Northern Georgia Sketches. Will N. Harben. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Will N. Harben
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Жанр произведения: Языкознание
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isbn: 4064066201432
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never git back a cent o’ yore loan. But the funniest part o’ the business is the way Big Joe acts about it.” Dun can met his wife’s glance and laughed out impulsively. “You see, Gill, in the Whitney break-up, all the other niggers has been sold to rich families, an’ the truth is, Big Joe feels his dignity tuck down a good many pegs by bein’ put off on you-uns, that never owned a slave to yore name. The other darkies has been a-teasin’ of ’im all day, an’ he’s sick an’ tired of it. The Whitneys has spiled ’im bad. They l’arnt ’im to read an’ always let ’im stan’ dressed up in his long coat in the big front hall to invite quality folks in the house. They say he had his eye on a yaller gal, an’ that he’s been obliged to give her up, fer she’s gone with one of the Staffords in Fannin’ County.”

      Gill’s knee, which was thrust out in front of him by the sharp bend of his leg, was quivering.

      “Big Joe might do a sight wuss ’n to belong to me,” he said, warmly. “I don’t know as we-uns ’ll have any big hall for ’im to cavort about in, nur anybody any wuss ’n yore sort to come to see us, but we pay our debts an’ have a plenty t’eat.”

      Mrs. Gill was listening to this ebullition, her red nose slightly elevated, and she made no effort to suppress a chuckle of satisfaction over her husband’s subtle allusion to the status of their guests.

      “I want you two jest to come heer one minute,” she burst out suddenly, and with a dignity that seemed to cool the air about her, she rose and moved toward the little shed room at the end of the cabin. Duncan and his wife followed, an expression of half-fearful curiosity in their tawny visages. Reaching the door of the room, Mrs. Gill pushed it open and coolly signaled them to enter, and when they had done so, and stood mutely looking about them, she followed.

      “When I made up my mind we’d be obliged to take Big Joe,” she explained, “I fixed up fer ’im a little. Look at that bedstead!” (Her hand was extended toward it as steadily as the limb of an oak.) “Ann Duncan, you are at liberty to try to find a better one in this neighborhood. You ‘n Andrew sleep on one made out ’n poles with the bark on ’em. Then jest feel o’ them thar feathers in this new tick an’ pillows, an’ them’s bran-new store-bought sheets.”

      This second open allusion to her own poverty had a subduing effect on Mrs. Duncan’s risibilities. The ever-present twinkle of amusement went out of her eyes, and she had an attitude of vast consideration for the words of her hostess as she put her perspiring hand on the mattress and pressed it tentatively.

      “It’s saft a plenty fer a king,” she observed, conciliation enough for any one in her tone; “he ’ll never complain, I bound you!”

      “Big Joe won’t have to tech his bare feet to the floor while he’s puttin’ on his clothes, nuther,” reminded Mrs. Gill. She raised her eyebrows as an admiral might after seeing a well-directed shot from one of his guns blow up a ship, and pointed at a piece of rag carpet laid at the side of the bed. “An’ you see I’ve fixed ’im a washstand with a new pan thar in the corner, an’ a roller towel, an’ bein’ as they say he’s so fixy, I’m a-goin’ to fetch in the lookin’-glass, an’ I’ve cut some pictur’s out ‘n newspapers that I intend to paste up on the walls, so as—”

      Mrs. Gill paused. Experienced as she was in the tricks of Ann Duncan’s facial expression, she at once divined that her words were meeting with amused opposition.

      “Why, Mis’ Gill,” was Ann’s rebuff, “shorely you ain’t a-goin’ to let ’im sleep in the same house with you-uns!”

      “Of course I am, Ann Duncan; what in the name o’ common sense do you mean?”

      “Oh, nuthin’.” Mrs. Duncan glanced at her husband and wiped a cowardly smile from her broad mouth with her hand. “You see, Mis’ Gill, I’m afeerd you are goin’ to overdo it. You’ve heerd me say I have good stock in me, ef I am poor. I’ve got own second cousins that don’t know the’r own slaves when they meet ’em in the big road. I’ve heerd how they treat their niggers, an’ I’m afeerd all this extra fixin’ up will make folks poke fun at you. To-day in town the niggers started the laugh on Big Joe theirselves, an’ the white folks all j’ined in. It looked like they thought it was a good joke for the Gill lay-out to own a quality slave. Me ’n Andrew don’t mean no harm, but now it is funny; you know it is!”

      “I don’t see a thing that’s the least bit funny in it.” Mrs. Gill bristled and turned almost white in helpless fury. “We never set ourselves up as wantin’ to own slaves, but when this one is saddled on us through no fault o’ our ‘n, I see no harm in our holdin’ onto ’im till we kin see our way out without loss. As to ’im not sleepin’ in the same cabin we do, whar in the Lord’s creation would we put ’im? The corn-crib is the only thing with a roof on it, an’ it’s full to the door.”

      “Oh, I reckon you are doin’ the best you kin,” granted Mrs. Duncan, as she passed out of the door and went back to where Peter Gill sat fanning himself. He had overheard part of the conversation.

      “I told Lucretia she oughtn’t to fix up so almighty much,” he observed. “A nigger ain’t like no other livin’ cre’ture. A pore man jest cayn’t please ’em.”

      Ann Duncan was driven to the very verge of laughter again.

      “What you goin’ to call ’im?” she snickered, her strong effort at keeping a serious face bringing tears into her eyes. “Are you goin’ to make ’im say Marse Gill, an’ Mis’ Lucretia?”

      “I don’t care a picayune what he calls us,” answered Gill, testily. “I reckon we won’t start a new language on his account.”

      Through this colloquy Mrs. Duncan had been holding her sun-bonnet in a tight roll in her hands. She now unfurled it like the flag of a switchman and whisked it on her head.

      “Well, I wish you luck with yore slave,” she was heard to say, crisply, “but I hope you ’ll not think me meddlin’ ef I say that you ’ll have trouble. Folks like you-uns, an’ we-uns fer that matter, don’t know no more about managin’ slaves raised by high-falutin’ white folks than doodle-bugs does.” And having risen to that climax, Ann Duncan, followed by her splay-footed, admiring husband, departed.

      The next morning, accompanied by Big Joe and the man who had been overseer on his plantation, Colonel Whitney drove over in a spring wagon.

      “I decided to bring Joe over myself, so as to have no misunderstanding,” he announced. “The other negroes have been picking at him a good deal, and he is a little out of sorts, but he ’ll get all right.”

      The Gills were standing in the passage, a look of stupid embarrassment on their honest faces. Despite their rugged strength of character, they were not a little awed by the presence of such a prominent member of the aristocracy, notwithstanding the fact that their dealings with the Colonel had not, in a financial way, been just to their fancy.

      “I’m much obliged to you, sir,” Peter found himself able to enunciate.

      The Colonel lighted a cigar and began to smoke. A sad, careworn expression lay in his big blue eyes. He had the appearance of a man who had not slept for a week. His tired glance swept from the Gills to the negro in the wagon, and he said, huskily:

      “Bounce out, Joe, and do the very best you can. I hate to part with you, but you know my condition—we’ve talked that over enough.”

      Slowly the tall black man crawled out at the end of the wagon and stood alone on the ground. The expression of his face was at once so full of despair and fiendishness that Mrs. Gill shuddered and looked away from him.

      “Well, Gill,” said the planter, “I reckon me and you are even at last. I’m going down to Savannah, where I hope to get a fresh start and amount to more in the world. Goodbye to you—good-bye, Joe.”

      He had only nodded to the pair in the passage, but he reached over the wagon-wheel for the hand of the negro, and as he took it