The Strength of Gideon and Other Stories by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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The Sunday came round, and as he ascended to the pulpit, their eyes
were fastened upon him with suspicious glances. Uncle Isham Dyer had a
smile of triumph on his face, because the day was a particularly hot
and drowsy one. It was on this account, the old man thought, that the
Rev. Elisha asked him to say a few words at the opening of the
meeting. "Shirkin' again," said the old man to himself, "I reckon he
wants to go to sleep again, but ef he don't sleep dis day to his own
confusion, I ain't hyeah." So he arose, and burst into a wonderful
exhortation on the merits of a Christian life.

He had scarcely been talking for five minutes, when the ever watchful
congregation saw the pastor's head droop, and his eyes close. For the
next fifteen minutes, little or no attention was paid to Brother
Dyer's exhortation. The angry people were nudging each other,
whispering, and casting indignant glances at the sleeping pastor. He
awoke and sat up, just as the exhorter was finishing in a fiery
period. If those who watched him, were expecting to see any
embarrassed look on his face, or show of timidity in his eyes, they
were mistaken. Instead, his appearance was one of sudden alertness,
and his gaze that of a man in extreme exaltation. One would have said
that it had been given to him as to the inspired prophets of old to
see and to hear things far and beyond the ken of ordinary mortals. As
Brother Dyer sat down, he arose quickly and went forward to the front
of the pulpit with a firm step. Still, with the look of exaltation on
his face, he announced his text, "Ef he sleep he shell do well."

The congregation, which a moment before had been all indignation,
suddenly sprang into the most alert attention. There was a visible
pricking up of ears as the preacher entered into his subject. He spoke
first of the benefits of sleep, what it did for the worn human body
and the weary human soul, then turning off into a half-humorous,
half-quizzical strain, which was often in his sermons, he spoke of how
many times he had to forgive some of those who sat before him to-day
for nodding in their pews; then raising his voice, like a good
preacher, he came back to his text, exclaiming, "But ef he sleep, he
shell do well."

He went on then, and told of Jacob's sleep, and how at night, in the
midst of his slumbers the visions of angels had come to him, and he
had left a testimony behind him that was still a solace to their
hearts. Then he lowered his voice and said:

"You all condemns a man when you sees him asleep, not knowin' what
visions is a-goin' thoo his mind, nor what feelin's is a-goin thoo his
heart. You ain't conside'in' that mebbe he's a-doin' mo' in the soul
wo'k when he's asleep then when he's awake. Mebbe he sleep, w'en you
think he ought to be up a-wo'kin'. Mebbe he slumber w'en you think he
ought to be up an' erbout. Mebbe he sno' an' mebbe he sno't, but I'm
a-hyeah to tell you, in de wo'ds of the Book, that they ain't no
'sputin' 'Ef he sleep, he shell do well!'"

"Yes, Lawd!" "Amen!" "Sleep on Ed'ards!" some one shouted. The church
was in smiles of joy. They were rocking to and fro with the ecstasy of
the sermon, but the Rev. Elisha had not yet put on the cap sheaf.

"Hol' on," he said, "befo' you shouts er befo' you sanctions. Fu' you
may yet have to tu'n yo' backs erpon me, an' say, 'Lawd he'p the man!'
I's a-hyeah to tell you that many's the time in this very pulpit,
right under yo' very eyes, I has gone f'om meditation into slumber.
But what was the reason? Was I a-shirkin' er was I lazy?"

Shouts of "No! No!" from the congregation.

"No, no," pursued the preacher, "I wasn't a-shirkin' ner I wasn't
a-lazy, but the soul within me was a wo'kin' wid the min', an' as we
all gwine ter do some day befo' long, early in de mornin', I done
fu'git this ol' body. My haid fall on my breas', my eyes close, an' I
see visions of anothah day to come. I see visions of a new Heaven an'
a new earth, when we shell all be clothed in white raimen', an' we
shell play ha'ps of gol', an' walk de golden streets of the New
Jerusalem! That's what been a runnin' thoo my min', w'en I set up in
the pulpit an' sleep under the Wo'd; but I want to ax you, was I
wrong? I want to ax you, was I sinnin'? I want to p'int you right
hyeah to the Wo'd, as it are read out in yo' hyeahin' ter-day, 'Ef he
sleep, he shell do well.'"

The Rev. Elisha ended his sermon amid the smiles and nods and tears of
his congregation. No one had a harsh word for him now, and even
Brother Dyer wiped his eyes and whispered to his next neighbor, "Dat
man sholy did sleep to some pu'pose," although he knew that the dictum
was a deathblow to his own pastoral hopes. The people thronged around
the pastor as he descended from the pulpit, and held his hand as they
had done of yore. One old woman went out, still mumbling under her
breath, "Sleep on, Ed'ards, sleep on."

There were no more church meetings after that, and no tendency to
dismiss the pastor. On the contrary, they gave him a donation party
next week, at which Sister Dicey helped him to receive his guests.

THE INGRATE

I

Mr. Leckler was a man of high principle. Indeed, he himself had
admitted it at times to Mrs. Leckler. She was often called into
counsel with him. He was one of those large souled creatures with a
hunger for unlimited advice, upon which he never acted. Mrs. Leckler
knew this, but like the good, patient little wife that she was, she
went on paying her poor tribute of advice and admiration. To-day her
husband's mind was particularly troubled,--as usual, too, over a
matter of principle. Mrs. Leckler came at his call.

"Mrs. Leckler," he said, "I am troubled in my mind. I--in fact, I am
puzzled over a matter that involves either the maintaining or
relinquishing of a principle."

"Well, Mr. Leckler?" said his wife, interrogatively.

"If I had been a scheming, calculating Yankee, I should have been rich
now; but all my life I have been too generous and confiding. I have
always let principle stand between me and my interests." Mr. Leckler
took himself all too seriously to be conscious of his pun, and went
on: "Now this is a matter in which my duty and my principles seem to
conflict. It stands thus: Josh has been doing a piece of plastering
for Mr. Eckley over in Lexington, and from what he says, I think that
city rascal has misrepresented the amount of work to me and so cut
down the pay for it. Now, of course, I should not care, the matter of
a dollar or two being nothing to me; but it is a very different matter
when we consider poor Josh." There was deep pathos in Mr. Leckler's
tone. "You know Josh is anxious to buy his freedom, and I allow him a
part of whatever he makes; so you see it's he that's affected. Every
dollar that he is cheated out of cuts off just so much from his
earnings, and puts further away his hope of emancipation."

If the thought occurred to Mrs. Leckler that, since Josh received only
about one-tenth of what he earned, the advantage of just wages would
be quite as much her husband's as the slave's, she did not betray it,
but met the naive reasoning with the question, "But where does the
conflict come in, Mr. Leckler?"

"Just here. If Josh knew how to read and write and cipher--"

"Mr. Leckler, are you crazy!"

"Listen to me, my dear, and give me the benefit of your judgment. This
is a very momentous question. As I was about to say, if Josh knew
these things, he could protect himself from cheating when his work is
at too great a distance for me to look after it for him."

"But teaching a slave--"

"Yes, that's just what is against my principles. I know how public
opinion and the law look at it. But my conscience rises up in
rebellion every time I think of that poor black man being cheated out
of his earnings. Really, Mrs. Leckler, I think I may trust to Josh's
discretion, and secretly give him such instructions as will permit him
to protect himself."

"Well, of course, it's just as you think best," said his wife.

"I knew you would agree with me," he returned. "It's such a comfort to
take counsel with you, my dear!" And the generous man walked out on to
the veranda, very well satisfied with himself and his wife, and
prospectively pleased with Josh. Once he murmured to himself, "I'll
lay for Eckley next time."

Josh, the subject of Mr. Leckler's charitable solicitations, was the
plantation plasterer. His master had given him his trade, in order
that he might do whatever such work was needed about the place; but he
became so proficient in his duties, having also no competition among
the poor whites, that he had grown to be in great demand in the
country thereabout. So Mr. Leckler found it profitable, instead of
letting him do chores and field work in his idle time, to hire him out
to neighboring farms and planters. Josh was a man of more than
ordinary intelligence; and when he asked to be allowed to pay for
himself by working overtime, his master readily agreed,--for it
promised more work to be done, for which he could allow the slave just
what he pleased. Of course, he knew now that when the black man began
to cipher this state of affairs would be changed; but it would mean
such an increase of profit from the outside, that he could afford to
give up his own little peculations. Anyway, it would be many years
before the slave could pay the two thousand dollars, which price he
had set upon him. Should he approach that figure, Mr. Leckler felt it
just possible that the market in slaves would take a sudden rise.

When Josh was told of his master's intention, his eyes gleamed with
pleasure, and he went to his work with the zest of long hunger. He
proved a remarkably apt pupil. He was indefatigable in doing the tasks
assigned him. Even Mr. Leckler, who had great faith in his plasterer's
ability, marveled at the speed which he had acquired the three R's. He
did not know that on one of his many trips a free negro had given Josh
the rudimentary tools of learning, and that since the slave had been
adding to his store of learning by poring over signs and every bit of
print that he could spell out. Neither was Josh so indiscreet as to
intimate to his benefactor that he had been anticipated in his good
intentions.

It was in this way, working and learning, that a year passed away, and
Mr. Leckler thought that his object had been accomplished. He could
safely trust Josh to protect his own interests, and so he thought that
it was quite time that his servant's education should cease.

"You know, Josh," he said, "I have already gone against my principles
and against the law for your sake, and of course a man can't stretch
his conscience too far, even to help another who's being cheated; but
I reckon you can take care of yourself now."

"Oh, yes, suh, I reckon I kin," said Josh.

"And it wouldn't do for you to be seen with any books about you now."

"Oh, no, suh, su't'n'y not." He didn't intend to be seen with any
books about him.

It was just now that Mr. Leckler saw the good results of all he had
done, and his heart was full of a great joy, for Eckley had been
building some additions to his house, and sent for Josh to do the
plastering for him. The owner admonished his slave, took him over a
few examples to freshen his memory, and sent him forth with glee. When
the job was done, there was a discrepancy of two dollars in what Mr.
Eckley offered for it and the price which accrued from Josh's
measurements. To the employer's surprise, the black man went over the
figures with him and convinced him of the incorrectness of the
payment,--and the additional two dollars were turned over.

"Some o' Leckler's work," said Eckley, "teaching a nigger to cipher!
Close-fisted old reprobate,--I've a mind to have the law on him." Mr.
Leckler heard the story with great glee. "I laid for him that
time--the old fox." But to Mrs. Leckler he said: "You see, my dear
wife, my rashness in teaching Josh to figure for himself is
vindicated. See what he has saved for himself."

"What did he save?" asked the little woman indiscreetly.

Her husband blushed and stammered for a moment, and then replied,
"Well, of course, it was only twenty cents saved to him, but to a man
buying his freedom every cent counts; and after all, it is not the
amount, Mrs. Leckler, it's the principle of the thing."

"Yes," said the lady meekly.

II

Unto the body it is easy for the master to say, "Thus far shalt thou
go, and no farther." Gyves, chains and fetters will enforce that
command. But what master shall say unto the mind, "Here do I set the
limit of your acquisition. Pass it not"? Who shall put gyves upon the
intellect, or fetter the movement of thought? Joshua Leckler, as
custom denominated him, had tasted of the forbidden fruit, and his
appetite had grown by what it fed on. Night after night he crouched
in his lonely cabin, by the blaze of a fat pine brand, poring over the
few books that he had been able to secure and smuggle in. His
fellow-servants alternately laughed at him and wondered why he did not
take a wife. But Joshua went on his way. He had no time for marrying
or for love; other thoughts had taken possession of him. He was being
swayed by ambitions other than the mere fathering of slaves for his
master. To him his slavery was deep night. What wonder, then, that he
should dream, and that through the ivory gate should come to him the
forbidden vision of freedom? To own himself, to be master of his
hands, feet, of his whole body--something would clutch at his heart as
he thought of it; and the breath would come hard between his lips. But
he met his master with an impassive face, always silent, always
docile; and Mr. Leckler congratulated himself that so valuable and
intelligent a slave should be at the same time so tractable. Usually
intelligence in a slave meant discontent; but not so with Josh. Who
more content than he? He remarked to his wife: "You see, my dear, this
is what comes of treating even a nigger right."

Meanwhile the white hills of the North were beckoning to the chattel,
and the north winds were whispering to him to be a chattel no longer.
Often the eyes that looked away to where freedom lay were filled with
a wistful longing that was tragic in its intensity, for they saw the
hardships and the difficulties between the slave and his goal and,
worst of all, an iniquitous law,--liberty's compromise with bondage,
that rose like a stone wall between him and hope,--a law that degraded
every free-thinking man to the level of a slave-catcher. There it
loomed up before him, formidable, impregnable, insurmountable. He
measured it in all its terribleness, and paused. But on the other side
there was liberty; and one day when he was away at work, a voice came
out of the woods and whispered to him "Courage!"--and on that night
the shadows beckoned him as the white hills had done, and the forest
called to him, "Follow."

"It seems to me that Josh might have been able to get home to-night,"
said Mr. Leckler, walking up and down his veranda; "but I reckon it's
just possible that he got through too late to catch a train." In the
morning he said: "Well, he's not here yet; he must have had to do some
extra work. If he doesn't get here by evening, I'll run up there."

In the evening, he did take the train for Joshua's place of
employment, where he learned that his slave had left the night before.
But where could he have gone? That no one knew, and for the first time
it dawned upon his master that Josh had run away. He raged; he fumed;
but nothing could be done until morning, and all the time Leckler knew
that the most valuable slave on his plantation was working his way
toward the North and freedom. He did not go back home, but paced the
floor all night long. In the early dawn he hurried out, and the hounds
were put on the fugitive's track. After some nosing around they set
off toward a stretch of woods. In a few minutes they came yelping
back, pawing their noses and rubbing their heads against the ground.
They had found the trail, but Josh had played the old slave trick of
filling his tracks with cayenne pepper. The dogs were soothed, and
taken deeper into the wood to find the trail. They soon took it up
again, and dashed away with low bays. The scent led them directly to a
little wayside station about six miles distant. Here it stopped.
Burning with the chase, Mr. Leckler hastened to the station agent.
Had he seen such a negro? Yes, he had taken the northbound train two
nights before.

"But why did you let him go without a pass?" almost screamed the
owner.

"I didn't," replied the agent. "He had a written pass, signed James
Leckler, and I let him go on it."

"Forged, forged!" yelled the master. "He wrote it himself."

"Humph!" said the agent, "how was I to know that? Our niggers round
here don't know how to write."

Mr. Leckler suddenly bethought him to hold his peace. Josh was
probably now in the arms of some northern abolitionist, and there was
nothing to be done now but advertise; and the disgusted master spread
his notices broadcast before starting for home. As soon as he arrived
at his house, he sought his wife and poured out his griefs to her.

"You see, Mrs. Leckler, this is what comes of my goodness of heart. I
taught that nigger to read and write, so that he could protect
himself,--and look how he uses his knowledge. Oh, the ingrate, the
ingrate! The very weapon which I give him to defend himself against
others he turns upon me. Oh, it's awful,--awful! I've always been too
confiding. Here's the most valuable nigger on my plantation
gone,--gone, I tell you,--and through my own kindness. It isn't his
value, though, I'm thinking so much about. I could stand his loss, if
it wasn't for the principle of the thing, the base ingratitude he has
shown me. Oh, if I ever lay hands on him again!" Mr. Leckler closed
his lips and clenched his fist with an eloquence that laughed at
words.

Just at this time, in one of the underground railway stations, six
miles north of the Ohio, an old Quaker was saying to Josh: "Lie
still,--thee'll be perfectly safe there. Here comes John Trader, our
local slave catcher, but I will parley with him and send him away.
Thee need not fear. None of thy brethren who have come to us have ever
been taken back to bondage.--Good-evening, Friend Trader!" and Josh
heard the old Quaker's smooth voice roll on, while he lay back half
smothering in a bag, among other bags of corn and potatoes.

It was after ten o'clock that night when he was thrown carelessly into
a wagon and driven away to the next station, twenty-five miles to the
northward. And by such stages, hiding by day and traveling by night,
helped by a few of his own people who were blessed with freedom, and
always by the good Quakers wherever found, he made his way into
Canada. And on one never-to-be-forgotten morning he stood up,
straightened himself, breathed God's blessed air, and knew himself
free!

III

To Joshua Leckler this life in Canada was all new and strange. It was
a new thing for him to feel himself a man and to have his manhood
recognized by the whites with whom he came into free contact. It was
new, too, this receiving the full measure of his worth in work. He
went to his labor with a zest that he had never known before, and he
took a pleasure in the very weariness it brought him. Ever and anon
there came to his ears the cries of his brethren in the South.
Frequently he met fugitives who, like himself, had escaped from
bondage; and the harrowing tales that they told him made him burn to
do something for those whom he had left behind him. But these
fugitives and the papers he read told him other things. They said
that the spirit of freedom was working in the United States, and
already men were speaking out boldly in behalf of the manumission of
the slaves; already there was a growing army behind that noble
vanguard, Sumner, Phillips, Douglass, Garrison. He heard the names of
Lucretia Mott and Harriet Beecher Stowe, and his heart swelled, for on
the dim horizon he saw the first faint streaks of dawn.

So the years passed. Then from the surcharged clouds a flash of
lightning broke, and there was the thunder of cannon and the rain of
lead over the land. From his home in the North he watched the storm as
it raged and wavered, now threatening the North with its awful power,
now hanging dire and dreadful over the South. Then suddenly from out
the fray came a voice like the trumpet tone of God to him: "Thou and
thy brothers are free!" Free, free, with the freedom not cherished by
the few alone, but for all that had been bound. Free, with the freedom
not torn from the secret night, but open to the light of heaven.

When the first call for colored soldiers came, Joshua Leckler hastened
down to Boston, and enrolled himself among those who were willing to
fight to maintain their freedom. On account of his ability to read
and write and his general intelligence, he was soon made an orderly
sergeant. His regiment had already taken part in an engagement before
the public roster of this band of Uncle Sam's niggers, as they were
called, fell into Mr. Leckler's hands. He ran his eye down the column
of names. It stopped at that of Joshua Leckler, Sergeant, Company F.
He handed the paper to Mrs. Leckler with his finger on the place:

"Mrs. Leckler," he said, "this is nothing less than a judgment on me
for teaching a nigger to read and write. I disobeyed the law of my
state and, as a result, not only lost my nigger, but furnished the
Yankees with a smart officer to help them fight the South. Mrs.
Leckler, I have sinned--and been punished. But I am content, Mrs.
Leckler; it all came through my kindness of heart,--and your mistaken
advice. But, oh, that ingrate, that ingrate!"

THE CASE OF 'CA'LINE'

A KITCHEN MONOLOGUE

The man of the house is about to go into the dining-room when he hears
voices that tell him that his wife has gone down to give the "hired
help" a threatened going over. He quietly withdraws, closes the door
noiselessly behind him and listens from a safe point of vantage.

One voice is timid and hesitating; that is his wife. The other is
fearlessly raised; that is her majesty, the queen who rules the
kitchen, and from it the rest of the house.

This is what he overhears:

"Well, Mis' Ma'tin, hit do seem lak you jes' bent an' boun' to be
a-fin'in' fault wid me w'en de Lawd knows I's doin' de ve'y bes' I
kin. What 'bout de brekfus'? De steak too done an' de 'taters ain't
done enough! Now, Miss Ma'tin, I jes' want to show you I cooked dat
steak an' dem 'taters de same lengt' o' time. Seems to me dey ought to
be done de same. Dat uz a thick steak, an' I jes' got hit browned
thoo nice. What mo'd you want?

"You didn't want it fried at all? Now, Mis' Ma'tin, 'clah to goodness!
Who evah hyeah de beat o' dat? Don't you know dat fried meat is de
bes' kin' in de worl'? W'y, de las' fambly dat I lived wid--dat uz ol'
Jedge Johnson--he said dat I beat anybody fryin' he evah seen; said I
fried evahthing in sight, an' he said my fried food stayed by him
longer than anything he evah e't. Even w'en he paid me off he said it
was 'case he thought somebody else ought to have de benefit of my
wunnerful powahs. Huh, ma'am, I's used to de bes'. De Jedge paid me de
highes' kin' o' comperments. De las' thing he say to me was, 'Ca'line,
Ca'line,' he say, 'yo' cookin' is a pa'dox. It is crim'nal, dey ain't
no 'sputin' dat, but it ain't action'ble.' Co'se, I didn't unnerstan'
his langidge, but I knowed hit was comperments, 'case his wife, Mis'
Jedge Johnson, got right jealous an' told him to shet his mouf.

"Dah you goes. Now, who'd 'a' thought dat a lady of yo' raisin' an
unnerstannin' would 'a' brung dat up. De mo'nin' you come an' ketch me
settin' down an' de brekfus not ready, I was a-steadyin'. I's a mighty
han' to steady, Mis' Ma'tin. 'Deed I steadies mos' all de time. But
dat mo'nin' I got to steadyin' an' aftah while I sot down an' all my
troubles come to my min'. I sho' has a heap o' trouble. I jes' sot
thaih a-steadyin' 'bout 'em an' a-steadyin' tell bime-by, hyeah you
comes.

"No, ma'am, I wasn't 'sleep. I's mighty apt to nod w'en I's
a-thinkin'. It's a kin' o' keepin' time to my idees. But bless yo'
soul I wasn't 'sleep. I shets my eyes so's to see to think bettah. An'
aftah all, Mistah Ma'tin wasn't mo' 'n half an houah late dat mo'nin'
nohow, 'case w'en I did git up I sholy flew. Ef you jes' 'membahs
'bout my steadyin' we ain't nevah gwine have no trouble long's I stays
hyeah.

"You say dat one night I stayed out tell one o'clock. W'y--oh, yes.
Dat uz Thu'sday night. W'y la! Mis' Ma'tin, dat's de night my s'ciety
meets, de Af'Ame'ican Sons an' Daughtahs of Judah. We had to
'nitianate a new can'date dat night, an' la! I wish you'd 'a' been
thaih, you'd 'a' killed yo'self a-laffin'.

"You nevah did see sich ca'in's on in all yo' bo'n days. It was
pow'ful funny. Broth' Eph'am Davis, he's ouah Mos' Wusshipful Rabbi,
he says hit uz de mos' s'cessful 'nitination we evah had. Dat
can'date pawed de groun' lak a hoss an' tried to git outen de winder.
But I got to be mighty keerful how I talk: I do' know whethah you
'long to any secut s'cieties er not. I wouldn't been so late even fu'
dat, but Mistah Hi'am Smif, he gallanted me home an' you know a lady
boun' to stan' at de gate an' talk to huh comp'ny a little while. You
know how it is, Mis' Ma'tin.

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