Crittenden | Page 8

town drawin'
niggers right an' left. He talk to me, but I jes laugh at him, an' say I
gwine wid Ole Cap'n ur Young Cap'n, I don't keer which. An' lemme
tell you, Young Capn', ef you ur Ole Cap'n doan lemme go wid you,
I'se gwine wid dat nigger corpril an' dat white man what 'long to a
nigger regiment, an' I know you don't want me to bring no sech
disgrace on de fambly dat way--no, suh. He axe what you de cap'n of,"
Bob went on, aiming at two birds with one stone now, "an' I say you de
cap'n of ever'body an' ever'ting dat come 'long--dat's what I say-an' he
be cap'n of you wid all yo' unyform and sich, I say, if you jest come out
to de fahm--yes, mon, dat he will sho."
The boy laughed and Bob reiterated:
"Oh, I'se gwine--I'se gwine wid you--" Then he stopped short. The
turbaned figure of Aunt Keziah loomed from behind the woodpile.
"What dat I heah 'bout you gwine to de wah, nigger, what dat I heah?"
Bob laughed--but it was a laugh of propitiation.
"Law, mammy. I was jes projeckin' wid Young Cap'n."
"Fool nigger, doan know what wah is--doan lemme heah you talk no
more 'bout gwine to de wah ur I gwine to w'ar you out wid a
hickory--dat's whut I'll do--now you min'." She turned on Basil then;
but Basil had retreated, and his laugh rang from the darkening yard.
She cried after him:

"An' doan lemme heah you puttin' dis fool nigger up to gittin' hisself
killed by dem Cubians neither; no suh!" She was deadly serious now. "I
done spanked you heap o' times, an' 'tain't so long ago, an' you ain' too
big yit; no, suh." The old woman's wrath was rising higher, and Bob
darted into the barn before she could turn back again to him, and a
moment later darted his head, like a woodpecker, out again to see if she
were gone, and grinned silently after her as she rolled angrily toward
the house, scolding both Bob and Basil to herself loudly.
A song rose from the cowpens just then. Full, clear, and quivering, it
seemed suddenly to still everything else into silence. In a flash, Bob's
grin settled into a look of sullen dejection, and, with his ear cocked and
drinking in the song, and with his eye on the corner of the barn, he
waited. From the cowpens was coming a sturdy negro girl with a
bucket of foaming milk in each hand and a third balanced on her head,
singing with all the strength of her lungs. In a moment she passed the
corner.
"Molly--say, Molly."
The song stopped short.
"Say, honey, wait a minute--jes a minute, won't ye?" The milkmaid
kept straight ahead, and Bob's honeyed words soured suddenly.
"Go on, gal, think yo'self mighty fine, don't ye? Nem' min'!"
Molly's nostrils swelled to their full width, and, at the top of her voice,
she began again.
"Go on, nigger, but you jes wait."
Molly sang on:
"Take up yo' cross, oh, sinner-man."
Before he knew it, Bob gave the response with great unction:
"Yes, Lawd."

Then he stopped short.
"I reckon I got to break dat gal's head some day. Yessuh; she knows
whut my cross is," and then he started slowly after her, shaking his
head and, as his wont was, talking to himself.
He was still talking to himself when Basil came out to the stiles after
supper to get into his buggy.
"Young Cap'n, dat gal Molly mighty nigh pesterin' de life out o' me. I
done tol' her I'se gwine to de wah."
"What did she say?"
"De fool nigger--she jes laughed--she jes laughed."
The boy, too, laughed, as he gathered the reins and the mare sprang
forward.
"We'll see--we'll see."
And Bob with a triumphant snort turned toward Molly's cabin.
The locust-trees were quiet now and the barn was still except for the
occasional stamp of a horse in his stall or the squeak of a pig that was
pushed out of his warm place by a stronger brother. The night noises
were strong and clear--the cricket in the grass, the croaking frogs from
the pool, the whir of a night-hawk's wings along the edge of the yard,
the persistent wail of a whip-poor-will sitting lengthwise of a willow
limb over the meadow-branch, the occasional sleepy caw of crows from
their roost in the woods beyond, the bark of a house-dog at a
neighbour's home across the fields, and, further still, the fine high yell
of a fox-hunter and the faint answering yelp of a hound.
And inside, in the mother's room, the curtain was rising on a tragedy
that was tearing open the wounds of that