sang Jerry, a loud-mouthed, animated young negro, who plowed Kit, a four-year-old mule, fifteen hands high, and valued by Squire Parks at one-seventy-five. There was no meter to his song, but it sounded well to him, and the neighbors for two miles around could hear it.
“Listen, Miss Jule,” said Matt, to Mrs. Parks, who had gone to the kitchen to see about dinner. “Dat big mouf Jerry can’t keep quiet.
“Hear ’im singin’ ’bout his honey?
“He rakes ’roun’ all night, an’ hollers all day ’bout his honey? He better be givin’ dat Runt somefin’, dat chile uv Mary’s.”
“Is that his child, Matt?”
“’Cose hit’s his’n.
“An’ he ain’t never as much as give it a moufful uv nothin’—no, not nary moufful!
“De po’ little chile des runs ’roun’ while Mary wuks, des lak it wuz er dog or hog. I ain’t never seed sich neglect. But Mary can’t hep it now; she’s gut to wuck fur er livin’.”
“Well, I didn’t know that Runt was Jerry’s child before.”
“Yon he is now!” exclaimed Matt, as she turned and looked out of the window, toward the hands, who were hoeing cotton in the Clay Field, back of the orchard.
“Yes’m, Mary’s des hoein’ an’ wuckin’ lak er dog, an’ keepin’ dat chile, while Jerry’s spendin’ money on dat yaller Rose whut come here wid dat nigger Rufus, who de pleesmens tuck back to town an’ put on de chain-gang fur stealin’ er cow.
“Po’ Runt, he don’t git much ’tenshun! Dey never thought enough uv ’im to name ’im, an’ de foks, seein’ how little he wuz, called ’im ‘Runt’ an’ ‘Runt’ he is. Ef anybudy wanted him dey coul’ steal ’im an’ nobudy woul’ make much fuss ’bout it. Ef it wuz slavry time ergin, an’ Ole Brickhouse Jim wuz livin’, he’d git ’im ’fo’ Sadday night. Mary tote’s ’im to de fiel’ in de mornin’ an’ puts ’im down in de shade uv er tree an’ lets ’im stay dere.”
This same little negro, four years old, bow-legged, flat-nosed, onery-looking and dirty, clad in a single garment, which was torn, and without buttons to hold it in place, was at that very moment rambling about in the weeds in the orchard, far from his mother, who, with a dozen other hands, were chopping cotton. If a dog or a calf or anything else came along and toppled him over he cried until he was exhausted, fell asleep and waked up refreshed. No one seemed to love or care for him; he weeded his own row.
Taking pity on him, on various and sundry occasions, Miss Jule had sent Charlie with buttered biscuits or pieces of pie to the four-year-old. Although Runt was afraid of Charlie, who often slipped up behind him, turned his little shirt over his head and ran, he was thankful for the hand-outs, without knowing just where they came from. If he saw the white boy coming he wanted to hide, but was afraid to lest he miss a sweet morsel for his tongue.
“Look, Miss Jule, don’t it beat all how boys do? See Charlie teasing dat po’ little nigger,” old Matt would say.
“Charlie! Charlie! You little scamp, you! Quit worrying that child!” would follow, and the youngster would laugh and run, leaving Runt to think it over.
“Shhoo, shhoo, shhoo!
“There’s that old rooster again,” said Mrs. Parks, as she turned and started for the front porch again.
“We don’t want any company to-day.”
“Miss Jule, don’t you speck you’d better spruce up er little, so ef de preacher do come you’ll be ready fur ’im?”
“I will put on my new dress, I want George to see it anyhow, and I can take it off after dinner if nobody comes.”
“I speck you better.”
After the mistress of the house had resumed her seat on the porch, having arrayed herself in her pretty calico frock, Matt called out: “Miss Jule, who is dat comin’ ’roun’ de fiel’ on dat big white hoss?”
“It looks like Capt. Brown, on old Roy,” said Mrs. Parks.
“Yes’m, hit do, but he woul’n’t be comin’ here fur dinner, ’ceptin’ Miss Jane’s erway,” declared Matt.
Sure enough, it was Capt. Brown, and he rode up to the front gate.
“The tip of the day to you, Mrs. Parks!” said the gallant fellow, lifting his hat.
“Good morning, Capt. Brown; won’t you light?”
“No, thank you; I haven’t time.”
“You all well?”
“We’re up an’ about, but I’m not feeling well. I have had a pain in my head for several days.”
“Listen at Miss Jule,” said old Matt to herself, as she peeped around the honeysuckle vine, at the end of the porch to catch what was said. “I ain’t never seed her look better nor puttier.”
“How are you all, Capt. Brown?”
“Just tollerbly well, only; the old woman is grunting a little this morning.”
“Which way is the ’Squire?”
“He’s in the Clay Field, back of the house, where the hoe hands are at work.”
“Have you heard from Mrs. Marler to-day?”
“No, but Sam came by there last night, late, on his way from the post office, and Reuben told him that she was no better. I guess she’s in a right bad way.”
“Yes, poor woman, she’s been a great sufferer for a long time. I have been wanting to go to see her, but the stock is busy now, and then, too, I have not felt like riding. I get dizzy every time I get in a buggy.”
“You heard about Mrs. Bill McGregor, Mrs. Parks?”
“No; is it a boy or girl?”
“A ten-pound boy.”
“That’s fine! Five girls and three boys.
“Tell Mollie to come over. She needn’t wait on me. I’m getting too old to travel about much.”
“Thank you. You and George come.
“Well, I want to see the old man on a little business; I will just ride around there.”
Capt. Brown and Squire Parks were the best of neighbors and friends. Both were influential in political affairs and substantial business men. That morning they talked over a private matter and Capt. Brown turned and went back.
Dinner time came and no company arrived. The greens, the chicken and strawberry pies were all ready, but there was no one outside of the family circle to eat them.
“I don’t believe in your signs, anyhow,” declared Mr. Parks, “for, this morning, as I went to the field, a red bird, a pretty one, flew across the road in front of me, and I have heard it said that that is the sign that you are going to see your sweetheart, dressed in her best clothes, and I know I haven’t seen any sweetheart to-day.”
“O, yes, you is, Marse George,” said Matt, as she handed him the greens for a second help.
“Who? Where?”
“Here she is, Miss Jule, de onlies’ sweetheart dat you ever had.”
“Don’t you believe that, Matt,” said Mrs. Parks, fishing for a compliment.
“I guess you are right, Matt, and she’s got on a new dress,” conceded the lord and master of the Parks Big House.
Dinner and the hour of rest over, the hands started for the field. Everybody, save Mary, the mother of Runt, had gone, and she hunted everywhere for the fatherless waif, but could not find him. Squire Parks, Miss Jule, and Matt organized themselves into a searching party, but hunt where they would they could not find the little negro. The big bell that hung on the red oak in front of the lot gate was sounded, and all the workmen came in, knowing that the ringing of it meant a general alarm, and were formed into groups and sent to the fields to look for the missing child. Aunt Matt took a mirror and reflected the sun in the well, thinking that he might have tumbled in there. Every nook and corner about the barn and every wash, or gulley, or weed patch about the place was examined, but no trace of Runt was found.
“Somebudy done tuck an’ stole dat chile,” said Matt. “Told you so. I knowed dat de Lawd wuz gwine to let somebudy have ’im dat woul’ care fur ’im.
“Po’ little chile, I hope dat nothin’ ain’t happen to ’im.”
For two hours the hunt continued. Mary was wailing and shouting like one possessed. Jerry, the wayward negro of the plantation, was racing everywhere, looking. When all had about concluded that the boy had been kidnaped, Miss Jule, who had become hot and tired, moving about in the broiling sun, and returned to the house, discovered a pair of little black, dirty feet sticking out from under a large hall table and, on making a closer examination, found that Runt had stolen in, crawled under the table and gone to sleep on the floor. Having put a pillow under the knappy head she notified the hunters and told Mary to go to her work and leave the child to her.
Matt was very much disappointed, for she had looked into the well until she believed that she could see the body of a child on the bottom, and when Miss Jule called she was preparing to announce that she had found the little fellow; but, after seeing the feet and bowlegs, as they protruded from the table, was convinced that she was wrong.
“Yes, Miss Jule, an’ de signs done come true,” declared the old darkey. “Dat’s de hongry pusson dat wuz comin’; dat chile des gut so hongry dat he couln’t stand hit no longer an’ come in. Po’ little thing.”
“I am glad he made himself at home, Matt, I will adopt him.”
“One thing, Miss Jule, I wuz glad to see dat Jerry lookin’ sad-lak ’bout his boy. He may not be so bad arter all. De Lawd put good in everybudy.”
“Yes, and Jerry and Mary may marry some day, and make Runt a home; you can’t tell,” added Mrs. Parks.
Runt was treated as a guest of the house. He slept unmolested for an hour, and when he waked he was taken to the kitchen and given the best the larder afforded. For a month he remained there, waxing fat and black and strong. Mary was delighted to be rid of him under the circumstances.
The rooster had not given the clarion call in vain.
One day two weeks later, Miss Jule sent for Jerry, and they talked on the front steps. The next day the young negro said to Squire Parks: “Say, Marse George, I want’s you to marry me an’ Mary. I’se done gut de licenses.”
“Where did you get money to get license, this time of year?” asked the justice of the peace.
“Miss Jule give it to me.”
That was the day the signs failed not.
“That was a great day in Providence—when Paddy Roark’s bird outwitted Black John Smith’s fine cock, the mighty Jay Bird,” said the old gambler. “That was the end of the world for me. We’ve had no real sport since that time; the boys are all good nowadays.”
Briefly put, that is the story of the last gambling bout of a public nature in Providence township, Mecklenburg county. The day of the great battle between the fowls of Roark and Smith marks the beginning of a new era.
Black John Smith, as he was known far and near, on account of his swarthy complexion, was among the last of his kind in the Southern states that embrace the Piedmont region. He and his sort had their day just after the civil war, when every community in Dixie was in a state of confusion, and horse racing, cock fighting, wrestling and fighting matches were common. Smith was one of the boys—a jolly, good fellow, who liked a good time, and if he could not have it one way he would another. He did not belong to the Southern aristocracy of the age; his blood was tainted, but he was a man of fine sense, never-failing courage, and handsome appearance. His family record being a little off color made him a social outcast and his associates were inferiors. Life to him was just what he made it, and he lived like a lord. His home, The Elms, the former residence of Capt. Jim Davis, the largest slave owner in the southern section of the county, was the rendezvous of second-class sportsmen, who assembled there to drink, revel and try their brawn.
Being industrious and a first-rate farmer, Black John, who never owned land, but rented the best to be had, always had plenty to eat and drink around him. His corn bread and butter milk, pig jowl and kraut, hog and hominy, wine and brandy, all home-made, were of the best in the land, and, liberal to a fault, he was never without friends.
If any man were out hunting for trouble for himself, his dog, his rooster, or anything else, he could find it at The Elms when Black John Smith flourished there. Rural athletes, bullies, owners of game cocks, and racing horses met with him on off days for a big time.
Among those who foregathered at his home were dissipated landlords of the community, but, being of a higher social strata, the better citizens rarely ever tarried at the Smith hearth unless they were there on business.
In the early eighties there drifted into Providence one Paddy Roark, an Irish artisan, from where no one ever knew. Paddy was a unique character and the people of the good old Presbyterian neighborhood gave him a cordial welcome. Just such a man was needed. At all times he was affable and jolly and made friends everywhere. He was a handy man—could do any sort of turn. It was “Paddy do this” and “Paddy do that.” If a farmer needed a painter, a carpenter, a brick mason, or what not, Paddy was the man. Truly, Paddy was “Dick and the wheel in any tight place.” If the boys and girls of Providence had a frolic or a dance he played the fiddle, or picked the banjo, or sang Irish songs. The good housewives of the community liked him, for he could make the kraut, salt the meat, cook fruit for preserves, make persimmon and locust beer, or take the honey from the bee hive. In fact, Paddy was an all-round citizen, and so long as he behaved himself the good people of the community did not worry about his mysterious past or the suddenness of his advent into that bailiwick. Little did they care, the descendants of the signers of the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence, if he had killed an Englishman or two in the old country.
Paddy Roark belonged to the social circle of The Elms. He and Black John Smith were friends, but the Irishman, being a man of keen wit and cleverness, did not like the way the lord of the old Davis place towered above his fellows. There sprung up a rivalry between these popular idols. In a clash of intellects the man from the Emerald Isle outshone the native Tar Heel. In a test of physical strength they were pretty evenly matched. Paddy was the best boxer, but Black John could throw him down in a wrestle. Paddy was the only man in the Smith set that would challenge the “Chief of The Elms.”
It was on a cold, drizzly day in September and the boys for several miles around had assembled under the Smith roof to discuss plans for the fall and winter. Black John sat in one corner and Paddy in the other, in front of a big log fire. There was a lull in the conversation.
“A rooster is the gamest thing on earth,” said Smith.
“I do not admit that without proof,” said Paddy.
“The proof is at hand,” declared Smith. “Jay Bird, my dominecker game, is in the yard. He is the champion of the county and I will back him against the feathered kingdom. He carries a chip on his shoulder and challenges the world every time he crows. He can crow louder, shriller, oftener and longer than any chicken in seven states. I can make him come in here and fight you.”
About that time the clarion call of a rooster was heard.
“Listen!” shouted Black John. “He says ‘I can lick anything that wears feathers!’
“I will back him in that declaration.”
Smith got up, opened the door and yelled: “Jay Bird, come here and defend yourself.”
Before one could say Jack Robinson twice, a beautiful game rooster—and there is nothing prettier—came flying to the house from the barn. His magnificent head, as keen as an arrow point, was red with life, and his alert brown eye sparkled with fire. His spurs were long and sharp and well set in a pair of splendid legs. His cold, steady eye gave him a fierce appearance; the calm, determined stare of never-failing courage, was what made adversaries quail before him.
“Come in, Jay Bird, and get on your master’s shoulder,” was the invitation extended. Black John was proud of his cock. He petted and groomed him daily.
“Jay Bird, they say you can be whipped,” said Smith, when the rooster lit upon his shoulder. “What about it?”
Flapping his wings, lifting his eagle-head, and crowing, Jay Bird seemed to say: “I can whip any rooster in the land.”
“A game rooster is proud, daring and fearless if he comes of the right stock,” asserted Black John. “Courageous men or dogs do not fight without an excuse, but the cock goes forth to hunt a foe. Two games will meet far from their own barnyards and fight to the death, when there is no provocation for a meeting, much less a fight. The bold, defiant spirit of their blood urges them on. The one hears the challenge of the other and accepts by going, running, flying and crowing, to meet him.
“Jay Bird is a bundle of superb courage, and I will pit him against any two-legged fowl.”
“I accept the challenge,” said Paddy. “Name the time and the place and I will be on hand with my bird. We shall put up $25 a side if you say so.”
This announcement took the breath from the crowd. The money was put up and the day fixed.
The acceptance of Black John’s challenge by Paddy Roark was the sensation of the month. The countryside was surprised and delighted. Everybody was asking, “And where did Paddy get a chicken that can stand up against Jay Bird, the wonder?”
All the answer that Paddy gave was, “Never you moind, I’ll be there at the roight toime, and I will have a foighting cock that will swape the daeck.”
The word was “put out” and traveled with the wind, crossing out of Providence into Pineville, Morning Star, Sharon and Steele Creek townships, and into Union county and South Carolina. The coming contest was all the talk, and Paddy Roark the hero of the hour. If he brought a fowl that could whip Jay Bird the people of the community stood ready to give him a vote of thanks. The older persons of the neighborhood believed that if Smith could be outdone he might turn from his evil ways and discontinue the parties at his place. All minds were on Paddy, who was admired, for his consummate nerve, by men, women and children. The small boy longed to be a man so that he could model after Paddy Roark, the Irishman. When Paddy attended church on Sunday, which he usually did, the pious communicants turned to look at him. He who dared accept Black John Smith’s challenge was a mighty man.
The last Saturday in October was the day, and Bald Knob, near McAlpine’s creek, the place for the meet.
Long before the appointed hour a crowd began to gather from three counties. Men came twenty miles to witness the fight.
The woods that surrounded the open field in which the main was to take place were alive with horses and mules, and while the beasts of burden whinnied and brayed their owners discussed the approaching event. The mystery that surrounded Paddy Roark and his fowl had excited the quiet citizens of Providence as they had not been excited since the days of the Ku Klux Klan. John Smith, himself, looked pale and confused. Could he have done so gracefully, he would have crawfished, but it was too late to think of such a thing. He had to stand to the rack. Bright and early he was at the right place. Jay Bird had crowed until he was hoarse. He knew that something was in the wind and, from the attention he received, that he was to play a part. Hundreds of people called at his cage to see him. He was in fine form and looked every inch a fighter.
Paddy Roark, who had not been in his usual haunts for several days, had not shown up. The friends of Smith were saying that the Irishman had fluked, but Paddy had backers aplenty, who assured one and all that he would be on time. Fifteen minutes before the hour arrived Paddy was not in sight. At ten of ten a shout broke on the eastern outskirts of the mob. Paddy, riding a gray mule, came galloping over the hill, from towards Matthews, carrying a sack over his shoulder. As he dismounted from his nag an outburst of applause greeted him.
It was, “Hurrah, for Paddy Roark, and his bird!”
“Come on with your critter, whatever it be,” responded the Smithites, “and Jay Bird will knock the filling out of him!”
At this time the entire hillside was covered with a surging, wild-eyed human mass, each person seeking to get where he or she could see. Above the tumult and the shouting, the shrill cry of Jay Bird could be heard, asserting, “I can whip any cock in the land.”
Roark was literally mobbed by his friends, who asked: “Paddy, have you brought your rooster?”
“What kind of a beast is he?”
“Can he do Jay Bird?”
“We’re betting on him.”
“Fetch him out, the time is most up.”
In the midst of this turmoil and chaos Paddy Roark was cool, calm and deliberate. He smoked his pipe, smiled and told the boys that they might stake all they had on “Jerry.”
His mule tied, Paddy started for the battle-ground with his tow sack on his back; he would not show his bird to any one, but the bulk in one corner of the bag was encouraging. His supporters were cheering and singing, “We’ll hang Jay Bird on a sour apple tree.”
As the hour hand moved toward ten the lord of The Elms and the Irish carpenter faced each other, the one holding a rooster and the other, the mouth of a bag.
“Clear out! Stand back! Give the gentlemen room!” shouted the officer of the day.
Paddy did not seem to be in any hurry. No one knew what his bag contained for all was quiet inside.
“That’s the deadest rooster ever,” yelled someone in derision. “He’s asleep. Wake up, birdie, day’s breaking!”
Paddy made no reply. He seemed satisfied with himself and his “boird.”
“All’s ready!” shouted the umpire.
“When I say ‘three’ let them go!”
Paddy took hold of the bottom of the sack and made ready to empty the contents.
The spectators at this juncture pressed against the ropes and stood on tiptoe to see Paddy’s bird. When the word was given, Jerry, a large, Muscovy drake, web-footed and clumsy, dropped into the arena. The friends of Paddy were struck speechless, and the supporters of Jay Bird laughed boisterously, treating the affair as a joke, but Jay Bird, and Jerry were serious, and went to sparring at each other.
Paddy, too, was in earnest; knowing his champion he said: “He’s all roight, boys. All hell can’t thrip him.”
For a moment Jay Bird was disconcerted; although he had never seen a drake before, he did his best. He had fought turkeys, pea fowls and guineas, but not ducks. It was evident from the outset that Jerry knew what he was doing. He dodged beautifully and let the rooster pass over his head. Jay Bird’s spurs would come together above his back every time. The fighting was not dull. Those who watched it felt that there were surprises ahead for the cock. Jerry was biding his time, and it came by and by. Having knocked off the wire edge, without as much as touching the drake, Jay Bird settled down to a steady lick. That was just what Jerry had hoped for; then he became more aggressive. Sallying forth, ducking and dodging a little, he caught his adversary by the back of the neck. Jay Bird pulled back, but Jerry did not turn loose until he had kicked him in the breast and beaten him over the head with his heavy wings.
The pounding made the rooster furious, and he flew at his antagonist with more vim than ever, and that time the aim was accurate, the blow falling on the drake’s head.
It was Jerry’s turn to be angry. He stepped back a step or two and prepared to meet Jay Bird. The chicken went with a rush, half running and half flying, and as he rose to strike, the duck fastened him in the throat, brought him down and thumped him severely.
The crowd was wild, but the battle had been so fast and furious and full of surprises that all looked on in silence, waiting to see the next move.
At this stage of the game the drake did a wonderful feat. He ran into Jay Bird, took a firm hold upon his neck, rose and flew, like a hawk. The trick was done so quickly that the engrossed onlookers did not realize for a second what had happened. The big duck, with Jay Bird in his mouth, was going toward the creek. The crowd whirled about and hurried after him.
“It’s all over now,” Paddy cried; “Jerry will drown Jay Bird in Black John’s swimming hole.”
When the boys arrived at the edge of the water, Jerry was catching tadpoles, having sunk the body of his foe.
Black John Smith never recovered from the humiliating defeat and death of his rooster. The beginning of the end had come.
The colored people within a radius of twenty-five miles of Reding Springs camp ground, Union county, congregate there once a year, generally in August, after the crops are laid by, for a big religious revival. At Reding Springs they are far removed from white people, and surrounded by forests. They can camp out, eat, drink, preach and sing to their hearts’ content without molesting anyone. Sometimes the meetings are brought to sudden conclusions by free-for-all fights, started by bullies, with rocks, pistols and razors, but this is an unusual thing for the good darkies of that section strive to keep down any unlawful disturbances. Old Satan, shrewd and alert always, enters the home of God’s people occasionally and makes mischief. So it is at Reding Springs now and then.
Arabella the Day After.
For almost a half century Reding Springs has been a popular camping place for the negroes of the Sandy Ridge region. They gather there and remain for weeks, worshiping according to their lights. Thousands of persons camp there during the meeting. They make the neighborhood dark with their presence and resound with their music.
The Reding Springs meetings are not for the city-bred negro, with his lofty airs and college training, but for the country negro. There he feels at home, where he goes once every twelve months to repent of his sins, give in his experience and shout until weary. The religious enthusiast can sing, preach, pray or participate in any other seemly way in the services without restrictions. The parson reads his text, closes the Bible, and preaches from memory. He gives out the hymns line at a time, and leads in the singing, young and old, saint and sinner joining to make the welkin ring, no one feeling constrained to curb his voice, the more force applied the better, volume, not quality, being demanded.
Dear reader, if you have followed me so far, don’t turn back now, for it is my purpose to tell you about Arabella Simpkins, the prophetess of the Reding Springs section. She was the sage of the community. The negroes feared her, and their fear was of the sort that made them want to get closer to her.
Reding Springs negroes had cause to fear Arabella. The troubles that she predicted came true. She had foretold the storm that swept the harbor away in 1882; the earthquake that shook the tents in 1886, and the bolt of lightning that set fire to the church in 1898. She had seen these in visions and told of them as she shouted up and down the aisles of the camp grounds. The people had learned from experience that the predictions of Arabella came to pass; she had won the respect of the leaders, who looked upon her arrival as an omen for good or bad. She had never attended a meeting except to deliver herself of an abiding prophecy. Therefore, if Arabella appeared on the scene everybody gave way to her and listened with abated breath for her prediction, which she gave when the meeting was at its best, when excitement ran highest. Before the big negress could perform effectively, the preaching and singing had to be of such a character that the hearers cried and wrung their hands. Then, with the aisles and halls filled with shouting men and women and crying children, Arabella sallied forth from her seat, humming softly, walling her eyes and warming up as she went.
It was a hot day in 19— that I went with a party of young people to the Reding Springs camp meeting. We were invited by some of the older darkies of Providence. It was said that Arabella was about due, as she had not been out in several years, and, hence, a good time to go.
We arrived early Sunday morning, looked over the grounds and watched the crowds gather from the surrounding country. I enjoyed the preliminaries. I had never seen so many and such a variety of vehicles. The majority of the darkies came in wagons, sitting flat on the bottom, using wheat or oat straw as a cushion, while others rode in antiquated carriages, buggies and two-wheeled carts, some of which were drawn by oxen. The outskirts of the grounds were covered with canvas tents, where those from a distance lived.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened until ten o’clock, when I saw several old men and women, those high in the councils of the church, looking and pointing down the road toward Twelve-Mile creek. Going near, so that I could hear, I learned that an old sister had spied a covered wagon, and, as I approached, she was saying: “Dat sho’ is Arabella Simpkins, and her top wagin, fur I knows dat ole yaller mule.”
“Sister Blue,” said Parson Honeycutt, “I’m ’clined to b’lieve dat you is kerrect in yo’ diagnosis uv de case, fur dat looks mighty lak Miss Simpkins on de front seat.”
“I’s sho’ uv it now,” added Sister Blue, “fur dat’s Cæsar, her ole man, drivin’; I knows his derby hat. Yes, sir, an’ dere somefin’ on Arry’s mind. We sho’ is gwine to hear somefin’ drap to-day.”
And so it proved.
Arabella was on the way. She and Cæsar came driving a sorrel mule, whose mane and tail needed trimming.
A chill passed over the crowd when it became generally known that the notorious Arabella was arriving. There was not a negro present who would not have given all he possessed to have been at home. But every one was too superstitious to run away; that would have brought bad luck. Therefore, with a kind of fear that produces confidence and brings hope the unhappy negroes collected about Arabella and offered their services, but with the air of a judge, who had the power to sentence to prison or death the entire crowd, she refused all proffers of help. The mule unhitched and tied to a dogwood sprout she went to the harbor and took a seat half way down the middle pew. Every person craned slyly his neck to see her. The prophetess sat, with her arms folded across her lap, silent and dignified. Cæsar, who had escorted her in, seemed to be absorbed in some profound thought. No one went near the pair.
The older men of the congregation retired to the amen corner and sat like dummies waiting for the hour for the sermon to begin.
Everybody was wild with pent-up excitement. There was anxiety in every eye. Feeling, though suppressed, ran high.
Brother Honeycutt, trembling with emotion, announced that the ten-thirty service would begin with prayer and asked one and all to join him in a petition to the Lord for a successful meeting. He fell upon his knees and prayed long and earnestly, beseeching the Maker to stay the hand of the evil one and save the Reding Springs people from any great pending calamity. The fervent ones punctuated and punctured the prayer with hearty amens. Hymns were sung and the sermon commenced. At first there was nothing unusual about the services. They were like those of all negro meetings held in rural districts, except that the congregation seemed unusually quiet. The falling of a pin upon the floor could have been heard across the room.
The arrival of Arabella had brought order. The bravest of the rowdies would not have dared disturb the tranquillity of that meeting. A most pious and respectful body of worshippers it was!
Along toward the latter part of the sermon Parson Honeycutt warmed up to his subject and spoke with force and feeling, picturing the scenes of judgment day, when all would be begging Peter for admittance to the Holy Land. His story and enthusiasm were calculated to touch the hardest-hearted sinner. As he moved on, swinging, half speaking and half singing, the audience became more and more interested. As he swayed to and fro behind the pulpit his hearers swung in sympathy. In conclusion he sung:
The entire congregation chimed in and sang with spirit if not understanding.
It was at this juncture that an over-wrought sister, singing and crying at the top of her voice, “an’ it’s good enough fer me,” rushed into the aisle, clapping her hands, and shouting.
The meeting was getting right then for Elder Brown, a man of piety and reverence, cried out: “Dat’s it, sister, tell it to ’em!”
A half-dozen women and two men joined the first shouter.
“An’ it’s good enough fer me,” yelled the preacher, slapping his big hands together; “come on, brethren an’ sistern, an’ jine de moaners!”
Four-fifths of the congregation kept an eye on Arabella, knowing that it was only a question of time until she would come forward with a swing and a whoop, and tell what she had seen.
The eager throng did not have to wait long, for Arabella was eager to get out, and deliver her message. Laying aside her hat and veil she waltzed out, humming softly, and sweetly, in a melodious voice, “An’ I seed er vision, er vision, er vision!”
“I tole you so, honey, an’ she’s gwine to tell it,” shouted Uncle Jerry Howard, one of the class leaders.
As she rose I got a good look at Arabella, and I was very much impressed with her masculine features. She weighed about 225 pounds, was large of bone, muscular and black. She entered the aisle reeling and rocking.
“Clar de way dere,” said Parson Honeycutt, “an’ let Miss Simpkins pass!”
“It sho’ is de same ole Arabella,” declared Class Leader Jones, “an’ she’s gut trouble on her mind des as sho’ as you’s born’d.
“Come on, Sister Simpkins, an’ don’t keep us in dis agony! Tell de truf as you see it! Tell it an’ let us prepare fer de wust!”
“Dis mornin’,” sang Arabella, “as I wuz er comin’ er long-er de road, I seed er vision, er vision, er vision.”
“Tell it, sister; don’t keep back nothin’. What wuz it you seed?” came from the amen corner.
“Yes, Brer Honeycutt, des as I started, an’ as I wuz comin’ down de road-er, I seed er vision, er vision, er vision!”
“Yes, Lawd! Tell it all, sister! What did you see?”
“An’ I looked back-er, an’ seed it ergin-er.”
“Come on wid it, sister! Tell it all!”
“An’ it had-er long tail-er. Yes, Lawd, an’ dat I did-er!”
“Come on, honey, what wuz it you seed?”
By this time everybody else had quit shouting; Arabella had the floor to herself. Every neck was craned and every ear open to get what she said.
“An’ I look back-er, an’ I seed dat it had er head-er, er head-er, er head-er!”
“What den, chile?”
“An’ er long body-er, body-er, body-er! An’ legs-er, fo’ long legs-er. Yes, yes, chillun, an’ fo’ legs-er!”
While this was going on I could not keep my eyes off of Parson Honeycutt, the large, striking-looking preacher, who was very superstitious. I was afraid he would go into convulsions. His eyes were stretched, his nostrils distended and his mouth in a quiver. He leaned over the pulpit and listened intently at Arabella. He was anxious to hear her prediction. The suspense was telling on his nerves, and his heart.
“What wuz it, sister?” he cried in his agony.
“An’ I look back-er, an’ seed dat it had a long pair years-er,” continued Arabella.
The excitement had reached its zenith. The tension was greatest, and the crowd could constrain itself no longer. The spell was broken when Elder Brown shouted: “An’ thank Gawd it were a mule-er!”
“Amen!” added the parson.
“Hold me, hold me, hold me, ef you don’t I’ll fly away to glory an’ leave you all,” bellowed Arabella.
“Brother Simpkins, hold yo’ wife,” cried a voice.
Cæsar Simpkins rose from his seat and started toward Arabella, who was prancing up and down the center aisle, but when she saw him coming she waved her hand at him and sung:
Parson Honeycutt hurried down from the rostrum, caught Arabella by the right arm, and they went up the aisle singing “Glory hallelujah!”
Arabella went into a trance, fell in Brother Honeycutt’s arms, and was carried out and laid upon the grass beneath a large oak tree, where she was permitted to cool off and “come around.”
The sequel: That afternoon, while on his way home, Brother Honeycutt was thrown from his roan mule, Napoleon Bonaparte, who became frightened at a toad hopping across the road, and had his left forefinger broken.
“I told you so!” said one and all. “Dat nigger’s vision allers comes true.”
Jim in a Peaceful Mood.
On a sultry morning in August, nineteen hundred and two, an ex-Confederate soldier, who had fought under Lee and Jackson, hobbled across Independence Square, bearing heavily upon his cane, on his way to the Mecklenburg county courthouse. From the opposite direction came a young fellow, with ruddy complexion, beaming face and springy step, en route to the railway station to take an early train for a neighboring town. The two, unexpectedly, came together in front of the Central Hotel and extended their right hands to each other.
“Why, father,” exclaimed the younger man, “what are you doing here this time of day?
“Have you driven all the way from home this morning?”
“Yes, son, I left the farm about daylight, and just this moment arrived.
“Jim is in trouble again.”
“Another church row?”
“Yes; a camp meeting this time.”
“Well, father, I think if I were in your place I would let that negro go to the roads. The ball and chain might improve him. He has given you no end of trouble and cost you some money; let him take his medicine.”
“I don’t know about that, Harry; your mother and I have decided to stand by him once more. He is a mighty good boy about the place and we have implicit confidence in him.”
“Yes, but he is forever fighting and getting in court. Let him go!”
“Well, son, his daddy, Old John, was a good darkey, and your grandfather would not like it if we were to let one of his old carriage driver’s boys go to prison if we could help it.
“I know Jim is pretty bad about fighting negroes, but he is a good hand, and we get on well with him.”
“How many negro meetings has he broken up since you hired him?”
“I don’t know exactly, but would say four or five. He has a sort of mania for that. He is always polite to us and never complains when asked to do extra work. We call on him to go errands at all hours of the day or night, and he goes cheerfully. I do not see how we could get on without him; he milks the cows if the cook is sick, cuts the stove-wood and carries it in, churns if there is nobody else to do it, feeds and curries the horses, helps your mother to make preserves, or pickles, or put up the fruit, and drives the carriage to church on Sunday.
“Yet, Harry, if I had not known John and Mary, his parents, I might let him go without putting up a fight for him, but his daddy or mammy would have done anything for your mother, and your grandfather would turn over in his grave if he could know that I had not done my duty toward Jim.
“I don’t know how serious this last affair is, but I will employ a lawyer and fight it out.”
Harry Brown did not leave the city that day but remained at home to see if he could be of service to his aged and decrepit father. He went to the jail and had a talk with Jim, who had been his childhood playmate, and learned his side of the case.
“Mr. Harry, you think de jedge will make it putty hard on me?” asked Jim, as the young white man turned to leave.
“I can’t say, Jim, but he is a strict church man—a Scotch-Irish Presbyterian—and it would be difficult to predict the result. If it is possible to keep your fighting record out of court I think we can get him to be merciful, but if some one lugs your past in, then, with this Puritanical judge, you may take a tumble toward the chain-gang.”
“Orh, Mr. Harry, you don’t think no white jedge wud send a good nigger lak me to de roads des fur breakin’ up a nigger camp meetin’, do you?”
“Things have changed, Jim. You can’t tell nowadays, since the people have become so particular about drinking, gambling, and the like, what a judge will do. I’m a little uneasy about you.”
“Well, Mr. Harry, tell Marse Henry to stan’ by me des one mo’ time, an’ den I’ll do better. Ef I gits out dis time I sho’ will ’have mysef.”
Jim Parks was the kind of negro that one finds about oldtime Southern country homes: as black as the ace of spades, with a mouth full of pretty white teeth, every one as sound as a silver dollar, and muscular and active. There were but few things about the farm that he could not do when he tried. Everybody, even the other negroes, liked him. With white people he was mannerly, pleasant and obliging, always, and those who knew him at the Brown home, as he went about his work, could not believe the stories they heard of his midnight brawls and dark-house fights at negro gatherings. Usually he was such a happy-go-lucky chap that his white friends could not imagine him in the role of a bully.
But Jim Parks at home, among his white folks, and Jim Parks abroad, with the people of his own race, were different persons—a Dr. Jekel and a Mr. Hyde.
At noon, Saturday, the last day of the Mecklenburg court, Judge Shaler presiding, Solicitor Bluelaw called the Zion Camp Meeting case, and put Rev. Archie Degraffenreid LaFayette Small, colored, on the stand.
“Parson,” said the prosecuting attorney, “tell the court what took place at the camp ground that Sunday.”
“Yes, sir; it wuz lak dis: I’d been in de pulpit about two minutes, gettin’ ready to preach de eight o’clock sermon, when I seed a commotion in de grounds, about two-hund’d yards away, an’ twuzn’t long ’fo’ I heard a pistol crack, an’ dere wuz a scatteration of people.”
“Who used the weapon?”
“I heard ’em say it wuz dis here Jim Parks—dat boy over dere.”
“Don’t tell what you heard,” said Col. Calvin Tedder, attorney for the defense, “but what you actually saw.”
“Yes, sir; well de moist dat I seed wuz folks runnin’—gittin’ away frum dere.”
“Did you hear more than one pistol shot?” asked the solicitor.
“Yes, sir; some several shots. In fact, sir, dey come so fas’ dat I couldn’t give out de hymn fur hearin’ ’em.”
“You were pretty badly frightened, were you not?”
“’Cose I wuz, sir, an’ I ain’t shame to say it. I felt my legs trimblin’, an’ I couldn’t keep my eye on de book.
“Yes, sir, de public worship wuz already disturbed. Ef de shootin’ had stopped dere de law wuz done broke.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is this defendant the man who created the disturbance in the yard?”
“Yes, sir; he’s de one, fur I knows him well. He’s de one dat tuck Brother Jones’ watermillons.”
“How is that?” asked the court, interested.
“Yes, sir, please yo’ honor, it wuz lak dis: Brother Jones, uv de Sandy Creek kermunity, focht a load uv watermillons an’ wuz sellin’ ’em, when dis man Parks come out uv one uv de tents an’ pick out a big millon an’ ’low: ‘I’ll des take dis one wid me.’
“‘Not till you give me thirty-five cents,’ says Brother Jones, dis lak dat.
“‘Take dat,’ said dis boy, pitchin’ Brother Jones a nickel.
“Dat wuz de start uv it, an’ one word brought on another ’till Parks jerked out his gun an’ fell to shootin’.”
“Who did he shoot at?”
“Brother Jones.”
“What did Jones do?”
“Run, sir. De last time I seed ’im wuz when he struck de woods ’bout half mile away.”
“It’s generally time to run when this negro gets after you with a revolver, ain’t it?” asked the solicitor.
“Yes, sir. He’s gut de reputation uv bein’ mighty handy wid his gun.”
“What followed? Tell the whole story.”
“Well, sir, befo’ Brother Jones wuz out uv sight good, dis Jim Parks come to de arbor an’ saunter down de aisle.”
“Did you see him?”
“’Cose I did; I wuz makin’ out lak I wuz readin’ de hymn, but de truf wuz I had my eye on dat nigger, ’cause I knowed ’im uv old.”
“Go ahead; tell what you saw.”
“Yes, sir. I know’d dat I couldn’t hold de ’tension uv de crowd arter he ’peared on de scene, but I wuz gwine to try to tame ’im. Brother Smith, one uv my right-hand men, had done had some ’sperience wid de boy, an’ he fainted over in de amen corner, fell off de bench an’ rolled under it. When I seed dat, I wuz sorter confused, fur I wuz lookin’ fur Brother Smith to he’p me out.
“Dis Jim, he come on down de aisle, grinnin’, until he gut ’bout half way to de pulpit, an’ den he stop an’ take out his ’volver, a black lookin’ one, as fur as I kin reckerlec’, an’ look at me an’ say: ‘Big Nigger, we ain’t gwine to have no eight o’clock service dis mornin’. Church is out.’”
“What did you say to that, Parson?”
“Not wantin’ to cross ’im, I ’low: ‘’Cose it is, ’cose it is—we ain’t gwine to argify ’bout dat, Brother Parks.’”
“You called him Brother Parks?”
“Yes, sir, I wuz tryin’ to make up to ’im.”
“What did he do then?”
“He take aim at me an’ say: ‘Come on down, Big Nigger! Come on down! An’ don’t be so long ’bout it!’
“Seein’ dat he wuz meanin’ bizness I ’low: ‘Yes, Brother Parks, I’s comin’,’ but ’fo’ I coul’ git it out he wuz pintin’ his gun at me.”
“Go on!” demanded the solicitor, in an excited tone of voice.
“I heard de pistol say ‘click, click.’ I don’t know what happened arter dat fur I lef’ dere right den, goin’ th’ough de hole at de back uv de pulpit. As I lef’ he wuz cockin’ de ’volver but when I heard de ’port I wuz crossin’ Mr. Bob Bell’s paster fence several hund’d yards away.”
“Did he shoot directly at you?”
“I can’t say as to dat, but as I went over de fence I heard de ball ajunin’ putty close to my year.”
“What became of the congregation?”
“Moist uv it went th’ough de woods des a little ahead uv me. Yes, sir. I think some uv de younger ones staid an’ fout.”
“That will do, don’t tell what you think,” shouted Col. Tedder.
“Well, dat’s all I seed fur I never went back no mo’ ’till nex’ day, an’ de fightin’ crowd wuz gone.”
The essential features of Parson Small’s testimony were corroborated. Several of the officers of the church gave their versions of the affair. Everybody seemed to be against Jim.
Col. Tedder was afraid to put his client on the stand lest his court record be produced. He rested his case after making a short rambling speech. After remaining out three minutes the jury came in and rendered a verdict of guilty.
Col. Tedder spoke eloquently for mercy for his negro, saying that he was a good darkey, except now and then when he drank a little too much.
“Stand up here, Jim Parks,” said the judge, when Col. Tedder sat down.
“What do you mean by disturbing public worship?
“Why do you persist in breaking up camp meetings?
“Don’t you know that it is wrong?”
“Yes, sir, Jedge, an’ I ain’t gwine to do it no mo’. Ef you’ll des let me off dis time, so dat I kin go home wid Marse Henry, I’ll be a good nigger de res’ uv my life.
“No, sir, Marse Jedge, you needn’t worry ’bout dis nigger no mo’, ’cause he ain’t gwine to come back here ef he live a hund’d years.”
“That is very fine talk but you don’t mean it,” declared the court. “Nothing short of the chain-gang will cure you. I will sentence you—”
“Hold on, boss, ain’t you gwine to let Marse Henry say a word fur de ole nigger?”
“He’s already said that you were all right except about fighting negroes. The court must protect all classes of citizens. I will give you nine months.”
“Amen!” whispered Parson Small.
’Squire Brown dropped his head to keep from meeting Jim’s tearful eyes, as the boy marched out to the jail, handcuffed to two other culprits.
“That was about as I anticipated,” said Harry to his father, as they left the courthouse. “Jim’s reputation hurt him with the judge. If you had been in Judge Shaler’s place you would have done the same thing.”
“Yes, I think you are right, but I don’t like to see the boy go that way. It would cost close to seventy dollars to get him out; he owes me something now; I have not the money to spare, and cannot afford to pay him more than ten dollars a month if I have him.
“He will have to go this time.”
This was the sorrowful admission of ’Squire Brown.
“I think you are right; let him try the road awhile,” added the less sentimental son.
“Now, good-bye; if I run upon a respectable-looking negro that I think would suit you and mother, I will send him to you.”
’Squire Brown collected his packages and set out for home, a long, lonesome ride through the country, over seventeen miles of macadam road, that hot, dusty night. He needed Jim, and did not like to see him go to prison, but could not prevent it. The old place would not seem the same without the little black negro, with his merry laugh and shining face.
“I don’t understand why the little rascal cannot behave,” said the ’Squire to himself, as his horse jogged along.
That evening, when he drove up to the lot gate, Mrs. Brown, who had been looking for him for hours, called out in a strident voice: “Well, did you bring Jim?”
“No, I am sorry to say, he went to jail in spite of all I could do; the judge was prejudiced against him. He will have to serve nine months on the chain-gang.”
“That is too bad,” said Mrs. Brown. “Jim is a good darkey.”
“Yes,” put in the ’Squire, “but he will break up camp meetings.
“I did all I could, employed a lawyer, spoke to the solicitor, and swore a half-lie about Jim’s character.”
Bright and early Monday, ’Squire Brown and his son, Harry, met on the Square in Charlotte, just as they had met two mornings before.
“I am surprised, Dad, to see you here again?” said the boy, frowning.
“Why, your mother and I, after thinking the matter over yesterday, decided to take Jim out; it will cost $65, but I am going to do it. I have borrowed the money, and will take the negro home with me.”
“You are a good one, father—you and mother—taking Jim out of jail, but there is something about that sort of thing that I like,” said the son, smiling. “Race problem? Negro haters? Why ask who is the negro’s friends when incidents like this occur every day?”
Harry, who had been traveling in the East and West for four or five years, did not feel about the negro as he once did. Being in constant touch with the old cornfield darkey ’Squire Brown had a different viewpoint. The kindly feeling that the younger man once had was passing away.
Late that afternoon, in a cloud of summer dust, ’Squire Brown and Jim Parks, his negro, drove out South Tryon street toward Pineville, and in passing in front of The Observer building Jim caught sight of Harry, turned in the buggy and shouted back: “Good-bye, Mr. Harry, me an’ Marse Henry’s gwine home to see your Maw. Be a good boy, an’ don’t let de jedge git you. ‘Have yo’se’f, an’ stay out uv cote, but ef you do git in, by accident, des lak I done, don’t have Col. Tedder to ’fend you, onless you spects to go right on to jail.”
“No wonder the old folks like the black scamp,” said Harry, laughing to himself. “He’s an interesting negro.”
There was great rejoicing on the Brown place that night when the ’Squire and Jim arrived. Ella, Jim’s wife, was beside herself, and ’Squire and Mrs. Brown were almost as happy. Everybody, white and black, was delighted.
The following December, after the cotton, the corn, the potatoes, and the fruit had been gathered, Harry visited his parents at the old place. In driving down the lane he observed that the little log cabin, formerly occupied by Jim and Ella, was empty, and when the black worthy failed to show up to take the horse, as he had done many times before, he asked of his father what had become of the negro.
“He’s gone to South Carolina,” said the ’Squire.
“Left?”
“Yes.”
“What did he leave for?”
“Why, he got in a little trouble out at Jones’ Chapel, where the colored people were having some kind of a church festival, and the officers were after him.”
“He jumped the game, and left you in the lurch?”
“No; I told him to run so that they could not serve a warrant on him.”
“And you a justice of the peace, too?”
“Yes; I wasn’t elected to try my own negroes.”
“How much does Jim owe you?”
“I don’t know, exactly.”
“A pretty good sum, I guess?”
“That sixty-five and a little more for rations.”
“Will you ever get it?”
“Oh, yes, if Jim is ever able he will pay it.”