Part 12

“What do you know about duck shot?” he was asked. “I don’t believe you know the size of a duck shot.”

“Uh don’t know de size uv uh duck shot! _Course_ uh knows de size uv uh duck shot. Bin hunt’n’ all me life, bin shoot’n’ _duck shot_ all me life.”

“If you know the size of a duck shot, take this pencil and let the jury see you draw one on the court house wall.”

Harrison rose with bleary eyes and a fatuous smile on his bronzed face. Unable to read or write, he held the pencil as a small boy holds a sizzling firecracker, but he was game and stepped up to the wall primed with the confidence born of ignorance. Judge, jury and spectators craned their necks to see the performance. The draftsman stuck close to the wall and moved the pencil slowly and laboriously over the whitewashed surface. When at last he stepped back and turned around proudly to reveal his work, the court house exploded with laughter, from Judge Wallace on the bench, to the tipstaff at the door, for the tipsy old hunter’s outline of a duck shot was about eight inches long and five inches wide and bore a striking resemblance to the continent of Africa. He returned to the witness chair. Taking the shouts of merriment as tributes to the accuracy of his sketch, he looked scornfully at the young lawyer.

“Ain’t I tell ye uh know’d d’size uv uh duck shot? Bin shoot’n’ duck shot all me life. _Course_ uh knows d’size uv uh duck shot!” And there was more laughter.

The negro was convicted, and sent to the penitentiary for two years, but was soon leased to a railroad contractor, and, becoming a “trusty” and a cook, had an easy time. When he returned to Pon Pon he resumed his place in the pulpit without the slightest loss of caste, and often referred to his sojourn in the Capital City, telling many stories to the members of his flock about “de time w’en uh bin penitenshus,” or “w’en uh bin Cuhlumbia.”

One Christmas morning old Harrison came to the house with the portentous information that he intended to marry the widow Pendarvis, was then on his way to her habitation seven or eight miles away, and would bring back his bride the same evening.

“Dat whut uh yaim t’do Cap’n. Uh knows hits pow’ful resky t’marry uh widder, coz dey allus knows toomuch, but uh needs uh ’ooman to clean up en’ do about d’house, en’ look after d’children, en’ de widder Pendarvis is uh right peart creeter, en’ she ain’t got uh lazy bone een her, so uh reck’n uh’ll resk it. Den, she’s got a son, John Henry, ’bout d’age uh my William. John Henry he ain’t much account, but uh needs anuther han’ en’ uh reck’n uh kin make out wid John Henry, so uh yaims to tek d’widder.”

The old adventurer was fitted out with a white shirt and a handkerchief, a pocketful of Christmas candies and a couple of stiff snifters, and so, fortified, he started toward the widow, stepping high, gun on shoulder. “Uh allus totes m’gun. Y’never knows whut y’gwine t’see.”

So the widow Pendarvis was duly acquired and proved a faithful and useful spouse, but old Harrison soon reached the conclusion that he had been gold-bricked in John Henry. “He ain’t no manner uv account. Ain’t wuth d’powder’n shot it ud’take t’kill’im! W’en uh married d’widder, uh didn’ aim t’git much uv uh bargin in John Henry, he was jus’ kinder throw’d een fuh good measure like, but now uh wisht he mout uh bin throw’d out.”

A year or two later William Harrison was walking the woods one day, and from a shallow grave at the edge of a negro’s field, his dogs dug up the hide and head of a stolen cow which the thief had buried to hide the ear-marks and the brand. The negro was sent to jail to await trial and William was subpœnæd as the chief witness. Old Harrison protested. “’Taint uh bit uh use t’sen’ William t’Walterboro fuh fifty cents uh day, w’en ’e’s makin’ seventy-five cents uh day now. W’y don’t yuh take my stepson John Henry Pendarvis fer uh witness? He ain’t a workin’ en’ he’ll be glad t’git d’fifty cents uh day.” It was explained to the old hunter that as John Henry had not found the telltale hide and head, and knew nothing about the case, he could not be accepted as proxy. “Don’t make uh bit uh diff’unce. William kin tell John Henry whut he found en’ John Henry kin go t’Walterboro en’ swear to it. John Henry he’s a noble liar, en’ he kin lie en’ stick to’t. Them Walterboro lawyers can’t shake him.”

After awhile, bad health came upon the former widow, and in taking palliatives to relieve her pain, she became addicted to opium and spent all she could scrape for the drug at the village store. At last the neighborhood doctor warned her husband, “Harrison, if you don’t look out, some day your wife will take an overdose of laudanum and go up the spout.”

“Well, Doctor, ’tain’t fuh me to go ag’in her! She’s bin’uh noble ’ooman in ’er time. She’s never had uh lazy bone een ’er body. She’s bin uh pow’ful hand to do about, en’ she’s bin as peart uh ’ooman as ever was wropped up in that much hide, but she’s gitt’n kinder poorly now, she ain’t whut she used to be, she ain’t much account now, she can’t scrub no mo’, she’s got de rheumatism in de jints, so, Doctor, if she aims to go, uh reck’n d’best thing to do is to let her take a pow’ful dost en’ _let ’er go_!” So--poor, tired soul--she went.

A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE

Twenty-five years ago, old Jane was the very efficient cook at the Pawley’s Island hotel. A widow woman of fifty-odd, her black countenance, with its aquiline nose and sharp chin, was shrewd and witchlike.

“Old maids” are seldom met with among the low-country negroes, most of the women achieving matrimony, or having matrimony thrust upon them, at an early age in communities where marrying and unmarrying are but the merest incidents in their social and economic lives--and they are largely socio-economic relations,--“Uh haffuh hab wife fuh cook fuh me en’ wash me clo’es, enty?” “Uh haffuh hab man fuh wu’k fuh me en’ min’ me, enty?”--“and so they were married.”

Often, however, in early life, less frequently in middle age, women are, for the moment, unmarried, or, as one might more correctly say, unaffiliated, and if one of these “unaffiliations” should last long enough to constitute more than a very brief intermission in the matrimonial program, one, if of the fiercer sex, incurs the odium supposedly attaching to “oldmaidenhood.”

Jane had in her time looked upon husbands in yellow and brown and black, and had almost run the chromatic scale in temperament as in pigmentation. The sharps had irritated, the flats had wearied her--the “naturals,” being neither too sharp nor too flat, were, like the small wee bear’s belongings, “just right,” and Jane, like Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, thanked the Lord for them while they lasted. “But pleasures are like poppies spread,” and, as in Georgetown colored circles husbands don’t always “stay put,” one by one Jane’s poppies--perhaps she thought them snap-dragons--folded their petals and their tents, and, forsaking the dusky companionship of the old love, flitted away to present freedom and prospective enslavement to the new--for there’s always a new--“ef rokkoon only hab one tree fuh climb, dog ketch’um,” being an axiom among them. As Jane couldn’t trot in double harness, she single-footed successfully for several years--so successfully, indeed, that she developed a fine scorn for the opposite sex. “Dem ent wut,” she thought, and “_dem ent wut_,” she said, whenever men were mentioned. In her solitude she found solace in industry, and, working at odd jobs during the winter, supplemented her summer earnings at the hotel and soon acquired enough to buy “uh piece uh groun’” (the coast negroes never speak of land) and built thereon a comfortable cabin, near which, within a wattled clapboard fence, she enclosed a plot where she grew the easy-going squashes and beans in summer, and Georgia collards--the holly-hocks of the vegetable garden--in winter.

Jane’s domain was on the mainland in the flat pine woods thick sown with clumps of the dark green tropical-looking saw-palmettoes, and bordered the marsh-fringed inlet or tidal lagoon, beyond which, half a mile distant, lay the broad ocean beach, the rolling sand dunes and the dwarf live-oak and cedar scrub of “the Island.” Here, nestling among the thickets, and sheltered under the protecting shoulders of the hills, were the summer cottages of the Islanders, and here, too, just opposite Jane’s cottage, stood the hotel, where all through the summer days she fried whiting, boiled sheepshead, deviled crabs, and did sundry other things to the sea-food that the fishermen constantly brought to her kitchen. Jane’s riparian rights permitted her a landing where, moored to a primitive little pier, she kept the flat-bottomed skiff in which morning and evening she crossed the unvexed waters that lay between her home and her work.

Esau, a trifling, ramshackle, youngish negro, made an easy living by fishing, crabbing and doing odd jobs about the Island community. He was venturesome, as most saltwater negroes are, and often in the early mornings ran his leaky skiff through the breakers at the mouth of the inlet, and rowing--or wafted, when the wind favored, by a rag of a sail--adventured out to sea five miles from the beach, dropped an anchor made of two condemned iron pots tied together, and fished upon the blackfish rocks in the broiling sun till noon, returning to shore to sell the good fish to the Islanders and, later, eat the culls and odds and ends himself. On other days, when the East wind warned him that the fish wouldn’t bite, he bogged about the little creeks and runs of the marsh, or along the edge of the lagoon, and caught crabs by the basketful, which usually found a ready market.

Bringing his fish often to the hotel, Esau was on pleasant conversational terms with old Jane, and she often handed him out toothsome bits of “buckruh bittle” that fell from the overflowing table. In return for these gastronomic courtesies, Esau would chop wood, split kindling, or do other manly things that chivalrous colored bucks not infrequently perform for the females outside of their own family circles.

One hot August morning, Esau gathered lines and bait as soon as it was broad daylight, and, slipping over the shallow bar at the mouth of the lagoon, sculled lazily out to the “drop” on the rocks. It was a windless dawn, the sea was without a ripple, and the slow, heaving swells reflected the opalescent tints of the eastern sky. The tide was still on the ebb, and its impulse, augmenting his speed, soon brought him to the drop where he cast anchor, and the boat swung round, bow to land, while Esau, in the stern, sat with his back to the rising sun and threw out his lines. The fish bit well, and at the end of two or three hours the bottom of Esau’s boat was well covered with the shining catch, chiefly speckled sea trout, whiting and blackfish. The sun increased in warmth, and Esau nodded and dozed and then slept, although, with the turn of the tide, the prow of his boat now pointed seaward and the sunshine burned in his face. At last, at noon, when its beams fell vertically upon his kinky head, he awoke with a start as a big horse-mackerel leaped from the water so near him that he was drenched with its spray. He looked out upon a sea of molten silver. A great shark, as long as his boat, rose slowly from the depths to within a foot of the surface, and, lying motionless, regarded him with cold, expressionless eyes. Esau shuddered. “_Great Gawd_,” he muttered, “_time fuh gone home_!” and, as the sinister creature sank out of sight, he quickly hauled up anchor, shipped oars, and pulled lustily to shore. It was high tide when he reached the inlet, and he rode the long rollers over the bar, and soon ran the nose of his skiff ashore on the oyster shells of the landing. He strung his fish and set out to find a market, but the time lost while he slept had made him too late to supply the dinners of his usual customers, and, as his fish were now stale, he had no recourse but to eat them himself, so he set about cleaning them, and an hour later, when Jane, having served the hotel dinner, was dining alone in the kitchen, Esau appeared and ingratiatingly asked the loan of a frying pan, “please, ma’am, en’ some greese fuh greese’um.” As neither fat nor fuel cost Jane anything, she graciously complied, in the handsome spirit that prompts so many of us to be generous at the expense of others. Esau rubbed the greasy bacon-rind over the broad, generous bottom of the hotel frying pan and, having lubricated it sufficiently, cast in his fish, and the horrible sound and the horrible smell of frying soon filled the ears and the nostrils of every one about the establishment. Esau fried and he fried until, having filled a large tray with fish, he hung up the frying pan, took down his appetite, and began to eat. Esau was an eater, and had no half-dealings with his art. Seizing a fish by the head and tail, he moved it laterally across his mouth as some traveling men maneuver green corn on the cob, or as the village darkey plays the mouth-organ, until, in the twinkling of an eye, only the bones remained in his greasy fingers; then he played another mouth-organ, until in a few minutes he was filled to the neck, and only ten or twelve fried trout remained, and these he _cached_ with old Jane for future attention, and betook himself to the shade of a scrubby live-oak nearby to rest. He threw himself on the sand and slept for several hours like a gorged Anaconda. At last, toward sundown, the land breeze brought the mosquitoes from the mainland across the lagoon, and they swarmed over him. Thrashing about in his troubled sleep, some of the cockspurs that grow everywhere in the Island sands worked their way through his thin homespun trousers and stung him into wakefulness. He arose grouchy and grumbling, and returned to the kitchen where Jane was already preparing supper. “Eh, eh, weh you bin, Esau?” she greeted him.

“Uh binnuh sleep, ma’am, en’ muskittuh’ en’ cockspuhr’ en’ t’ing wake me en’ mek me fuh git up.”

“Wuh you gwine do wid dese fish wuh you lef’, Esau? De buckruh sen’ wu’d suh dem fish duh bodduhr’um, en’ ’e tell me fuh t’row’um een de ribbuh.”

“Uh had bidness fuh eat all dem fish one time, den uh wouldn’ haffuh t’row’um ’way.” And Esau sidled over to the tray of fish, and, looking at them regretfully, pinched off nibbling bits with his fingers and carried them to his mouth.

“You bettuh t’row’way da’ t’ing, Esau,” admonished Jane as she bustled about her work.

“Yaas, ma’am, uh gwine t’row’um ’way bumbye. Uh yent duh eat’um, uh jis’ duh pinch’um.” And he went slowly out toward the lagoon with the tray under his arm, but, as he walked, he pinched the fish so assiduously that, by the time he came to the water, little save the bones remained.

Two hours later, Jane approached the mistress of the house with an anxious face. “Please, ma’am, fuh gimme some ginjuh en’ t’ing fuh gi’ Esau ’fo’ ’e dead. Da’ nigguh sho’ hab uh hebby appetite fuh eat bittle. ’E ketch all dem fish, en’ ’e couldn’ sell’um to de buckruh ’cause dem binnuh leddown all day een de sunhot, en’ him fry’um en’ nyam t’ree string by ’eself, en’ ’e lef’ one string ’tell aw’ile ago, en’ uh tell’um fuh t’row’way dat one, en’ ’e staa’t’ fuh t’row’um ’way, but de fish cry out fuh Esau en’ Esau yeddy de cry, en’ ’e pinch de fish, en’ ’e keep on pinch’um, pinch ’um, ’tell ’e done nyam mos’ all de fish, en’ now de fish pinch _him_! Uh bin hab uh bottle uh hawss linniment fuh rub hawss, en’ uh t’row dat een’um, but de bottle didn’ bin mo’nuh half full, en’ uh ’f’aid de linniment ent ’nuf fuh do’um good, alldo’ ’e strangle Esau w’en him swalluhr’um, en’ mek’um fuh spit sukkuh crab spit. Now, ’e duh roll obuh en’ obuh ’pun de groun’ same lukkuh mule roll w’en ’e tu’n out duh Sunday, en’ oonuh kin yeddy’um groan sukkuh dem ’ooman groan to the sett’n’up, w’en dem husbun’ en’ t’ing dead. Ef you please, ma’am, kin gimme some linniment, uh sump’n’nurruh fuh g’em, uh dunkyuh ef ’tis kyarrysene, ’cause da’ nigguh gwine dead!”

“What do you want, Jane--ginger, peppermint or whiskey?”

“Wuh da’ las’ one you call ’e name, Missis?”

“Whiskey.”

“Missis, da’ t’ing too sca’ceful fuh t’row’um ’way ef da’ nigguh gwine dead. Ef you ent got de linniment, please, ma’am, gimme de ginjuh en’ de peppuhmint alltwo, so uh kin t’row’um een Esau.”

“Don’t give him too many things, Jane, one is enough.”

“Missis, enty da’ nigguh eat _fo’ kinduh fish_? Uh wan’ g’em meddisin fuh reach all de kinduh fish wuh ’e done eat. Uh yent want’um fuh dead on my han’, ’cause him ent hab no fambly, en’ ’e yent blonx to no suhciety fuh bury’um, en’ uh know berry well me yent fuh t’row’way money fuh buy shroud en’ cawpse en’ t’ing fuh no Esau, so please, ma’am, mek’ace en’ gimme de t’ing fuh t’row een’um en’ see ef uh kin sabe ’e life!”

A liberal dose of mixed ginger and peppermint was poured into a tin cup, the rim of which Jane forced between Esau’s teeth, and drenched him so successfully that in a few minutes he was flopping over the ground like a fish just pulled out of the water. His spasms were soon over, however, and he lay in a state of semi-coma. Jane was delighted. “Missis, me en’ you done sabe Esau’ life. Da’ nigguh blonx to me en’ you, Missis, en’ uh gwine mek’um wu’k.”

Summer passed into early autumn. The days shortened. September suns burned fiercely upon the ripening corn, and through the lengthening nights heavy dews fell on the purple petticoat-grass and the golden-rod. Between sunset and dusk, summer ducks flew over from their feeding grounds to their roosts in the pineland ponds, and all through the night sounded the faint “tweet, tweet” of the ricebirds passing on to their winter quarters.

So Jane, in the late summer of her days, looked kindly upon the man she had saved, even though she did not value the salvage very highly, and Esau gradually got in the habit of hanging about her kitchen and submitting to the air of proprietorship which she assumed toward him, chopping wood and doing other little chores for her, as a matter of course.

At last, one Thursday evening toward the end of the month, Jane bashfully appeared before her mistress, holding a corner of her apron against a corner of her mouth, which widened almost from ear to ear.

“Missis, uh come fuh tell you, ma’am, uh gwine marri’d Esau. Da’ nigguh duh heng roun’ de kitchen ’tell ’e git een me way. Uh cyan’ tu’n roun’ bidout step ’puntop’um, so uh gwine tek’um fuh husbun’.”

The announcement caused quite a flutter among the ladies at the hotel, and, as Jane had fixed the following Saturday evening for the wedding, they hastened to overhaul their wardrobes for suitable material with which to deck out the bride. An old dotted-swiss muslin, found hidden away, was contributed by its owner as something sweet and virginal with which to rig out the craft that had sailed the seven seas of matrimony. Another guest of the hotel contributed a pair of white stockings, and, as Jane desired a veil, a breadth of old mosquito-netting, stiffly starched and skilfully laundered, was added to the outfit. On Saturday night, an hour after supper time, Jane, under the convoy of Esau and accompanied by the “locus pastuh” (the local preacher of her church) appeared before the hotel company assembled on the piazza, and announced her readiness to wed. The mosquito-net veil had been artistically looped about her by some of the ladies, and the dotted-swiss enveloped her with its starched stiffness. The knot was soon tied, and Jane, carrying the bride cake in her arms and followed by her new husband, floated away like a smutty coal-carrying brig, under a new suit of sails.

On the following morning, Jane appeared in the kitchen earlier than usual. The lady of the house asked what she had done with her new husband. “Uh run’um off, missis. Uh yent want’um. Wuh me fuh do wid man! Enty uh hab proputty! Uh marri’d Esau fuh git husbun’, uh yent marry’um fuh git man! Nigguh’ wuh grow up sence freedum, dem ent wut! Uh marry’um, den uh t’row’um ’way!”

“Why did you marry him, then, if you didn’t want him?”

“Ki! Missis! _Uh marry’um fuh shet dem todduh ’ooman’ mout’! You t’ink me wan’ dem gal’ fuh call me ole maid?_”

THE PLAT-EYE

All low-country negroes believe more or less in “sperrits,” “haants” and other mysterious appearances, but the “plat-eye,” peculiar to the Georgetown coast, is the weirdest and most fearsome that vexes the roaming negroes at night. Plat-eyes appear to old and young of both sexes, sometimes in the form of a small dog or other animal, while at other times they may float like wraiths along the marshes or unfrequented paths, or stoop like low-hung clouds and envelop the victim. Most frequently, however, the plat-eye appears in the form of some familiar animal which, glaring at the beholder with eyes of fire, springs upon him, frightening him into rigidity, and, just as he expects his vitals to be torn out, the apparition vanishes, and the trembling negro hurries on his way. The belief has been expressed that, in some instances, the negroes to whom plat-eyes appear have fallen asleep as they walked, and, dreaming of these terrors, awakened to find them gone. In whatsoever form they come, however, the negroes dread the visitations as Werewolves were feared in Europe not so long ago.

Now, old Jane, the cook at the Pawley’s Island summer hotel, the many-times widowed woman who, having saved the life of Esau, the fisherman, by drenching him with horse liniment after he had partaken too freely of the spoils of his lines, had wedded that same Esau to save herself the reproach of oldmaidenhood, and had chased him away the morning after her _Marriage de Convenance_, was a fervent and fearful believer in plat-eyes. Whenever and wherever she went her ways at night, she was on the lookout for them, and the expectation of their momentary appearance kept her nerves in a pleasant state of jumpiness. A stray calf at the edge of the clearing, a raccoon ambling along a woodland path, a sudden rabbit bouncing up before her, the horned owl that lifted her wayward fowls from their runaway roost on the ridgepole of her cabin, even the ghostly sandcrabs that drifted along the beaches at night as lightly as wind-blown foam, were all potential plat-eyes!

Two weeks had passed since Jane, the self-made celibate, had ejected the transitory husband of her bosom from the “bed and board” to which, under colored custom, if not under State law, he was supposed to be entitled. Esau wandered about, following his usual vagrant occupations, but vaguely conscious of his rather indefinite status as a husband--responsibilities there were none. Jane, to whom the marriage had brought wifehood--in the abstract, and very real things in the dotted-swiss and the white stockings of her bridal outfit--being withal as free and untrammeled in her property and her person as she had been before the episode, felt herself the gainer, and, to do her justice, regarded Esau rather as a slaughtered innocent. In respect of one small matter, however, Esau, too, had gained something. During his tentative courtship, or rather while, without his knowledge, Jane had had him under consideration, he chopped wood and did other chores for her without specific contract for compensation, for Jane was then an unrelated and unconnected female of the species, and he willingly performed these gallantries for her; but once married, even though she had so speedily and unceremoniously divorced, or put him away, she was yet his woman--in thought at least, his chattel--and, harking back to his African ancestry, he bethought him that women were but hewers of wood and drawers of water, the domestic slaves of the lordly males, and, before laying hand to axe or stooping to pick up chips or driftwood, he never failed to bargain and chaffer with the cook for what she should pay him--at the expense of the lady of the house.