How Old Wash DiedBy John Trotwood Moore.
By John Trotwood Moore.
I had not seen the old man for several months, but I supposed he was still prospering on his little farm, when he walked in the other day without knocking, took his seat by the fire, and casually remarked that March was always a bad month on rheumatism.
“Why, how are you, old man?” I said, laying down my pen and seeing him for the first time. “I haven’t seen you for several months.”
“No, I don’t reck’n you is,” he said quietly, “an’ de reason is, I ain’t seed myself—I’ve been dead!”
“What!” I exclaimed—“dead—are you joking?”
I looked at him closely, but I saw no evidence of insanity—nothing to indicate that he had yet reached his dotage. However, I thought it best to pass him something for his rheumatism. He quaffed it off so naturally that I knew he was all right and would tell it in his own way.
“Ennything happened ter speak of sense I be’n dead?” he asked, indifferently enough, as he smacked his lips and wiped them on the back of his hand.
I was anxious to hear how he had died, but I knew any eagerness on my part would spoil it all, so I replied:
“Why, no, old man—nothing new. But you have heard of Jupiter Pluvius, perhaps, and his home above the clouds. Well, he has kept busy this spring with his watering pot.”
“Heard of ’im?” asked the old man, with a show of wrath—“why, I knowed ’im—he was a blue-gum nigger—that Jupiter was—that c’u’d pick five hundred pounds o’ cotton in a day, an’ he run off wid my secon’ wife an’ jined de Yankees. But he didn’t lib whar you placed de rickerlicshun ob his cohabitashun—he libbed up on Bear Creek. No, I got no hard feelin’s about it—for, onbeknownst to hisse’f he done me a great favor. No, I ain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ him, nur de Yankees, nur’r.”
“I guess not,” I said, “for since the Spanish war we are all Yankees now.”
“All Yankees now? Jes’ lemme tell you, sonny, dah’s one dat ain’t. No, suh, I am a S’uthern gemman, an’ I still b’leeves de nigger was made to belong to somebody dat ’uld feed ’im an’ mek ’im beehave. All Yankees now? Boss, I sho’ am ’shamed of you! De naixt thing you’ll hab us all Jews or Japs. Wal, dat’s all right, but I b’leeves I told you ’bout co’rtin’ dat ’ar widder—”
“You got her, didn’t you?”
“Boss, did you urver kno’ ennybody to go after a widder an’ not get her? I’ve got jes’ one rule fur co’rtin’—set up close, agree on all p’ints, an’ dat’ll fetch on love. Never ’spute wid a widder, ’specially ef you’re c’ortin’ her. Wait twell you’re marri’d an’ den bu’st a wash-bo’rd over her haid ef she don’t beehave.
“Did you urver notice, boss, how cu-is a widder is about dat ur c’ortin’ bus’ness? So diff’unt frum a gal. Now, when you co’rt a gal, she ain’t gwine say nuffin’ fur a long time. She let you co’rt her an’ co’rt her, an’ sum day, when she fin’ she lubs you, she’ll jes’ thro’ her arms aroun’ you’ neck an’ say, ‘Darlint, I am your’n—take me!’
“But wid a widder, nobody ain’t nurver got one of ’em to say ‘yes’ yit—but dey manage to git dar all de same.
“An’ dat wus de way wid dis heah widder I co’rted. De fus’ night I went to see her she ’lowed she hated de very groun’ I walked on, yet she lemme hol’ her han’ all de time. De nex’ night I was wuss’n p’lzen, yet she lemme squeeze her. De third time I was meaner ’ndog-fennel, yet I was good enuff to hug her. De nex’ time I cum she ’lowed I wus de mos’ contempt’us, po’ ignoble, bandy-legged has-been dat ever was, an’ stell I sho’ did kiss her. De las’ night she fix me—I didn’t think she’d hab me to save my life, an’ like a fool I begged her wuss’n a little weaned calf beggin’ fur milk. Dat wus jes’ whut she was layin’ fur, an’ so, entirely onbeknownst to me, she had de preacher wid de license dar hid in de closet, an’ I sw’ar ter goodness, boss, befo’ de cock crow twice dat ’ar ’oman had marri’d me thrice!
“An’ den I died,” he added solemnly. “Yes, boss, I died dead, too. You see, it all happen’ at de weddin’ supper. You see, boss, de ole man had allers been used ter drinkin’ sho’ nuff licker, but dat night dey dose me up wid a konkoction of pine-top, asserfederty an’ buzzard’s bre’f, an’ fo’ I knowed it I wus dead. Why, boss, dey burried me on de fus’ Sat’d’y arter de secon’ Sunday in January, an’ I didn’t rise ergin ’twell de Chusday arter de secon’ Sunday in March, an’ ef dat whiskey hadn’t er bin es good in its raisin’ grace as ’twas in its fallin’ grace, I’d er bin dar yit.”
“Would you like to kno’ what a man sees, an’ how he feels arter he’s dead, boss?”
Would I? I gave the old man another dose of the heaven-brewed to help him along.
“Wal, hit’s about de cu-isest feelin’ dat eber was felt,” he said, after awhile. “One minnit you am libin’ an’ de nex’ you am trablin’ ’long de road to Jurdan, an’ you can’t he’p yo’self to save yo’ life. You can’t stop, you can’t sot down, you can’t turn back. You jes’ seem to be drawed along like you was standin’ on a slidin’ sidewalk run on undergroun’ cables. But de road is buterful. Flowers bloom all aroun’ you. Birds sing in de sunshine on gold trees, an’ fishes swim in lakes of melted di’monds. Inste’d of bein’ outdoors an’ breathin’ air, you ’peer to be movin’ along under de bright roof ob a cut-glass house, or in a big bottle ob rarerfied perfume, wid de sun a blazin’ stopper in de roof.
“I didn’t kno’ whar I wus gwine to, an’ I didn’t keer—all I know’ wus I wus gwine, thang Gord!
“But, bimeby, everthing stop whar two roads met, an’ I know’d one of ’em went to heab’n, but I cudn’t say which one to save my life. I got down on my knees, an’ prayed fur light, but no light cum, an’ ’stid of it I heurd all de little birds singin’ in de gold trees all aroun’ me:
“‘If you foller the road of sorrer an’ sin,An’ don’t pray fur light in de wurl’ you am in,No use fur to pray in de nex’.’
“‘If you foller the road of sorrer an’ sin,An’ don’t pray fur light in de wurl’ you am in,No use fur to pray in de nex’.’
“‘If you foller the road of sorrer an’ sin,An’ don’t pray fur light in de wurl’ you am in,No use fur to pray in de nex’.’
“‘If you foller the road of sorrer an’ sin,
An’ don’t pray fur light in de wurl’ you am in,
No use fur to pray in de nex’.’
“Dat mos’ par’lyze me, boss, an’ I’d a gi’n ennything ef I hadn’t spent so much time aroun’ race-tracks whilst I wus alive an’ had spent mo’ of it lookin’ for dis heah track, an’ tryin’ to fin’ out which road to take. Dar dey bofe lay, jes’ alike, shinin’ in de glow of eternity. An’ yit de very silence seem ter speak in thunder-tones, an’ de stillness was louder dan de noise of battle. It all depended on de path I tuck.
“Bimeby, I thort of Ole Marster’s little boy dat I seed die so long ago, an’ dat I useter nuss an’ carry in my arms, an’ of all de little chillun I seed bohn one day, an’ die de nex’, an’ I got down on my knees in de golden dust ob dat ’ar road an’ I look fur ter see if dar was enny baby tracks dar, fur I knowed whar de baby tracks wus, dat wus de road dat leads to heab’n.”
The old man stopped, and I saw him brush away a tear. He had said something as great as Shakespeare, and I, myself, had to take a turn around the room to stop before the picture of a little curly-head over the mantel, and listen again for the prattle of a laughter which began one spring with a bird’s note and ended with the first snow in a new-made grave.
When I came back, the old man was laughing. Tears—smiles—twins that dwell in the secret chambers of the heart, and they join hands so quickly at times!
“Bimeby,” he went on, “I look up de road, an’ heah cum ole Kunnel Ketchum, er-splittin’ de dust ob de golden road, an’ a-moppin’ his ole bald head wid a red bandanna handkerchief, an er-lookin’ es pi’us in death as he was sancterfied in life. Now, boss, you kno’ de Kunnel was one ob dese here prayin’ lawyers—dat you kin always safely brand as De Debbil’sOwn—an’ he died jes’ ’fo’ I did, an’ he wus awful smart an’ awful slick, an’ whilst I didn’t hab much idee he knowed enny mo’ ’bout de road to heab’n dan I did, I was bankin’ on his ’bility to find it out fust.
“‘Hello, Wash,’ sezee, ‘which way you gwine?’
“Sez I: ‘Kunnel, I’m cogertatin’ on which ob dese heah roads leads to heab’n.’
“‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘I kin show you which road ter take. I dun bin up dar an’ file my brief wid Jedge Peter at de gate, but dar wus some leetle irregularerties in de pleadings, an’ I’ve come back to answer his demur.’
“Den he laugh, an’ say: ‘Wash, de ole feller don’t kno’ a little bit o’ law, an’ hit’s de easiest thing in de wurl’ to wuck him ef you’ll only do es I say. Now, when I went up an’ presented him my church papers, an’ tole ’im who I wus, deac’n an’ all dat, he ’lowed he nurver had larned to read English an’ he throwed my papers over a bluff, whar I seed some smoke risin’ an’ swellin’ sorter like de smoke ob a passin’ freight engine, an’ den he look at me an’ ax if I wus ridin’ or walkin’? Sez I, “Sir, I am walkin.” “Dat settles it,” sez he, “nobody erfoot will urver git in dis gait, and es fur dat artomobeel crowd,” sez he, “dey go on to hell widout stoppin’, fur dey carry de scent of hell erlong wid ’em, ennyhow. No, sah, Kunnel,” sez he, “you gotter ride a hoss to git into heah. We need ’em to pull de cherriots in heaben”—an’ de Kunnel look wise an’ stroke his chin-whiskers.
“‘Now, Wash,’ he went on, soft-like, ‘I’ve got a plan my color’d frien’ dat ull fix ole Peter an’ let us bofe in. I kno’ de road—I’ve bin dar befo’, so you be de hoss an’ I’ll be de rider, an’ Peter will throw open de gate, an’ let us bofe in. Dey’s nuffin’ lak a leetle brains, Wash—a leetle brains in dis wurl’ an’ de nex’.’
“Wal, boss, dat all look mighty conniv’rous ter me, an’ es I had been all my life a-totin’ de burdens ob de white man, it ’peered mighty nachul to keep it up. So I got down on my all-fo’s, de Kunnel he mounted me, an’ I started up de pike in a jog trot. But I hadn’t gone fur befo’ de ole Kunnel punch me in de side wid his heels, yanked my mouf nearly off wid de gallus bridle an’ de shoestring bit he fixed up fur me befo’ he started, an’ yelled out:
“‘Change dat gait, you ole fool, do you think I would ride into heab’n on a trottin’ hoss when I c’u’d ride a easy pacer?’
“I seed de pint, an’ shifted.
“‘Ah, dat’s better,’ sez he, ‘an mo’ restful.’
“At de gate Marse Peter stop us, an’ say: ‘Am you ridin’ or walkin’ suh?’
“‘Ridin’ dis time, yo’ Honoh,’ sey de Kunnel.
“‘Good,’ sez Peter, a-glancin’ at me, ‘but I don’t like de looks ob dat swayback scrub you’re ridin’, so I’ll jes’ let you hitch ’im to de fence, but you kin walk in!’
“An’ de ole Kunnel, he hitch me to de fence sho’ ’nuff, an’ walked in widout battin’ his eye or sayin’ much obleeged, an’ dar I wus champin’ a shoestring bit, tied to de fence ob heab’n, wid a gallus line, an’ dodgin’ a hoss-fly es big as a turkey gobbler dat wus buzzin’ aroun’ over de bluff nigh-by.
“Peter look at me a long time, sorter smilin’ an’ sorter mad, an den he sez: ‘Thort you’d fool me, did you? Wal, for dis decepshun, I’ll turn you into a sho’ nuff hoss,’ and befo’ I c’u’d say scat, boss, I wus a black Hal pacer, wid two white feet, a star, snip, black mane and tail, so help me Gord, an’ dat ’ar hoss-fly es big es a turkey was buzzin’ aroun’ tryin’ to bore a hole in me.
“Gimme anurver dram, boss.”
I thought he was entitled to it.
“But dat wa’n’t all. F’um dat day on dey didn’t do nuffin’ but use me on dat road, carryin’ folks up to de gate, but nurver gittin’ in myse’f. An’ dey wucked me ’twell I almos’ drapped dead ag’in. An’ I carried Jews an’ Turks an’ Chinese, an’ eb’ry kind o’ man dat urver libbed, ’twell de golden pike wus a pile ob brass, an’ de sun was a furnace ob fiah, an’ me de hoss, a-doin’ all de totin’.
“An’ ebry day ole Peter ’u’d lead me to de bluff an’ let me look ober on de pit down below. An’ dar I seed folks I nurver dreamed ’u’d be dar, in dis wurl’, an’ I failed ter see udders dat I thort ’u’d be dar on de hottes’ gridiron.Dar wus heathens a-wonderin’ what it all meant, an’ Christians still ’sputin’ on baptism an’ santerfercashun, an’ ev’ry one ob ’em, boss, a-holdin’ a fat Afercan heathen ’twixt him an’ de fiah. Greeks, Turks, niggers, Jews, Spanyards—all dar, boss. Dar wus doctors, still a-lyin’ an’ lookin’ wise, an’ when de yudders called fur water de debbil had ’em to dose ’em wid quinine an’ calermel, or cut open de reel bad men huntin’ fur de ’pendix. Lawyers? Boss, if hell only had a bookcase an’ a dirty carpet, cuspedores an’ a sweatin’ lot ob bad-smellin’ jurors, you’d a-thort it wus some ord’nary co’te-house wid a fiah attachment. In one corner dey had penned off a lot ob ole wimmens, all talkin’ an’ argyin’ at onct, an’ I ax Peter whut dey wus, an’ he sed dey wus de muthers ob de wives ob men, an’ dey had to be penned off dar ter keep ’em frum runnin’ de place an’ bossin’ it deyselves.
“Dey wus all dar, boss—all but de babies, as I wus tellin’ you. Nurver did I heah de wail ob a little one come up frum de pit, nur de lisp ob a lullerby turned into moan. Fur de sweetes’ nurse dat eber a baby had, had sed, whilst He was on earth, ‘De little chillun I’ll take keer of them’—an’ dey had all gone to Him.
“Day arter day I seed dis; day arter day I carried nations on my back from de partin ob de two ways to de gate whar Peter stood, ’till I prayed to die ag’in.
“An’ one day, when I thort I c’u’dn’t stan’ it no longer, dar come along a smilin’, quiet man, wid a kind look in his eyes. An’ dey tole him to mount me an’ ride me up to de hill. But he looked me all ober, my puffed legs an’ sore feet an’ sweat-caked sides an’ drawn flank, an’ he said: ‘No—no—I wouldn’t ride into heab’n on the miz’zry ob a dumb beast.’
“An’ he fotch me some water to squench my thirt, an’ he tuck off de saddle an’ bathe my back, an’ he led me slowly up de hill. An’ when we come to de gate, Peter looked at ’im pow’ful ’stonished, an’ sed:
“‘Who am you, suh, dat w’u’d choose ter walk ter heab’n when you mout ride?’
“An’ den de man look at ’im quiet lak, an’ say, ‘I am nuffin heah, my Lord, an’ it matters not whut my name am. Call me one dat had no creed, an’ harmed no man, an’ lubbed all things, Lord, yea, eben de beasts of de fiel’s an’ de birds ob de air an’ de wurm dat creepeth. An’ so loving them, I would not ride eben to heaben’s gate on de miz’zry ob enny beast that Gord has made.’
“An’ den dar cum a burst ob music de lak of which no man eber heurd befo’, an’ a buterful gate on a ribber I nurver seed befo’ was flung wide open, an’ a voice sed: ‘Righteousness an’ truth hab met toguther. Whatsoever you did unto one ob dese you do it also unto me.’
“An’ Peter waved his han’ an’ de man was clothed in white an’ light, an’ went in de glory gate—de onlies’ one ob dem all dat went in, an’ I seed dat yudder gate dat ole Kunnel Ketchum an’ all went in wusn’t heab’n at all, but jus a side entrance to hell—an’ es he went in he waved his han’ at me’ an’ sed: ‘Go back ag’in to earth an’ learn to lub all things dat Gord hes made, an’ yo’ na’bur as yo’se’f,’ an’ befo’ I knowed it I stood in my grabe-clothes in de woods of Bigby, lookin’ fust at de grabe at my feet an’ den at de skies above me, an’ wonderin’ whut hed happen sence I died.”
The queer turn the old man gave to his story set me to thinking, and the hidden lesson touched me so greatly I could not reply. To throw off its weirdness, I finally said:
“Well, what had become of the widder?”
“I tole you I wus dead nigh six weeks. My wife, she’d marri’d ag’in, thank Gord, whilst I wus dead!”