Barracoon

  “She promise me she won’t holler if I come home. So I got back to de house. I astee de friend, ‘Where de head.’ He say, ‘Dere yonder in de cracker box.’ I tellee him, ‘I want you to put it dere on de neck and fasten it so dat when people come in de mornin’, dey won’t know.’

  “My friend he fasten de head so it doan look lak it cut off. Derefo’ nexy day, when people come lookee in his face, he look jes lak he sleep.

  “De bell toll again.

  “Our house it very sad. Lookee lak all de family hurry to leave and go sleep on de hill.

  “Poe-lee very mad ’cause de railroad kill his brother. He want me to sue de company. I astee him, ‘Whut for? We doan know de white folks law. Dey say dey doan pay you when dey hurtee you. De court say dey got to pay you de money. But dey ain’ done it.’ I very sad. Poe-lee very mad. He say de deputy kill his baby brother. Den de train kill David. He want to do something. But I ain’ hold no malice. De Bible say not. Poe-lee say in Afficky soil it ain’ lak in de Americky. He ain’ been in de Afficky, you unnerstand me, but he hear what we tellee him and he think dat better dan where he at. Me and his mama try to talk to him and make him satisfy, but he doan want hear nothin. He say when he a boy, dey (the American Negro children) fight him and say he a savage. When he gittee a man dey cheat him. De train hurtee his papa and doan pay him. His brothers gittee kill. He doan laugh no mo’.

  “Well, after while, you unnerstand me, one day he say he go ketchee some fish. Somebody see him go t’wards de Twelve Mile Creek. Lor’, Lor’! He never come back.”

  There was a muted mournful pause, in which I could do nothing but wait with my eyes in the China-berry tree lest I appear indecently intrusive. Finally he came back to me.

  “Excuse me I cain help it I cry. I lonesome for my boy. Cudjo know dey doan do in de Americky soil lak dey do cross de water, but I cain help dat. My boy gone. He ain’ in de house and he ain’ on de hill wid his mama. We both missee him. I doan know. Maybe dey kill my boy. It a hidden mystery. So many de folks dey hate my boy ’cause he lak his brothers. Dey doan let nobody ’buse dem lak dey dogs. Maybe he in de Afficky soil lak somebody say. Po’ Cudjo lonesome for him, but Cudjo doan know.

  “I try be very nice to Seely. She de mama, you unnerstand me, and derefo’, you know she grieve so hard ’bout her chillun. I always try please her, you unnerstand me, but when we ain’ got but two our chillun wid us, I cain stand see her look so lak she want cry all de time. We ain’ got but one chile in de house wid us, ’cause Aleck, dat de oldest one, you unnerstand me, he married and live wid his wife. We buildee him a house right in de yard, jes lak in de Afficky soil.

  “Look lak we ain’ cry enough. We ain’ through cryin. In de November our Jimmy come home and set round lak he doan feel good so I astee him, ‘Son, you gittee sick? I doan want you runnin’ to work when you doan feel good.’ He say, ‘Papa, tain nothin’ wrong wid me. I doan feel so good.’ But de nexy day, he come home sick and we putee him in de bed. I do all I kin and his mama stay up wid him all night long. We gittee de doctor and do whut he say, but our boy die. Oh Lor’! I good to my chillun! I want dey comp’ny, but looky lak dey lonesome for one ’nother. So dey hurry go sleep together in de graveyard. He die holdin’ my hand.

  “When we gittee back from de funeral, tain nobody in de house but me and Seely. De house was full, but now it empty. We old folks now and we know we ain’ going have no mo’ chillun. We so lonesome, but we know we cain gittee back de dead. When de spit goes from de mouf, it doan come back. When de earth eats, it doan give back. So we try to keep one ’nother comp’ny and be happy.

  “I still sexton of de church. It growing to be a big church now. We call it de Old Landmark Baptis’ Church, ’cause it de first one in Afficky Town. Dey done build mo’ Baptis’ churches now, but ours, it de first.

  “My wife she help me all she kin. She doan lemme strain myself so I hurtee de side where de train hittee me.

  “One day we plant, de nexy we reap so we go on.”

  Before I left I had Kossula’s permission to photograph him.1 But he forbade my coming back within three days. A cow had broken in his fence and was eating his potato-vines.

  It was on a hot Saturday afternoon that I came to photograph Kossula.

  “I’m glad you takee my picture. I want see how I look. Once long time ago somebody come take my picture but they never give me one. You give me one.”

  I agreed. He went inside to dress for the picture. When he came out I saw that he had put on his best suit but removed his shoes. “I want to look lak I in Affica, ’cause dat where I want to be,” he explained.

  He also asked to be photographed in the cemetery among the graves of his family.

  XII

  Alone

  One night Seely wake up in de night and say, ‘Cudjo wake up. I dream about our chillun. Look lak dey cold.’ I tell her she think too much. Go back to sleep. It hurtee me, ’cause it a cold night in November in de 1908 and I ’member how Seely used to visit de chillun when dey was little to see dey got plenty quilts, so dey keep warm, you unnerstand me. De nexy day, she say ‘Cudjo, come on less we go see our chilluns grave. So I say yes, but I try not take her ’cause I ’fraid she worry ’bout dem. So I go in de church and makee lak I busy so she furgitee de graveyard. When I come out de church, I don’t see her nowhere, so I look cross de hill and I see her in de family lot. I see Seely goin’ from one her chillun grave to de other, lak she cover dem up wid mo’ quilts.

  “De nexy week my wife lef’ me. Cudjo doan know. She ain’ been sick, but she die. She doan want to leave me. She cry ’cause she doan want me be lonesome. But she leave me and go where her chillun. Oh Lor’! Lor’! De wife she de eyes to de man’s soul. How kin I see now, when I ain’ gottee de eyes no mo’?

  “De nexy month my Aleck he die. Den I jes lak I come from de Afficky soil. I got nobody but de daughter-in-law, Mary, and de grandchillun. I tellee her she my son’s wife so she stay in de compound and she take de land when I go wid Seely and our chillun.

  “Ole Charlie, he de oldest one come from de Afficky soil. One Sunday after my wife left me he come wid all de others dat come cross de water and say, ‘Uncle Cudjo, make us a parable.’

  “‘Well den,’ I say, ‘You see Ole Charlie dere. S’pose he stop here on de way to church. He got de parasol ’cause he think it gwine rain when he leave de house. But he look at de sky and ’cide hit ain’ gwine rain so he set it dere by de door an’ go on to church. After de preachin’ he go on home ’cause he think de parasol at Cudjo house. It safe. He say, “I git it nexy time I go dat way.” When he come home he say to one de chillun, “Go to Cudjo house and tellee him I say sendee me my parasol.”

  “‘De parasol it pretty. I likee keep dat one.’ But I astee dem all, ‘Is it right to keep de parasol?’ Dey all say, ‘No it belong to Charlie.’

  “‘Well,’ I say, ‘my wife, she b’long to God. He lef’ her by my door.’

  “I ’preciate my countrymen dey come see me when dey know I lonely. Another time dey come to me and say, ‘Uncle Cudjo, make us another parable.’

  “I bow my head in my hands, den I lift it up again. (Characteristic gesture when he begins a story.) Den I talk. ‘I doan know—me and my wife, we been ridin. I think we go to Mt. Vernon. De conductor go to her and say, “Ole Lady, where you goin’ get off?” She say, “Plateau.”’

  “‘I look at her. I say, “How you say you goin’ get off at Plateau? I thought you goin’ to Mount Vernon wid me.”’

  “‘She shake her head. She say, “I doan know. I jes know I git off at Plateau. I doan wanna leave you, but I got to git off at Plateau.”’

  “‘De conductor blow once. He blow twice, and my wife she say, “Goodbye, Cudjo. I hate to leave you.” But she git off at Plateau. De conductor come to me and astee, “Ole man, where you goin’ git off?”’

  “‘I say, “Mount Vernon.”’

  “I travelling yet. When I git to Mount Vernon, I no talk to you no mo’.”
>
  I had spent two months with Kossula, who is called Cudjo, trying to find the answers to my questions. Some days we ate great quantities of clingstone peaches and talked. Sometimes we ate watermelon and talked. Once it was a huge mess of steamed crabs. Sometimes we just ate. Sometimes we just talked. At other times neither was possible, he just chased me away. He wanted to work in his garden or fix his fences. He couldn’t be bothered. The present was too urgent to let the past intrude. But on the whole, he was glad to see me, and we became warm friends.

  At the end the bond had become strong enough for him to wish to follow me to New York. It was a very sad morning in October when I said the final goodbye, and looked back the last time at the lonely figure that stood on the edge of the cliff that fronts the highway. He had come out to the front of his place that overhangs the Cochrane Highway that leads to the bridge of that name. He wanted to see the last of me. He had saved two peaches, the last he had found on his tree, for me.

  When I crossed the bridge, I know he went back to his porch; to his house full of thoughts. To his memories of fat girls with ringing golden bracelets, his drums that speak the minds of men, to palm-nut cakes and bull-roarers, to his parables.

  I am sure that he does not fear death. In spite of his long Christian fellowship, he is too deeply a pagan to fear death. But he is full of trembling awe before the altar of the past.

  Appendix

  Takkoi or Attako—Children’s Game

  A memory test game played by two players. One player (A) the tester, squats facing the diagram which is drawn on the ground. The other player whose memory is to be tested squats with his back to the figure. A grain of corn is placed in each of the 3 circles between the lines. Each of the lines (1, 2, 3) has a name.

  No 1 Ah Kinjaw Mah Kinney

  No 2 Ah-bah jah le fon

  No 3 Ah poon dacre ad meejie

  A points at line 1 (at W) and B says, “Ah Kinjaw Mah Kinney.” A points to line 2 and B says, “Ah-bah jah le fon.” A goes on to line 3 and B says, “Ah poon dacre ad meejie.” Then A points to circle No. 1 and B says, “Corn.” A removes the grain of corn from the circle and goes back to line 1 at W. B recites the name again. A goes to line 2 and 3 as before then to circle 1. B says, “No corn.” Then A points to circle 2 and B says, “Corn.” A removes the corn from circle 2 and returns to line 1 (W), 2, and 3 and B gives the names as before. Then A goes to circle 1 and B says, “No corn.” To circle 2 and B says, “No corn,” to circle 3 and B says, “Corn.” The corn is removed from circle 3 and A returns to line 1 at W and goes through the three lines and circles as before. Of course, if B remembers that there is no corn in any of the three circles, A then points to line 1 at X and B says, “Ah Kinjaw Mah Kinney” and A goes on to lines 2 and 3 and then on to circle 1 between X and Y and B says, “Corn.” A removes the corn and returns to line at W and goes through the empty circles to lines at X and the empty circle. B says, “No corn” and A goes on to the next circle where B says, “Corn.” The corn is removed then back to line 1 at W and the game keeps up until the twelve circles have been emptied of corn if B’s memory is good enough.

  Another game seems to be akin to both billiards and bowling. Three balls are racked up and the player stands off and knocks them down with seven balls in his hand. The top ball of the three must be hit last with the seventh thrown ball.

  Stories Kossula Told Me1

  There are no windows in Kossula’s house. It was a cold day in December and the door was closed. The little light came from the pine knots in the fire place. It is crude, but suits his needs very well indeed. There are two pieces of iron slanting slightly upward in each inside wall of the fire place. It is an African idea transplanted to America. They are placed there to support the racks for drying fish. Kossula smokes a great deal and tamps his pipe quite often. All of his pipes have tops that he has made himself to keep the fire from falling out as he works. The pipe lids are just another of the evidences of the primitive, the self-reliance of the people who live outside the influence of machinery.

  There is something in the iron pot bubbling away among the coals. We eat some of the stew and find it delicious. It is a sort of stew of all flesh shredded in some way.

  Kossula lights his pipe again. “You want me to tell you story ’bout Afficky? I done fuhgit all dat. I been in Americky soil de sixty-nine year last Augus’. It been so long I have anybody talk wid, I fuhgit. You don’t be mad wid Uncle Cudjo if he fuhgit, Baby? I wouldn’t hurty yo’ feelin’ fuh nothin’ in dis world.”

  I assure him that I can never be angry with him, no matter if he never remembers a word, but praying strongly within that he remembers. We sit for a long time in silence. I tell him a few stories, after giving him a chance to think, and he is delighted. Finally he turns eagerly towards me, his face alight.

  “I gwine tell you disa story:—

  “Tree men, you unnerstand me, dey agree dey ain’ goin’ tell one on de udder.

  “One day dese tree men dey say, ‘We ain’ got no meat—less we go in de woods and fin’ a cow and ’vide it up.’

  “Dey hunt till dey fin’ a fat one and dey kill hit. Dey all git roun’ it. One say, ‘I want a hind leg.’ Other say, ‘I want a hind leg.’ Third one say, ‘I want a hind leg.’ (A beaming face is turned to me to see if I get the point that three men can’t get a hind leg off of one cow. He is very happy that I appreciate the dilemma in the tale.) Dey ’gin fight and fight. One say, ‘I killee you.’ (Very expressive gesture of conflict.) Other say, ‘I killee you.’ (Very hearty laughter, the struggling gestures continue.) Dey fight till dey come to de highway and de officer see dem fightin’, you unnerstand me, and he say, ‘Lookee heah, whut y’all fightin’ ’bout?’

  “One de men he say, “‘If you don’t foolee me, I won’t foolee you.’”

  “He axed de other. He say, ‘If you don’t foolee me, I won’t foolee you.’ De third man he say de same thing, so de officer he go to de king an’ say, ‘I found tree men dey fight, but when I axee dem whut for dey fight, dey all say, “If you don’t foolee me, I won’t foolee you.”’

  “De king summons dem tuh ’pear befo’ him and he say. He say, ‘Whusa matta you tree men?’ Dey all say same thing agin. (Hearty chuckling.) Den de king he say, ‘Something dey do, dey doan wanna tell. Dey is men of strong friendship.’ Den he give dem ten coats, ten shoes, ten of everything and sent dem off. Dey went back and ’vide de cow ekal.”

  Mirthy tears ran down the cheeks of Kossula and he shook with chuckles long after the tale was finished. But he could not be persuaded to tell another that day. “You come agin Tuesday, nexy week an’ I tellee you somethin’ if I think. But Uncle Cudjo gittin’ ole. I been in de Mericky soil since 1859. I fuhgits.”

  On the Tuesday after the New Year, I found Cudjo in a backward-looking mood. He was with his departed family in the land to the west. He talked about his boys, he grew tearful over his wife.

  “I so lonely. I los’ my wife de 15 November 1908. We been together long time. I marry her Chris’mas day, 1865. She a good wife to me.”

  There was a long, feeling silence, then he turned to me and spoke, “Ole Charlie, he de oldest one come from Afficky, came one Sunday after my wife lef’ me and say, ‘Uncle Cudjo, make us a parable.’

  “Den I axed dem, ‘How many limbs God give de body so it kin be active?’

  “Dey say six; two arms two feet two eyes.

  “I say dey cut off de feet, he got hands to ’fend hisself. Dey cut off de hands he wiggle out de way when he see danger come. But when he lose de eye, den he can’t see nothin’ come upon him. He finish. My boys is my feet. My daughter is my hands. My wife she my eye. She left, Cudjo finish.”

  It was two o’clock, and Kossula excused himself that he might work on his fence before dark. “Come see me when tain cold.”

  Two days later I sat beside his fire in the windowless house, and watched him smoke until he was ready to speak. I told him a story or two and finally he glowed and stirred. br />
  “It a man, you know, he got a son. Six men, you unnerstand, dey follow him all de time. De long runnee, de ole man say, ‘Son, dese men always in yo’ house. You know whut six men do to you?’

  “‘Dey don’t do nothin’ to me,’ dat whut de son say, an’ always de seven men be together till he git grown, and de time come for him to marry.

  “De ole man, he want to try dese six men. So when de son marry, he hide de girl an’ den he take a ramma (ram) and he kill hit an’ cut off de horns. He fix it an’ make it look like de girl.

  “Den he say to de boy, ‘Go tell your friends dat you marry de girl las’ night and she fell dead an’ I don’t want de king to know; an’ dig a grave (he wants the friends to dig the grave) an’ bury her. Perhaps she was too young an’ never had know no man.’

  “Well, de six men come to dig de grave, but only two stay to finish dig, an’ four went spread de news, clean till it reached to de king.

  “De king den sent for de ole man an’ say to him, ‘Yo son jus’ married a girl. Where she?’

  “‘She at home,’ de ole man say to de king, an’ he say, ‘Where yo’ house? I wants to see.’

  “De king goes wid him to de house an’ he show him de girl. Den he say, ‘Well, whut you bury in de hole?’ He say ‘De ramma.’ But de king want satisfied and he hafta dig up de grave and let de king see de ramma hisself. Den he tell de king how tis.

  “‘I aska my boy ’bout these six men and he say dey all right. All de time dey sleep an’ eat an’ go wid him. I want know dey friendship so I killa de ramma.’

  “De king say, ‘You have knowledge,’ an’ so he paid the two whut stay dig de grave an’ don’t say nothin’ an’ killed de four men whut talk an’ betray dey friend.”