The Strength of Gideon and Other Stories by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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"I 'low, honey," an old woman had said, "she'll mek his heart ache
many a time. She'll comb his haid wid a three-legged stool an' bresh
it wid de broom. Uh, huh--putty, is she? You ma'y huh 'cause she
putty. Ki-yi! She fix you! Putty women fu' putty tricks."

And the old hag smacked her lips over the spice of malevolence in her
words. Some women--and they are not all black and ugly--never forgive
the world for letting them grow old.

But, in spite of all prophecies to the contrary, two months of
unalloyed joy had passed for Ben and Viney, and to-night the climax
seemed to have been reached. Ben hurried along, talking to himself as
his hoe swung over his shoulder.

"Kin I do it?" he was saying. "Kin I do it?" Then he would stop his
walk and his cogitations would bloom into a mirthful chuckle.
Something very pleasant was passing through his mind.

As he approached, Viney was standing in the door of the little cabin,
whose white sides with green Madeira clambering over them made a
pretty frame for the dark girl in her print dress. The husband bent
double at sight of her, stopped, took off his hat, slapped his knee,
and relieved his feelings by a sounding "Who-ee!"

"What's de mattah wid you, Ben? You ac' lak you mighty happy. Bettah
come on in hyeah an' git yo' suppah fo' hit gits col'."

For answer, the big fellow dropped the hoe and, seizing the slight
form in his arms, swung her around until she gasped for breath.

"Oh, Ben," she shrieked, "you done tuk all my win'!"

"Dah, now," he said, letting her down; "dat's what you gits fu'
talkin' sassy to me!"

"Nev' min'; I'm goin' to fix you fu' dat fus' time I gits de
chanst--see ef I don't."

"Whut you gwine do? Gwine to pizen me?"

"Worse'n dat!"

"Wuss'n dat? Whut you gwine fin' any wuss'n pizenin' me, less'n you
conjuh me?"

"Huh uh--still worse'n dat. I'm goin' to leave you."

"Huh uh--no you ain', 'cause any place you'd go you wouldn' no more'n
git dah twell you'd tu'n erroun' all of er sudden an' say, 'Why, dah's
Ben!' an' dah I'd be."

They chattered on like children while she was putting the supper on
the table and he was laving his hot face in the basin beside the door.

"I got great news fu' you," he said, as they sat down.

"I bet you ain' got nothin' of de kin'."

"All right. Den dey ain' no use in me a tryin' to 'vince you. I jes'
be wastin' my bref."

"Go on--tell me, Ben."

"Huh uh--you bet I ain', an' ef I tell you you lose de bet."

"I don' keer. Ef you don' tell me, den I know you ain' got no news
worth tellin'."

"Ain' go no news wuff tellin'! Who-ee!"

He came near choking on a gulp of coffee, and again his knee suffered
from the pounding of his great hands.

"Huccume you so full of laugh to-night?" she asked, laughing with him.

"How you 'spec' I gwine tell you dat less'n I tell you my sec'ut?"

"Well, den, go on--tell me yo' sec'ut."

"Huh uh. You done bet it ain' wuff tellin'."

"I don't keer what I bet. I wan' to hyeah it now. Please, Ben,
please!"

"Listen how she baig! Well, I gwine tell you now. I ain' gwine tease
you no mo'."

She bent her head forward expectantly.

"I had a talk wid Mas' Raymond to-day," resumed Ben.

"Yes?"

"An' he say he pay me all my back money fu' ovahtime."

"Oh!"

"An' all I gits right along he gwine he'p me save, an' when I git fo'
hund'ed dollahs he gwine gin me de free papahs fu' you, my little
gal."

"Oh, Ben, Ben! Hit ain' so, is it?"

"Yes, hit is. Den you'll be you own ooman--leas'ways less'n you wants
to be mine."

She went and put her arms around his neck. Her eyes were sparkling and
her lips quivering.

"You don' mean, Ben, dat I'll be free?"

"Yes, you'll be free, Viney. Den I's gwine to set to wo'k an' buy my
free papahs."

"Oh, kin you do it--kin you do it--kin you do it?"

"Kin I do it?" he repeated. He stretched out his arm, with the sleeve
rolled to the shoulder, and curved it upward till the muscles stood
out like great knots of oak. Then he opened and shut his fingers,
squeezing them together until the joints cracked. "Kin I do it?" He
looked down on her calmly and smiled simply, happily.

She threw her arms around his waist and sank on her knees at his feet
sobbing.

"Ben, Ben! My Ben! I nevah even thought of it. Hit seemed so far away,
but now we're goin' to be free--free, free!"

He lifted her up gently.

"It's gwine to tek a pow'ful long time," he said.

"I don' keer," she cried gaily. "We know it's comin' an' we kin wait."

The woman's serious mood had passed as quickly as it had come, and she
spun around the cabin, executing a series of steps that set her
husband a-grin with admiration and joy.

And so Ben began to work with renewed vigor. He had found a purpose in
life and there was something for him to look for beyond dinner, a
dance and the end of the day. He had always been a good hand, but now
he became a model--no shirking, no shiftlessness--and because he was
so earnest his master did what he could to help him. Numerous little
plans were formulated whereby the slave could make or save a precious
dollar.

Viney, too, seemed inspired by a new hope, and if this little house
had been pleasant to Ben, nothing now was wanting to make it a palace
in his eyes. Only one sorrow he had, and that one wrung hard at his
great heart--no baby came to them--but instead he made a great baby of
his wife, and went on his way hiding his disappointment the best he
could. The banjo was often silent now, for when he came home his
fingers were too stiff to play; but sometimes, when his heart ached
for the laughter of a child, he would take down his old friend and
play low, soothing melodies until he found rest and comfort.

Viney had once tried to console him by saying that had she had a child
it would have taken her away from her work, but he had only answered,
"We could a' stood that."

But Ben's patient work and frugality had their reward, and it was only
a little over three years after he had set out to do it that he put in
his master's hand the price of Viney's freedom, and there was sound of
rejoicing in the land. A fat shoat, honestly come by--for it was the
master's gift--was killed and baked, great jugs of biting persimmon
beer were brought forth, and the quarters held high carnival to
celebrate Viney's new-found liberty.

After the merrymakers had gone, and when the cabin was clear again,
Ben held out the paper that had been on exhibition all evening to
Viney.

"Hyeah, hyeah's de docyment dat meks you yo' own ooman. Tek it."

During all the time that it had been out for show that night the
people had looked upon it with a sort of awe, as if it was possessed
of some sort of miraculous power. Even now Viney did not take hold of
it, but shrunk away with a sort of gasp.

"No, Ben, you keep it. I can't tek keer o' no sich precious thing ez
dat. Put hit in yo' chist."

"Tek hit and feel of hit, anyhow, so's you'll know dat you's free."

She took it gingerly between her thumb and forefinger. Ben suddenly
let go.

"Dah, now," he said; "you keep dat docyment. It's yo's. Keep hit undah
yo' own 'sponsibility."

"No, no, Ben!" she cried. "I jes' can't!"

"You mus'. Dat's de way to git used to bein' free. Whenevah you looks
at yo'se'f an' feels lak you ain' no diff'ent f'om whut you been you
tek dat papah out an' look at hit, an' say to yo'se'f, 'Dat means
freedom.'"

Carefully, reverently, silently Viney put the paper into her bosom.

"Now, de nex' t'ing fu' me to do is to set out to git one dem papahs
fu' myse'f. Hit'll be a long try, 'cause I can't buy mine so cheap as
I got yo's, dough de Lawd knows why a great big ol' hunk lak me should
cos' mo'n a precious mossell lak you."

"Hit's because dey's so much of you, Ben, an' evah bit of you's wo'th
its weight in gol'."

"Heish, chile! Don' put my valy so high, er I'll be twell jedgment day
a-payin' hit off."

PART II

So Ben went forth to battle for his own freedom, undaunted by the task
before him, while Viney took care of the cabin, doing what she could
outside. Armed with her new dignity, she insisted upon her friends'
recognizing the change in her condition.

Thus, when Mandy so far forgot herself as to address her as Viney
Raymond, the new free woman's head went up and she said with withering
emphasis:

"Mis' Viney Allen, if you please!"

"Viney Allen!" exclaimed her visitor. "Huccum you's Viney Allen now?"

"'Cause I don' belong to de Raymonds no mo', an' I kin tek my own name
now."

"Ben 'longs to de Raymonds, an' his name Ben Raymond an' you his wife.
How you git aroun' dat, Mis' Viney Allen?"

"Ben's name goin' to be Mistah Allen soon's he gits his free papahs."

"Oomph! You done gone now! Yo' naik so stiff you can't ha'dly ben' it.
I don' see how dat papah mek sich a change in anybody's actions. Yo'
face ain' got no whitah."

"No, but I's free, an' I kin do as I please."

Mandy went forth and spread the news that Viney had changed her name
from Raymond to Allen. "She's Mis' Viney Allen, if you please!" was
her comment. Great was the indignation among the older heads whose
fathers and mothers and grandfathers before them had been Raymonds.
The younger element was greatly amused and took no end of pleasure in
repeating the new name or addressing each other by fantastic
cognomens. Viney's popularity did not increase.

Some rumors of this state of things drifted to Ben's ears and he
questioned his wife about them. She admitted what she had done.

"But, Viney," said Ben, "Raymond's good enough name fu' me."

"Don' you see, Ben," she answered, "dat I don' belong to de Raymonds
no mo', so I ain' Viney Raymond. Ain' you goin' change w'en you git
free?"

"I don' know. I talk about dat when I's free, and freedom's a mighty
long, weary way off yet."

"Evahbody dat's free has dey own name, an' I ain' nevah goin' feel
free's long ez I's a-totin' aroun' de Raymonds' name."

"Well, change den," said Ben; "but wait ontwell I kin change wid you."

Viney tossed her head, and that night she took out her free papers and
studied them long and carefully.

She was incensed at her friends that they would not pay her the homage
that she felt was due her. She was incensed at Ben because he would
not enter into her feelings about the matter. She brooded upon her
fancied injuries, and when a chance for revenge came she seized upon
it eagerly.

There were two or three free negro families in the vicinity of the
Raymond place, but there had been no intercourse between them and the
neighboring slaves. It was to these people that Viney now turned in
anger against her own friends. It first amounted to a few visits back
and forth, and then, either because the association became more
intimate or because she was instigated to it by her new companions,
she refused to have anything more to do with the Raymond servants.
Boldly and without concealment she shut the door in Mandy's face, and,
hearing this, few of the others gave her a similar chance.

Ben remonstrated with her, and she answered him:

"No, suh! I ain' goin' 'sociate wid slaves! I's free!"

"But you cuttin' out yo' own husban'."

"Dat's diff'ent. I's jined to my husban'." And then petulantly: "I do
wish you'd hu'y up an' git yo' free papahs, Ben."

"Dey'll be a long time a-comin'," he said; "yeahs f'om now. Mebbe I'd
abettah got mine fust."

She looked up at him with a quick, suspicious glance. When she was
alone again she took her papers and carefully hid them.

"I's free," she whispered to herself, "an' I don' expec' to nevah be a
slave no mo'."

She was further excited by the moving North of one of the free
families with which she had been associated. The emigrants had painted
glowing pictures of the Eldorado to which they were going, and now
Viney's only talk in the evening was of the glories of the North. Ben
would listen to her unmoved, until one night she said:

"You ought to go North when you gits yo' papahs."

Then he had answered her, with kindling eyes:

"No, I won't go Nawth! I was bo'n an' raised in de Souf, an' in de
Souf I stay ontwell I die. Ef I have to go Nawth to injoy my freedom I
won't have it. I'll quit wo'kin fu' it."

Ben was positive, but he felt uneasy, and the next day he told his
master of the whole matter, and Mr. Raymond went down to talk to
Viney.

She met him with a determination that surprised and angered him. To
everything he said to her she made but one answer: "I's got my free
papahs an' I's a-goin' Nawth."

Finally her former master left her with the remark:

"Well, I don't care where you go, but I'm sorry for Ben. He was a fool
for working for you. You don't half deserve such a man."

"I won' have him long," she flung after him, with a laugh.

The opposition with which she had met seemed to have made her more
obstinate, and in spite of all Ben could do, she began to make
preparations to leave him. The money for the chickens and eggs had
been growing and was to have gone toward her husband's ransom, but she
finally sold all her laying hens to increase the amount. Then she
calmly announced to her husband:

"I's got money enough an' I's a-goin' Nawth next week. You kin stay
down hyeah an' be a slave ef you want to, but I's a-goin' Nawth."

"Even ef I wanted to go Nawth you know I ain' half paid out yit."

"Well, I can't he'p it. I can't spen' all de bes' pa't o' my life down
hyeah where dey ain' no 'vantages."

"I reckon dey's 'vantages everywhah fu' anybody dat wants to wu'k."

"Yes, but what kin' o' wages does yo' git? Why, de Johnsons say dey
had a lettah f'om Miss Smiff an' dey's gettin' 'long fine in de
Nawth."

"De Johnsons ain' gwine?"

"Si Johnson is--"

Then the woman stopped suddenly.

"Oh, hit's Si Johnson? Huh!"

"He ain' goin' wid me. He's jes' goin' to see dat I git sta'ted right
aftah I git thaih."

"Hit's Si Johnson?" he repeated.

"'Tain't," said the woman. "Hit's freedom."

Ben got up and went out of the cabin.

"Men's so 'spicious," she said. "I ain' goin' Nawth 'cause Si's
a-goin'--I ain't."

When Mr. Raymond found out how matters were really going he went to
Ben where he was at work in the field.

"Now, look here, Ben," he said. "You're one of the best hands on my
place and I'd be sorry to lose you. I never did believe in this buying
business from the first, but you were so bent on it that I gave in.
But before I'll see her cheat you out of your money I'll give you your
free papers now. You can go North with her and you can pay me back
when you find work."

"No," replied Ben doggedly. "Ef she cain't wait fu' me she don' want
me, an' I won't roller her erroun' an' be in de way."

"You're a fool!" said his master.

"I loves huh," said the slave. And so this plan came to naught.

Then came the night on which Viney was getting together her
belongings. Ben sat in a corner of the cabin silent, his head bowed in
his hands. Every once in a while the woman cast a half-frightened
glance at him. He had never once tried to oppose her with force,
though she saw that grief had worn lines into his face.

The door opened and Si Johnson came in. He had just dropped in to see
if everything was all right. He was not to go for a week.

"Let me look at yo' free papahs," he said, for Si could read and liked
to show off his accomplishment at every opportunity. He stumbled
through the formal document to the end, reading at the last: "This is
a present from Ben to his beloved wife, Viney."

She held out her hand for the paper. When Si was gone she sat gazing
at it, trying in her ignorance to pick from the, to her, senseless
scrawl those last words. Ben had not raised his head.

Still she sat there, thinking, and without looking her mind began to
take in the details of the cabin. That box of shelves there in the
corner Ben had made in the first days they were together. Yes, and
this chair on which she was sitting--she remembered how they had
laughed over its funny shape before he had padded it with cotton and
covered it with the piece of linsey "old Mis'" had given him. The very
chest in which her things were packed he had made, and when the last
nail was driven he had called it her trunk, and said she should put
her finery in it when she went traveling like the white folks. She was
going traveling now, and Ben--Ben? There he sat across from her in his
chair, bowed and broken, his great shoulders heaving with suppressed
grief.

Then, before she knew it, Viney was sobbing, and had crept close to
him and put her arms around his neck. He threw out his arms with a
convulsive gesture and gathered her up to his breast, and the tears
gushed from his eyes.

When the first storm of weeping had passed Viney rose and went to the
fireplace. She raked forward the coals.

"Ben," she said, "hit's been dese pleggoned free papahs. I want you to
see em bu'n."

"No, no!" he said. But the papers were already curling, and in a
moment they were in a blaze.

"Thaih," she said, "thaih, now, Viney Raymond!"

Ben gave a great gasp, then sprang forward and took her in his arms
and kicked the packed chest into the corner.

And that night singing was heard from Ben's cabin and the sound of the
banjo.

THE FRUITFUL SLEEPING OF THE REV. ELISHA EDWARDS

There was great commotion in Zion Church, a body of Christian
worshippers, usually noted for their harmony. But for the last six
months, trouble had been brewing between the congregation and the
pastor. The Rev. Elisha Edwards had come to them two years before, and
he had given good satisfaction as to preaching and pastoral work. Only
one thing had displeased his congregation in him, and that was his
tendency to moments of meditative abstraction in the pulpit. However
much fire he might have displayed before a brother minister arose to
speak, and however much he might display in the exhortation after the
brother was done with the labors of hurling phillipics against the
devil, he sat between in the same way, with head bowed and eyes
closed.

There were some who held that it was a sign in him of deep
thoughtfulness, and that he was using these moments for silent prayer
and meditation. But others, less generous, said that he was either
jealous of or indifferent to other speakers. So the discussion rolled
on about the Rev. Elisha, but it did not reach him and he went
on in the same way until one hapless day, one tragic, one
never-to-be-forgotten day. While Uncle Isham Dyer was exhorting the
people to repent of their sins, the disclosure came. The old man had
arisen on the wings of his eloquence and was painting hell for the
sinners in the most terrible colors, when to the utter surprise of the
whole congregation, a loud and penetrating snore broke from the throat
of the pastor of the church. It rumbled down the silence and startled
the congregation into sudden and indignant life like the surprising
cannon of an invading host. Horror-stricken eyes looked into each
other, hands were thrown into the air, and heavy lips made round O's
of surprise and anger. This was his meditation. The Rev. Elisha
Edwards was asleep!

Uncle Isham Dyer turned around and looked down on his pastor in
disgust, and then turned again to his exhortations, but he was
disconcerted, and soon ended lamely.

[Illustration: UNCLE ISHAM DYER EXHORTS.]

As for the Rev. Elisha himself, his snore rumbled on through the
church, his head drooped lower, until with a jerk, he awakened
himself. He sighed religiously, patted his foot upon the floor, rubbed
his hands together, and looked complacently over the aggrieved
congregation. Old ladies moaned and old men shivered, but the pastor
did not know what they had discovered, and shouted Amen, because he
thought something Uncle Isham had said was affecting them. Then, when
he arose to put the cap sheaf on his local brother's exhortations, he
was strong, fiery, eloquent, but it was of no use. Not a cry, not a
moan, not an Amen could he gain from his congregation. Only the local
preacher himself, thinking over the scene which had just been enacted,
raised his voice, placed his hands before his eyes, and murmured,
"Lord he'p we po' sinnahs!"

Brother Edwards could not understand this unresponsiveness on the part
of his people. They had been wont to weave and moan and shout and sigh
when he spoke to them, and when, in the midst of his sermon, he paused
to break into spirited song, they would join with him until the church
rang again. But this day, he sang alone, and ominous glances were
flashed from pew to pew and from aisle to pulpit. The collection that
morning was especially small. No one asked the minister home to
dinner, an unusual thing, and so he went his way, puzzled and
wondering.

Before church that night, the congregation met together for
conference. The exhorter of the morning himself opened proceedings by
saying, "Brothahs an' sistahs, de Lawd has opened ouah eyes to
wickedness in high places."

"Oom--oom--oom, he have opened ouah eyes," moaned an old sister.

"We have been puhmitted to see de man who was intrusted wid de
guidance of dis flock a-sleepin' in de houah of duty, an' we feels
grieved ter-night."

"He sholy were asleep," sister Hannah Johnson broke in, "dey ain't no
way to 'spute dat, dat man sholy were asleep."

"I kin testify to it," said another sister, "I p'intly did hyeah him
sno', an' I hyeahed him sno't w'en he waked up."

"An' we been givin' him praise fu' meditation," pursued Brother Isham
Dyer, who was only a local preacher, in fact, but who had designs on
ordination, and the pastoring of Zion Church himself.

"It ain't de sleepin' itse'f," he went on, "ef you 'member in de
Gyarden of Gethsemane, endurin' de agony of ouah Lawd, dem what he
tuk wid him fu' to watch while he prayed, went to sleep on his han's.
But he fu'give 'em, fu' he said, 'De sperit is willin' but de flesh is
weak.' We know dat dey is times w'en de eyes grow sandy, an' de haid
grow heavy, an' we ain't accusin' ouah brothah, nor a-blamin' him fu'
noddin'. But what we do blame him fu' is fu' 'ceivin' us, an' mekin'
us believe he was prayin' an' meditatin', w'en he wasn' doin' a
blessed thing but snoozin'."

"Dat's it, dat's it," broke in a chorus of voices. "He 'ceived us,
dat's what he did."

The meeting went stormily on, the accusation and the anger of the
people against the minister growing more and more. One or two were for
dismissing him then and there, but calmer counsel prevailed and it was
decided to give him another trial. He was a good preacher they had to
admit. He had visited them when they were sick, and brought sympathy
to their afflictions, and a genial presence when they were well. They
would not throw him over, without one more chance, at least, of
vindicating himself.

This was well for the Rev. Elisha, for with the knowledge that he was
to be given another chance, one trembling little woman, who had
listened in silence and fear to the tirades against him, crept out of
the church, and hastened over in the direction of the parsonage. She
met the preacher coming toward the church, hymn-book in hand, and his
Bible under his arm. With a gasp, she caught him by the arm, and
turned him back.

"Come hyeah," she said, "come hyeah, dey been talkin' 'bout you, an' I
want to tell you."

"Why, Sis' Dicey," said the minister complacently, "what is the
mattah? Is you troubled in sperit?"

"I's troubled in sperit now," she answered, "but you'll be troubled in
a minute. Dey done had a church meetin' befo' services. Dey foun' out
you was sleepin' dis mornin' in de pulpit. You ain't only sno'ed, but
you sno'ted, an' dey 'lowin' to give you one mo' trial, an' ef you
falls f'om grace agin, dey gwine ax you fu' to 'sign f'om de
pastorship."

The minister staggered under the blow, and his brow wrinkled. To leave
Zion Church. It would be very hard. And to leave there in disgrace;
where would he go? His career would be ruined. The story would go to
every church of the connection in the country, and he would be an
outcast from his cloth and his kind. He felt that it was all a mistake
after all. He loved his work, and he loved his people. He wanted to do
the right thing, but oh, sometimes, the chapel was hot and the hours
were long. Then his head would grow heavy, and his eyes would close,
but it had been only for a minute or two. Then, this morning, he
remembered how he had tried to shake himself awake, how gradually, the
feeling had overcome him. Then--then--he had snored. He had not tried
wantonly to deceive them, but the Book said, "Let not thy right hand
know what thy left hand doeth." He did not think it necessary to tell
them that he dropped into an occasional nap in church. Now, however,
they knew all.

He turned and looked down at the little woman, who waited to hear what
he had to say.

"Thankye, ma'am, Sis' Dicey," he said. "Thankye, ma'am. I believe I'll
go back an' pray ovah this subject." And he turned and went back into
the parsonage.

Whether he had prayed over it or whether he had merely thought over
it, and made his plans accordingly, when the Rev. Elisha came into
church that night, he walked with a new spirit. There was a smile on
his lips, and the light of triumph in his eyes. Throughout the
Deacon's long prayer, his loud and insistent Amens precluded the
possibility of any sleep on his part. His sermon was a masterpiece of
fiery eloquence, and as Sister Green stepped out of the church door
that night, she said, "Well, ef Brothah Eddards slep' dis mornin', he
sholy prached a wakenin' up sermon ter-night." The congregation hardly
remembered that their pastor had ever been asleep. But the pastor knew
when the first flush of enthusiasm was over that their minds would
revert to the crime of the morning, and he made plans accordingly for
the next Sunday which should again vindicate him in the eyes of his
congregation.

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