Part 7

All through the autumn, when golden-rod and sumac flaunted the colors of Spain from every neglected fence corner, and the ripening sun burned from the blue through the haze that hung over the earth, when the crows, uttering their care-free harvest note, flew over the tawny fields of corn, and negroes with nimble fingers pulled the reluctant locks from the half-opened Sea Island cotton bolls, when squirrels chattered and barked contentedly among the hickories as they commenced to gather their winter’s store, and wild pigs nosed about for acorns among the rustling leaves in the oak groves--all through these September and October days, the boy had pestered old Abram, the most successful ’coon hunter on Pon Pon, to organize a torchlight hunt and take him along. Abram White, or “’Bram,” as he was commonly called, was a slow-talking, slow-thinking, slow-moving old darkey; so deliberate that the mental effort involved in answering the simplest question would furrow his brow like an old-fashioned washboard. He had been allowed to clear up a piece of rich land on Cotton Hill, far removed from the “quarters” of the other negroes, and this field he held rent-free in return for the labor of bringing it under cultivation. The task occupied old ’Bram for several years. First building a substantial cabin for his smart wife, Delia, he proceeded to “ring” the forest trees and, leaving them to die, slowly grubbed up the smaller trees and undergrowth, planting in the little cleared plots patches of corn, peas and sweet potatoes, increasing his field bit by bit each year. He was employed regularly as night watchman for the plantation and, armed with his long “muskick”--a condemned army weapon--walked his beat about barn and stables from dark till dawn, returning from each round to drowse near the big fire which he invariably made in an open spot, summer as well as winter, for the coast negroes are true fire-worshipers and their love for the flames that leap and the embers that glow is as great as their skill in fire-making. Abram owned the best ’coon dog in the community, a black mongrel of medium size with a blaze in the face and a white ring around his neck. Devoted as he was to Delia, Abram’s love for “Ring” was almost as great, and his pride in the dog’s accomplishments and reliability was infinite. The abandoned rice field now overgrown, near old Abram’s new-ground, was full of raccoons and ’possums and the old hunter often got permission to put on a substitute watchman for part of the night, while he foraged the woods with almost invariable success, and all through the winter the jambs of his wide-throated clay chimney were hung with the smoked flesh of his spoils, while their pelts--ring-tailed and rat-tailed--adorned the outer walls of his log cabin.

The veteran ’coon dog will rarely follow any other animal than raccoon or ’possum--the lawful prey of his negro master--ignoring the frequently crossed trails of deer or fox. Puppies and undisciplined dogs often break away and run rabbits, of course, but they are always caught and thrashed and the occasional lapse is held derogatory to the dog’s master. Both objects of the chase are nocturnal feeders, sleeping most of the day in hollow trees or logs. Sometimes the hollow is high up in the fork of some forest giant, completely hidden by the lianas that run from the ground to the topmost branches. A dog will occasionally bark at a tree whence the ’coon has descended, or one from which the quarry has crossed on a limb or vine to another tree, and whenever the hunter finds that his dog has “treed” at a vacant tree, the poor animal is held to have “lied” and is given a severe whipping, so seasoned dogs make few mistakes and old Abram’s Ring was always true.

At last, as October drew to a close and the first white frost nipped the potato vines, the boy’s importunities bore fruit in a promise from Abram to take him on the first clear night in the dark of the moon, the condition being that the boy should furnish travel rations. The night appointed proved fine and frosty, with a sharp tang in the air, and an hour or two after dark the hunt assembled. Besides his single-barreled muzzle-loader, the boy “packed” a knapsack filled with smoked herrings and hardtack from the plantation commissary. Abram had his musket, and Tom Ford and Joe Smashum, two young negroes, their axes. All three carried bundles of “fat” lightwood for torches strapped to their backs. Sike, a half-grown black boy, carried himself. All the negroes were bare-footed, the horny soles of their feet having become so toughened as to make them indifferent to briars and snags. Ring wagged his tail expectantly and, like his master, looked contemptuously upon the two young curs that followed Joe.

And now they started single file, the boy in front, then old ’Bram, the torch-bearers last, throwing a flood of light ahead of them, the dogs at heel close to their respective masters. So, down the broad avenue of live-oaks, the great trees heavily bearded with the gray Spanish moss, assuming fantastic shapes in the flare of the torches, on across the old King’s Highway, past the Big Spring and over a low causeway that spanned an old rice field. Here the party hesitated between two “drives” that seemed equally promising, one to the right across the “half moon” dam to a thickly wooded island in the big savanna, the other with a slant to the left through a grove of big beeches toward the “Blue House” back water. While old Abram scratched his head for a decision which “the stubborn glebe” was slow to yield, Ring, who had been nosing about, dashed suddenly among the undergrowth of saw-palmettoes that covered the ground under the beeches and, giving tongue on a hot trail, ended his master’s cogitations. The other dogs followed the veteran in full cry, and in a few minutes Ring’s slow and measured barking apprised his master that he had “treed.” The negroes shouted encouragingly, “_speak, Ring!_” “_Speak to’um, boy!_” as the party pushed through the thicket and found Ring sitting before a loblolly pine, one of a group of three which grew close together with their upper limbs almost touching.

There are three methods of getting a raccoon out of a tree. By “shining” his eyes, which is done by holding the torch behind one, and shooting him; by cutting down the tree and trusting to the dogs to capture him before he gets away; or by climbing the tree and shaking him down or making him jump off. As Tom Ford was a noted climber and the tree was not too large for him to “hug,” it was decided to climb, after the “shining” method had been resorted to without success. Tom cut a stick about six feet long which he tied around his neck and dragged up after him. This was to be used to poke the quarry off the limb in case he came to close quarters. He threw off his jacket and cap and commenced swarming up the trunk which stretched full forty feet without a limb, lifting himself with his powerful ape-like arms and the cupped hollows of his bare, horny feet, with which he gripped the trunk. In a few minutes he reached the first limb and the excitement below him increased, both hunters and dogs looking earnestly upward as the climber stood on the limb and looked above and around him, trying to locate the quarry.

“Weh ’e dey, Tom?” called Abram. “You shum?”

“Uh yent shum,” was the laconic response.

Tom again hugged the tree, whose narrowed trunk now gave him a better hold, and went up ten or twelve feet to the next limb. Just as he pulled himself over it and got to his feet, there was a great rattling of claws on the bark of a long outstretching limb a few feet over his head, and, silhouetted against the patches of starlight that broke the leafage above him, he could make out the cunning ’coon running along the limb to its very end where it touched a far-reaching bough from the second tree of the group. Tom yelled, with the hope that he might frighten the animal into missing its step and falling, but the sure-footed creature passed safely and disappeared among the dark needles that veiled his sanctuary.

“Look out, Unk’ Ebbrum, look out! ’E done cross to de todduh tree,” Tom called, as he began to slide toward the earth. The group on the ground flared torches and looked anxiously at the new retreat, but no shining eyes were visible, and the futility of further pursuit of this particular ’coon was realized, as he had demonstrated that he could cross too readily from one to another of the three sister pines. The short chase had lasted only a few minutes and the hunt took up its equipment and returned to the Caw Caw Swamp Road, Abram, after much pondering, having decided to exploit the “Tombs” drive, a noted hunting ground. Half a mile farther and the party turned to the right and in a few minutes passed near “the Tombs,” one of the Colonial burying grounds found occasionally in the low-country forests.

The solitary negro will seldom pass one of these graveyards at night, and even with companions and torches the ’coon-hunters walked more rapidly until “the Tombs” was passed. As they entered an old field with several large persimmon trees full of ripening fruit, to Abram’s experienced eye a presage of ’possums, sure enough, in a moment, one of Joe’s curs, with a shrill yelp, struck a hot trail and off they went across the big field, followed rapidly by men and boys. The dogs overtook the quarry at the edge of the clearing and treed at a young oak, near whose top the torches revealed a big ’possum about thirty feet from the ground. As the tree was easy, Sike, the fourteen-year-old novice, was given the place of honor as climber, and up he went, full of the pride that goeth before a fall. Sike was short and fat, and spread-eagled himself like a great black frog as he laboriously worked his way upward. The going was heavy, and having his hands or his arms full, he did not take the precaution to look above him until he had almost put his hand on the animal. A sudden snarl from the hunted, and a frightened yell from the hunter, who lost his hold and fell six or eight feet toward the ground, clutching wildly at the branches on the way down, fortunately landing on one strong enough to bear his weight. He did not linger in the tree but slid to the ground as quickly as possible, where he was received with shouts of laughter. “Haw, Buck! ef oonuh ’f’aid _’possum_, how you gwine t’row down _rokkoon_?” But Sike said nothing, while Joe went up the tree and threw down the ’possum, which rolled into a ball as soon as he touched the ground, and, after having been mouthed over by the dogs, was tied up in a sack and given to Sike to carry.

And now into the big swamp that stretched from the Tombs to Long Life Spring, a noted water-hole that never failed in even the worst drought. Ring gave tongue querulously once or twice on a cold trail. “Rokkoon,” Abram laconically remarked, and, as a shrill outcry from Joe’s nondescripts rang through the woods in another direction, “rabbit,” he added contemptuously. The younger negroes soon caught and thrashed the rabbit-chasers and, as Ring had now developed his trail and was giving tongue more freely, the other dogs were hied away to join him and soon added their voices to his. The cry skirted the swamp and in a few minutes their barking indicated that they had treed a quarter of a mile away. The ’coon had taken refuge in a big rosemary, whose smooth bark and thick trunk presented difficulties to a climber, and Abram decided to cut it down. Tom and Joe on opposite sides plied their axes vigorously. How many magnificent forest trees have been sacrificed since the war by the wasteful negro hunters who have no compunction about cutting down a ten dollar tree, belonging to some one else, to capture a “two-bit” raccoon! And the negro who would grunt grievously if had to fell three or four big pines for a day’s work, will throw an equal number as a pastime, in an hour or two at night! Soon the tree began to crack, and the dogs were seized, to prevent them from rushing under the falling trunk in their eagerness to be on hand when the ’coon should jump out of the thick branches at the top. They were released as the tree crashed to earth. Although they quickly surrounded the top, the wary ’coon had already made a getaway, but the cry followed hot-foot and forced him up a white oak a hundred yards distant. The tree, of moderate size, was thickly branched and no glimpse of the ’coon could be discerned through the heavy leafage. Tom tied a long stick over his shoulder and was soon on the first big limb which he proceeded to explore, “cooning” it out, while the torch-bearers held their lights under the end of the limb, and thus the second and third limbs were explored, but no dark form appeared against the light, and Tom climbed to a fork thirty feet from the ground. He paused for a moment and looked about him, then yelled “Great Gawd, Unk’ Ebbrum, duh _two_ rokkoon!”

“Weh ’e dey, boy? _T’row’um down!_”

“Dem alltwo dey ’pun dish’yuh lef’ han’ limb.”

“Shine dem eye, Joe, lemme shoot’um,” said Abram.

“Tek’care oonuh ent shine my’own en’ shoot me!” cried Tom.

“Nigguh eye yent fuh shine,” Abram replied, but he was spared the embarrassment of having to distinguish between Tom’s eyes and the raccoons’, for one of the animals, a half grown individual, broke sanctuary, and, dashing past Tom, slid down the tree to a lower limb, from whose extremity he sprang to the ground, unhappily for him, only a few feet distant from the watching Ring, who was on him before he could get started. There was a furious scuffle for a few minutes but the veteran dog soon choked the ’coon to death.

Tom now commenced crawling out on the limb after the big raccoon, who growled menacingly and backed as the negro neared him. At last the limb began to sag under Tom’s weight and the ’coon at the very end, eight or ten feet beyond him, teetered uneasily, as the torches flared beneath him and the dogs yelped expectantly. The long stick was now brought into play and Tom straddled the bough while he tried to pry off the quarry, but in his zeal he overreached himself and slid too far. The bough buckled under him like a whip and he lost his balance, but while regaining his hold with monkey-like agility he clutched so frantically at the raccoon’s end of the limb as to dislodge its occupant, who fell in the very teeth of the dogs. In the fierce fight that ensued, the raccoon slit the ears of the younger dogs and mauled them severely before Ring could get the throat-hold he wanted. Once secured, however, he soon choked the ’coon to death. As midnight approached, it was decided to eat supper and go home.

A lot of dry wood was gathered and a big fire made in a little glade. The younger negroes sat around the flames waiting for the coals upon which to broil the smoked herrings. Old ’Bram stretched out on the ground with the soles of his bare feet toward, and almost in, the fire, and, true to the traditions of a night watchman, he soon fell asleep. The flames crackled. Tom and Joe and the solemn Sike blinked at the light and nodded, the dogs licked their wounds and whimpered at the sharper twinges of pain. Suddenly old Abram grunted and “sniffed the tainted gale.”

“Eh, eh! Uh smell foot duh bu’n! Somebody’ foot mus’ be duh bu’n! Uh wunduh who’ foot duh bu’n?” Then, as he sat up and saw the curling smoke rising from the thick horny sole of one of his own feet, “Great Gawd, duh _my’own! Duh my foot duh bu’n!_ Tom, oonuh binnuh seddown duh fiah duh look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n, hukkuh you nubbuh tell me?”

“Me shum duh bu’n fuh true, Unk’ Ebbrum, but oonuh binnuh sleep en’ uh t’awt ’e would bex you fuh wake.”

“Oonuh had no bidness fuh t’awt nutt’n’! You seddown duh fiah en’ look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n en’ nubbuh tell me. Joe, oonuh binnuh seddown duh fiah duh look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n, hukkuh you nubbuh tell me?”

“Unk’ ’Bram, I shum duh smoke, but uh nebbuh t’ink ’e bu’n bad ’nuf fuh hot you.”

“Co’se ’e didn’ bu’n bad ’nuf fuh hot me, but ef uh yent bin had sense ’nuf fuh smell’um en’ know suh somebody’ foot duh bu’n, ’e might uh bu’n off, en’ you seddown duh fiah en’ look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n en’ nubbuh tell me. Sike, oonuh binnuh seddown duh fiah duh look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n, hukkuh you nubbuh tell me?”

“Me nebbuh shum, suh, uh binnuh sleep.”

“Meself binnuh sleep. Enty uh smell somebody’ foot duh bu’n en’ mek me fuh wake? Oonuh boy’ grow up sence freedum, oonuh _ent wut_!”

The herrings were broiled and eaten with the hardtack, the spoils were slung around the shoulders of the hunters, the fire beaten out, the torches relit, and a short cut taken for home. As old Abram relieved his substitute at the watchfire in the barnyard, his voice rumbled through his beard like the muttering of slow and distant thunder, “Uh done tell Mas’ Rafe suh dese’yuh nigguh’ grow’ up sence freedum, dem ent wut! Dem good fuh nutt’n’ _debble’ub’uh_ no’count boy, dem seddown duh fiah duh look ’puntop my foot duh bu’n en’ dem nubbuh tell me suh my foot duh bu’n. _Dem nubbuh tell me!_”

THE TURKEY HUNTER

Sabey, a queer, misshapen mulatto, almost an albino, with green eyes and yellow wool lighting and thatching a shrewd and twisted, though good-natured, monkey face, lived, a few years after the war, on Pon Pon. His wife, Bess, a good-looking black girl, was devoted to him as a good husband and a first-rate provider. When twitted by the other negro women with her husband’s lack of personal pulchritude, she was always ready with a retort.

“Mekso you marri’d monkey fuh man, Bess?”

“Sabey oagly en’ him look lukkuh monkey fuh true, but him iz uh good puhwiduh en’ no odduh man haffuh come een him house fuh feed him wife, en’ _Stepney_ nebbuh come een needuh.”

Sabey lived in a cabin at the edge of the woods, far away from the other plantation settlements, seldom mixing with the other negroes, who rather feared him, having a vague sort of belief in his ability to throw spells. When not hunting, he worked, but he was usually hunting in winter, and hunting successfully, for although his piece was one of the condemned army muskets carried by so many low-country negroes after Freedom, he was a good shot and possessed infinite patience and considerable woodcraft. Energetic, too, his twisted legs carried him for miles through the forests and along the backwaters and abandoned ricefields where, creeping on all-fours and worming his way through cane-brakes and briars, he frequently surprised summer ducks, and occasionally mallard and teal, feeding on the grass seeds along the margins, or the rich acorns from the live-oaks whose far-flung boughs stretched over the canals, and Sabey was an economist and seldom wasted shot on a single bird. On frosty mornings when he peeped over the embankments and saw green-wing teal strung upon a floating log basking in the first rays of the wintry sun, he would maneuver and crawl around, regardless of bogs or briars, until he got into a position where he could line them up, when, after his old “muskick” had spoken, he would sometimes gather up a dozen or more, which he sold to “de buckruh” on the plantations, or at the railway station; but it was as a turkey hunter that Sabey achieved distinction in the community.

Wild turkeys were very plentiful in the low-country soon after the war, and in the winter season flocks sometimes came up in the live-oak avenues and tangled gardens of the war-ruined plantations, making a boy’s heart thump against his ribs as he watched them picking up the acorns just out of gunshot of his little single-barrel. In roaming the woods, Sabey knew every dogwood knoll between the Stackyard and Beaver Dam, and when, in midwinter or later, he saw where the turkeys had “scratched” among the leaf mould for the glossy red berries that form their favorite wild food, he scattered handfuls of peas or rough rice about and returned a day or two later to see if the turkeys had taken the bait. If the scattered grain was untouched, he would offer temptation elsewhere until the wary birds had overcome suspicion and established relations with the rich man-grown food placed before them. The bait once taken, Sabey returned at two or three-day intervals and spread the feast anew, which after a while came to be to the turkeys as their daily bread. Then, behind some hurricane tree or old log nearby, the hunter prepared the “blind”--usually a pit three or four feet deep, camouflaged with boughs or great pieces of pine bark, with a gun opening toward an open space where, in a shallow trench, grain was scattered. From the scratching ground under the dogwoods, a trail would be laid to the trench, which was visited and replenished day after day until the greedy birds had become fearless and came regularly to their breakfast table. Then “one fine day,” just at dawn, Sabey would shamble off to the forest and creep within his blind, where he almost held his breath in “watchful waiting” for the coming of his quarry.

Nothing save Sir Walter’s conception of the mutability of the feminine mind, is quite so uncertain as the hour of the coming of wild turkeys to a blind. Sometimes at daylight, as they fly from their roosts on the topmost limbs of the great pines, they go at once to the bait. The next day, perhaps, they may roam the woods for hours and not reach the blind until noon, and on yet other days the fickle creatures resist temptation altogether, so “it is well understood” that whoso would shoot turkeys at a blind must have abundant patience and a certain complacent attitude toward his own society.

Who can tell what thoughts moved through Sabey’s brain cells as he sat “steadfast, ummovable” through the waiting hours. Did the tips of Aurora’s rosy fingers mean anything to him as she lifted the somber curtains of the night and ushered in the radiant God of day? Did the harsh yet homey “chauw, chauw” of the brown thrasher--the first winter bird to awaken in copse or forest--take his thoughts to the lonely cabin where Bess dreamed of the Sunday calico or the new shoes that would follow Sabey’s successful shot? Did the last hoot of the barred owl as, his night hunting over, he slipped away on muffled wing to the thick woods to drowse his days away, tell him anything of the human prototypes of all birds of prey? They, too, the selfish and the predatory, clutter up the by-ways of the world, closing their eyes to the light of service and the pulsing of humanity about them till, with the falling shadows, their eyes open and they prowl in quest of the unwary!

But whatever Sabey’s musings, he crept morning after morning into his blind and waited patiently as the hours slipped by, for the game that never came. Perhaps the wary birds had sensed danger at the blind--perhaps they had found a more convenient food supply elsewhere--but late every morning for a week Sabey had returned home weary and empty-handed, but, with a true sportsman’s spirit, determined to try again. Sunday intervened. A strong superstition in the negro’s mind, that to fire a gun on Sunday is to “hab sin,” kept him out of the woods, and he shambled off to church, but four o’clock the next morning, an hour before dawn, found him at the tryst which, through thought-waves, he believed he had made with the flock of turkeys.