JONES: [With indignant scorn] Look-a-heah, white man! Does you think I’se a natural bo’n fool? Give me credit fo’ havih’ some sense, fo’ Lawd’s sake! Don’t you s’pose I’se looked ahead and made sho’ of all de chances? I’se gone out in dat big forest, pretendin’ to hunt, so many times dat I knows it high an’ low like a book. I could go through on dem trails wid my eyes shut.
[With great contempt] Think dese ig’nerent bush niggers dat ain’t got brains enuff to know deir own names even can catch Brutus Jones? Huh, I s’pects not! Not on yo’ life! why, man, de white men went after me wid bloodhounds where I come from an’ I jes’ laughs at ‘em. It’s a shame to fool dese black trash around heah, dey’re so easy. You watch me, man’. I’ll make dem look sick, I will. I’ll be ‘cross de plain to de edge of de forest by time dark comes. Once in de woods in de night, dey got a swell chance o’ findin’ dis baby! Dawn tomorrow I’ll be out at de oder side and on de coast whar dat French gunboat is stayin’. She picks me up, take me to the Martinique when she go dar, and dere I is safe wid a mighty big bankroll in my jeans. It’s easy as rollin’ off a log.
SMITHERS: [Maliciously] But s’posin’ somethin’ ‘appens wrong an’ they do nab yer?
JONES: [Decisively] Dey don’t—dat’s de answer.
SMITHERS: But, just for argyment’s sake—what’d you do?
JONES: [Frowning] I’se got five lead bullets in dis gun good enuff fo’ common bush niggers—and after dat I got de silver bullet left to cheat ‘em out o’ gittin’ me.
SMITHERS: [Jeeringly] Ho, I was fergettin’ that silver bullet. You’ll bump yourself orf in style, won’t yer? Blimey!
JONES: [Gloomily] You kin bet yo’ whole roll on one thing, white man. Dis baby plays out his string to de end and when he quits, he quits wid a bang de way he ought. Silver bullet ain’t none too good for him when he go, dat’s a fac’ I—[Then shaking off his nervousness—with a confident laugh] Sho’! what is I talkin’ about? Ain’t come to dat yit and I never will—not wid trash niggers like dese yere.
[Boastfully] Silver bullet bring me luck anyway. I kin outguess, outrun, outfight, an’ outplay de whole lot o’ dem all ovah de board any time o’ de day er night! You watch me!
[From the distant hills comes the faint, steady thump of a tom-tom, low and vibrating. It starts at a rate exactly corresponding to normal pulse beat—72 to the minute—and continues at a gradually accelerated rate from this point uninterruptedly to the very end of the play. Jones starts at the sound. A strange look of apprehension creeps into his face for a moment as he listens. Then he asks, with an attempt to regain his most casual manner.]
What’s dat drum beatin’ fo’?
SMITHERS: [With a mean grin] For you. That means the bleedin’ ceremony ‘as started. I’ve ‘eard it before and I knows.
JONES: Cer’mony? What cer’mony?
SMITHERS: The blacks is ‘oldin’ a bloody meetin’, ‘avin’ a war dance, gettin’ their courage worked up b’fore they starts after you.
JONES: Let dem! Dey’ll sho’ need it!
SMITHERS: And they’re there ‘oldin’ their ‘eathen religious service—makin’ no end of devil spells and charms to ‘elp ‘em against your silver bullet. [He guffaws loudly.]Blimey, but they’re balmy as ‘ell!
JONES: [A tiny bit awed and shaken in spite of himself]Huh! Takes more’n dat to scare dis chicken!
SMITHERS: [Scenting the other’s feeling—maliciously] Ternight when it’s pitch black in the forest, they’ll ‘ave their pet devils and ghosts ‘oundin’ after you. You’ll find yer bloody ‘air ‘ll be standin’ on end before termorrow mornin’. [Seriously] It’s a bleedin’ queer place, that stinkin’ forest, even in daylight. Yer don’t know what might ‘appen in there, it’s that rotten still. Always sends the cold shivers down my back minute I gets in it.
JONES: [With a contemptuous sniff] I ain’t no chicken-liver like you is. Trees an’ me, we’ se friends, and dar’s a full moon comin’ bring me light. And let dem po’ niggers make all de fool spells dey’se a min’ to. Does yo’ s’pect I’se silly, enuff to b’lieve in ghosts an’ ha’nts an’ all dat ole woman’s talk? G’long, white man! You ain’t talkin’ to me.
[With a chuckle] Doesn’t you know dey’s got to do wid a man was member in good standin’ o’ de Baptist Church? Sho’ I was dat when I was porter on de Pullmans, befo’ I gits into my little trouble. Let dem try deir heathen tricks. De Baptist Church done pertect me and land dem all in hell.
[Then with more confident satisfaction] And I’se got little silver bullet o’ my own, don’t forgit.
SMITHERS: Ho! You ‘aven’t give much ‘eed to your Baptist Church since you been down ‘ere. I’ve ‘card myself you ‘ad turned yer coat an’ was takin’ up with their blarsted witch-doctors, or whatever the ‘ell yer calls the swine.
JONES: [Vehemently] I pretends to! Sho’ I pretends! Dat’s part o’ my game from de fust. If I finds out dem niggers believes dat black is white, den I yells it out louder ‘n deir loudest. It don’t git me nothin’ to do missionary work for de Baptist Church. I’se after de coin, an’ I lays my Jesus on de shelf for de time hem’.
[stops abruptly to look at his watch—alertly]
But I ain’t got de time to waste no more fool talk wid you. I’se gwine away from heah dis secon’.
[He reaches in under the throne and pulls out an expensive Panama hat with a bright multi-colored band and sets it jauntily on his head.]
So long, white man! [With a grin] See you in jail sometime, maybe!
SMITHERS: Not me, you won’t. Well, I wouldn’t be in yer bloody boots for no bloomin’ money, but ‘ere’s wishin’ yer luck just the same.
JONES: [Contemptuously] You’re de frightenedest man evah I see! I tells you I’se safe’s ‘f I was in New York City. It takes dem niggers from now to dark to git up de nerve to start somethin’. By dat time, I’se got a head start dey never kotch up wid.
SMITHERS: [Maliciously] Give my regards to any ghosts yer meets up with.
JONES: [Grinning] If dat ghost got money, I’ll tell him never ha’nt you less’n he wants to lose it.
SMITHERS: [Flattered] Garn! [Then curiously] Ain’t yer takin’ no luggage with yer?
JONES: I travels light when I wants to move fast. And I got tinned grub buried on de edge o’ de forest. [Boastfully] Now say dat I don’t look ahead an’ use my brains!
[With a wide, liberal gesture] I will all dat’s left in de palace to you—and you better grab all you kin sneak away wid befo’ dey gits here.
SMITHERS: [Gratefully] Righto—and thanks ter yer.
[As Jones walks toward the door in rear—cautiously]
Say! Look ‘ere, you ain’t goin’ out that way, are yer?
JONES: Does you think I’d slink out de back door like a common nigger? I’se Emperor yit, ain’t I? And de Emperor Jones leaves de way he comes, and dat black trash don’t dare stop him—not yit, leastways.
[He stops for a moment in the doorway, listening to the far-off but insistent beat of the tom-tom.]
Listen to dat roll-call, will you? Must be mighty big drum carry dat far.
[Then with a laugh] Well, if dey ain’t no whole brass band to see me off, I sho’ got de drum part of it. So