Jonah's Gourd Vine Page 11
“How much?”
“Twenty odd dollars. ’Cordin’ tuh where at you goin’.”
“Where you goin’?”
“Tuh uh town called Sanford. Got uh sister dere. She keep-in’ uh boardin’ house,” he looked John over, “she’s uh fine lookin’, portly ’oman; you better come ’long.”
“Um already married, thankee jes’ de same. Man, Ah got uh putty ’oman. Li’l’ bitsa thing. Ahm sho tuh send fuh her soon ez Ah git settled some place.”
“Aw shucks man, you ain’t lak me. Ah don’t take no women no place. Ah lets every town furnish its own.”
They bought their tickets and John sat in a railway coach for the first time in his life, though he hid this fact from his traveling mate. To him nothing in the world ever quite equalled that first ride on a train. The rhythmic stroke of the engine, the shiny-buttoned porter bawling out the stations, the even more begilded conductor, who looked more imposing even than Judge Pearson, and then the red plush splendor, the gaudy ceiling hung with glinting lamps, the long mournful howl of the whistle. John forgot the misery of his parting from Lucy in the aura of it all. That is, he only remembered his misery in short snatches, while the glory lay all over him for hours at the time. He marvelled that just anybody could come along and be allowed to get on such a glorified thing. It ought to be extra special. He got off the train at every stop so that he could stand off a piece and feast his eyes on the engine. The greatest accumulation of power that he had ever seen.
CHAPTER 13
As John and his mate stepped off the train at Sanford, they were met by a burly, red-faced white man who looked them over sharply—which gave them both the fidgets. Finally he asked, “Where y’all come from?”
“Up de road uh piece in Wes’ Florduh,” John’s partner answered, much to his relief.
“Want work?”
“Ah kinda got uh job promised tuh me already,” John’s mate answered again.
“How ’bout you, Big Yaller?”
“Nawsuh, Ah ain’t got no job. Ah would love tuh hear tell uh one.”
“Come along then. Ever done any work on uh railroad?”
“Nawsuh, but Ah wants tuh try.”
“Git yo duds then. We going over to Wildwood. Dollar a day. Seaboard puttin’ thru uh spur.”
That night John slept in the railroad camp and at sun-up he was swinging a nine-pound hammer and grunting over a lining bar.
The next day he wrote Lucy and sent her all of his ready money.
All day long it was strain, sweat and rhythm. When they were lining track the water-boy would call out, “Mr. Dugan!”
The straining men would bear down on the lining bars and grunt, “Hanh!”
“Hanh!”
“Got de number ten!”
“Hanh!”
“Got de pay-car!”
“Hanh!”
“On de rear end.”
“Hanh!”
“Whyncher pick ’em up!”
“Hanh!”
“Set it over.”
“Hanh!”
And the rail was in place. Sometimes they’d sing it in place, but with the same rhythm.
When Ah get in Illinois
Ahm gointer spread de news about de Floriduh boys
Sho-ove it over
Hey, hey, can’t you live it?
Then a rhythmic shaking of the nine-hundred-pound rail by bearing down on the bars thrust under it in concert.
“Ahshack-uh-lack-uh-lack-uh-lack-uh-lack-uh-lack-uh-hanh!”
Rail in place.
“Hey, hey, can’t you try?”
He liked spiking. He liked to swing the big snub-nosed hammer above his head and drive the spike home at a blow. And then the men had a song that called his wife’s name and he liked that.
“Oh Lulu!”
“Hanh!” A spike gone home under John’s sledge.
“Oh, oh, gal!”
“Hanh!”
“Want to see you!”
“Hanh!”
“So bad.”
“Hanh!”
And then again it was fun in the big camp. More than a hundred hammer-muscling men, singers, dancers, liars, fighters, bluffers and lovers. Plenty of fat meat and beans, women flocking to camp on pay-day.
On Sunday John and his breaster went into town to church. The preacher snatched figure after figure from the land of images, and the church loved it all. Back in camp that night, John preached the sermon himself for the entertainment of the men who had stayed in camp and he aped the gestures of the preacher so accurately that the crowd hung half-way between laughter and awe.
“You kin mark folks,” said Blue. “Dass jes’ lak dat preacher fuh de world. Pity you ain’t preachin’ yo’self.”
“Look, John,” said his breaster, “dey’s uh colored town out ’cross de woods uh piece—maybe fifteen tuh twenty miles, and dey’s uh preacher—”
“You mean uh whole town uh nothin’ but colored folks? Who bosses it, den?”
“Dey bosses it deyself.”
“You mean dey runnin’ de town ’thout de white folks?”
“Sho is. Eben got uh mayor and corporation.”
“Ah sho wants tuh see dat sight.”
“Dat’s jes’ whar Ah wants tuh take yuh nex’ Sunday. Dey got uh Meth’dis’ preacher over dere Ah wants yuh tuh mark. He talk thru his nose and he preaches all his sermons de same way. Sho would love tuh hear you mark ’im.”
“Ah’ll sho do it. Whut’s de name uh dat town?”
“Eatonville, Orange County.”
The Negro mayor filled John with almost as much awe as the train had. When he was leaving town that Sunday night he told his friend, “Ahm comin’ back tuh dis place. Uh man kin be sumpin’ heah ’thout folks tramplin’ all over yuh. Ah wants mah wife and chillun heah.”
There were many weeks between John and the little Negro village. He would resolve to move there on next pay-day, but trips to town, and visitors to camp defeated his plans.
But a letter from Lucy nerved him and he found work pruning orange trees in Maitland, the adjacent white town, and went to live in Eatonville.
He had meant to send for Lucy within the month, but one thing and another delayed him. One day, however, in a fit of remorse he went and drew down a month’s wages in advance and sent the money to Judge Pearson for his wife because he was ashamed to write to her.
He was working for Sam Mosely, the second most prosperous man in Eatonville, and borrowed his team to meet Lucy at the train.
He wouldn’t let her walk down the coach steps, but held wide his arms and made her jump into his bosom. He drove the one mile from the depot in Maitland to the heart of Eatonville with a wagon full of laughter and shouts of questions.
“Glad tuh see me, Lucy?” John asked as soon as he had loaded the battered tin trunk and the feather bed on the wagon and sprung into the driver’s seat.
“’Course, John.”
“Is you only mouf glad or yuh sho nuff glad?”
“Sho nuff, but one time Ah thought you sho took uh long time tuh write tuh me and send fuh us.”
“You looks lak new money ’round heah, honey. Ah’d send fuh you, if Ah didn’t had bread tuh eat. Look how our li’l’ gal done growed.”
“Yeah she walkin’ and talkin’. You been ’way from us might nigh uh yeah.”
The children exclaimed at the fruit clustered golden among the dark glistening foilage.
“Ah got y’all plenty oranges at de house, y’all chaps. Yo’ papa lookin’ out fuh yuh.”
“You got us uh house, John?” Lucy asked happily.
“Ah mean where Ah been stayin’ at. Ah reckon us all kin git in dere.”
“’Tain’t no mo’ houses in town?”
“Yeah, two, three vacant, but us ain’t got much money. Sendin’ fuh y’all and all, and den us ain’t got nothin’ tuh go in uh house but ourselves.”
“Dat ain’t nothin’. You go git us house of our own. ’Tain’t nothin’ lak being
yo’ own boss. Us kin sleep on de floor ’til we kin do better.”
Lucy sniffed sweet air laden with night-blooming jasmine and wished that she had been born in this climate. She seemed to herself to be coming home. This was where she was meant to be. The warmth, the foliage, the fruits all seemed right and as God meant her to be surrounded. The smell of ripe guavas was new and alluring but somehow did not seem strange.
So that night John and his family were housekeeping again. John went to the woods at the edge of town and filled three crocus sacks with moss and each of the larger children had a sack apiece for a mattress. John and Lucy took the baby girl upon the feather mattress with them.
Next morning Lucy awoke at daylight and said to John in bed, “John, dis is uh fine place tuh bring up our chillun. Dey won’t be seein’ no other kind uh folks actin’ top-superior over ’em and dat’ll give’em spunk tuh be bell cows theyselves, and you git somethin’ tuh do ’sides takin’ orders offa other folks. Ah ’bominates dat.”
“Whut’s it goin’ tuh be, Lucy?”
“You knows how tuh carpenter. Go ast who want uh house built, and den you take and do it. You kin prop up shacks jus’ as good as some uh dem dat’s doin’ it.”
And to John’s surprise people wanted houses built all over Orange County. Central Florida was in the making.
“And now less don’t pay Joe Clarke no mo’ rent. Less buy dis place, John.”
“Dat’s uh bigger job than Ah wants tuh tackle, Lucy. You so big-eyed. Wese colored folks. Don’t be so much-knowin’.”
But the five acre plot was bought nevertheless, and John often sat on Joe Clarke’s store porch and bragged about his determination to be a property owner.
“Aw, ’tain’t you, Pearson,” Walter Thomas corrected, “iss dat li’l’ handful uh woman you got on de place.”
“Yeah,” Sam Mosely said earnestly, “Anybody could put hisself on de ladder wid her in de house. Dat’s de very ’oman Ah been lookin’ fuh all mah days.”
“Yeah, but Ah seen uh first, Sam, so you might jus’ ez well quit lookin’,” John said and laughed.
“Oh Ah knows dat, John. ’Twon’t do me no good tuh look, but yet and still it won’t hurt me neither. You might up and die uh she might quit yuh and git uh sho nuff husband, and den she could switch uh mean Miss Johnson in dat big house on Mars Hill.”
“Hold on dere uh minute, Sam,” John retorted half in earnest amid the general laughter, “less squat dat rabbit and jump uhnother one. Anyhow mah house liable tuh be big ez your’n some uh dese days.”
“Aw, he jes’ jokin’ yuh, Pearson,” Joe Clarke, the mayor intervened, “I god, you takin’ it serious.”
When John got home that night Lucy was getting into bed. John stopped in the hallway and took his Winchester rifle down from the rack and made sure that it was loaded before he went into the bedroom, and sat on the side of the bed.
“Lucy, is you sorry you married me instid uh some big nigger wid uh whole heap uh money and titles hung on tuh him?”
“Whut make you ast me dat? If you tired uh me, jus’ leave me. Another man over de fence waitin fuh yo’ job.”
John stood up, “Li’l’ Bit, Ah ain’t never laid de weight uh mah hand on you in malice. Ain’t never raised mah hand tuh yuh eben when you gits mad and slaps mah jaws, but lemme tell you somethin’ right now, and it ain’t two, don’t you never tell me no mo’ whut you jus’ tole me, ’cause if you do, Ahm goin’ tuh kill yuh jes’ ez sho ez gun is iron. Ahm de first wid you, and Ah means tuh be de last. Ain’t never no man tuh breathe in yo’ face but me. You hear me? Whut made you say dat nohow?”
“Aw, John, you know dat’s jus’ uh by-word. Ah hears all de women say dat.”
“Yeah, Ah knows dat too, but you ain’t tuh say it. Lemme tell you somethin’. Don’t keer whut come uh go, if you ever start out de door tuh leave me, you’ll never make it tuh de gate. Ah means tuh blow yo’ heart out and hang fuh it.”
“You done—”
“Don’t tell me ’bout dem trashy women Ah lusts after once in uh while. Dey’s less dan leaves uh grass. Lucy do you still love me lak yuh useter?”
“Yeah John, and mo’. Ah got mo’ tuh love yuh fuh now.”
John said, “Neb mine mah crazy talk. Jus’ you hug mah neck tight, Ah’d sweat in hell fuh yuh. Ah’d take uh job cleaning out de Atlantic Ocean jus’ fuh yuh. Look lak Ah can’t git useter de thought dat you married me, Lucy, and you got chillun by me!”
And he held Lucy tightly and thought pityingly of other men.
The very next Sunday he arose in Covenant Meeting and raised the song, “He’s a Battle-Axe in de Time Uh Trouble,” and when it was done he said, “Brothers and Sisters, Ah rise befo’ yuh tuhday tuh tell yuh, God done called me tuh preach.”
“Halleluyah! Praise de Lawd!”
“He called me long uhgo, but Ah wouldn’t heed tuh de voice, but brothers and sisters, God done whipped me tuh it, and like Peter and Paul Ah means tuh preach Christ and Him crucified. He tole me tuh go, and He’d go with me, so Ah ast yo’ prayers, Church, dat Ah may hold up de blood-stained banner of Christ and prove strong dat Ah may hold out tuh de end.”
The church boiled over with approval, “Ah knowed it! Tole ’im long time uhgo dat’s whut he wuz cut out fuh. Thang God. He’s goin’ tuh be uh battle-axe sho ’nuff—Hewin’ down sinners tuh repentance.”
His trial sermon had to be preached in a larger church—so many people wanted to hear him. He had a church to pastor before the hands had been laid on his head. The man who preached his ordination sermon was thrown in deep shadow by the man who was to be ordained.
The church he pastored at Ocoee did all they could to hold him, but the membership was less than a hundred. Zion Hope, of Sanford, membership three hundred, took him to her bosom, and her membership mounted every month.
John dumped a heavy pocketbook into Lucy’s lap one Monday morning before he took off his hat.
Lucy praised him. “We goin’ tuh finish payin’ fuh dis place wid dis money. De nex’ time, us buy de chillun some changin’ clothes. You makin’ good money now, John. Ah always knowed you wuz goin’ tuh do good.”
He wore the cloak of a cloud about his shoulders. He was above the earth. He preached and prayed. He sang and sinned, but men saw his cloak and felt it.
“Lucy, look lak Ah jus’ found out whut Ah kin do. De words dat sets de church on fire comes tuh me jus’ so. Ah reckon de angels must tell ’em tuh me.”
“God don’t call no man, John, and turn ’im loose uh fool. Jus’ you handle yo’ members right and youse goin’ tuh be uh sho ’nuff big nigger.”
“Ain’t Ah treatin’ ’em good, Lucy? Ah ain’t had no complaints.”
“Naw, you wouldn’t hear no complaints ’cause you treatin’ ’em too good. Don’t pomp up dem deacons so much. Dey’ll swell up and be de ruination of yuh. Much up de young folks and you got somebody tuh strain wid dem ole rams when dey git dey habits on. You lissen tuh me. Ah hauled de mud tuh make ole Cuffy. Ah know whuts in ’im.
“Don’t syndicate wid none of ’em, do dey’ll put yo’ business in de street.” Lucy went on, “Friend wid few. Everybody grin in yo’ face don’t love yuh. Anybody kin look and see and tell uh snake trail when dey come cross it but nobody kin tell which way he wuz goin’ lessen he seen de snake. You keep outa sight, and in dat way, you won’t give nobody uh stick tuh crack yo’ head wid.”
As he swaggered up to Joe Clarke’s store porch in his new clothes, putting and taking with his yellow cane, Sam Mosely teased, “Well, John done got tuh be uh preacher.”
“Yeah Ah is, and Ah ain’t no stump-knocker neither. Ah kin go hard.”
“Maybe so, John, but anybody kin preach. Hard work and hot sun done called uh many one. Anybody kin preach.”
“Naw dey can’t neither. Take you for instance.”
“Don’t want tuh. Ahm de mayor.”
“You ain’t goin’ tuh be it after de 18th day of August. Watch and see.”
“Naw, Ahm gointer be de mayor.”
“You runnin’ fuh mayor?”
“Not now but Ahm goin’ tuh run when de time come, and if you want tuh be mayor agin you better run. Don’t fool wid it—run! Go hard uh go home. You and Clarke ain’t had nobody tuh run against, but dis time big Moose done come down from de mountain. Ahm goin’ tuh run you so hard ’til they can’t tell yo’ run-down shoe from yo’ wore out sock.”
General laughter.
“I God,” Joe Clarke declared, “Ah never seen two sworn buddies dat tries tuh out do on ’nother lak y’all do. You so thick ’til one can’t turn ’thout de other one, yet and still you always buckin’ ’ginst each other.”
“’Tain’t me,” Sam Mosely defended, “Iss him, but he can’t never ekal up tuh me ’cause Ah come heah from Wes’ Flordah uh porpoise, but look whut Ah got now. Ahm uh self-made man.”
“Ah come heah right out de tie woods in uh boot and uh shoe, but Ah got proppity too. Whut you goin’ tuh call me?” He thrust out his chest.
“Uh wife-made man,” Mosely retorted amid boisterous laughter, “if me and him wuz tuh swap wives Ah’d go past ’im so fast you’d think it wuz de A.C.L. passin’ uh gopher.”
“Better say joe, ’cause you don’t know. Anyhow when you run for mayor next time git ready tuh take yo’ whippin’. De time done come when big britches goin’ tuh fit li’l’ Willie.”
And Rev. Pearson did win. He was swept into office by the overwhelming majority of seventeen to three.
“Tell yuh how yuh beat me, John,” Mosely said on the store porch that night, “course ’twan’t fair, but it wuz de way you and Lucy led de gran’ march night ’fo’ las’ at de hall, but by rights uh preacher ain’t got no business dancin’.”
“Grand marchin’ ain’t dancin’. Ah never cut uh step.”
“Dat’s right too, y’all,” Joe Lindsay put in, “you ain’t dancin’ ’til yuh cross yo’ feet, but Rev. John, no sinner man couldn’t uh led dat march no better’n you and Lucy. Dat li’l’ ’oman steps it lightly, slightly and politely.”
“Tuh make short talk outa long,” added Walter Thomas, “Sam, youse uh good man. Ah don’t know no better conditioned man in dese parts. Yo’ morals is clean ez uh fish—and he been in bathin’ all his life, but youse too dry fuh de mayor business. Jes’ lak it ’twuz wid Saul and David.”