Jonah's Gourd Vine

  “Aw naw,” Ned sneered, “de brother in black don’t fret tuh death. White man fret and worry and kill hisself. Colored folks fret uh li’l’ while and gwan tuh sleep. ’Nother thing, Amy, Hagar’s chillun don’t faint neither when dey fall out, dey jes have uh hard old fit.”

  “Dass awright, Ned. You always runnin’ yo’ race down. We ain’t had de same chance dat white folks had. Look lak Ah can’t sense you intuh dat.”

  “Amy, niggers can’t faint. Jes’ ain’t in ’em.”

  “Dass awright. Niggers gwine faint too. May not come in yo’ time and it may not come in mine, but way after while, us people is gwine faint jes’ lak white folks. You watch and see.”

  “Table dat talk. Dat John is gwine offa dis place effen Ah stay heah. He goes tuh Mimms uh he goes apin’ on down de road way from heah. Ah done spoke.”

  “Naw Ned,” Amy began, but John cut her off.

  “It’s all right, mama, lemme go. Ah don’t keer. One place is good ez ’nother one. Leave him do all de plowin’ after dis!”

  With his mouth full of peas and corn bread, Ned gloated, “De crops is laid by.”

  “Yeah, but nex’ year’s crops ain’t planted yit,” John countered.

  So John put on his brass-toed shoes and his clean shirt and was ready to leave. Amy dug out a crumpled and mouldy dollar and gave it to him.

  “Where you goin’, son?”

  “Over de Big Creek, mama. Ah ever wanted tuh cross over.”

  “Ah’ll go piece de way wid yuh tuh de Creek, John. Gimme uh li’dud knot, dere, Zeke, so’s Ah kin see de way back.”

  “Good bye, pap,” John called from the door. Ned grunted over a full mouth. The children bawled dolefully when John called to them.

  Amy threw a rag over her bruised head and closed the door after her. The night was black and starry.

  “John, you wuz borned over de Creek.”

  “You wuz tellin’ me dat one day, Ah ’member.”

  “Dey knows me well, over dere. Maybe Ah kin pint yuh whar some work is at.”

  “Yassum. Ah wants tuh make money, so’s Ah kin come back and git yuh.”

  “Don’t yuh take me tuh heart. Ah kin strain wid Ned. Ah jes’ been worried ’bout you and him. Youse uh big boy now and you am gwine take and take offa ’im and swaller all his filth lak you been doin’ here of late. Ah kin see dat in yo’ face. Youse slow, but wid him keerin’ on lak he do now, hit takes uh Gawd tuh tell whut gwine happen in dat house. He didn’t useter ’buke yuh lak dat. But his old mammy and dat old cock-eyed sister uh his’n put ’im up tuh dat. He useter be crazy ’bout yuh. ’Member dat big gol’ watch chain he bought fuh you tuh wear tuh big meetin’? Dey make lak he love you better’n he do de rest on ’count youse got color in your face. So he tryin’ side wid dem and show ’em he don’t. Ahm kinda glad fuh yuh tuh be ’way from ’round ’im. Massa Alf Pearson, he got uh big plantation and he’s quality white folks. He know me too. Go in Notasulga and ast fuh ’im. Tell ’im whose boy you is and maybe he mought put yuh tuh work. And if he do, son, you scuffle hard so’s he’ll work yuh reg’lar. Ah hates tuh see yuh knucklin’ under ’round heah all de time. G’wan, son, and be keerful uh dat foot-log ’cross de creek. De Songahatchee is strong water, and look out under foot so’s yuh don’t git snake bit.”

  “Ah done swum dat ole creek, mama—’thout yuh knowin’. Ah knowed you’d tell me not tuh swim it.”

  “Dat’s how come Ah worries ’bout yuh. Youse always uh runnin’ and uh rippin’ and clambin’ trees and rocks and jumpin’, flingin’ rocks in creeks and sich like. John, promise me yuh goin’ quit dat.”

  “Yassum.”

  “Come tuh see me when yuh kin. G’bye.”

  Amy was gone back up the rocky path thru the blooming cotton, across the barren hard clay yard. For a minute she had felt free and flighty down there as she stood in the open with her tall, bulky son. Now the welts on her face and body hurt her and the world was heavy.

  John plunged on down to the Creek, singing a new song and stomping the beats. The Big Creek thundered among its rocks and whirled on down. So John sat on the foot-log and made some words to go with the drums of the Creek. Things walked in the birch woods, creep, creep, creep. The hound dog’s lyric crescendo lifted over and above the tree tops. He was on the foot-log, half way across the Big Creek where maybe people laughed and maybe people had lots of daughters. The moon came up. The hunted coon panted down to the Creek, swam across and proceeded leisurely up the other side. The tenor-singing hound dog went home. Night passed. No more Ned, no hurry. No telling how many girls might be living on the new and shiny side of the Big Creek. John almost trumpeted exultantly at the new sun. He breathed lustily. He stripped and carried his clothes across, then recrossed and plunged into the swift water and breasted strongly over.

  CHAPTER 2

  There was a strange noise that John had never heard. He was sauntering along a road with his shoes in his hand. He could see houses here and there among the fields—not miles apart like where he had come from. Suddenly thirty or forty children erupted from a log building near the roadside, shouting and laughing. He had been to big meeting but this was no preaching. Not all them li’l’ chaps. A chunky stern-faced man stood in the door momentarily with a bunch of hickories in his hand. So! This must be the school house that he had heard about. Negro children going to learn how to read and write like white folks. See! All this going on over there and the younguns over the creek chopping cotton! It must be very nice, but maybe it wasn’t for over-the-creek-niggers. These girls all had on starchy little aprons over Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses. He stopped and leaned upon the fence and stared.

  One little girl with bright black eyes came and stood before him, arms akimbo. She must have been a leader, for several more came and stood back of her. She looked him over boldly from his tousled brown head to his bare white feet. Then she said, “Well, folks! Where you reckon dis big yaller bee-stung nigger come from?”

  Everybody laughed. He felt ashamed of his bare feet for the first time in his life. How was he to know that there were colored folks that went around with their feet cramped up like white folks. He looked down at the feet of the black-eyed girl. Tiny little black shoes. One girl behind her had breasts, must be around fourteen. He looked at her again. Some others were growing up too. In fact all were looking a little bit like women—all but the little black-eyed one. When he looked back into her face he felt ashamed. Seemed as if she had caught him doing something nasty. He shifted his feet in embarrassment.

  “Ah think he musta come from over de Big Creek. ’Tain’t nothin’ lak dat on dis side,” the little tormenter went on. Then she looked right into his eyes and laughed. All the others laughed. John laughed too.

  “Dat’s whar Ah come from sho ’nuff,” he admitted.

  “Whut you doin’ over heah, then?”

  “Come tuh see iffen Ah could git uh job uh work. Kin yuh tell me whar Marse Alf Pearson live at?”

  The little girl snorted, “Marse Alf! Don’t y’all folkses over de creek know slavery time is over? ’Tain’t no mo’ Marse Alf, no Marse Charlie, nor Marse Tom neither. Folks whut wuz borned in slavery time go ’round callin’ dese white folks Marse but we been born since freedom. We calls ’em Mister. Dey don’t own nobody no mo’.”

  “Sho don’t,” the budding girl behind the little talker chimed in. She threw herself akimbo also and came walking out hippily from behind the other, challenging John to another appraisal of her person.

  “Ah calls ’em anything Ah please,” said another girl and pulled her apron a little tight across the body as she advanced towards the fence.

  “Aw, naw, yuh don’t, Clary,” the little black-eyed girl disputed, “youse talkin’ at de big gate now. You jus’ want somebody tuh notice yuh.”

  “Well, effen you calls ’em Mista, Ah kin call ’em Mista too,” John talked at the little spitfire. “Whar at is Mista Alf Pearson’s place?”

  “Way on down dis road, ’bou
t uh mile uh mo’. When yuh git long dere by de cotton-gin, ast somebody and dey’ll tell yuh mo’ exact.”

  John shifted from one foot to another a time or two, then started off with the long stride known as boaging.

  “Thankee, thankee,” he threw back over his shoulder and strode on.

  The teacher poked his head out of the door and all the other girls ran around behind the school house lest he call them to account for talking to a boy. But the littlest girl stood motionless, not knowing that the others had fled. She stood still akimbo watching John stride away. Then suddenly her hands dropped to her sides and she raced along the inside of the fence and overtook John.

  “Hello agin,” John greeted her, glad at her friendliness.

  “Hello yuhself, want uh piece uh cawn bread look on de shelf.”

  John laughed boisterously and the girl smiled and went on in another tone, “Whyn’t you come tuh school too?”

  “’Cause dey never sont me. Dey tole me tuh go find work, but Ah wisht dey had uh tole me school. Whut Ah seen of it, Ah lakted it.”

  From behind her the irate voice of a man called, “Lucy! Lucy!! Come heah tuh me. Ah’ll teach yuh ’bout talkin’ wid boys!”

  “See yuh later, and tell yuh straighter,” John said and walked off.

  John strode on into Notasulga, whistling; his tousled hair every which away over his head. He saw a group of people clustered near a small building and he timidly approached.

  “Dis heah mus’ be de cotton-gin wid all dem folks and hawses and buggies tied tuh de hitchin’ postes.”

  Suddenly he was conscious of a great rumbling at hand and the train schickalacked up to the station and stopped.

  John stared at the panting monster for a terrified moment, then prepared to bolt. But as he wheeled about he saw everybody’s eyes upon him and there was laughter on every face. He stopped and faced about. Tried to look unconcerned, but that great eye beneath the cloud-breathing smoke-stack glared and threatened. The engine’s very sides seemed to expand and contract like a fiery-lunged monster. The engineer leaning out of his window saw the fright in John’s face and blew a sharp blast on his whistle and John started violently in spite of himself. The crowd roared.

  “Hey, dere, big-un,” a Negro about the station called to John, “you ain’t never seed nothin’ dangerous lookin’ lak dat befo’, is yuh?”

  “Naw suh and hit sho look frightenin’,” John answered. His candor took the ridicule out of the faces of the crowd. “But hits uh pretty thing too. Whar it gwine?”

  “Oh eve’y which and whar,” the other Negro answered, with the intent to convey the impression to John that he knew so much about trains, their habits and destinations that it would be too tiresome to try to tell it all.

  The train kicked up its heels and rattled on off. John watched after it until it had lost itself down its shiny road and the noise of its going was dead.

  “You laks dat ole train Ah see,” the Negro said to John, watching him as he all but fell down into the railroad cut, trying to keep sight of the tail of the train.

  “Yeah, man, Ah lakted dat. It say something but Ah ain’t heered it ’nough tuh tell whut it say yit. You know whut it say?”

  “It don’t say nothin’. It jes’ make uh powerful racket, dass all.”

  “Naw, it say some words too. Ahm comin’ heah plenty mo’ times and den Ah tell yuh whut it say.” He straightened up and suddenly remembered.

  “Whar de cotton-gin at?”

  “Hit’s right over dere, but dey ain’t hirin’ nobody yit.”

  “Ain’t lookin’ tuh git hiahed. Lookin’ fuh Mist’ Alf Pearson.”

  “Dere he right over dere on de flat-form at de deepo’, whut yuh want wid ’im?”

  “Wants tuh git uh job.”

  “Reckon you kin git on. He done turned off his coachman fuh stovin’ up one uh his good buggy hawses.”

  John stalked over to the freight platform.

  “Is you Mist’ Alf?” he asked the tall broad-built man, who was stooping over some goods.

  “Why yes, what’re you want?”

  “Ah wants uh job uh work, please suh.”

  The white man continued to examine invoices without so much as a glance at the boy who stood on the ground looking up at him. Not seeing what he wanted, he straightened up and looked about him and saw John at last. Instead of answering the boy directly he stared at him fixedly for a moment, whistled and exclaimed, “What a fine stud! Why boy, you would have brought five thousand dollars on the block in slavery time! Your face looks sort of familiar but I can’t place you. What’s your name?”

  “Mama, she name me Two-Eye-John from a preachin’ she heered, but dey call me John Buddy for short.”

  “How old are you, John?”

  “Sixteen, goin’ on sebenteen.”

  “Dog damn! Boy you’re almost as big as I am. Where’d you come from?”

  “Over de Big Creek. Mama she sont me over here and told me tuh ast you tuh gimme uh job uh work. Ah kin do mos’ anything.”

  “Humph, I should think you could. Boy, you could go bear-hunting with your fist. I believe I can make a lead plowhand out of you.”

  “Yassuh, thankee, Mista Alf, Ah knows how.”

  “Er, who is your mama?”

  “Amy Crittenden. She didn’t useter be uh Crittenden. She wuz jes’ Amy and b’longed tuh you ’fo surrender. She say Ah borned on yo’ place.”

  “Oh yes. I remember her. G’wan get in my rig. The bay horses with the cream colored buggy. Fetch it on over here and drive me home.”

  John went over by the courthouse to get the rig. It was some distance. As soon as he was out of earshot, one of Alf Pearson’s friends asked him, “Say, Judge, where’d you get the new house-nigger from?”

  “Oh a boy born on my place since surrender. Mama married some stray darky and moved over the Big Creek. She sent him over here to hunt work and he ran into me and I’m hiring him. Did you ever see such a splendid specimen? He’ll be a mighty fine plow hand. Too tall to be a good cotton-picker. Sixteen years old.”

  “Humph! Plow-hand! Dat’s uh house-nigger. His kind don’t make good field niggers. It’s been tried. In his case it’s a pity, because he’d be equal to two hands ordinary.”

  “Oh well, maybe I can do something with him. He seems willing enough. And anyway I know how to work ’em.”

  When John brought the horses to a satisfactory halt before the white pillars of the Pearson mansion, his new boss got down and said, “Now John, take those horses on to the stable and let Nunkie put ’em away. He’ll show you where the quarters are. G’wan to ’em and tell old Pheemy I said fix you some place to sleep.”

  “Yassuh, thankee suh.”

  “And John, I might need you around the house sometimes, so keep clean.”

  “Yassuh.”

  “Where’s the rest of your clothes?”

  “Dese is dem.”

  “Well, you’ll have to change sometime or other. I’ll look around the house, and perhaps I can scare you up a change or two. My son Alfred is about your size, but he’s several years older. And er, er, I’ll fetch ’em down to the quarters in case I find anything. Go ’long.”

  Ole Pheemy gave John a bed in her own cabin, “Take dis bed heah if hit’s good ’nough fuh yuh,” she said pointing to a high feather bed in one corner.

  “Yassum, thankee ma’am. Ah laks it jes’ fine, and dis sho is uh pritty house.”

  He was looking at the newspapers plastered all over the walls.

  Pheemy softened.

  “Oh you ain’t one uh dese uppity yaller niggers then?”

  “Oh no ma’am. Ahm po’ folks jes’ lak you. On’y we ain’t got no fine houses over de Creek lak dis heah one.”

  “Whus yo’ name?”

  “John, but Zeke and Zack and dem calls me John Buddy, yassum.”

  “Who yo’ folks is over de Big Creek?”

  “Mama she name Amy Crittenden—she—”

  “Hush yo’
mouf, you yaller rascal, you! Ah knowed, Ah seed reckerlection in yo’ face.” Pheemy rushed upon John, beating him affectionately and shoving him around. “Well, Lawd a’mussy boy! Ahm yo’ granny! Yo’ nable string is buried under dat air chanyberry tree. ’Member so well de very day you cried.” (First cry at birth.) “Eat dis heah tater pone.”

  The field hands came in around dusk dark, eyeing John suspiciously, but his utter friendliness prevented the erection of barriers on his birth place. Amy’s son was welcome. After supper the young folks played “Hide the Switch” and John overtook and whipped most of the girls soundly. They whipped him too. Perhaps his legs were longer, but anyway when he was “it” he managed to catch every girl in the quarters. The other boys were less successful, but girls were screaming under John’s lash behind the cowpen and under the sweet-gum trees around the spring until the moon rose. John never forgot that night. Even the strong odor of their sweaty bodies was lovely to remember. He went in to bed when all of the girls had been called in by their folks. He could have romped till morning.

  In bed he turned and twisted.

  “Skeeters botherin’ yuh, John Buddy?” Pheemy asked.

  “No’m Ahm jes’ wishin’ Mist’ Alf would lak mah work and lemme stay heah all de time.” Then the black eyes of the little girl in the school yard burned at him from out of the darkness and he added, “Wisht Ah could go tuh school too.”

  “G’wan tuh sleep, chile. Heah ’tis way in de midnight and you ain’t had no night rest. You gotta sleep effen you wanta do any work. Whut Marse Alf tell yuh tuh do?”

  “He ain’t tole me nothin’ yit.”

  “Well, you stay heah tuh de house. Ontell he send fuh yuh. He ain’t gwine overwork yuh. He don’t break nobody down. Befo’ surrender he didn’t had no whippin’ boss on dis place. Nawsuh. Come tuh ’membrance, ’tain’t nothin’ much tuh do now. De crops is laid by, de ground peas ain’t ready, neither de cawn. But Ah don’t speck he gointer put you in de fiel’ nohow. Maybe you hand him his drinks uh drive de carridge fuh him and Ole Miss.”