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

“I dunno ez hit’s wuf w’ile ter tell you dis,” he said, at length. “I doan ha’dly ’spec’ fer you ter b’lieve it. Does you ’member dat club-footed man w’at hilt de hoss fer you de yuther day w’en you was gittin’ out’n de rockaway down ter Mars Archie McMillan’s sto’?”

“Yes, I believe I do remember seeing a club-footed man there.”

“Did you eber see a club-footed nigger befo’ er sence?”

“No, I can’t remember that I ever saw a club-footed colored man,” I replied, after a moment’s reflection.

“You en Mis’ Annie wouldn’ wanter b’lieve me, ef I wuz ter ’low dat dat man was oncet a mule?”

“No,” I replied, “I don’t think it very likely that you could make us believe it.”

“Why, Uncle Julius!” said Annie severely, “what ridiculous nonsense!”

This reception of the old man’s statement reduced him to silence, and it required some diplomacy on my part to induce him to vouchsafe an explanation. The prospect of a long, dull afternoon was not alluring, and I was glad to have the monotony of Sabbath quiet relieved by a plantation legend.

“W’en I wuz a young man,” began Julius, when I had finally prevailed upon him to tell us the story, “dat club-footed nigger⁠—his name is Primus⁠—use’ ter b’long ter ole Mars Jim McGee ober on de Lumbe’ton plank-road. I use’ ter go ober dere ter see a ’oman w’at libbed on de plantation; dat’s how I come ter know all erbout it. Dis yer Primus wuz de livelies’ han’ on de place, alluz a-dancin’, en drinkin’, en runnin’ roun’, en singin’, en pickin’ de banjo; ’cep’n’ once in a w’ile, w’en he’d ’low he wa’n’t treated right ’bout sump’n ernudder, he’d git so sulky en stubborn dat de w’ite folks couldn’ ha’dly do nuffin wid ’im.

“It wuz ’gin’ de rules fer any er de han’s ter go ’way fum de plantation at night; but Primus didn’ min’ de rules, en went w’en he felt lack it; en de w’ite folks purten’ lack dey didn’ know it, fer Primus was dange’ous w’en he got in dem stubborn spells, en dey’d ruther not fool wid ’im.

“One night in de spring er de year, Primus slip’ off fum de plantation, en went down on de Wim’l’ton Road ter a dance gun by some er de free niggers down dere. Dey wuz a fiddle, en a banjo, en a jug gwine roun’ on de outside, en Primus sung en dance’ ’tel ’long ’bout two o’clock in de mawnin’, w’en he start’ fer home. Ez he come erlong back, he tuk a nigh-cut ’cross de cottonfiel’s en ’long by de aidge er de Min’al Spring Swamp, so ez ter git shet er de patteroles w’at rid up en down de big road fer ter keep de darkies fum runnin’ roun’ nights. Primus was sa’nt’rin’ ’long, studyin’ ’bout de good time he’d had wid de gals, w’en, ez he wuz gwine by a fence co’nder, w’at sh’d he heah but sump’n grunt. He stopped a minute ter listen, en he heared sump’n grunt ag’in. Den he went ober ter de fence whar he heard de fuss, en dere, layin’ in de fence co’nder, on a pile er pine straw, he seed a fine, fat shote.

“Primus look’ ha’d at de shote, en den sta’ted home. But somehow er ’nudder he couldn’ git away fum dat shote; w’en he tuk one step for’ards wid one foot, de yuther foot ’peared ter take two steps back’ards, en so he kep’ nachly gittin’ closeter en closeter ter de shote. It was de beatin’es’ thing! De shote des ’peared ter cha’m Primus, en fus’ thing you know Primus foun’ hisse’f ’way up de road wid de shote on his back.

“Ef Primus had ’a’ knowed whose shote dat wuz, he’d ’a’ manage’ ter git pas’ it somehow er ’nudder. Ez it happen’, de shote b’long ter a cunjuh man w’at libbed down in de free-nigger sett’ement. Co’se de cunjuh man didn’ hab ter wuk his roots but a little w’ile ’fo’ he foun’ out who tuk his shote, en den de trouble begun. One mawnin’, a day er so later, en befo’ he got de shote eat up, Primus didn’ go ter wuk w’en de hawn blow, en w’en de oberseah wen’ ter look fer him, dey wa’ no trace er Primus ter be ’skivered nowhar. W’en he didn’ come back in a day er so mo’, eve’ybody on de plantation ’lowed he had runned erway. His marster a’vertise’ him in de papers, en offered a big reward fer ’im. De nigger-ketchers fotch out dey dogs, en track’ ’im down ter de aidge er de swamp, en den de scent gun out; en dat was de las’ anybody seed er Primus fer a long, long time.

“Two er th’ee weeks atter Primus disappear’, his marster went ter town one Sad’day. Mars Jim was stan’in’ in front er Sandy Campbell’s bar-room, up by de ole wagon-ya’d, w’en a po’ w’ite man fum down on de Wim’l’ton Road come up ter ’im en ax’ ’im, kinder keerless lack, ef he didn’ wanter buy a mule.

“ ‘I dunno,’ says Mars Jim; ‘it ’pen’s on de mule, en on de price. Whar is de mule?’

“ ‘Des ’roun’ heah back er ole Tom McAllister’s sto’,’ says de po’ w’ite man.

“ ‘I reckon I’ll hab a look at de mule,’ says Mars Jim, ‘en ef he suit me, I dunno but w’at I mought buy ’im.’

“So de po’ w’ite man tuk Mars Jim ’roun’ back er de sto’, en dere stood a monst’us fine mule. W’en de mule see Mars Jim, he gun a whinny, des lack he knowed him befo’. Mars Jim look’ at de mule, en de mule ’peared ter be soun’ en strong. Mars Jim ’lowed dey ’peared ter be sump’n fermilyus ’bout de mule’s face, ’spesh’ly his eyes; but he hadn’ los’ naer mule, en didn’ hab no recommemb’ance er habin’ seed de mule befo’. He ax’ de po’ buckrah whar