The Strength of Gideon and Other Stories by Paul Laurence Dunbar

P >> Paul Laurence Dunbar >> The Strength of Gideon and Other Stories

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

"Reckon they'll like dancin' hemp a heap better," mocked a second.

"Justice an' pertection!" yelled a third.

"The mills of the gods grind swift enough in Barlow County," said the
schoolmaster.

The scene, the crowd, the flaring lights and harsh voices intoxicated
Mason, and he was soon the most enthusiastic man in the mob. At the
word, his was one of the willing hands that seized the rope, and
jerked the negroes off their feet into eternity. He joined the others
with savage glee as they emptied their revolvers into the bodies. Then
came the struggle for pieces of the rope as "keepsakes." The scramble
was awful. Bud Mason had just laid hold of a piece and cut it off,
when some one laid hold of the other end. It was not at the rope's
end, and the other man also used his knife in getting a hold. Mason
looked up to see who his antagonist was, and his face grew white with
anger. It was Dock Heaters.

"Let go this rope," he cried.

"Let go yoreself, I cut it first, an' I'm a goin' to have it."

They tugged and wrestled and panted, but they were evenly matched and
neither gained the advantage.

"Let go, I say," screamed Heaters, wild with rage.

"I'll die first, you dirty dog!"

The words were hardly out of his mouth before a knife flashed in the
light of the lanterns, and with a sharp cry, Bud Mason fell to the
ground. Heaters turned to fly, but strong hands seized and disarmed
him.

"He's killed him! Murder, murder!" arose the cry, as the crowd with
terror-stricken faces gathered about the murderer and his victim.

"Lynch him!" suggested some one whose thirst for blood was not yet
appeased.

"No," cried an imperious voice, "who knows what may have put him up to
it? Give a white man a chance for his life."

The crowd parted to let in the town marshal and the sheriff who took
charge of the prisoner, and led him to the little rickety jail, whence
he escaped later that night; while others improvised a litter, and
bore the dead man to his home.

The news had preceded them up the street, and reached Jane's ears. As
they passed her home, she gazed at them with a stony, vacant stare,
muttering all the while as she rocked herself to and fro, "I knowed
it, I knowed it!"

The press was full of the double lynching and the murder. Conservative
editors wrote leaders about it in which they deplored the rashness of
the hanging but warned the negroes that the only way to stop lynching
was to quit the crimes of which they so often stood accused. But only
in one little obscure sheet did an editor think to say, "There was
Salem and its witchcraft; there is the south and its lynching. When
the blind frenzy of a people condemn a man as soon as he is accused,
his enemies need not look far for a pretext!"

THE FINDING OF ZACH

The rooms of the "Banner" Club--an organization of social intent, but
with political streaks--were a blaze of light that Christmas Eve
night. On the lower floor some one was strumming on the piano, and
upstairs, where the "ladies" sat, and where the Sunday smokers were
held, a man was singing one of the latest coon songs. The "Banner"
always got them first, mainly because the composers went there, and
often the air of the piece itself had been picked out or patched
together, with the help of the "Banner's" piano, before the song was
taken out for somebody to set the "'companiment" to it.

The proprietor himself had just gone into the parlor to see that the
Christmas decorations were all that he intended them to be when a door
opened and an old man entered the room. In one hand he carried an
ancient carpetbag, which he deposited on the floor, while he stared
around at the grandeur of the place. He was a typical old uncle of the
South, from the soles of his heavy brogans to the shiny top of his
bald pate, with its fringe of white wool. It was plain to be seen that
he was not a denizen of the town, or of that particular quarter. They
do not grow old in the Tenderloin. He paused long enough to take in
the appointments of the place, then, suddenly remembering his manners,
he doffed his hat and bowed with old-fashioned courtesy to the
splendid proprietor.

"Why, how'do, uncle!" said the genial Mr. Turner, extending his hand.
"Where did you stray from?"

"Howdy, son, howdy," returned the old man gravely. "I hails f'om
Miss'ippi myse'f, a mighty long ways f'om hyeah."

His voice and old-time intonation were good to listen to, and Mr.
Turner's thoughts went back to an earlier day in his own life. He was
from Maryland himself. He drew up a chair for the old man and took one
himself. A few other men passed into the room and stopped to look with
respectful amusement at the visitor. He was such a perfect bit of old
plantation life and so obviously out of place in a Tenderloin club
room.

"Well, uncle, are you looking for a place to stay?" pursued Turner.

"Not 'zackly, honey; not 'zackly. I come up hyeah a-lookin' fu' a son
o' mine dat been away f'om home nigh on to five years. He live hyeah
in Noo Yo'k, an' dey tell me whaih I 'quiahed dat I li'ble to fin'
somebody hyeah dat know him. So I jes' drapped in."

"I know a good many young men from the South. What's your son's name?"

"Well, he named aftah my ol' mastah, Zachariah Priestley Shackelford."

"Zach Shackelford!" exclaimed some of the men, and there was a general
movement among them, but a glance from Turner quieted the commotion.

"Why, yes, I know your son," he said. "He's in here almost every
night, and he's pretty sure to drop in a little later on. He has been
singing with one of the colored companies here until a couple of weeks
ago."

"Heish up; you don't say so. Well! well! well! but den Zachariah allus
did have a mighty sweet voice. He tu'k hit aftah his mammy. Well, I
sholy is hopin' to see dat boy. He was allus my favorite, aldough I
reckon a body ain' got no livin' right to have favorites among dey
chilluns. But Zach was allus sich a good boy."

The men turned away. They could not remember a time since they had
known Zach Shackelford when by any stretch of imagination he could
possibly have been considered good. He was known as one of the wildest
young bucks that frequented the club, with a deft hand at cards and
dice and a smooth throat for whisky. But Turner gave them such a
defiant glance that they were almost ready to subscribe to anything
the old man might say.

"Dis is a mighty fine place you got hyeah. Hit mus' be a kind of a
hotel or boa'din' house, ain't hit?"

"Yes, something like."

"We don' have nuffin' lak dis down ouah way. Co'se, we's jes' common
folks. We wo'ks out in de fiel', and dat's about all we knows--fiel',
chu'ch an' cabin. But I's mighty glad my Zach 's gittin' up in de
worl'. He nevah were no great han' fu' wo'k. Hit kin' o' seemed to go
agin his natur'. You know dey is folks lak dat."

"Lots of 'em, lots of 'em," said Mr. Turner.

The crowd of men had been augmented by a party from out of the card
room, and they were listening intently to the old fellow's chatter.
They felt now that they ought to laugh, but somehow they could not,
and the twitching of their careless faces was not from suppressed
merriment.

The visitor looked around at them, and then remarked: "My, what a lot
of boa'dahs you got."

"They don't all stay here," answered Turner seriously; "some of them
have just dropped in to see their friends."

"Den I 'low Zach'll be drappin' in presently. You mus' 'scuse me fu'
talkin' 'bout him, but I's mighty anxious to clap my eyes on him. I's
been gittin' on right sma't dese las' two yeahs, an' my ol' ooman she
daid an' gone, an' I kin' o' lonesome, so I jes' p'omised mysef dis
Crismus de gif' of a sight o' Zach. Hit do look foolish fu' a man ez
ol' ez me to be a runnin' 'roun' de worl' a spen'in' money dis away,
but hit do seem so ha'd to git Zach home."

"How long are you going to be with us?"

"Well, I 'specs to stay all o' Crismus week."

"Maybe--" began one of the men. But Turner interrupted him. "This
gentleman is my guest. Uncle," turning to the old man, "do you
ever--would you--er. I've got some pretty good liquor here, ah--"

Zach's father smiled a sly smile. "I do' know, suh," he said,
crossing his leg high. "I's Baptis' mys'f, but 'long o' dese Crismus
holidays I's right fond of a little toddy."

A half dozen eager men made a break for the bar, but Turner's uplifted
hand held them. He was an autocrat in his way.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but I think I remarked some time ago
that Mr. Shackelford was my guest." And he called the waiter.

All the men had something and tapped rims with the visitor.

"'Pears to me you people is mighty clevah up hyeah; 'tain' no wondah
Zachariah don' wan' to come home."

Just then they heard a loud whoop outside the door, and a voice broke
in upon them singing thickly, "Oh, this spo'tin' life is surely
killin' me." The men exchanged startled glances. Turner looked at
them, and there was a command in his eye. Several of them hurried out,
and he himself arose, saying: "I've got to go out for a little while,
but you just make yourself at home, uncle. You can lie down right
there on that sofa and push that button there--see, this way--if you
want some more toddy. It shan't cost you anything."

"Oh, I'll res' myself, but I ain' gwine sponge on you dat away. I got
some money," and the old man dug down into his long pocket. But his
host laid a hand on his arm.

"Your money's no good up here."

"Wh--wh--why, I thought dis money passed any whah in de Nunited
States!" exclaimed the bewildered old man.

"That's all right, but you can't spend it until we run out."

"Oh! Why, bless yo' soul, suh, you skeered me. You sho' is clevah."

Turner went out and came upon his emissaries, where they had halted
the singing Zach in the hallway, and were trying to get into his
muddled brain that his father was there.

"Wha'sh de ol' man doin' at de 'Banner,' gittin' gay in his ol' days?
Hic."

That was enough for Turner to hear. "Look a-here," he said, "don't you
get flip when you meet your father. He's come a long ways to see you,
and I'm damned if he shan't see you right. Remember you're stoppin' at
my house as long as the old man stays, and if you make a break while
he's here I'll spoil your mug for you. Bring him along, boys."

Zach had started in for a Christmas celebration, but they took him
into an empty room. They sent to the drug store and bought many
things. When the young man came out an hour later he was straight, but
sad.

"Why, Pap," he said when he saw the old man, "I'll be--"

"Hem!" said Turner.

"I'll be blessed!" Zach finished.

The old man looked him over. "Tsch! tsch! tsch! Dis is a Crismus gif'
fu' sho'!" His voice was shaking. "I's so glad to see you, honey; but
chile, you smell lak a 'pothac'ay shop."

"I ain't been right well lately," said Zach sheepishly.

To cover his confusion Turner called for eggnog.

When it came the old man said: "Well, I's Baptis' myse'f, but seein'
it's Crismus--"

JOHNSONHAM, JUNIOR

Now any one will agree with me that it is entirely absurd for two men
to fall out about their names; but then, circumstances alter cases. It
had its beginning in 1863, and it has just ended.

In the first place, Ike and Jim had been good friends on the
plantation, but when the time came for them to leave and seek homes
for themselves each wanted a name. The master's name was Johnson, and
they both felt themselves entitled to it. When Ike went forth to men
as Isaac Johnson, and Jim, not to be outdone, became James Johnsonham,
the rivalry began. Each married and became the father of a boy who
took his father's name.

When both families moved North and settled in Little Africa their
children had been taught that there must be eternal enmity between
them on account of their names, and just as lasting a friendship on
every other score. But with boys it was natural that the rivalry
should extend to other things. When they went to school it was a
contest for leadership both in the classroom and in sports, and when
Isaac Johnson left school to go to work in the brickyard, James
Johnsonham, not to be outdone in industry, also entered the same field
of labor.

Later, it was questioned all up and down Douglass Street, which, by
the way, is the social centre of Little Africa--as to which of the two
was the better dancer or the more gallant beau. It was a piece of good
fortune that they did not fall in love with the same girl and bring
their rivalry into their affairs of the heart, for they were only men,
and nothing could have kept them friends. But they came quite as near
it as they could, for Matilda Benson was as bright a girl as Martha
Mason, and when Ike married her she was an even-running contestant
with her friend, Martha, for the highest social honors of their own
particular set.

It was a foregone conclusion that when they were married and settled
they should live near each other. So the houses were distant from each
other only two or three doors. It was because every one knew every one
else's business in that locality that Sandy Worthington took it upon
himself to taunt the two men about their bone of contention.

"Mr. Johnson," he would say, when, coming from the down-town store
where he worked, he would meet the two coming from their own labors in
the brickyard, "how are you an' Mistah Johnsonham mekin' it ovah yo'
names?"

"Well, I don' know that Johnsonham is so much of a name," Ike would
say; and Jim would reply: "I 'low it's mo' name than Johnson, anyhow."

"So is stealin' ham mo' than stealin'," was the other's rejoinder, and
then his friends would double up with mirth.

Sometimes the victorious repartee was Jim's, and then the laugh was on
the other side. But the two went at it all good-naturedly, until one
day, one foolish day, when they had both stopped too often on the way
home, Jim grew angry at some little fling of his friend's, and burst
into hot abuse of him. At first Ike was only astonished, and then his
eyes, red with the dust of the brick-field, grew redder, the veins of
his swarthy face swelled, and with a "Take that, Mistah Johnsonham,"
he gave Jim a resounding thwack across the face.

It took only a little time for a crowd to gather, and, with their
usual tormentor to urge them on, the men forgot themselves and went
into the fight in dead earnest. It was a hard-fought battle. Both
rolled in the dust, caught at each other's short hair, pummeled, bit
and swore. They were still rolling and tumbling when their wives,
apprised of the goings on, appeared upon the scene and marched them
home.

After that, because they were men, they kept a sullen silence between
them, but Matilda and Martha, because they were women, had much to say
to each other, and many unpleasant epithets to hurl and hurl again
across the two yards that intervened between them. Finally, neither
little family spoke to the other. And then, one day, there was a great
bustle about Jim's house. A wise old woman went waddling in, and later
the doctor came. That night the proud husband and father was treating
his friends, and telling them it was a boy, and his name was to be
James Johnsonham, Junior.

For a week Jim was irregular and unsteady in his habits, when one
night, full of gin and pride, he staggered up to a crowd which was
surrounding his rival, and said in a loud voice, "James Johnsonham,
Junior--how does that strike you?"

"Any bettah than Isaac Johnson, Junior?" asked some one, slapping the
happy Ike on the shoulder as the crowd burst into a loud guffaw. Jim's
head was sadly bemuddled, and for a time he gazed upon the faces about
him in bewilderment. Then a light broke in upon his mind, and with a
"Whoo-ee!" he said, "No!" Ike grinned a defiant grin at him, and led
the way to the nearest place where he and his friends might celebrate.

Jim went home to his wife full of a sullen, heavy anger. "Ike Johnson
got a boy at his house, too," he said, "an' he done put Junior to his
name." Martha raised her head from the pillow and hugged her own baby
to her breast closer.

"It do beat all," she made answer airily; "we can't do a blessed thing
but them thaih Johnsons has to follow right in ouah steps. Anyhow, I
don't believe their baby is no sich healthy lookin' chile as this one
is, bress his little hea't! 'Cause I knows Matilda Benson nevah was
any too strong."

She was right; Matilda Benson was not so strong. The doctor went
oftener to Ike's house than he had gone to Jim's, and three or four
days after an undertaker went in.

They tried to keep the news from Martha's ears, but somehow it leaked
into them, and when Jim came home on that evening she looked into her
husband's face with a strange, new expression.

"Oh, Jim," she cried weakly, "'Tildy done gone, an' me jes' speakin'
ha'd 'bout huh a little while ago, an' that po' baby lef thaih to die!
Ain't it awful?"

"Nev' min'," said Jim, huskily; "nev' min', honey." He had seen Ike's
face when the messenger had come for him at the brickyard, and the
memory of it was like a knife at his heart.

"Jes' think, I said, only a day or so ago," Martha went on, "that
'Tildy wasn't strong; an' I was glad of it, Jim, I was glad of it! I
was jealous of huh havin' a baby, too. Now she's daid, an' I feel jes'
lak I'd killed huh. S'p'osin' God 'ud sen' a jedgment on me--s'p'osin'
He'd take our little Jim?"

"Sh, sh, honey," said Jim, with a man's inadequacy in such a moment.
"'Tain't yo' fault; you nevah wished huh any ha'm."

"No; but I said it, I said it!"

"Po' Ike," said Jim absently; "po' fellah!"

"Won't you go thaih," she asked, "an' see what you kin do fu' him?"

"He don't speak to me."

"You mus' speak to him; you got to do it, Jim; you got to."

"What kin I say? 'Tildy's daid."

She reached up and put her arms around her husband's brawny neck. "Go
bring that po' little lamb hyeah," she said. "I kin save it, an' 'ten'
to two. It'll be a sort of consolation fu' him to keep his chile."

"Kin you do that, Marthy?" he said. "Kin you do that?"

"I know I kin." A great load seemed to lift itself from Jim's heart as
he burst out of the house. He opened Ike's door without knocking. The
man sat by the empty fireplace with his head bowed over the ashes.

"Ike," he said, and then stopped.

Ike raised his head and glanced at him with a look of dull despair.
"She's gone," he replied; "'Tildy's gone." There was no touch of anger
in his tone. It was as if he took the visit for granted. All petty
emotions had passed away before this great feeling which touched both
earth and the beyond.

"I come fu' the baby," said Jim. "Marthy, she'll take keer of it."

He reached down and found the other's hand, and the two hard palms
closed together in a strong grip. "Ike," he went on, "I'm goin' to
drop the 'Junior' an' the 'ham,' an' the two little ones'll jes' grow
up togethah, one o' them lak the othah."

The bereaved husband made no response. He only gripped the hand
tighter. A little while later Jim came hastily from the house with
something small wrapped closely in a shawl.

THE FAITH CURE MAN

Hope is tenacious. It goes on living and working when science has
dealt it what should be its deathblow.

In the close room at the top of the old tenement house little Lucy lay
wasting away with a relentless disease. The doctor had said at the
beginning of the winter that she could not live. Now he said that he
could do no more for her except to ease the few days that remained for
the child.

But Martha Benson would not believe him. She was confident that
doctors were not infallible. Anyhow, this one wasn't, for she saw life
and health ahead for her little one.

Did not the preacher at the Mission Home say: "Ask, and ye shall
receive?" and had she not asked and asked again the life of her child,
her last and only one, at the hands of Him whom she worshipped?

No, Lucy was not going to die. What she needed was country air and a
place to run about in. She had been housed up too much; these long
Northern winters were too severe for her, and that was what made her
so pinched and thin and weak. She must have air, and she should have
it.

"Po' little lammie," she said to the child, "Mammy's little gal boun'
to git well. Mammy gwine sen' huh out in de country when the spring
comes, whaih she kin roll in de grass an' pick flowers an' git good
an' strong. Don' baby want to go to de country? Don' baby want to see
de sun shine?" And the child had looked up at her with wide, bright
eyes, tossed her thin arms and moaned for reply.

"Nemmine, we gwine fool dat doctah. Some day we'll th'ow all his nassy
medicine 'way, an' he come in an' say: 'Whaih's all my medicine?' Den
we answeh up sma't like: 'We done th'owed it out. We don' need no
nassy medicine.' Den he look 'roun' an' say: 'Who dat I see runnin'
roun' de flo' hyeah, a-lookin' so fat?' an' you up an' say: 'Hit's me,
dat's who 'tis, mistah doctor man!' Den he go out an' slam de do'
behin' him. Ain' dat fine?"

But the child had closed her eyes, too weak even to listen. So her
mother kissed her little thin forehead and tiptoed out, sending in a
child from across the hall to take care of Lucy while she was at
work, for sick as the little one was she could not stay at home and
nurse her.

Hope grasps at a straw, and it was quite in keeping with the condition
of Martha's mind that she should open her ears and her heart when they
told her of the wonderful works of the faith-cure man. People had gone
to him on crutches, and he had touched or rubbed them and they had
come away whole. He had gone to the homes of the bed-ridden, and they
had risen up to bless him. It was so easy for her to believe it all.
The only religion she had ever known, the wild, emotional religion of
most of her race, put her credulity to stronger tests than that. Her
only question was, would such a man come to her humble room. But she
put away even this thought. He must come. She would make him. Already
she saw Lucy strong, and running about like a mouse, the joy of her
heart and the light of her eyes.

As soon as she could get time she went humbly to see the faith doctor,
and laid her case before him, hoping, fearing, trembling.

Yes, he would come. Her heart leaped for joy.

"There is no place," said the faith curist, "too humble for the
messenger of heaven to enter. I am following One who went among the
humblest and the lowliest, and was not ashamed to be found among
publicans and sinners. I will come to your child, madam, and put her
again under the law. The law of life is health, and no one who will
accept the law need be sick. I am not a physician. I do not claim to
be. I only claim to teach people how not to be sick. My fee is five
dollars, merely to defray my expenses, that's all. You know the
servant is worthy of his hire. And in this little bottle here I have
an elixir which has never been known to fail in any of the things
claimed for it. Since the world has got used to taking medicine we
must make some concessions to its prejudices. But this in reality is
not a medicine at all. It is only a symbol. It is really liquefied
prayer and faith."

Martha did not understand anything of what he was saying. She did not
try to; she did not want to. She only felt a blind trust in him that
filled her heart with unspeakable gladness.

Tremulous with excitement, she doled out her poor dollars to him,
seized the precious elixir and hurried away home to Lucy, to whom she
was carrying life and strength. The little one made a weak attempt to
smile at her mother, but the light flickered away and died into
greyness on her face.

"Now mammy's little gal gwine to git well fu' sho'. Mammy done bring
huh somep'n' good." Awed and reverent, she tasted the wonderful elixir
before giving it to the child. It tasted very like sweetened water to
her, but she knew that it was not, and had no doubt of its virtues.

Lucy swallowed it as she swallowed everything her mother brought to
her. Poor little one! She had nothing to buoy her up or to fight
science with.

In the course of an hour her mother gave her the medicine again, and
persuaded herself that there was a perceptible brightening in her
daughter's face.

Mrs. Mason, Caroline's mother, called across the hall: "How Lucy dis
evenin', Mis' Benson?"

"Oh, I think Lucy air right peart," Martha replied. "Come over an'
look at huh."

Mrs. Mason came, and the mother told her about the new faith doctor
and his wonderful powers.

"Why, Mis' Mason," she said, "'pears like I could see de change in de
child de minute she swallowed dat medicine."

Her neighbor listened in silence, but when she went back to her own
room it was to shake her head and murmur: "Po' Marfy, she jes' ez
blind ez a bat. She jes' go 'long, holdin' on to dat chile wid all huh
might, an' I see death in Lucy's face now. Dey ain't no faif nur
prayer, nur Jack-leg doctors nuther gwine to save huh."

But Martha needed no pity then. She was happy in her self-delusion.

On the morrow the faith doctor came to see Lucy. She had not seemed so
well that morning, even to her mother, who remained at home until the
doctor arrived. He carried a conquering air, and a baggy umbrella, the
latter of which he laid across the foot of the bed as he bent over the
moaning child.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13