Part 11

“Yaas’suh, alltwo come out de same nes’ en’ alltwo hatch out de same time. Da’ todduh one duh dish’yuh one bubbuh, en’ dish’yuh one duh da’ todduh one tittie. Him look big mo’nuh dish’yuh one ’cause him duh roostuh en’ him hab comb, en’ dish’yuh one duh pullet en’ him ent hab no comb, en’ de roostuh greedy mo’nuh de pullet, en’ him nyam de mor’is’ bittle, en’ dat mek ’e stan’ so,” she prevaricated unblushingly. These earnest asseverations had no effect on the purchaser, however, and, appraising the gallinaceous juveniles at ten cents each, he stood pat, and one by one they were withdrawn from the apron and exchanged for bacon, sugar and molasses. Upon the pouring of the latter commodity, however, Aryan and African again locked horns. The weather was warm, and as even the thick “blackstrap” molasses flowed freely, the careless shopman very nearly gave his customer the full quart for which she had paid--an inadvertence which, it should be said in justice to his commercial acumen, he very seldom committed. Realizing too late that nearly all the molasses had run into the tin bucket out of the quart measure (false-bottomed as it was) he gave it a quick upward flirt to save what he could, and started back to the barrel, but was checked by the girl’s scream of protest. “Ma tell’ me fuh tell you ’sponsubble fuh mek you fuh po’rum out ’tell eb’ry drop done dreen een de bucket,” she cried excitedly, and, in shame-faced compliance, he let her hold the measure till the uttermost drop had been “dreened” out. With a sideswipe of a very questionable finger, she garnered the dulcet drops that clung to the curved lip of the cup and, sucking the sweetened digit greedily, she grinned with satisfaction. And now, with the packages carefully tied up in the bandanna in one hand, and the covered tin bucket in the other, she dropped a curtsy, for she was a polite little darkey, and went her ways homeward, sweetened in soul and saliva.

The night was dark, and the path traversed a small bay, where the sweetgums spread their limbs above the track, and their heavy foliage hid the stars and deepened the shadows along the way. Along the edge of the bay, in the sodden soil, grew lush water-grasses, and they were very sweet to a vagabond ox, as he cropped them, undisturbed by flies, in the cool night air. But the peaceful ox, playing truant, poor wretch, from his negro master, was full of tragedy, for the ox was white, and no solitary negro in the low-country, where the forests are full of little negro graveyards, can bear the sight of anything white in the woods at night. The fear of ghosts is always with them, and a white cow, grazing in or near a graveyard, will often stampede a road full of worshipers returning from a prayer-meeting.

As she reached the shadowy places along the way, the child heard a rustling sound in the bushes that suggested snakes. She instinctively jumped to the other side of the path, at the same time looking over her shoulder in the direction of the sound. One glance was enough! The pallid ox loomed gigantic in her affrighted eyes, and, with a scream of terror, she fled homeward and was soon, wide-eyed and trembling, before her mother. Faithful to her trust, she had held on to bundle and tin bucket, but the molasses was spattered liberally over her bare legs and had soaked her homespun skirt and apron.

“_Wuh ’smattuh, gal?_ You done t’row’way half de muhlassis! Wuh de debble mek you duh trimble?”

“Ma, w’en uh binnuh walk t’ru de branch, een da’ daa’k t’icket onduhneet’ dem gum tree, uh yeddy sump’nurruh duh shake de bush, en’ uh t’ink ’e duh snake, en’ uh jump en’ look ’roun’, en’ uh see uh sperrit, one big w’ite sump’n’ high mo’nuh dis house, en’ de t’ing groan’ at me, en’ uh dat ’f’aid’um, uh run’way, en’ ’e nebbuh ketch me, en’ uh mek de buckruh gimme twenty cent’ wut uh flour fuh de seb’npunce chickin, en’ ’e gimme uh gunjuh!”

“Tell yo’ bubbuh fuh git da’ hom’ny spoon en’ ’crape da’ muhlassis off yo’ two knee, en’ pit’um een da’ pan, en’ tek off yo’ ap’un, en’ you en’ yo’ bubbuh alltwo kin chaw’um, so de muhlassis ent fuh t’rowway.”

MINGO, THE DRILL MASTER

At the close of the war, thousands of disbanded negro troops, how many, only the Lord knows and the pension roll shows, swarmed over the Coast Counties comprising the South Carolina Black Belt. Swagger in their new-minted freedom, and resplendent in the light blue trousers and dark blue coats of the Federal uniform, with ridiculous little forage caps perched aslant upon the sides of their kinky heads, like chickens roosting on leaning poles, girdled with great brass-buckled U. S. Belts, and shouldering army muskets, full of insolence and of ribaldry, they took the highways and the by-ways for their own. Their former masters, however kindly they had been to them before and since freedom, were frequently spoken of behind their backs as “de rebel,” and the days of slavery were referred to as “rebel time” (times). Some of these soldiers had served for years, perhaps, others for months or weeks, few of them had smelt powder, all of them had smelt and fattened upon the bad--wickedly bad--bacon with which the loyal sutlers had supplied the invading army. (And, by the way, thousands of tierces of that same sutler’s bacon of the years ’64 and ’65 were still at large for full five years thereafter, supplied by the Charleston and Savannah factors to the low-country planters for their plantation commissaries.)

In addition to the disbanded troops, thousands of other negroes, who had never seen service, wore cheaply bought Federal uniforms and long, light blue overcoats, and sported caps and belts and condemned muskets, so that the whole countryside was black and blue, and they were constantly drilling, while the women, peahens that they were, worked for them and admired the strutting of their lordly peacocks. Often at night, from the quarters of a distant plantation, instead of the peaceful “tap, tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap,” of the sticks which the negroes beat on the floor to mark time for their dancing and “shouting,” there would come the rattle of a snaredrum, and one knew that an awkward squad was being put through awkward evolutions in the compound or “nigguhhouse yaa’d” for the edification of the quarters.

It was a psychological study to watch one of these squads or companies drilling or parading on the public highway, when a white man of a former slave-holding family approached. Neither stern disciplinary eye, nor sharp command, could keep the lines straight until after “de buckruh” had passed. There were sure to be some members of the squad whose hereditary respect--stronger far than the fear of the drill master--would impel them to scrape a foot or pull wool, till the alignment was as wabbly as a swimming moccasin.

One August day in the early ’70s, Prince Manigo, captain of the Adams Run Company, ordered his command out for drill, inspection and maneuvers. Sixty-five men reported; these were of all ages from 17 to 70. Some of them belonged around the village, but most of them came from about Toogoodoo, “down on de Salt,” as the inland negroes designate the sea coast and the contiguous lands lying along the salt rivers and creeks.

The place of assembly indicated by Captain Manigo was about a mile south of the village on the way to Toogoodoo. Once a member of Col Thomas Wentworth Higginson’s negro regiment, the “First South Carolina Volunteers,” organized at Beaufort in 1862, he had known picket duty about Port Royal Ferry during the war, and wished to familiarize his dusky outfit with service in the field. The road ran along the edge of a deep swamp, or bay. The growth on the rich lowlands was heavy, and beautiful magnolias, close-limbed and tall, as is their habit of growth in thick places, rose to a height of sometimes a hundred feet, the sunlight flashing from the curved backs of their dark and glossy leaves. Under these great trees, sweet bay, red bay, beech and maple grew in a tangle, and below these, tall canes and great sword ferns, with riotous vines of bamboo and wild grape, thickened into an almost impenetrable chaparral. In these woods, dimmed to a twilight darkness, Captain Manigo established his picket posts. Fifteen or twenty men were selected for this dangerous duty, for, at this season, the swamp was full of rattlesnakes and some of those picked for outpost duty objected. “Man, I cyan’ go een da’ t’icket. Snake dey dey tummuch.”

“Snake cyan’ see fuh bite now,” said another. “Ent you know suh rattlesnake’ hab skin ’puntop ’e yeye een Augus’ munt’? ’E bline’. ’E cyan’ see fuh bite.”

“Uh dunkyuh ef ’e yiz bline’, ef uh ’tep ’puntop’um ’e gwine bite me.”

“Go ’way, man, snake ent gwine bite you w’en you hab muskick een you han’ wid dat shaa’p bay’net en t’ing ’puntop’um.”

So all objections were overruled, and the posts established at intervals of a few hundred yards, the password “raccoon” was given to the corporals, and the captain and his inspectors, dismissing the remaining members of the company for a rest period, prepared to test the line of outposts. Making a wide detour they sneaked through the woods almost noiselessly. The dead leaves, fallen during the preceding winter, had softened long ago and were rapidly settling into the thick mold that covered the damp earth. Sneaking up on the farthest sentinel from the rear, Prince was almost upon him before the startled negro challenged “Halt! Weh oonuh gwine? Gimme de passwu’d!”

“Raccoon,” Prince responded.

“Oonuh cyan’ go t’ru ’puntop dat wu’d.”

Prince expostulated. “Raccoon” was the password he had given the corporals to pass on to their men, and having been selected as a word of singular appeal to the negroes, should have been one of the easiest to remember, so he repeated petulantly “_Raccoon, raccoon, raccoon_.”

“_’E yent wut_,” insisted the sentinel, as the long bayonet projected threateningly through the gum bushes. “Dat passwu’d cyan’ specify. Da’ longmout’ nigguh f’um Slann’ Ilun’, name Mingo, him dull de cawprul en’ him done tell me de wu’d two time, en’ ’scusin’ oonuh hab dat wu’d, oonuh yent fuh pass.”

As the corporal was several hundred yards away, Prince retired grumbling, and attempted the line at another point. He approached a wary old picket, a noted ’coon hunter, whose experienced ear detected even the soft footfalls of the inspectors, and he hailed them at a distance of 50 yards, in most unmilitary language. “Haw, buck! Oonuh try fuh sneak ’puntop me, enty? Uh binnuh hunt rokkoon en’ dem todduh waa’ment en’ t’ing ’fo’ you bawn! Come out, bubbuh! Uh yeddy you’ foot en’ uh see bush duh shake alltwo. Come out de t’icket. Exwance en’ gimme de passwu’d!”

But they couldn’t give it; not at least intelligibly to the ear of old Cæsar. Prince spoke with only a slight taint of Gullah, and when he had given “raccoon” to his Toogoodoo corporals, who understood him only after several repetitions, he didn’t realize that they would pass it on as “rokkoon” and that as “rokkoon” the “open sesame” of the countersign must be given. Again, therefore, with his own password correctly pronounced, the Captain had reached an impasse, and as Cæsar truculently stuck out both his mouth and his bayonet, the Corporal of the guard was demanded.

“Cawprul uh de gyaa’d! Pos’ number t’ree!” he bellowed. “Mek’ace en’ come’yuh! T’ree mans dey yuh duh try fuh git t’ru bedout no passwu’d. Ef dem got’um dem cyan’ call ’e name. Uh dunkyuh ef one is de cap’n, oonuh done tell me ’sponsubble suh ’e yent fuh pass bedout ’e got de wu’d.”

The thick-lipped corporal came.

“’Smattuh, Unk’ Cæsar? Yuh fuh call me?”

“Yaas, uh fuh call you fuh true. Mek dese’yuh man fuh gi’ we de sign.”

“Raccoon!” bellowed Prince.

“You shum, enty! Enty uh tell you ’e yent hab’um!”

“Yaas, man, da’ duh him! ’Rokkoon’ duh de passwu’d wuh Buh Prince gi’ we, but him ent call ’e name lukkuh we call’um, ’cause him bin Beefu’t rebel time ’long dem Nyankee en’ t’ing, en’ duh so dem call’um.”

“Uh dunkyuh how dem eegnunt Nyankee call rokkoon’ name, demself cyan’ pass dis t’icket ’scusin’ dem call’um lukkuh we call’um ’puntop Toogoodoo. En’ ’cause dis nigguh bin Beefu’t, him fuh ’spute ’long me en’ tell me how fuh call rokkoon’ name w’en uh binnuh ketch rokkoon befo’ ’e daddy hab ’e maamy! Ef ’e cyan’ call rokkoon’ name, uh keep’um yuh ’tell t’unduh roll!”

“_Rokkoon!_” conceded the chapfallen captain, and he passed, somewhat chagrined at the outcome of his picketing experiment.

The outposts were recalled, the other negroes aroused from among the roadside bushes where they had been resting, and the full company assembled for drill. The outfit was heavily officered, and the captain allowed them to take turns at putting the men through their paces. At last they were turned over to Mingo Brown, a pompous corporal, so puffed up with “a little brief authority” that most of the negroes grinned in his face, and some openly guffawed, “eh, eh, Buh Mingo swonguh fuh sowl!” The men, a ragged line, were ranged on one side of the road, and, facing them on the other, Mingo drew a great cavalry sabre and began to cut such anthropoidal antics before high heaven, that three gentlemen, returning from a successful hunt, reined in their horses a few yards away and paused to see the fun.

“’Tenshun! ’Tan’up ’traight, oonuh man! Oonuh stan’ crookety sukkuh wurrum fench w’en dem staa’t fuh t’row off ’e riduh fuh tayre’um down fuh moobe cowpen!

“Shoulduh, _aam!_ Pit oonuh muskick ’puntop oonuh shoulduh en’ hol’um ’traight. You mus’be t’ink dem duh hoe, enty? Fo’ man fuh stan’ side en’ side fuh mek one t’ickness. Faw-wud, _maa’ch! ’Top!_ Weh de debble oonuh gwine? Uh done tu’n oonuh head fuh face Toogoodoo Bridge, en’, please Gawd, oonuh w’eel sukkuh mule hab cucklebuhr een ’e yez, ’en fuh gone Adam’ Run billage!” Sure enough, as the execution of the command would have taken them over hunters and pack, they had reversed the order and started in the opposite direction.

“Fuh true, bubbuh, enty you see Mas’ Rafe en’ Mas’ Tom en’ dem duh paat’? Nigguh fuh maa’ch obuh buckruh, enty?”

“Buckruh, de debble! Enty de Freedmun Bruro mek we fuh free? Uh free tell uh fool! Prizzunt, _aam!_”

Some were shouldered, others ordered, a few “presented” with the butt of the piece against the waist and the bayonet sticking out at right angles to the body. “’Tenshun! Da’ man f’um Slann’ Ilun’ wuh duh ’tan’up close da’ ’tump fuh hol’ ’e gun een alltwo ’e han’. Him mus’be t’ink suh gun duh oshtuh rake! Groun’, _aam!_” And the whole perspiring line squatted and laid their pieces on the ground, rising just as the hunters gathered up their reins and rode along the line, while the hounds, with lofty tails, trotted after them, sniffing scornfully at the warriors’ legs as they passed.

“Huddy, Mas’ Rafe. How ole Missis en’ dem?”

“Mas’ Tom, you look nyung mo’nuh Mas’ Rafe.”

“Yaas, suh. Phyllis him well, suh, tengk Gawd.”

“Mas’ Dick, you sho’ hab uh hebby buck,” as the great velveted horns of a fine buck tied behind the hunter’s saddle brushed against him. And all down the line, their hands being free, men touched their little monkey caps or tugged at their kinky forelocks and scraped their feet, in token of the kindly respect in which, spite of freedom and franchise, muskets and uniforms, and the poisonous propaganda of the Freedman’s Bureau, they yet held those known throughout the countryside as having been kindly masters to their slaves, and just and liberal employers of the freedmen.

“Mas’ Rafe, please suh, gimme some tubackuh,” and the outstretched hand received a generous share of the contents of the donor’s pouch.

“Da’ duh my maussuh,” said the recipient proudly, filling his pipe as the hunters rode away.

“Cump’ny fawm two t’ickness’ een de rank,” shouted Mingo savagely. “_Don’ look at de buckruh, look at yo’ officer!_” and, turning to the smoker, he added: “Me yent hab no maussuh. _Uh free ez uh buzzut!_”

“Yaas, bubbuh. Buzzut free en’ buzzut black, but buzzut ent free ’nuf fuh light ’puntop nutt’n’ ’cep’n’ ’e dead, en’ nigguh ent free ’nuf fuh mek buckruh fuh bex!”

“OLD HARRISON”

A few years after the war old John Harrison came into the coast country from somewhere beyond Caw Caw Swamp. He boasted a strain of Indian blood, and he showed it in his pigeon-toed walk and the red, coppery tint that stained his bronzed face. Six feet tall and powerfully built, he carried his fifty-odd years lightly, although his high, heavy shoulders were somewhat hunched from the heavy burdens to which they were accustomed for, a noted “pot hunter,” he thought nothing of “packing” a hundred and fifty-pound buck five or ten miles through the forest. During the close season for game he was not averse to working, and had quite a local reputation as a shingle-maker and rail-splitter. His speech was the ordinary “cracker” dialect of the low-country with a suggestion of the Gullah, but he clipped his words, and when excited, his sentences ran into a quick crescendo, almost unintelligible and defying reproduction in print.

When he came to Pon Pon he was allowed to clear a small field in a distant part of the plantation, a mile away from the “big house,” now only a beautiful ruin, with ivy, woodbine, and Lamarque roses clambering 50 feet in the air over the 200-year-old chimneys of English brick. On his “new ground,” old Harrison built a large and trim-looking log cabin, and here he took up residence with his motherless children, two small girls and a straight and strapping son of 18, who helped his father with his work, but not in the chase, for Harrison hunted alone, sometimes, with a single well-trained hound, disappearing for two or three days at a time, to return laden with venison or wild turkeys which were sold at the railway station. His dog, like those of most of the “pot hunters” who follow the chase on foot, was trained to silence, and never gave tongue. A small bell was attached to his collar and he was seldom out of sight of his master, who could tell by the movement of his ears and tail when the animal had found a trail, and when the lifting of the ears and the more rapid wagging of the tail indicated the near approach to the myrtle thicket where the deer lay in his bed, both barrels of the muzzle-loader were cocked and Harrison usually got a shot as the deer “jumped.”

Ben Summers, a large black negro in late middle-age, was a “locus” preacher in the neighborhood and, a jackleg carpenter, worked as well as preached. Throughout his life he had been partial to wives, having been more or less affiliated with six or seven, whom he put away and took back again, with no more ceremony than his change of mind. Unruly and insubordinate as a slave, he became “swonguh” with freedom, and was more or less insolent, save to his former master’s family. He was regarded as a rascal by whites and blacks, and when a calf or a shoat was missed in the community, Ben was not infrequently suspected of having shared the meat, either as a participant in the slaughter, or as a welcomed guest at the banqueting board of the thief.

One of Ben’s wives had achieved a son by a former husband, before Ben took her over, and this stepson had acquired a wife, a husky, cornfed wench, an Amazon in strength and fierceness. Soon after her marriage, old Ben, a rough-talking, brutal fellow, who tyrannized over the women of his entourage, undertook to discipline this step-daughter-in-law with physical chastisement. Cutting a hickory, he proceeded to manhandle her as he had been accustomed to use his wives. She accepted two or three blows, and then turned upon him so swiftly that he was swept off his feet and mauled almost into unconsciousness. After he had been patched up and rehabilitated, and the first bitterness of defeat had worn off, he really liked to tell the story, laying the unction to his soul that only his Christian spirit had stayed his hand and saved the life of the virago.

“Ben, you are a big strong man, why did you let that woman beat you?”

“Gin’ul, lemme tell you de trute, Gawd bin wid me dat day. You know, all me life uh bin uh strong man. Uh nebbuh hab no man fuh outdo me fuh wu’k, eeduhso fuh fight, en’ uh bin nyuse fuh lick ’ooman en’ t’ing all me life. W’en ’ooman ent sattify me wid ’e wu’k, eeduhso ’e mannus, uh lick’um fuh mek’um mannusubble. W’en my wife Sarah’ son John’ wife come een my house dat day, ’e sassy ’tell ’e mek me bex. Uh nebbuh tek sassy f’um no ’ooman, uh dunkyuh ef ’e big ez cow, en’ da’ gal big ’ooman fuh true. So uh cut one ’tick en’ uh graff’um by ’e sleebe en’ biggin fuh lick’um. Gin’ul, de ’ooman tu’n on me en’ box me same lukkuh him duh man. Blood bin een me yeye! Uh ’membuh de time w’en uh could’uh box’um en’ kick’um alltwo one time, en’ ef uh ebbuh leh de _foot_ folluh de _han’_, uh would uh kill’um _dead_. But Gawd hol’ me han’ en’ me foot, alltwo, Gawd tell me fuh peaceubble, en’ spayre de ’ooman life. Gin’ul, me don’ want no ’ooman life ’pun me han’. Enty you know, suh, ef uh had uh kick dat ’ooman ’e would uh dead? Gawd tek’care uh ol’ Ben dat day. Da’ ’ooman t’ink suh him lick me, Gin’ul, but enty you know suh him oughtuh tengk Gawd fuh sabe’um? Ef uh didn’ bin hab ’lij’un, da’ ’ooman’ cawpse would’uh gone Jacksinburruh een one oxin cyaa’t weh ’e come f’um. All de time ’e binnuh box me, uh bin study ’bout how da’ ’ooman’ cawpse would’uh look ef uh had uh hit’um like de time w’en uh nyuse to be uh Ben! En’ uh study ’pun him husbun’, my wife Sarah’ boy John, en’ uh study ’pun John’ maamy, en’ uh t’ink ’bout how dem will mo’n ef uh kill dis ’ooman, en’ wid Gawd’ help uh hab strengk ’nuf fuh hol’ me han’. Gin’ul, w’enebbuh uh look ’puntop de’ dead ’ooman een me mine’, uh tengk Gawd eb’ry day fuh hol’ me han’!”

Once a fine shoat strayed too near to Ben’s little field and soon found its way into the old man’s larder, where it was found by a search party in charge of old Harrison. An examination showed that the animal had been shot with duck shot, and shot of the same size having been found in the undischarged barrel of the negro’s double-barrel, Ben was arrested and sent to Walterboro jail and Harrison was summoned as a witness. Harrison was fond of a dram and looked forward to the approach of court week which would bring him a visit to the county seat with witness fees of 50 cents a day and mileage. Walterboro was 35 miles away, and five cents a mile both ways meant $3.50, which loomed large in the mind of the old hunter. On the Saturday night before the convening of court, he prepared a week’s rations of cornbread, bacon and baked sweet potatoes, and early Sunday morning filled a great knapsack, and, with his long gun on his shoulder, walked all the way to the county seat. On the following day the pig thief was duly arraigned, the jury organized, and old Harrison, loaded to the muzzle with Walterboro whiskey, to which he had been treated by the youngsters who liked to hear him talk, came to the witness stand, a 20-pound knapsack of provisions around his shoulders and his long gun in his hand. His direct testimony was:

“Sunday mornin’ bin over t’ Cap’n Elliott’s, coz mostly Sunday mornin’ ef uh goes by th’ house Cap’n gennully gives me uh pow’ful drink, en’ uh allus likes me dram. W’en uh got through me dram, uh was walkin’ ’long by ol’ Ben’s house, en’ uh heerd uh gun shoot. Uh meet some boys and went to th’ house en’ fin’ th’ shoat en’ fin’ number two duck shot een ’im. Uh fin’ ol’ Ben’s gun in the corner, one barrel been fired, en’ uh drawed th’ load of t’other barrel en’ fin’ number two duck shot, same size ez een th’ shoat. Then uh told Cap’n, he give me ’nother dram, we ’rested ol’ Ben in th’ pulpit where he was preachin’ to a raft uh niggers, en’ we send him to Walterboro.”

Then came the cross-examination. The young lawyer for the defense baited old Harrison to the great amusement of the court room.