country negro, stepping into matrimony, keeps at least one big toe on dry ground, and, if one steps in the wrong place, one can always step out again, and try elsewhere. So, with more than a toe-hold of mental reservation, Abram at last, like the storied frog, “would a wooing go”--and he went. “Uh gwine Cross Road’. Uh gwine Sat’d’y night w’en ’nuf ’ooman dey dey, en’ uh gwine saa’ch dem eb’ry Gawd’ one ’tell uh git one wuh kin specify. Uh yent wan’ no settle’ ’ooman, ’cause dem done hab ’nuf man fuh marri’d, en’ dem know tummuch. Dem too schemy! Seem lukkuh de mo’ husbun’ en’ t’ing dem fuh hab, de mo’ schemy dem git! Ef uh tek uh nyung gal fuh wife, wuh ent know nutt’n’, uh kin bruk’um fuh suit, same lukkuh oxin bruk fuh pull plow. Uh kin fetch’um onduhneet’ me han’!”

With these masterful masculine reflections, Abram went his ways to the Cross Roads, and having, like Poe’s Raven, acquired the sitting habit, down he sat near the store on a convenient log which offered at once rest for his weary bones and camouflage for his sartorial infirmities. For an hour or more he watched with an appraising eye the women coming and going, acknowledging the salutations of those who passed near him. At last, his approving regard rested upon what the ante-bellum advertisements would have called a “likely girl” who curtseyed as she came opposite him. “Come’yuh, gal,” he called. “Wuh you name?”

“Sukey, suh.”

“You duh An’ Minda’ gal, enty?”

“Yaas, suh, him duh my Grumma en’ me duh him gran’.”

“You onduhstan’ ’bout cook en’ wash, enty?”

“Yaas, suh, uh well acquaintun wid alltwo.”

“Berry well. You know how fuh patch man’ britchiz en’ t’ing?”

“No, suh, uh know how fuh patch ’ooman’ frock, but uh yent know nutt’n’ ’bout no britchiz ’cause none ent fuh dey een we house.”

“You hab Pa, enty?”

“No, suh, uh yent hab no Pa. Uh yeddy ’bout’um but uh nebbuh shum. Grumma tell me suh one time uh bin hab Pa, but Ma run’um off en’ ’e ’f’aid fuh come back, en’ attuhw’ile w’en uh biggin fuh grow big, Ma sen’ me fuh lib ’long Grumma, ’cause ’e say suh uh tek attuh Pa ’tell eb’ry time ’e look ’puntop me ’e bex ’tell him haffuh lick me, en’ him say suh ’e yent hab time fuh fuhrebbuh duh lick me.”

“You tek attuh yo’ Pa, enty?”

“Yaas, suh, uh nebbuh shum, but eb’rybody say suh uh look luk’um en’ tek attuhr’um alltwo.”

“You ent tek attuh yo’ Ma, iz you?”

“No, suh, uh yent tek attuh _him_.”

“Berry well, uh gwine hab you fuh wife. You know who uh yiz, enty? Me duh Ebbrum Drayton, en’ uh lib todduh side Adam’ Run deepo, en’ uh hab uh two-chimbly house en’ ’e got two story, en’ uh bin hab uh mare, but him gone en’ dead. En’ w’en you gone home, tell yo’ Grumma uh gwine fuh shum Sunday night fuh tell’um uh gwine hab you fuh wife.”

“Yaas, suh. Well, good ebenin’, suh,” and, with another curtsy, she was gone.

But Abram’s plans they gang’d agley, for old John, in putting the word-of-mouth entail on the Dower House, had tied the “’tail” so loosely that its terms and conditions were constantly subject to family discussion and interpretation, and Abram’s son now objected to his father’s marriage, believing that it would break the entail and deprive him of the right of succession to “de Two-Chimbly House.” “W’en Grumpa him tie de ’tail ’puntop de house, ’e say ’sponsubble suh ’e yent fuh tek off, en’ suh ’e yent fuh tie ’puntop no ’ooman. Pa ent know uh Gawd’ t’ing ’bout da’ gal him duh talk ’bout hab fuh wife. ’E nebbuh see ’e Ma, ’e nebbuh shum fight. Da’ gal’ Ma iz de debble! W’en da’ ’ooman fight da’ gal’ Pa, ’e run’um ’long hoe en’ hatchitch alltwo! Da’ nigguh run ’tell ’e cross Jacksinburruh. ’E nebbuh stop’ ’tell ’e gone spang Ti Ti! W’en ’e bog up to ’e crotch ’mong dem waa’ment’ en’ t’ing ’e git sattify een ’e mine’. No, suh! Pa ent study nutt’n’ ’cep’ hab wife fuh sweep ’e house en’ patch ’e britchiz. Bumbye, w’en da’ gal’ maamy’ sperrit git een’um en’ ’e bex fuh true! Ki! Da’ gal gwine tek de ’tail off Grumpa’ house en’ none uh we gwine shum ’gen! W’en Pa duh bog up to ’e crotch een Ti Ti, wuh saa’bis den fuh hab patch ’puntop ’e britchiz? No, suh!”

His daughter sought to comfort Abram, who, in the short space of 36 hours, had loved and wooed, and won and lost. “Nemmine’, Pa, you got yo’ Two-Chimbly House.”

“Yaas, but uh cyan’ seddown befo’ alltwo de chimbly one time.”

AT THE CROSS ROADS STORE

For many years after freedom came to the negroes of the low-country, they were cruelly and ignobly cheated by the tradespeople who set up little Cross Roads stores in every community. Many of these were German corner-shopkeepers from the cities. Others were wandering Jews, whose predatory instincts took them wherever there were pickings to be had. Yet others, to their shame, were certain low-class South Carolinians that did not scruple to take advantage of the ignorant freedmen who, a wasteful and improvident people, whose needs had all been supplied under slavery, squandered the money they were unaccustomed to handling and unable to compute.

Imitative as monkeys, however, it is to the credit of their intelligence, if not of their morality, that they soon learned to retaliate, and many a brick and rusty plowshare was weighed in their bags of seed cotton and paid for by the tricky shopkeeper who, knowing that in many cases the cotton was stolen from the planter for whom the negro worked, and brought stealthily by night to the sophisticated merchant, did not scan his purchase too closely, and many an ancient nest egg, too, was sold to the shopkeeper as a new-laid “yaa’d aig” and shipped away to city customers.

The marks upon the brass beams of the counter-scales with which the negroes’ purchases were weighed, were so obscured and tarnished that they could not be deciphered, even by customers who could read, but the wily shopman knew exactly where to put his weight to give a twelve-ounce pound, which is what the negro usually got. Always suspecting “de buckruh” of cheating him, and being unable to do even the smallest addition, the negro soon learned to protect himself, if not from short weights, at least from short change, and it was interesting to observe a shopper making her week’s purchases on Saturday nights at one of these neighborhood stores. The women, commonly more alert, and always more suspicious, than the men, were usually charged with the buying. If a customer had a dollar to spend, she would first price the various commodities under consideration.

“Hummuch you ax fuh sugar?”

“Ten cents a pound.”

“Ten cent’ uh poun’?”

“Yes.”

“Hummuch fuh fibe cent’?”

“Half a pound.”

“Gimme fibe cent’ wut.”

The short-weight sugar wrapped up and handed out, the customer would draw it to her bosom and, leaning on the counter, put her protecting arms around it. The dollar, ceremonially unwrapped from a corner of her apron, would be handed over, and ninety-five cents in change returned, which she would count over carefully before proceeding with her next purchase.

“You got any bakin’?”

“Yes.”

“Wuh kind’uh bakin’?”

“Side meat and shoulder meat.”

“Hummuch fuh him?”

“Ten cents for the shoulders and twelve and a half cents for the sides.”

“Gimme ten cent’ wut uh side meat.”

When that was delivered, ten cents would be slowly taken from the little pile and paid over.

“Wuh kinduh clawt’ you got?”

“Homespun, gingham, calico. What kind you want?”

“Lemme shum.”

Bolts of each would be placed before her.

“Hummuch da’ speckly kin’?” (pointing to the gingham).

“Ten cents a yard.”

“Gimme ten cent’ wut.”

A thirty-three-inch yard would be torn off.

“You got any salt?”

“Yes.”

“Hummuch fuh him?”

“Five cents a quart.”

“Gimme t’ree cent’ wut.”

“You got any flour?”

“Yes.”

“Hummuch you ax fuh him?”

“Five cents a pound.”

“Gimme ten cent’ wut.”

The flour and the salt would come within the encircling arms, fifteen cents be counted out, and all transactions suspended until the two cents change was returned to her.

“Wuh kinduh tubackuh you got?”

Two or three samples of plug tobacco, the only sort in common use, would be offered for inspection, and perhaps the advice of a colored sister asked before deciding upon a selection.

By the time the dollar was expended, the clerk had walked a hundred yards or so, had used up lots of brown paper and paper twine and had had his patience sorely tried, but he charged liberally for his time and trouble, and the poor darkey got far less than she paid for.

In the funny columns of Northern periodicals, and in the immemorial minstrel jokes and songs, the negro not only steals chickens, but eats them. The low-country negroes, however, while all of them keep chickens, seldom, if ever, eat them, the coarsest fat bacon being far more to the negro’s taste than the juiciest broiler. Then, too, eggs and chickens are currency in most negro communities and can always be converted into cash at the country store or at the back door of the nearest white family.

The country negroes on the coast still speak of “fo’punce” chickens and “seb’npunce” chickens, meaning the sizes that were sold for four pence and seven pence respectively before the Revolution, when British coinage was the currency of the country.

“Gal, ketch da’ seb’npunce chickin en’ dem t’ree fo’punce chickin’ en tek dese’yuh six aig’, en’ tek’um to de Cross Road’, en’ buy de six aig’ wut’uh tubackuh en’ de seb’npunce chickin wut’uh flour, en’ one de fo’punce chickin’ wut’uh sugar, en’ norruh one uh de fo’punce chickin’ wut’uh side meat, en’ de todduh fo’punce chickin wut’uh muhlassis, en’ tek dish’yuh bucket fuh fetch’um een, en’ don’ ’low de buckruh fuh cheat you, en’ tie de aig’ een yo’ hengkitchuh, en’ tie all fo’ de fowl’ foot so dem cyan’ git’way, en’ hol’um een yo’ ap’un, en’ don’ stay duh sto’ too long, en’ w’en you tek de chickin’ out de ap’un, hol’um by ’e two foot fuh mek ’e head heng down, so ’e wing’ kin ’pread out fuh mek’um look big so de buckruh t’ink suh de fo’punce chickin’ duh seb’npunce chickin’, en’ w’en de buckruh po’ out de muhlassis, mek’um fuh po’rum ’tell de muhlassis stop run out de medjuh, ’cause ef you ent watch’um ’e sho’ fuh lef’ some een de quawt cup, en’ w’en you come back duh night’time, walk middle’uh de paat’, ’cause ’e rain’ teday en’ toadfrog does jump ’bout w’en de ground en’ t’ing wet, en’ moccasin does folluhr’um fuh ketch’um, en’ uh yent wan’ you fuh git ’structed by no snake duh paat’.”

The little girl leaned on the counter, slowly unrolled an old bandanna handkerchief, and spread the six eggs before her, carefully keeping the unhappy chickens concealed in her apron.

“Ebenin’, suh. Ma tell me fuh git uh plug’uh tubackuh wid dese aig’.”

“You can get only half a plug for half a dozen eggs. Eggs are ten cents a dozen!”

“Yaas’suh, but Ma tell me fuh git’uh whole plug,” said the shrewd little trader. “Ma tell me fuh ax you ef you ent g’em uh whole plug uh tubackuh fuh de six aig’, please, suh, fuh gimme uh gunjuh--tengky, suh,” as the obliging clerk handed her a big scalloped molasses cake and short-cut the plug of tobacco enough to pay for it.

The tobacco trade consummated, the girl fumbled furtively in her apron, and, feeling about deftly, located and drew forth the “seb’npunce” chicken. That adolescent fowl, a rooster whose voice was changing, alternately peeped and squawked, as the seller with outstretched arm dangled him by the legs high over the counter, his outspread wings making him look a full size larger, but the shopkeeper was country-bred, and felt the rooster’s breastbone. “Fifteen cents,” he said.

“Ma tell me fuh git twenty-fibe cent’ wut uh flour ’long dish’yuh one,” she fibbed.

“I’ll give you twenty cents’ worth,” he countered, and, as she nodded in acquiescence, jubilant at the thought of having outwitted him, he plunged his scoop into a barrel and weighed out twelve cents’ worth of flour. When this had been wrapped and delivered, the clerk, knowing by her expectant look that further commercial transactions were imminent, stood at attention, while the girl abstracted the first of the three “fo’punce” chickens from her apron and held the noisy fledgling, naked and unashamed, at arm’s length above the counter. “Ma tell me fuh git dis seb’npunce chickin wut uh side meat,” she ventured, craftily watching the face of the Caucasian whom she sought to overreach.

“Why, that’s a fo’punce chicken. He ain’t half the size of the other one.”