“Mr. Pitts, are you havin’ a good time?”
(In a prim falsetto) “Yes, Ma’am. See, dat’s de way tuh talk tuh you.”
I laughed and the crowd laughed and Pitts laughed. Very successful woofing. Pitts treated me and we got on. Soon a boy came to me from Cliffert Ulmer asking me to dance. I found out that that was the social custom. The fellow that wants to broach a young woman doesn’t come himself to ask. He sends his friend. Somebody came to me for Joe Willard and soon I was swamped with bids to dance. They were afraid of me before. My laughing acceptance of Pitts’ woofing had put everybody at his ease.
James Presley and Slim spied noble at the orchestra. I had the chance to learn more about “John Henry” maybe. So I strolled over to James Presley and asked him if he knew how to play it.
“Ah’ll play it if you sing it,” he countered. So he played and I started to sing the verses I knew. They put me on the table and everybody urged me to spread my jenk, 3 so I did the best I could. Joe Willard knew two verses and sang them. Eugene Oliver knew one; Big Sweet knew one. And how James Presley can make his box cry out the accompaniment!
By the time that the song was over, before Joe Willard lifted me down from the table I knew that I was in the inner circle. I had first to convince the “job” that I was not an enemy in the person of the law; and, second, I had to prove that I was their kind. “John Henry” got me over my second hurdle.
After that my car was everybody’s car. James Presley, Slim and I teamed up and we had to do “John Henry” wherever we appeared. We soon had a reputation that way. We went to Mulberry, Pierce and Lakeland.
After that I got confidential and told them all what I wanted. At first they couldn’t conceive of anybody wanting to put down “lies.” But when I got the idea over we held a lying contest and posted the notices at the Post Office and the commissary. I gave four prizes and some tall lying was done. The men and women enjoyed themselves and the contest broke up in a square dance with Joe Willard calling figures.
The contest was a huge success in every way. I not only collected a great deal of material but it started individuals coming to me privately to tell me stories they had no chance to tell during the contest.
Cliffert Ulmer told me that I’d get a great deal more by going out with the swamp-gang. He said they lied a plenty while they worked. I spoke to the quarters boss and the swamp boss and both agreed that it was all right, so I strowed it all over the quarters that I was going out to the swamp with the boys next day. My own particular crowd, Cliffert, James, Joe Willard, Jim Allen and Eugene Oliver were to look out for me and see to it that I didn’t get snake-bit nor ’gator-swallowed. The watchman, who sleeps out in the swamps and gets up steam in the skitter every morning before the men get to the cypress swamp, had been killed by a panther two weeks before, but they assured me that nothing like that could happen to me; not with the help I had.
Having watched some members of that swamp crew handle axes, I didn’t doubt for a moment that they could do all that they said. Not only do they chop rhythmically, but they do a beautiful double twirl above their heads with the ascending axe before it begins that accurate and bird-like descent. They can hurl their axes great distances and behead moccasins or sink the blade into an alligator’s skull. In fact, they seem to be able to do everything with their instrument that a blade can do. It is a magnificent sight to watch the marvelous co-ordination between the handsome black torsos and the twirling axes.
So next morning we were to be off to the woods.
It wasn’t midnight dark and it wasn’t day yet. When I awoke the saw-mill camp was a dawn gray. You could see the big saw-mill but you couldn’t see the smoke from the chimney. You could see the congregation of shacks and the dim outlines of the scrub oaks among the houses, but you couldn’t see the grey quilts of Spanish Moss that hung from the trees.
Dick Willie was the only man abroad. It was his business to be the first one out. He was the shack-rouser. Men are not supposed to over-sleep and Dick Willie gets paid to see to it that they don’t. Listen to him singing as he goes down the line.
Wake up, bullies, and git on de rock. ’Tain’t quite daylight but it’s four o’clock.
Coming up the next line, he’s got another song.
Wake up, Jacob, day’s a breakin’. Git yo’ hoe-cake a bakin’ and yo’ shirt tail shakin’.
What does he say when he gets to the jook and the longhouse?4 I’m fixing to tell you right now what he says. He raps on the floor of the porch with a stick and says:
“Ah ha! What make de rooster crow every morning at sun-up?
“Dat’s to let de pimps and rounders know de workin’ man is on his way.”
About that time you see a light in every shack. Every kitchen is scorching up fat-back and hoe-cake. Nearly every skillet is full of corn-bread. But some like biscuit-bread better. Break your hoe-cake half in two. Half on the plate, half in the dinner-bucket. Throw in your black-eyed peas and fat meat left from supper and your bucket is fixed. Pour meat grease in your plate with plenty of cane syrup. Mix it and sop it with your bread. A big bowl of coffee, a drink of water from the tin dipper in the pail. Grab your dinner-bucket and hit the grit. Don’t keep the straw-boss5 waiting.
This morning when we got to the meeting place, the foreman wasn’t there. So the men squatted along the railroad track and waited.
Joe Willard was sitting with me on the end of a cross-tie when he saw Jim Presley coming in a run with his bucket and jumper-jacket.
“Hey, Jim, where the swamp boss? He ain’t got here yet.”
“He’s ill—sick in the bed Ah hope, but Ah bet he’ll git here yet.”
“Aw, he ain’t sick. Ah bet you a fat man he ain’t,” Joe said.
“How come?” somebody asked him and Joe answered:
“Man, he’s too ugly. If a spell of sickness ever tried to slip up on him, he’d skeer it into a three weeks’ spasm.”
Blue Baby6 stuck in his oar and said: “He ain’t so ugly. Ye all jus’ ain’t seen no real ugly man. Ah seen a man so ugly till he could get behind a jimpson weed and hatch monkies.”
Everybody laughed and moved closer together. Then Officer Richardson said: “Ah seen a man so ugly till they had to spread a sheet over his head at night so sleep could slip up on him.”
They laughed some more, then Cliffert Ulmer said:
“Ah’m goin’ to talk with my mouth wide open. Those men y’all been talkin’ ’bout wasn’t ugly at all. Those was pretty men. Ah knowed one so ugly till you could throw him in the Mississippi river and skim ugly for six months.”
“Give Cliff de little dog,” Jim Allen said. “He done tole the biggest lie.”
“He ain’t lyin’,” Joe Martin tole them. “Ah knowed dat same man. He didn’t die—he jus’ uglied away.”
They laughed a great big old kah kah laugh and got closer together.
“Looka here, folkses,” Jim Presley exclaimed. “Wese a half hour behind schedule and no swamp boss and no log train here yet. What yo’ all reckon is the matter sho’ ’nough?”
“Must be something terrible when white folks get slow about putting us to work.”
“Yeah,” says Good Black. “You know back in slavery Ole Massa was out in de field sort of lookin’ things over, when a shower of rain come up. The field hands was glad it rained so they could knock off for a while. So one slave named John says:
“More rain, more rest.”
“Ole Massa says, ‘What’s dat you say?’
“John says, ‘More rain, more grass.’”
“There goes de big whistle. We ought to be out in the woods almost.”
The big whistle at the saw-mill boomed and shrilled and pretty soon the log-train came racking along. No flats for logs behind the little engine. The foreman dropped off the tender as the train stopped.
“No loggin’ today, boys. Got to send the train to the Everglades to fetch up the track gang and their tools.”
“Lawd, Lawd, we got a d
ay off,” Joe Willard said, trying to make it sound like he was all put out about it. “Let’s go back, boys. Sorry you won’t git to de swamp, Zora.”
“Aw, naw,” the Foreman said. “Y’all had better g’wan over to the mill and see if they need you over there.”
And he walked on off, chewing his tobacco and spitting his juice.
The men began to shoulder jumper-jackets and grab hold of buckets.
Allen asked: “Ain’t dat a mean man? No work in the swamp and still he won’t let us knock off.”
“He’s mean all right, but Ah done seen meaner men than him,” said Handy Pitts.
“Where?”
“Oh, up in Middle Georgy. They had a straw boss and he was so mean dat when the boiler burst and blowed some of the men up in the air, he docked ’em for de time they was off de job.”
Tush Hawg up and said: “Over on de East Coast Ah used to have a road boss and he was so mean and times was so hard till he laid off de hands of his watch.”
Wiley said: “He’s almost as bad as Joe Brown. Ah used to work in his mine and he was so mean till he wouldn’t give God an honest prayer without snatching back ‘Amen.’”
Ulmer says: “Joe Wiley, youse as big a liar as you is a man! Whoo-wee. Boy, you molds ’em. But lemme tell y’all a sho nuff tale ’bout Ole Massa.”
“Go ’head and tell it, Cliff,” shouted Eugene Oliver. “Ah love to hear tales about Ole Massa and John. John sho was one smart nigger.”
So Cliff Ulmer went on.
You know befo’ surrender Ole Massa had a nigger name John and John always prayed every night befo’ he went to bed and his prayer was for God to come git him and take him to Heaven right away. He didn’t even want to take time to die. He wanted de Lawd to come git him just like he was—boot, sock and all. He’d git down on his knees and say: “O Lawd, it’s once more and again yo’ humble servant is knee-bent and body-bowed—my heart beneath my knees and my knees in some lonesome valley, crying for mercy while mercy kin be found. O Lawd, Ah’m astin’ you in de humblest way I know how to be so pleased as to come in yo’ fiery chariot and take me to yo’ Heben and its immortal glory. Come Lawd, you know Ah have such a hard time. Old Massa works me so hard, and don’t gimme no time to rest. So come, Lawd, wid peace in one hand and pardon in de other and take me away from this sin-sorrowing world. Ah’m tired and Ah want to go home.”
So one night Ole Massa passed by John’s shack and heard him beggin’ de Lawd to come git him in his fiery chariot and take him away; so he made up his mind to find out if John meant dat thing. So he goes on up to de big house and got hisself a bed sheet and come on back. He throwed de sheet over his head and knocked on de door.
John quit prayin’ and ast: “Who dat?”
Ole Massa say: “It’s me, John, de Lawd, done come wid my fiery chariot to take you away from this sin-sick world.”
Right under de bed John had business. He told his wife: “Tell Him Ah ain’t here, Liza.”
At first Liza didn’t say nothin’ at all, but de Lawd kept right on callin’ John: “Come on, John, and go to Heben wid me where you won’t have to plough no mo’ furrows and hoe no mo’ corn. Come on, John.”
Liza says: “John ain’t here, Lawd, you hafta come back another time.”
Lawd says: “Well, then Liza, you’ll do.”
Liza whispers and says: “John, come out from underneath dat bed and g’wan wid de Lawd. You been beggin’ him to come git you. Now g’wan wid him.”
John back under de bed not saying a mumblin’ word. De Lawd out on de door step kept on callin’.
Liza says: “John, Ah thought you was so anxious to get to Heben. Come out and go on wid God.”
John says: “Don’t you hear him say ‘You’ll do’? Why don’t you go wid him?”
“Ah ain’t a goin’ nowhere. Youse de one been whoopin’ and hollerin’ for him to come git you and if you don’t come out from under dat bed Ah’m gointer tell God youse here.”
Ole Massa makin’ out he’s God, says: “Come on, Liza, you’ll do.”
Liza says: “O, Lawd, John is right here underneath de bed.”
“Come on John, and go to Heben wid me and its immortal glory.”
John crept out from under de bed and went to de door and cracked it and when he seen all dat white standin’ on de doorsteps he jumped back. He says: “O, Lawd, Ah can’t go to Heben wid you in yo’ fiery chariot in dese ole dirty britches; gimme time to put on my Sunday pants.”
“All right, John, put on yo’ Sunday pants.”
John fooled around just as long as he could, changing them pants, but when he went back to de door, de big white glory was still standin’ there. So he says agin: “O, Lawd, de Good Book says in Heben no filth is found and I got on his dirty sweaty shirt. Ah can’t go wid you in dis old nasty shirt. Gimme time to put on my Sunday shirt!”
“All right, John, go put on yo’ Sunday shirt.”
John took and fumbled around a long time changing his shirt, and den he went back to de door, but Ole Massa was still on de door step. John didn’t had nothin’ else to change so he opened de door a little piece and says:
“O, Lawd, Ah’m ready to go to Heben wid you in yo’ fiery chariot, but de radiance of yo’ countenance is so bright, Ah can’t come out by you. Stand back jus’ a li’l way please.”
Ole Massa stepped back a li’l bit.
John looked out agin and says: “O, Lawd, you know dat po’ humble me is less than de dust beneath yo’ shoe soles. And de radiance of yo’ countenance is so bright Ah can’t come out by you. Please, please, Lawd, in yo’ tender mercy, stand back a li’l bit further.”
Ole Massa stepped back a li’l bit mo’.
John looked out agin and he says: “O, Lawd, Heben is so high and wese so low; youse so great and Ah’m so weak and yo’ strength is too much for us poor sufferin’ sinners. So once mo’ and agin yo’ humber servant is knee-bent and body-bowed askin’ you one mo’ favor befo’ Ah step into yo’ fiery chariot to go to Heben wid you and wash in yo’ glory—be so pleased in yo’ tender mercy as to stand back jus’ a li’l bit further.”
Ole Massa stepped back a step or two mo’ and out dat door John come like a streak of lightning. All across de punkin patch, thru de cotton over de pasture—John wid Ole Massa right behind him. By de time dey hit de cornfield John was way ahead of Ole Massa.
Back in de shack one of de children was cryin’ and she ast Liza: “Mama, you reckon God’s gointer ketch papa and carry him to Heben wid him?”
“Shet yo’ mouf, talkin’ foolishness!” Liza clashed at de chile. “You know de Lawd can’t outrun yo’ pappy—specially when he’s barefooted at dat.”
Kah, Kah, Kah! Everybody laughing with their mouths wide open. If the foreman had come along right then he would have been good and mad because he could tell their minds were not on work.
Joe Willard says: “Wait a minute, fellows, wese walkin’ too fast. At dis rate we’ll be there befo’ we have time to talk some mo’ about Ole Massa and John. Tell another one, Cliffert.”
“Aw, naw,” Eugene Oliver hollered out.
Let me talk some chat. Dis is de real truth ’bout Ole Massa ’cause my grandma told it to my mama and she told it to me.
During slavery time, you know, Ole Massa had a nigger named John and he was a faithful nigger and Ole Massa lakted John a lot too.
One day Ole Massa sent for John and tole him, says: “John, somebody is stealin’ my corn out de field. Every mornin’ when I go out I see where they done carried off some mo’ of my roastin’ ears. I want you to set in de corn patch tonight and ketch whoever it is.”
So John said all right and he went and hid in de field.
Pretty soon he heard somethin’ breakin’ corn. So John sneaked up behind him wid a short stick in his hand and hollered: “Now, break another ear of Ole Massa’s corn and see what Ah’ll do to you.”
John thought it was a man all dis time, but it was a bear wid his arms full of roastin’ ears
. He throwed down de corn and grabbed John. And him and dat bear!
John, after while got loose and got de bear by the tail wid de bear tryin’ to git to him all de time. So they run around in a circle all night long. John was so tired. But he couldn’t let go of de bear’s tail, do de bear would grab him in de back.
After a stretch they quit runnin’ and walked. John swingin’ on to de bear’s tail and de bear’s nose ’bout to touch him in de back.
Daybreak, Ole Massa come out to see ’bout John and he seen John and de bear walkin’ ’round in de ring. So he run up and says: “Lemme take holt of ’im, John, whilst you run git help!”
John says: “All right, Massa. Now you run in quick and grab ’im just so.”
Ole Massa run and grabbed holt of de bear’s tail and said: “Now, John you make haste to git somebody to help us.”
John staggered off and set down on de grass and went to fanning hisself wid his hat.
Ole Massa was havin’ plenty trouble wid dat bear and he looked over and seen John settin’ on de grass and he hollered:
“John, you better g’wan git help or else I’m gwinter turn dis bear aloose!”
John says: “Turn ’im loose, then. Dat’s whut Ah tried to do all night long but Ah couldn’t.”
Jim Allen laughed just as loud as anybody else and then he said: “We better hurry on to work befo’ de buckra7 get in behind us.”
“Don’t never worry about work,” says Jim Presley. “There’s more work in de world than there is anything else. God made de world and de white folks made work.”
“Yeah, dey made work but they didn’t make us do it,” Joe Willard put in. “We brought dat on ourselves.”
“Oh, yes, de white folks did put us to work too,” said Jim Allen.
Know how it happened? After God got thru makin’ de world and de varmints and de folks, he made up a great big bundle and let it down in de middle of de road. It laid dere for thousands of years, then Ole Missus said to Ole Massa: “Go pick up dat box, Ah want to see whut’s in it.” Ole Massa look at de box and it look so heavy dat he says to de nigger, “Go fetch me dat big ole box out dere in de road.” De nigger been stumblin’ over de box a long time so he tell his wife: