The Conjure Woman, Charles W. Chesnutt [reading women txt] 📗

and, as he passed, held the reins with one hand, at some risk to his safety, lifted his hat, and bowed somewhat constrainedly as the horse darted by us, still panting and snorting with fear.

“He looks as though he were ashamed of himself,” I observed.

“I’m sure he ought to be,” exclaimed my wife indignantly. “I think there is no worse sin and no more disgraceful thing than cruelty.”

“I quite agree with you,” I assented.

“A man w’at ’buses his hoss is gwine ter be ha’d on de folks w’at wuks fer ’im,” remarked Julius. “Ef young Mistah McLean doan min’, he’ll hab a bad dream one er dese days, des lack ’is grandaddy had way back yander, long yeahs befo’ de wah.”

“What was it about Mr. McLean’s dream, Julius?” I asked. The man had not yet finished cleaning the spring, and we might as well put in time listening to Julius as in any other way. We had found some of his plantation tales quite interesting.

“Mars Jeems McLean,” said Julius, “wuz de grandaddy er dis yer gent’eman w’at is des gone by us beatin’ his hoss. He had a big plantation en a heap er niggers. Mars Jeems wuz a ha’d man, en monst’us stric’ wid his han’s. Eber sence he growed up he nebber ’peared ter hab no feelin’ fer nobody. W’en his daddy, ole Mars John McLean, died, de plantation en all de niggers fell ter young Mars Jeems. He had be’n bad ’nuff befo’, but it wa’n’t long atterwa’ds ’tel he got so dey wuz no use in libbin’ at all ef you ha’ ter lib roun’ Mars Jeems. His niggers wuz bleedzd ter slabe fum daylight ter da’k, w’iles yuther folks’s didn’ hafter wuk ’cep’n’ fum sun ter sun; en dey didn’ git no mo’ ter eat dan dey oughter, en dat de coa’ses’ kin’. Dey wa’n’t ’lowed ter sing, ner dance, ner play de banjo w’en Mars Jeems wuz roun’ de place; fer Mars Jeems say he wouldn’ hab no sech gwines-on⁠—said he bought his han’s ter wuk, en not ter play, en w’en night come dey mus’ sleep en res’, so dey’d be ready ter git up soon in de mawnin’ en go ter dey wuk fresh en strong.

“Mars Jeems didn’ ’low no co’tin’ er juneseyin’ roun’ his plantation⁠—said he wanted his niggers ter put dey min’s on dey wuk, en not be wastin’ dey time wid no sech foolis’ness. En he wouldn’ let his han’s git married⁠—said he wuzn’ raisin’ niggers, but wuz raisin’ cotton. En w’eneber any er de boys en gals ’ud ’mence ter git sweet on one ernudder, he’d sell one er de yuther un ’em, er sen’ ’em way down in Robeson County ter his yuther plantation, whar dey couldn’ nebber see one ernudder.

“Ef any er de niggers eber complained, dey got fo’ty; so co’se dey didn’ many un ’em complain. But dey didn’ lack it, des de same, en nobody couldn’ blame ’em, fer dey had a ha’d time. Mars Jeems didn’ make no ’lowance fer nachul bawn laz’ness, ner sickness, ner trouble in de min’, ner nuffin; he wuz des gwine ter git so much wuk outer eve’y han’, er know de reason w’y.

“Dey wuz one time de niggers ’lowed, fer a spell, dat Mars Jeems mought git bettah. He tuk a lackin’ ter Mars Marrabo McSwayne’s oldes’ gal, Miss Libbie, en useter go ober dere eve’y day er eve’y ebenin’, en folks said dey wuz gwine ter git married sho’. But it ’pears dat Miss Libbie heared ’bout de gwines-on on Mars Jeems’s plantation, en she des ’lowed she couldn’ trus’ herse’f wid no sech a man; dat he mought git so useter ’busin’ his niggers dat he’d ’mence ter ’buse his wife atter he got useter habbin’ her roun’ de house. So she ’clared she wuzn’ gwine ter hab nuffin mo’ ter do wid young Mars Jeems.

“De niggers wuz all monst’us sorry w’en de match wuz bust’ up, fer now Mars Jeems got wusser ’n he wuz befo’ he sta’ted sweethea’tin’. De time he useter spen’ co’tin’ Miss Libbie he put in findin’ fault wid de niggers, en all his bad feelin’s ’ca’se Miss Libbie th’owed ’im ober he ’peared ter try ter wuk off on de po’ niggers.

“W’iles Mars Jeems wuz co’tin’ Miss Libbie, two er de han’s on de plantation had got ter settin’ a heap er sto’ by one ernudder. One un ’em wuz name’ Solomon, en de yuther wuz a ’oman w’at wukked in de fiel’ ’long er ’im⁠—I fe’git dat ’oman’s name, but it doan ’mount ter much in de tale nohow. Now, whuther ’ca’se Mars Jeems wuz so tuk up wid his own junesey dat he didn’ paid no ’tention fer a w’ile ter w’at wuz gwine on ’twix’ Solomon en his junesey, er whuther his own co’tin’ made ’im kin’ er easy on de co’tin’ in de qua’ters, dey ain’ no tellin’. But dey’s one thing sho’, dat w’en Miss Libbie th’owed ’im ober, he foun’ out ’bout Solomon en de gal monst’us quick, en gun Solomon fo’ty, en sont de gal down ter de Robeson County plantation, en tol’ all de niggers ef he ketch ’em at any mo’ sech foolishness, he wuz gwine ter skin ’em alibe en tan dey hides befo’ dey ve’y eyes. Co’se he wouldn’ ’a’ done it, but he mought ’a’ made things wusser ’n dey wuz. So you kin ’magine dey wa’n’t much lub-makin’ in de qua’ters fer a long time.

“Mars Jeems useter go down ter de yuther plantation sometimes fer a week er mo’, en so he had ter hab a oberseah ter look atter his wuk w’iles he ’uz gone. Mars Jeems’s oberseah wuz a po’ w’ite man name’ Nick Johnson⁠—de niggers called ’im Mars Johnson ter his face, but behin’ his back dey useter call ’im Ole Nick, en de name suited ’im ter a T. He wuz wusser ’n Mars Jeems ever da’ed ter be. Co’se de darkies didn’