The burial of Uncle Billy Malone, of Jackson county, by his intimate friends and boon companions, was one of the strangest funerals ever held in North Carolina, or anywhere else; it was a clear case of birds of a feather flocking together even unto the grave.
Everybody in Jackson knew or knew of Uncle Billy Malone, the blacksmith-horse-trader; he was one of the few very interesting characters of the county. His chief end in life seemed to be a burning desire to satisfy an unquenchable thirst for strong drink. He was a confirmed toper, and all of his personal friends were of the same persuasion.
Uncle Billy and his associates made it a rule for years to assemble at Washington, the county seat of Jackson, every off day—every Saturday, every wet day, every holiday, in fact, every day they could, and drink thehealth of each other, the state and the nation. It was a jolly lot and Uncle Billy, the dean, was the oldest of them all; his son Sid, the youngest, and Col. William LaFayette, the wisest. The little circle numbered eight, and it was a close corporation while the cup passed around. Whiskey was the besetting sin of each and every one of them, who drank whenever he could, and wherever he could.
Col. LaFayette was a tenant farmer—a typical tenant farmer of a class that lived in the cotton-producing section of the South after the civil war. During the days of slavery he served as overseer for small slave-owning landlords. Most of his kind moved to the towns of the Piedmont counties of the Southern States when cotton mills began to flourish and put their children at work at the spindle and the loom. The sorrier ones became vampires.
In appearance Col. LaFayette was a freak, but in manner, a sort of shabby-genteel Chesterfield. He was a cadaverous-looking fellow, with long body, long legs, and long arms, and thin, sharp, pointed face. The oldestcitizen of his county did not remember to have seen him in well-fitting clothes. His shirt sleeves were too short, and his trousers never reached the top of his shoes. He habitually wore a slouch hat, with one side up and the other down, and went with his shirt front open and his shoes loosely laced.
Picture him in your mind, trudging his way to town to join his chums at The Merry Bowl, Jim Roediger’s saloon! Any excuse took him in, for he was always certain that his friends, all of whom, save Uncle Billy, were fellow tillers of the soil, would meet him there. No particular day was set but the little band of drinking cronies came together like iron filings to a magnet. If any one failed to appear something serious had happened to prevent his coming. Jim Boggs, Pete Blue, Sam Helms, Mike Broom and Bob Sink belonged to the coterie.
Such were the running mates of Uncle Bill Malone; all good fellows, and harmless, except to their own constitutions. They stood in their own light but no one could say aught against any of them, barring the fact that hedrank to excess, and that was a common complaint at that time. They had lived together so long, and enjoyed one another’s society to such an extent that, up to the time of Uncle Billy’s death, with the exception of a few business associations, they shunned the rest of mankind, not that they were ashamed but that ordinary men bored them. Their circle was complete.
On a cold—bitter cold—night in December, 18—, the angel of death knocked at the cabin door of Uncle Billy Malone. Without warning, and suddenly, the call came. The old man had not been feeling well for several days, but he had not complained to his companions. The facts concerning his last moments are not known to the outside world. The curtain is down and no one can say how Uncle Billy passed from life to eternity. But the charitable must believe that he was sober and clothed in his right mind.
The day before the summons came De Ate, as the party was known, foregathered at The Merry Bowl and drank until late. Sid and his father got home just before dark. Thenext morning, when the son went to arouse his father, he found his body cold in death.
But, let us turn to the funeral!
Sid Malone behaved like a child in the presence of death. The very thought of being alone and face to face with a dead kinsman seemed to unnerve him. There was but one definite idea in his head and that was that his father had to be buried.
“Who is to do it?” he asked himself.
“Why, his friends!” was the natural answer.
“Who, Col. LaFayette, and the others of De Ate?”
Those were the only friends he knew. He had not been to church in forty years, and no preacher had ever put foot in his home.
“Is there no woman or minister of the gospel?” asked Sid.
“Not one,” echo answered.
With these thoughts running through his mind Sid mounted his mule and started to the several homes of his friends to announce the sad news. He had not gone far when he met Col. LaFayette and others, riding througheight inches of snow, on their way to Washington for a drinking frolic. Thinking of nothing but the exhilarating glass that awaited them at The Merry Bowl, they did not recognize Sid Malone as he came riding down the road.
The death of his father had softened Sid, and his heart was sore. When his companions came in sight he was thinking of the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death, a subject he had never considered before. The turning place for him, he argued, had come. But alas! he met his old cronies, and the flow of serious thought was diverted.
“Turn back, boys, don’t go to town to-day,” said Sid, as he recognized his pals. “Turn back, my daddy’s daid!”
“Oh, Sid, don’t tell me that your daddy air daid,” cried Col. LaFayette, throwing up his hands at the unexpected and shocking announcement. “How kin it be?”
“It shore is the truth, and I want you fellers to help me give him a decent burial.”
“Well, Sid, there ain’t nothin’ that I wouldn’t do for Uncle Billy Malone, daid oralive, and as quick as I go up town and tend to a little bizness I’ll be wid you.”
Col. LaFayette had his mind fatally fixed on The Merry Bowl, and he felt compelled to have a drink before he could do anything else, but, be it said to his credit, that although his tongue was dry and his head set on the saloon, his heart—a large, warm one—was with his dead comrade. He was loyal and true to his friends, and Uncle Billy stood at the head of the list.
He went to The Merry Bowl—he and all of his associates except Sid, who went to the church to have a grave prepared—took a round or two of drinks and bought several bottles to carry away with them. Having thus fortified against the cold and the dreary hours ahead the six companions of the Malones repaired to the little home on the outskirts of the town, and began the watch over Uncle Billy’s remains.
Sid Malone and his father lived in a two-roomed log house, which had been built two generations before. They had been the sole occupants since the death of Mrs. Malone,mother and wife, twenty years prior to that time. It was a wretched, poverty-stricken place, unkept and dilapidated.
Here, on the day of the funeral, the friends of the late lord and master of the hut sat in silence, doing what they deemed to be the right thing toward their departed comrade. The six, with solemn faces, sat looking in the fire that crackled away on the hearth. Deep down they were sorrow-stricken but, withal, the thirst that never dies tugged at them. At first, when one felt that it was impossible to do without a drink any longer, he would rise and steal quietly out, step aside, and touch his flask. This was out of respect to the memory of Uncle Billy. However, this formality did not continue long for, inside of two hours, the boys were drinking in the good old way, and in the presence of the corpse.
Sid returned about noon, broken and dejected, and was prevailed upon to take a cup or two for his nerves.
“It’s mighty hard, fellers,” said Col. LaFayette, “but we can not undo what has been done. The Father of All intended that weshould go just like Uncle Billy went. I hope that my takin’ off will be as sudden and as unlooked-for as his. I have my thoughts about the hereafter, but I hope to be with my friends. Let us drink one glass in honor of our old friend who has gone on before!”
The frequent drinks of whiskey had lifted the sorrow from the hearts of the little band of associates.
After dinner, while a heavy snow fell, the friends of Uncle Billy Malone put the body in a pine coffin, one made for the purpose by the dead man, and bore it to its last resting place. A hand-car, which was operated on a spur of a trunk-line road, was used in place of a hearse. The mourners staggered by the car and shoved it along the rails. On the way the casket fell off but was soon replaced. The drinking begun early in the morning, had been kept up all day, and Col. LaFayette and his friends were pretty rocky.
When the funeral party reached the church, Bellevue Chapel, there was no one to greet it. Simp Syder, the colored grave digger, was the only living creature in sight. The trees,the church top, and the tombstones were covered with snow, and everything seemed dead and cold.
The corpse was carried to the open grave and let down. After the ropes were pulled out the associates of the late Uncle Billy Malone stood and looked at each other, inquiring in a mute way: “Is it possible that no one can say a word—a last word—for the old man?”
Col. William LaFayette, big-hearted fellow that he was, arose to the emergency. Looking in the grave, at the coffin, and then passing his eyes from man to man, he knew that the task had fallen on him. He read in the faces of the others that he was expected to perform the last rites and ceremonies over the body of their departed friend. On realizing this, he said: “Stand ’round the grave, boys, and pull off your hats. Git as close as you can.
“There air nobudy here—no preacher, nor weemens, or the like of that—to say nuthing, and it just won’t do to bury a man like Uncle Billy Malone without somethingbeing said; if nobudy else will say it, I will.
“Here air the body of Uncle Billy Malone, and he air daid. He was as good-er man as ever lived, and you all know it. And we air every one drunk, and I would go further to remark, and to say, that if Uncle Billy were here, he’d be drunk, too.
“Let’s all hope that he’s gone to the Good Place, for he was a mighty good man. That’s all.
“If any of the rest of you have got anything to say, say it now, for it will be too late to-morrow.”
That closed the ceremonies. The grave was filled in, and the more tender-hearted ones of the party dropped tears on the red clay that covered the old fellow’s body. It was a solemn scene, there in the snow-covered grove, near the church. Uncle Billy’s friends had remained faithful to the last. They had done the best they knew how.
This is a story of North Carolina Fusion days, two years before the Constitutional amendment, disfranchising the negro, was adopted. In 1896 the Populists, managed by Senator Marion Butler, of Sampson, and the Republicans by Senator Jeter C. Pritchard, of Buncombe, were standing together in the State for mutual benefit—for pelf and pie—what most all active politicians stand together for. The Democrats were down and out. Ex-Judge Daniel L. Russell, of Wilmington, and Hon. Oliver H. Dockery, of Mangum, both of the sixth congressional district, were the candidates for the Republican nomination for Governor, which, at that time, meant an election. Charlotte, Union, Anson, Richmond, Robeson, New Hanover and other counties were in the Shoestring district.
The Republicans were very busy.
That being before the negro was disfranchised, the Republican party in this immediate section of the State was largely composed of Afro-Americans. A county convention was held in Charlotte, and it was as black as Africa. Of course there was a sprinkling of white men in it, but nine out of ten of the delegates were colored. The Dockeryites and the Russellites came close to blows. There were rumors of wars, but no blood was shed.
Every county in the district had had a similar convention and named delegates to the Maxton meeting.
The all-absorbing question was: “Are you for Dockery or Russell?”
Mr. Dockery was known as the “Great Warhorse of the Pee Dee,” and Mr. Russell as “The Mighty Dan of New Hanover.”
The Maxton convention promised a live newspaper story. Unless the hand writing on the wall had been misread there was blood on the moon. Some sort of a fight seemedcertain if the delegates of the Shoestring district ever got together.
It was at Maxton, as a common reporter, that I got my nickname, Red Buck, now a nom de plume. When the fight became warm I bolted without waiting ceremonies.
We, the Mecklenburg delegates to the district convention, and I, my paper’s reliance for the story of the day, left Charlotte on the early train, a bright spring morning, and journeyed eastward.
At Monroe the Union delegation got aboard, and at Wadesboro the Anson, and at Rockingham and Laurinburg, the Richmond.
The train was literally filled with negroes. I had a dull time with that crowd until we got to Rockingham, where Claude Dockery, whom I had met at the State University at Chapel Hill several years prior to that, joined the party and introduced me to the most interesting character in the Dockery contingent, Rich Lilly, a tall, wiry, limber negro, with juicy mouth and knappy, dusty head. Rich was going to do what he could toward thenomination of his old friend, Col. Oliver Dockery. Somewhere between Rockingham and Maxton Rich and I were thrown together, when no one else was near. Rich beckoned to me and dodged behind a freight car and, in order to see what he wanted, I followed.
“Boss, is you gwine to Maxton?” asked Rich, holding his right hand under his coat tail as if to draw his gun.
“Yes, sir. That is where I am bound for.”
“Well, say, boss, here’s des’ a little uv Duckery’s best, won’t you have er drink?”
“No, thank you, I don’t drink,” said I.
“Looker here, boss, you mus’ not be no delegate?”
“No, I am not.”
“Well, is yer gwine to de convention?”
“Yes.”
The train started and we got aboard. Rich could not understand; my attitude toward his elixir of life astonished him.
About 12 o’clock the convention met in a large hall, provided with a rostrum, over a store on Main street. The hall, havingbeen used for a buggy warehouse, had a tramway that led from the sidewalk to the floor. Up this broad and slanting way the delegates and spectators traveled. I was one among the first to arrive, with a chair that I borrowed, a small lapboard and a tablet, and took my seat on the rostrum, in the north corner, against the rear wall, near a window that looked out on a back lot, believing that I had selected the best place in the house for my purpose.
At the appointed hour the hall was well filled with people, principally negroes. Seeing Mr. Claude Dockery talking and laughing with me, Rich Lilly became curious again, and, when no one was about, he came up, looked me in the eye and asked: “Boss, for Gawd’s sake, whut is you gwine ter do ef you ain’t no deligate.”
“I am going to sit here and watch you Republicans, take notes and write you up in the paper if you don’t behave yourselves,” was my reply.
“O, you’s er writer fur de paper?”
“Yes.”
“I sees.”
I do not recall any but the more violent incidents of the convention. As I sat there and watched the various delegations take their seats, a looker-on in Vienna pointed out some of the celebrities.
“That man with the long beard and long fig-stemmed pipe, is Dr. R. M. Norment, of Lumberton,” said my coach. “The man with the cripple hand is Col. B. Bill Terry. The long-armed man with abbreviated trousers and coat sleeves, is Speaking Henry Covington.”
Many others were named, but I have forgotten most of them. Later Big Bill Sutton, of Bladen, came in. He did not belong to the convention, but it was understood that he was there to lead the Russell forces in a rough-house affair if his services were needed.
No one would have imagined that the quiet, lifeless body of men of the first half hour of the convention would become the mob that it did before the day was over.
The trouble began when the convention voted on a permanent chairman, each sideclaiming the majority when the balloting was over. The god of peace had quit the meeting and the devil taken possession. Mr. A. M. Long, of Rockingham, a handsome man, with good face, was put up by the Dockeryites, and a Wilmington negro by the Russellites. Both Mr. Long and the darkey tried to take the seat, each mounting the rostrum and seizing a chair.
This was the signal for a general fight, which began on the stage.
Knowing the power of Speaking Henry’s lungs the Dockery delegates began to yell “Covington,” “Covington,” “speech,” but in the meantime the Wilmington negro, the Russell chairman, had been deprived of his seat by force. Mr. Long held his with a brace of Colts.
I want the reader to understand that the fight then in progress was none of my affair. To tell the whole truth I did look on with considerable satisfaction until I saw two or three men produce pistols; from that time I had one eye on the convention and the other looking for a way to escape.
Every fighting man was coming to the rostrum, throwing nervous delegates out of the way as he advanced.
Rich Lilly brought first blood. The calls for Henry Covington, the supple man with the oily tongue, were heeded by that gentleman, who was just as fearless as wordy, and while others glared and swore at each other he was making the welkin ring with Dockery thunder. No man ever made more gestures and took longer strides than did Speaking Henry that afternoon.
With a quart of mean liquor in his stomach and a cigarette in his mouth, Rich Lilly, the warmest Dockeryite of them all, pranced behind Mr. Covington, following him with his hands and feet as far as he could without injuring himself.
Seeing this double-barreled performance I lost sight of the free-for-all fight on the opposite side of the stage. It wasn’t what Mr. Covington said but the way he said it that attracted. Except for the difference in color one would have taken Speaking Henry and Rich Lilly for the Gold Dust twins.
“Tell it to ’em!” shouted Rich, every time he hit the floor.
“Yes, Lawd, let ’em have it. Dere ain’t no candi-date but Col. Duckery!”
Tiring of this, a Russell man in the back section of the hall roared out: “Five dollars for the man who will pull that long-legged devil down from there.”
No sooner had the offer been made than did a short, stocky, big-headed negro, with a Van Dyke beard, start from the fifth row of seats toward the stand to catch Covington by the leg.
I mounted my chair to see. Having the advantage of the pedestal I could take in everything.
Speaking Henry had charged and jumped and squatted and bounced until his trousers, all too short, had climbed nearly to his knees and his heavy home-knit socks had fallen over his shoe tops. He was about ready to fly when the designing negro reached out for his thin, bare shank.
But there came a turn; Rich Lilly, who had heard the offer and seen the negro start andwend his way to the stage, was guarding the speaker. Just as the Wilmington delegate made a pass at the Dockery speaker, Rich bowed his back, like a Thomas cat, ducked, shot forward and gave him a blow between the eyes and floored him. Speaking Henry never let up. In fact, he never knew what had happened until the convention was over. Rich resumed his antics until he recalled the fact that I was taking notes and then rushed back to where I had dropped into my seat, put his hands on my knees, looked me in the face and asked, seriously: “Say, boss, did I act lak er delegate?”
“Yes, indeed, do it again.”
To my certain knowledge Rich hammered five other delegates after that and came to see if I approved of the manner in which he did it.
But I was forced to forget Speaking Henry and Rich Lilly. Other incidents, more exciting and more strenuous, were in progress. Big Bill Sutton had come upon the rostrum and was throwing delegates east and west. Having the advantage of a tremendous frameand a notorious reputation as a scrapper he walked roughshod over less fortunate ones. But there was one man, with a keen eye, an iron face and frosted hair, that was not afraid to face him, and that was Mr. Dan Morrison, of Rockingham, a Republican leader at that time.
As old man Bill surged on the rostrum his son, Dave, screamed back at Henry Covington from the hall. I saw Mr. Morrison climb on the rostrum, and knew that he was mad. He and Big Bill glowered at each other for an instant at twenty paces. Two seconds later they were rushing at each other, like vicious dogs. They did not have a head-on collision, but side-swiped. The Rockingham man got the best of the first round; he tore Sutton’s collar and tie from his neck and held it between the thumb and forefinger, so that all might see. Friends interfered and prevented an ugly affair.
“Clear the rostrum!” shouted some one from the hall.
That is what the chairmen and their friends had been trying to do for some minutes. Butthe delegates crowded around the edge until they were fifteen or twenty deep and the rostrum was alive with opposing factions.
After the Morrison-Sutton mix-up the fighting became general. Some fellow in the house knocked Dr. Norment over a seat, jamming his pipe stem halfway down his throat.
Times were beginning to look squally for me, and I had no way out. To my left was a window, but if I went out that it meant a fall of 20 feet to the ground; to my right, an anteroom, with a small, thin wall; going out, down the steps from the rostrum, the way I came in, seemed at that time an impossibility. While considering the advisability of going into the anteroom and closing the door I saw an upheaval across from me and before I could catch my breath an old darkey sailed into the room and slammed the door and I was cut off there.
All the while the mob on the rostrum became blacker and more like a negro festival. The old cornfield negroes were just beginning to catch the spirit of the meeting. As the colored delegates increased the white onesstole away, imagining that something would be doing soon.
Seeing the change in color and temperament of the stage crowd I began to have serious concern about my own welfare. Had the fight been among my own people I might have taken a hand, but to sit idly by and be punctured with a pistol or a knife was not to my liking. I was slow in making up my mind. But there came a time when I had to act before thinking it over. As I sat there and wondered what injuries I would receive if I jumped out the window, a big negro, perhaps a ditcher, clad in overalls and wearing a cap and high-top boots, broke through the mob in the hall, jumped up on the stand immediately in front of me, and began to finger in his boot and swear. I heard him mumble to himself: “I’ll be d—d ef I don’t clar dis hall when I get ole Sallie.”
I had an idea that “Ole Sallie” was a weapon of some sort, and I was right, for a half a second later the big nigger rose to his full height, threw open a razor, turned around three times (coming close to me as hewheeled) and yelled, “Git off uv dis stage, don’t I’ll cut yo’ throats—every one uv you.”
I was the first to leave, going over the heads of the mob that had collected about the edge of the stage. My notebook flew to the right and my lapboard to the left, while I continued my flight straight ahead down the tramway. As I struck the street, old man B. B. Terry, whom I knew very well, stood behind the wall of the brick building, and peeping up the exit, said: “I gad, that’s no place for a well man, much less a cripple.” I did not argue the point.
I was followed by many hundreds. In fact, the entire Russell delegation bolted, some going through the windows and others down the tramway.
The Dockery men remained and passed a few resolutions, but there was no more fighting.
Late that afternoon, when the westbound delegates were waiting at the station to take the train, some one discovered that Uncle Hampton, a very ancient colored delegatefrom Monroe, was missing. I heard the talking and inquired as to his appearance.
“Why,” said I, “that is the old fellow that went in the anteroom when the fight began.”
A party of us visited the hall and knocked on the locked door, but did not get a response. Finally we broke in and there sat old man Hampton, jouked down in the corner, afraid to move.
Claude Dockery, who sat on the roof and saw me make the famous leap, went to Raleigh and told Tom Pence, the city editor ofThe Times-Visitor, that “Red Buck had bolted the convention.” I was the butt of papers and politicians for weeks. The Old Man said, in an editorial, that “Red Buck” would have to explain why he bolted and he did as best he could. Mr. Caldwell had dubbed me “Brick Top,” “Strawberry Blond,” and “Red Buck,” and the last name stuck because of the Maxton convention and Claude Dockery’s interview.
The man who earns by the sweat of his brow or the cunning of his mind a comfortable living for those dependent upon him should not complain but consider the mean lot of others, less fortunate, and rejoice at his good fate. There is not a day of my life that I do not see some wretch faring worse than I; some poor person struggling desperately to keep body and soul together.
Let us thank God for a sound mind and a sound body: that we do not think side-whiskers are pretty and that we have not hair-lips.
One day not long ago, while hurrying from my work, I passed a Greek peanut roaster, and wondered about his lot. Day after day I had seen him with his little push-cart, but rarely had I observed any customers.
“How fares it to-day?” said I, as I hurried by.
“Fine, thank you: little mon, good book, good health, and heap of joy!”
“There is a philosopher,” thought I to myself. “He is a happy man. His life seems to be sweet, although he has but little of the goods of this world.”
That very day John, that son of Athens, had sold less than fifty cents worth of truck, yet he was rejoicing as he sat on the curbing, reading the life of Thomas Jefferson in Greek.
On a fine afternoon, in the spring of 1898, I walked from the Hotel LaFayette, at Fayetteville, to the Cape Fear river. I had a purpose in making the trip; I had been threatened with a fit of melancholia and was trying to stave it off. I strolled down to the water’s edge, where fishermen were wont to tie their boats at night, and stood there looking, looking, studying the topography of the country and the people in their labor for bread and meat.
I tarried on a pretty little hill, just above the river, where I had a good view of the water and surrounding fields. The territoryfor a hundred yards square in my immediate vicinity was bald and smooth from the constant tread of fishermen’s feet. Back of that, early vegetables and succulent grasses were springing up. Along the shore a dozen or more batteaus, or small fishing boats, were chained to stakes, or anchored to each other.
Far up and down the river I could see men in boats, gliding noiselessly along the banks, setting hooks for the evening bite. It was past the middle of the afternoon and the big fish, cats, carp and red horse, were beginning to run. This the fishermen knew and were hurrying to place their hooks, baited with mussels. At nine o’clock at night and early the next morning the hooks were looked.
While standing there, gazing here and there, I saw a party of small negro boys, wading to their waists in the water, graveling in the sand, for mussels to sell to the fishermen. Silently and doggedly, the little fellows hunted the slimy, shell-covered creatures, gathering them by the hundred.
The longer I remained there on that knoll,in the midst of that peculiarly fascinating life, the more interested I became. Every man, every woman and every boy or girl appealed to me. Between five-thirty and six o’clock the men who baited and placed the hooks came ashore, fastened their boats, and went to their respective homes for supper and a moment with their wives and children before starting out for the night fish. I saw them go and come with their nets. From dark until about ten o’clock they fished for shad, the most valuable fish in the Cape Fear at that season of the year.
It is intensely fascinating to watch the movements and study the habits and manners of the people who get their living from the water. They belong to a certain class and are of a certain type, differing from their brothers and sisters who till the soil. Loving the water and having become so used to it, they would not quit it for the land.
As a rule, river people are strong and ruddy. Their faces are hard and sunburned and their muscles well-knit and tough.
It is a wholesome life.
These be the sort of men I saw that afternoon. On the ground they were awkward, ill at ease, and grouchy, but in their boats graceful, sturdy and merry.
Soon after I went down to the river and settled myself, to look on and learn what I could of the ways of the living things about me, I heard a shuffling noise behind me, and when I turned to ascertain the cause, my eyes fell upon the most pitiful creature it had ever been my fortune to see. A woman, yes, a woman, one of God’s noblest creatures, stood and gazed in wonderment at me. She had approached within a few feet of me before she realized that I was a living being; I was hid from the view of the path that leads from the town to the river by a thicket of weeds and grass.
Once I began to look at the woman I could not keep from staring at her. She was ragged, wrinkled and unwashed. The clothes that covered her back, all bent and misshapen, were tattered and torn. Her leathery face was deeply seamed and drawn. The queer sound that attracted my attentionas she came up, was made by her shoes, which were large, not mates, and without strings. They slipped up and down upon her naked heels and made the “slick-slack,” “slick-slack” noise, so familiar to the country boy who has plowed in his father’s cast-off brogans, several numbers too large for his feet.
The woman was pathetic-looking, her crestfallen face was partially hid from me by an antiquated, dilapidated, weather-beaten split bonnet. Every garment she wore was a misfit and threadbare.
I felt myself drawn to this poverty-stricken creature. In order that I might find out something about her, I engaged her in conversation before she could wheel and escape.
“Are you going fishing?” I asked.
“No,” she answered pleasantly; “I came down to see if I could see my old man. He is fishing.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes. We have lived in this town thirty-odd years; me and my old man.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“Well, he fishes now. He is getting so old and feeble that he cannot do anything else. When young and strong, he worked on a freight boat on the river, but his health failed about ten years ago, and we have had a mighty hard time since. I have actually seed the time that we did not have enough to eat. He is proud, and would not beg. He fishes, while I tries to make a little money washing and sewing, but he will not let me work much.”
“Have you any children?”
“No, sir, Mister; God never gave us any, and I expect it is best. We are so poor they might have a hard time. Me and him are all of the two families left. He is the only person that I have to look to and he is good to me. He does his best, and God will not forget him for it.”
“Do you own a home?”
“No, sir. We have nothing but a little bit of furniture. We live in a rented house and the man who owns it could put us out to-night, but he is a Christian and would not do it. We have paid no rent in six years.We just can’t; that’s the reason. But it won’t be long now, for my old man is getting weak—weaker day by day. He can’t live much longer, and when he goes I hope that I may go too. We have been together forty-odd years, and in death I pray that God will not part us.
“The Lord has been good to us. We get comfort from the Bible.
“We don’t see anybody nowadays; we go nowhere, and nobody comes to see us. The friends we had in more prosperous days have deserted us; there is nothing about us to attract people. Some seem to shun us through fear that we may beg, but never, never; we would starve first. My old man is too proud to beg. I live in fear that he may get so feeble that he cannot go and that we will have nothing. He often says that he hopes he will die some night after fishing all day. If he does, I want to go too.”
“Do you ever go to church?”
“No, Mister; we haven’t been in goin’ on ten years. We have no fit clothes. The churches look too fine inside for our old rags,but we read our old Bible every Sunday. We can’t read much now; our eyes are bad; but we get much comfort out of the Good Book.
“The Church folks don’t ever come to see us. They don’t need us, as we ain’t got no money to give. I guess when we die some good preacher will say a word over our graves; I don’t know.”
This said, the old woman moved on toward the river, craning her neck as she went, so that she could see to the right of a clump of trees that stood near the water, looking for her husband, but she must not have seen him, for she soon passed back on her way home.
Becoming interested in what she said, I made up my mind to remain there till the old gentleman arrived and look him over. I had a long wait, for it was almost dark when his little boat hove in sight. His wife had been back and looked up the river several times. She seemed lonely, restless and uneasy.
I felt sorry for the old woman, but wasafraid to say so. It was, as she said, a bitter fight for existence. The aged pair had no associates, and actually suffered from poverty.
The last time she came to the landing she carried in her arms a tiny, toothless, starved dog.
“Is that your pet?” said I, anxious to reopen the conversation.
“Yes, he’s nearly twenty-two years old, and has been ours since a pup.”
“He is very old,” I declared, for the want of something better.
“Yes; and blind, and toothless.”
“Why do you keep him?”
“For what he has been. It would be cruel to kill him or desert him now, when he cannot take care of himself. I shall keep him until he dies, unless I go first. When he was younger he kept me company, and guarded our little home, when my old man was down the river for days and nights at a time, and now, if God spares me, I will see him through. I have to make a sort of soup for him to eat, and guide his footsteps.I do not think he is here for much longer; he is getting very thin and frail.”
She let him down on the ground by her side, and said: “Fido, do you love your mistress?” and the grateful little brute shook his tail.
The wife was not there when the husband came; though I had never seen him before I knew him when he landed. His face was haggard and worn, and his body emaciated. Some disease preyed at his vitals. His constitution was gone, but the blazing fire of pride still burned in his gray eyes. The will and the spirit were there. He had a fair string of fish, and after eating the smaller ones would have enough left to bring twenty-five cents.
Having tied his boat, he shouldered his tackle, took up his fish, and climbed the hill past me. I did not see his eyes searching for the faithful wife who had four times come to greet him; this lack of care I did not like. He seemed too indifferent. Possibly he was disappointed when his old companion was not there to meet him, not knowingthat she had come and gone time after time. He dragged his weary limbs over the brow of the hill, and toward the city. As he went by, I had a good opportunity to observe his clothes. He was not the one-gallus fellow that the politicians so often refer to, but the no-gallus one. His trousers were held up by sharp hip-bones and his shirt was decorated with vari-colored patches.
I followed the old man, until he met his wife, who was coming in a half-trot from their little cabin. The meeting was full of meaning. No word was uttered; no time lost. He looked solemn, the least bit angry, and she smiled, a bitter sad smile, and turned and followed him. Her eyes were on the fish, giving them a cash valuation.
All of this passed without a sound from either.
That night, after I had enjoyed a good meal, to gratify my curiosity I walked by the home of the lonely couple, and found them enjoying a pipe of tobacco each. The little dog was there, on the top step between them, and they were apparently happy.
As I moved on, I said to myself: “I wonder how it would feel to be penniless, friendless, decrepit and old, but too proud to beg?”
May fortune smile on the old fisherman, his loyal helpmeet and their little dog!
The summer season was in full blast at Lake Toxaway. Hundreds of Southerners and scores of others were there, enjoying the invigorating climate, the cooling breezes, and the open-air pastimes—golf, tennis, fishing, horseback riding, and rowing. For weeks the weather had been fair and fine, and the beautiful and popular resort, in the Blue Ridge, teemed with vivacious visitors, who romped on the lake, in the woods, and along the roads by day and danced, played cards and other indoor games, and chatted in the evenings, making merry fifteen hours a day.
Among the guests at Toxaway Inn was an Englishman, a Mr. Ferrier, who had come to North Carolina in search of rare beetles. To the other guests of the fashionable hostelry Ferrier was a freak—a bug hunter—who,although he mixed but rarely with the crowd, was well known to all by his tall, lanky form, his long stride, and energetic and positive air, on account of which he had incurred, without his knowledge, the dislike of many who came in touch with him. Wherever he went he left the impression that he believed England was the only place fit for a decent person to live.
Captain James Brusard, proprietor of the inn, would not have tolerated Ferrier, with his whims and kicks, had he not been one of his most profitable guests, occupying an expensive room, for which he paid an exorbitant price. The Englishman was liberal with his money, but his manner, which to the average Southerner seemed surly and uncivil, made him disagreeable to those with whom he came in contact, especially the easy-going, indolent servants, most of whom were oldtime negroes, such as had been with the Brusards for more than half a century. The excellent fare, carefully selected and well cooked, the exhilarating atmosphere, the refreshing water and the wealth of insects andflowers pleased him very much, but hilarious pleasure-seekers, and the indifferent negroes riled him. The pretty, elegantly-dressed women, with their merry chatter, did not appeal to him.
“Bugs! Bugs!! Nothing but bugs!” was his cry.
“I never seed sich a man since I been born,” said Uncle George, the head porter. “We ain’t got nuthin’ dat suits him. Whenever I see him comin’, wid dat baskit on his arm, an’ dat single-bar’l glass on his eye, den I knows some trouble’s on de way.”
Ferrier, much to the joy of his fellow lodgers, spent most of his time in the woods, hunting insects. Every sunny day he would leave bright and early and stay away until late in the afternoon, sometimes tramping ten or twelve miles and back between suns. Natives, as well as visitors, soon became interested in him and his work, but no one ever sought him out to interrogate him, or to converse with him. His demeanor was forbidding, yet he never intentionally affronted any one. To the few he made up tohe was very affable and likable. He meant well, but his neighbors could not become accustomed to his brusqueness.
The Toxaway country abounds in deer, grouse and trout. During the busy season, sportsmen bring in many trophies of the hunt. Ferrier, if one were to judge from his conversation, was an authority on game. In talking of the catch or kill of the North Carolina fishermen or hunters, he would speak slightingly, and this, more than any other thing, made him unpopular.
“I ’clar’ ’fo’ Gawd,” said Uncle George, one day, “ain’t we got nuthin’ as good as whut dey’s got in Englan’?”
Robert Brusard, son of the Captain, caught a very large trout, brought it home and exhibited it in front of the hotel, and one after another declared that it was the finest fish of the kind he had ever seen, but when Ferrier saw it he shook his head, and said: “Yes, yes, that is a big trout, but we have larger ones than that in England.” When a grouse was shown he made about the same comparison, and a deer, always givinghis country the best of it. This kept up until every American in the community wasmadat Ferrier.
“Ef I live, so hep me Gawd, I’ll git somefin’ bigger dan whut dey’s gut in Englan’,” declared Uncle George, the boss of all the darkies. “I sho’ is gwine to git even wid dat man.
“When Marse Robert go out here an’ ketch de bigges’ trout dat de oles’ men in dese parts ever seed, den come ’long dat man, wid his single-bar’l eyeglass, slap it up to his face, an’ ’low: ‘Yes, dat’s er putty big fish, but dey’s gut bigger ones dan dat in Englan’.’ I don’t say much, fur I ain’t never been dare. But dat ain’t all. No, sir, he don’t stop den, but des keep on an’ on.
“De yudder day, when Marse Jim killed dat grouse—I believe dat’s whut dey call it, but it look des lak a sho’ nuff ole speckle hen to me—an’ fetch it here, all whut see it, ’cepin’ dat Englishman, say dat it’s de bigges’ bird uv de kind in all de lan’, I wondered whut he gwine to say. Yes, sir, I des wonder whut he gwine to say. But I ain’thafter wonder long, fur he come ’long, steppin’ two yards at a time, an’ stop, an’ put on dat single-bar’l eyeglass, an’ look down at de grouse. I helt my breaf until he say: ‘Yes, yes, dat’s er putty big bird, but dey’s gut bigger grouse dan dat in Englan’.’
“Dat wuz too much. I des gut right sick when he say it. An’ no longer dan de day befo’, right dare in de back yard, he say dat de deer whut de gemmun frum Atlanty kilt wuz er big one, but not as big as de ones dey have in Englan’.”
One afternoon, not long after the deer incident, the old negro was fishing in Horseshoe River, at the foot of the mountain, when he saw another fisherman catch a mud turtle, or cooter, as the natives called it. At the sight of the wriggling thing, a happy thought came to Uncle George.
“I sho’ will trade fur dat cooter an’ git even wid de Englishman,” said he. “Yes, sir; dat’s des whut I’ll do.”
Going up to the man who had landed the turtle, George asked: “Say, boss, how’ll you swap dat tuckle fur some fish?”
“I’ll trade fair,” said the mountaineer.
“Well, I’m yo’ man, ef you will, fur I wants dat cooter,” declared the darkey.
“I’ll give you two trouts fur him?”
The exchange was made and George set out for home. No one knew what the negro was up to until he let a few of his friends, white and black, onto his game.
“Marse Jim, I wants you an’ Marse Robert to come roun’ to de back yard des arter dinner,” said George to Mr. Brusard.
“What are you up to, George?” asked the white man.
“Des a little fun, sir. Be sho’ an’ be dere!”
George went through the house, telling those whom he liked that he would expect them at the rear of the building that evening at half-past nine.
At the appointed hour the little yard was full of curious persons, anxious to know what sort of trick the ex-slave had on hand.
“George, what is this you are giving us?” asked young Brusard.
“Ax me no questions, an’ I’ll tell you no lies,” answered the negro.
“Marse Jim, ef you all des wait here till de Englishman go to his room den you’ll see some fun.”
“What have you done to Mr. Ferrier’s room?”
“Des evenin’, while I wuz down on Horseshoe, fishin’, I seed a mountain man ketch er tuckle, one of dese here cooters whut bites an’ holds on till it thunders, an’ I swapped fur it, brought it home an’ tuck it up dere an’ put it in dat man’s bed. Yes, sir; I slip up dere right easy lak, pull de kiver down an’ slip him in beween de sheets, so dat when Mr. Ferrier hop in he’ll hop out ergin. All you gut to do is to wait.”
A little snicker passed over the crowd.
Soon after nine the bug-hunter climbed the stairs from the office to his room, unlocked the door, struck a match and lit the candle on the table by the bed.
“Now listen,” whispered Uncle George; “he’s up dere. Did you hear him scratch dematch. He won’t be dere long ’fo’ he jumps in de bed, an’ den trouble’ll begin.
“Look, look; see de light go out!
“Now listen, an’ you’ll hear him bounce in!
“Listen; hear de bed a screachin’!
“He’s in.”
“Help! Ho!” came from the window above.
“Listen!” cried the darkey.
The crowd below could hear everything. Ferrier sprung out of the bed, fell over a chair, rose to his feet, scrambled out the door, and came flying down the back way, yelling every jump.
“Help! A dog! A mad cat!”
The onlookers stood perfectly still, while Ferrier rushed into the yard, with the turtle hanging on to his night shirt.
“Take it off! Kill it!” shouted the Englishman.
“Des let him run,” whispered Uncle George.
Round and round the frightened fellowwent, with the turtle swinging against his legs, now and then scratching them.
“Knock this thing off, George,” he cried to the old negro.
“Ef you’ll stop so I kin hit it widout hittin’ you,” was the reply.
Picking up a broom handle, George cracked the creature on the head and broke it loose.
“What in the name of the Lord is that, George?” asked the Briton, as he turned and gazed upon the dying turtle.
“Dat, sir, is a ’Merikin bed bug. Is you gut any in Englan’ dat kin beat it?”
Human nature is the same the world over, and the train is the best place to get the cream of it.
The other day, while on my way from Kansas City to St. Louis, in a day coach, I lost my seat to two ladies, who, disregarding my suit case and coat, had taken possession while I was in the rear getting a drink of water. This I did not mind, as there were plenty of seats vacant. Soon after the newcomers had arrived they began to buy and eat fruit, using a time-table which I had secured and marked for my convenience, as a receptacle for the peelings and seed. This annoyed me just a little, for I could not get a fresh one until I reached the end of my journey, but I said nothing.
An hour later, after I had taken a short nap and lost the run of the stations, I desiredto consult my schedule. Looking over the way, I found that the younger woman had disappeared, leaving her companion, an old lady dressed in heavy black, wearing on her head an antiquated split bonnet. Thinking of nothing but my time-table, I got up and went to where the aged traveler sat and, without much ado, reached down and picked it up. My intention was to steal away unobserved, so that the woman would not feel called upon to offer an apology for taking my seat, but I was foiled. As I lifted the book a cold, bony, clammy hand shot from beneath a black sleeve and fastened my wrist with a vice-like grip. The turn was so sudden and so unexpected that I lost my equilibrium.
“My time-table, good lady, is all that I want,” said I, as meekly as possible.
“It’s mine,” was the sharp reply, the hand closing on my wrist.
“I beg your pardon, madam, but I have carried that folder for two days.”
“You hain’t no sich thing, fur I got it this mornin’.”
“I do not like to dispute your word, madam, but I left this book on this seat and it was here when you came this morning.”
“You’re just a tellin’ what ain’t so, an’ I don’t lak to be meddled wid by no man wid yaller shoes.”
“O, I see it is my shoes you do not like!”
“No, I don’t lak you ner none lak you. What you got on that long thing fur?”
I wore a long automobile coat, or duster, to protect my clothes, and the old lady did not like that. Seeing what a tempest I had stirred, I decided to fight it out just for fun.
“Madam, you wouldn’t mind my taking my suit case out of here so that you could have more room for your feet?”
“No. It hain’t got no bizness in here nohow.”
“Why, my dear, I know it hasn’t,” said I.
“I ain’t none of your dear, an’ don’t you call me that nuther.”
“Pardon me, sister, but I meant to be pleasant to you.”
“I wouldn’t choose any of your pleasantness.It’s just lak you drummer chaps. I’ve heard of your doin’s before.”
She thought I was a knight of the grip, and feared that I would flirt with her. That was interesting.
“My coat—that’s it hanging there above your head, where I put it before you took my seat.”
“’Tain’t your seat! How come it your seat?”
“I am not claiming it, mother, but just explaining how my coat got there—that’s all. No, it is your seat by the right of possession, and I should not ask you to move if I had to hang on the bell cord.”
“You make out lak you’re powerful perlite, but the way you drummers do nobudy—not even an ole woman lak me—kin tell what you’re up to.”
“I beg your pardon, madam, but I am not a drummer. I live one thousand miles from here, and am on my way home from the Democratic convention, at Denver, to see my wife and little girl. I have tried to behave myself and it grieves me to think thatI offended you, but I am sure you will not say that I did it intentionally. I entered this train early this morning, at Kansas City, and picked this seat, where the sun would not shine on me, and occupied it. Later, you and your friend came in and captured it while I drank at the water cooler, and I had originally selected one that your good taste made you prefer to the many empty ones that were here when you came. That is the whole story. I wanted to see my time-table, and came for it. You took hold of my arm—something I never permit any woman but my wife to do—”
“You know that ain’t so,” declared the disputant hotly. “I never held your arm.”
“Look now, my dear, and see if you have not my wrist.”
That was the blow that killed mother, for she still held my wrist, although I had dropped the folder. Here a bit of color mounted the pale, wrinkled cheeks.
“I love to see a pretty woman blush,” said I, smiling from ear to ear.
“You shet your mouth. I ain’t blushin’!I wish my brother was here. I’d make him crack your head.”
“Your brother—where is your husband or your son?”
“I ain’t got none, as I have never been married.”
“O, I see; you are still enjoying single bliss—a charming old maid?”
“It’s none of your bizness what I am. You’ve got nuthin’ to do with me.”
Passengers several seats back and front were listening to the controversy, which had been fast and sharp, and enjoying it.
“Well, good soul, I will leave you if you will give me my time-table.”
“It’s none of yourn, but take it an’ go.”
“Not until you are convinced that it is mine.”
“It’s mine, but you kin have it.”
“Just one word? Did you write your name on your book?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, if you will look inside there you will find my name. If you do not I shall apologize and give you a basket of candy.”
“I don’t want your candy.”
“I know you don’t, but you will look for my name?”
As she opened the book and revealed the name, I said: “That’s my handwriting, as you will see by comparing it with this on my ticket.”
“Now look on page forty and see if the table from Kansas City to St. Louis is not marked.”
She was convinced that I owned the book.
“Now, madam, if you will look over there on top of your telescope you will find your table, right where you put it when you came in. I am sorry to have troubled you, and as we journey through this vale of tears if I can ever do you a turn you may call on me. I like your spunk.”
“You go on about your bizness an’ let me erlone an’ I’ll ’tend to mine. If you’ll throw them yaller shoes in the river an’ give that jimswinger to some nigger you’ll look putty decent.”
When the old damsel got up to leave the train, I hurried up, like a young gallant,grabbed up her luggage and carried it to the door before she had time to protest.
“Good-bye, sweetheart,” I shouted, as the train pulled out, and in reply she yelled: “Shet your mouth, smarty!”