James Baldwin

"The Slavers"

A BOUT the middle of the following afternoon an incident occurred which put our whole household into a fever of the most unusual excitement and threw me into a state of fright which might have turned my hair gray had it not been already tow-colored. Every member of the family was busy at work—a not uncommon circumstance, as you have already learned. Father and the boys were in the lower deadening, chopping down some old trees and splitting rails for the new partition fence. Although they were so far from the house, we could plainly hear the ringing of their axes and, at intervals, the thudding crash which announced the downfall of some former monarch of the forest. The womenfolks were at their usual avocations—mother was hackling flax; Cousin Mandy Jane was at the spring-house taking the milk crocks from the running water and getting ready for the day's churning; and Aunt Rachel was in the woods pasture gathering fresh pennyroyal and camomile to be hung up for the winter's drying. And I—I was in the potato patch near the big front gate, digging up an occasional potato, peeping often into a book that lay half concealed among the weeds, and wishing that I was in a desert island where I might work as little as I pleased and be monarch of all I surveyed.

Inviz was with me, and his comments upon labor, and especially the labor of digging potatoes, added not a little to my discontentment.

"Robinson Crusoe didn't have to dig taters," he said. "He worked when he felt like it, and when he didn't feel like it he took a walk or played with his pets or read a chapter from the Bible."

"Thee's right!" I responded. "And he didn't have to go to meetin' to learn how to be good, neither."

Then I knelt down among the weeds and read another page from the precious book; and the labor of digging potatoes seemed harder than ever.

"Never mind," said Inviz. "When thee gets bigger thee can run away to sea and be a sailor, and not have to pick up taters for other people to eat."

Suddenly a loud rough voice roused me from my daydreaming and gave me such a start that I felt as if I had really jumped out of my breeches.

"Hello, Bub! Say, there!"

I looked up quickly and my heart gave another tremendous leap at the sight of three fierce-looking men who had ridden unperceived up the lane and were now sitting on their horses just outside of the gate.

"The slave hunters!" whispered Inviz. "They've come to take father and David to jail."

My feet seemed rooted to the ground. My tongue was useless. My lips grew suddenly hot and feverish. I could do nothing but stand and gaze. The men were unlike any others I had ever seen. They were tall and swarthy, and they wore beards on their upper lips—a thing unheard of in the New Settlement and unknown save in certain pictures of pirates and other outlandish men. They wore broad-brimmed straw hats and high-topped boots, the largest I had ever seen. Their saddles were of a strange pattern, and around the horn of each was coiled the lash of a long and slender hog whip.

"Hello, Bub!" repeated their leader. "Does Mr. Dudley live here?"

I knew that I ought to answer him, but a great trembling came over me and a lump rose up in my throat, and I could not utter a sound. Oh, that I had the wings of a bird; I would fly away from these monsters of men! Then, to my intense relief, I saw mother coming down the path from the house, anxiety enthroned in her face and courageous resignation giving strength to her heart. Every one of the horsemen pulled off his hat, very unnecessarily and awkwardly, and their leader said:

"Good afternoon, ma'am! Is this where Mr. Dudley lives?"

"Mister Dudley?" answered mother with distinct emphasis upon the title. "No, there ain't any Mister  Dudley lives here, nor nowhere else that I know of."

"Indeed?" said the man. "That is very strange; for we've been told by several persons that this is Stephen Dudley's farm."

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed mother. "If thee means Stephen Dudley, then I must tell thee that this is where he lives. But his name is jist plain Stephen, without any Mister stuck on to it."

"Well, then, madam," said the man, "is Stephen Dudley at home?"

"I must tell thee the truth," she answered tremblingly, "but I wish I might tell thee otherwise. Yes, Stephen is at home. Thee'll find him and the two boys in the lower deadenin' over there, jist across the crick. If thee'll listen thee can hear their axes now, where they are choppin' down some rail timber. Maybe thee'll like for me to blow the horn and call 'em to the house?"

"That is hardly necessary," said the man. "But isn't there some way by which we can ride to the place where they are working? We are very anxious to see Stephen about some business matters."

"I don't think Stephen has any business matters, and I know the boys hain't. But if you men must  see Stephen, I don't want to put anything in your way; and you can ride down to the deadenin' a good deal quicker'n you can walk."

Then, turning to me, she said, "Robert, does thee hear? Open the big gate so that the men can ride into the barn lot. Then run across the barn lot and lay down the bars, so they can ride into the stubble-field; and don't forgit to put the bars up again when they git through."

With much unwillingness and many fearful apprehensions, I went, submissively but slowly, to do her bidding. In our house, obedience was the first commandment, and disobedience was not often known. But, after I had opened the gate and laid down the bars, Inviz came alongside of me and whispered in my ears: "Wouldn't it have been better to disobey mother rather than betray father into the hands of these wicked men?"

And I answered, "I think so."

As the men rode into the barn lot, mother said, "After you git through the bars, foller the plain wagon tracks across the field and through the woods; cross the crick at the ford above the foot log, not below it. Then keep straight on to the deadenin'. You cain't help but find it."

The three men thanked her and lifted their hats again as if they wanted to show her the nice linings inside. Then, passing through the bars, they cantered briskly across the field and were soon lost to view among the trees and underwoods in the bottom. I watched them as long as they remained visible, and prayed earnestly that a tree might fall and crush them, or that fire might come out of Heaven and destroy them.

As I went back toward the house, the instinct of courage and self-preservation, which I had inherited from a remote and savage ancestry, grew up within me. Friend though I was by accident of birth, noncombatant though I was by reason of having nothing to combat, nevertheless I felt strongly inclined to take our old squirrel gun from its pegs on the cabin wall, load it with buckshot and sally forth to the defense of my poor persecuted father and the innocent boys. With each step my courage gained in size and momentum, and by the time I had crossed the barn lot I felt myself fully able to attack and overcome all three of those villainous emissaries of the slave power—nay, if only opportunity should offer, I would go forth single-handed to destroy the whole system of human servitude.

Mother was waiting for me at the gate.

"What made thee tell 'em that father was at home?" I asked explosively and with a feeling of great superiority over womenfolks in general.

Between tears and a stolid determination to repress them, she answered me: "Does thee want me to tell a wicked story? Hain't I always told thee to speak the truth, no matter what may come of it? I've lived nigh on to fifty years, and I've never seen anything gained by tellin' a lie. Them men wanted to know if father was at home, and it was my duty to tell 'em."

"But they'll take father off to jail with 'em for helping that good-for-nothing black Samuel," I retorted; "and maybe they'll whip him with them long lashes, and tie him up to a tree, and—and—kill him!"

"Robert, thy father is a good man, and I know he would never try to save hisself by tellin' a lie. He is a great man, and I reckon he will always do what is right, come what may."

She spoke with an earnestness that awed me into silence and made me hang my head in shame. My heroism had dwindled down to a point, and I was about bursting into tears when Cousin Mandy Jane came up, breathless with the excitement of running all the way from the spring-house.

"Who was them there fellers that rid down to the bottom jist now?" she inquired.

"They're slavers from Kentuck," I answered quickly, assuming to know what I did not. "I guess they're lookin' for that black Samuel; and maybe they'll take father and David to jail."

"Sakes alive! I hope not," she ejaculated fervently. "I jist got a glimpse of their backs as they went trottin' across the clearin', t'other side of the crick. What kind of lookin' fellers were they?"

"Oh, thee ought to have seen 'em," said mother. "They ain't the least bit pleasant-lookin', and they was mighty queer in their actions. But I hope they mean well."

"And they wore beards on their upper lips," I added; "and they carried long slave whips kwiled up on their saddles. I shouldn't wonder if they would whip father and David for bringing that Samuel up from the 'Hio."

"But how do you know that they're slavers?" asked Cousin Mandy Jane.

"They looked wicked enough to be anything," said I.

And thus we three stood under the biggest of the cherry trees and, with our eyes turned toward the lower deadenin', speculated upon what might be the result of this afternoon's business between the three mysterious strangers and our three helpless, unoffending men-folks. And as we talked and speculated, we listened. No sound of ringing ax or of falling tree came to our ears. There was an ominous silence like that which is fabled to precede the bursting of a storm. Could it be possible that the slave hunters had carried our folks off to jail by way of the back road, denying them the privilege of one last look at the dear old cabin and all that it contained? Or, what if they had murdered them, there in the lonely woods, and then ridden away to Kentucky to boast of their bloody deed! The longer we speculated, the more dreadful were our imaginings, the more dismal our forebodings. How lucky that Aunt Rachel had gone off in the opposite direction to gather her pennyrile and camomile! She at least was spared from sharing our anxiety.

At length, after long watching and vain listening, mother retired into the weavin'-room, to wipe her eyes and make believe that she was putting in the "chain for the new piece of flannen" she was planning to weave. With trembling steps and a sinking heart, I strolled cautiously down, by the nearest way, to the "bottom," intending, when my courage would let me, to cross boldly over into the lower deadenin' and learn the dreadful truth. But before I had gone half the distance all my courage vanished, and turning in my tracks, I skulked, like a coward, back to the safe shelter of the house and the protecting presence of the womenfolks.

I found Aunt Rachel on the door-step busily assorting her new stock of "yerbs"; and I knew from her quiet manner that nobody had yet told her about our strange visitors. Cousin Mandy Jane was preparing supper, bravely concealing her emotions and reserving her strength and her ejaculations until the time when the worst should become known. She mixed the dough for the usual number of corn dodgers; and having patted each dodger into shape with her big lusty fingers, she laid them all in the baking skillet, put on the lid and covered the whole with a thick layer of glowing coals. Then she ran to the spring-house and brought up the usual supply of milk and butter. She set the dishes on the table, just as though nothing had happened.

"I feel plumb sure that we won't never see father and the boys ag'in," she whispered to me; "but I ain't goin' to let on till I have to."

Nevertheless, as she silently busied herself about the cooking things, her hands trembled and her eyes filled with tears and her apron was lifted to her face. We stood side by side as, with a long wooden fork, she tested the doneness of the "b'iled taters" in the dinner pot; and with her lips close to my ear confessed the fault that was bearing most heavily upon her guilty conscience.

"I've jist give up all hope," she said. "I wouldn't 'a' minded it half as much if I hadn't talked so ugly to the boys sometimes, specially David. I've made up my mind if it does happen that they ever do come back, I'll do right smart better by 'em than I've ever done afore."

And then she burst into such a fit of weeping that Aunt Rachel heard her, and leaving her basket of "yerbs" on the door-step, came hobbling into the cabin, to inquire what was the matter.

"Oh, th' ain't nothin' the matter," the girl answered peevishly. "I'm jist a havin' one of my spells of tantrums and I burnt my finger—that's all."

The afternoon was fast merging into evening. The sun had dipped below the tops of the trees in the west pasture. It was supper time, and still there was no sign of the men-folks. It was unusual for them to stay in the deadening till this late hour, and I began to fear that our worst forebodings would soon be realized. But Cousin Mandy Jane maintained an attitude of courage which set a pattern for both mother and myself. She took down from its peg the long tin horn that was used to call the men-folks home from the fields, and carefully wiped the mouthpiece.

"I know that somethin' has tuk place jist as we thought maybe it would," she said; "but no matter what's happened, I'm bound not to give up till I'm jist downright 'bleeged to."

She went out to the wood-pile, where she usually stood when blowing the horn for supper. She raised the tapering tube to her lips; she inflated her lungs for a good strong blast; she puckered her mouth preparatory to the supreme effort, and then—instead of blowing, she suddenly let the old horn slip from her grasp and cried out, "Goodness, gracious, me! If that ain't them, now!"

There, indeed, were the men-folks, right before our eyes! Jonathan was coming straight to the house from the calf pasture and father and David were making a détour to the spring-house, as was their custom, to perform their evening ablutions in the clear running stream. They had approached from a direction exactly opposite the lower deadenin', and our first thought was that they had eluded the "slavers" by dodging around through the corn-field and the big woods. But all seemed to be in a fine good humor and not in the least afraid of slavers or anything else.

"Don't thee mind about tootin' for us, Mandy!" shouted David, his great mouth expanding into a fearsome grin. And Jonathan, his thin face beaming with joy wrinkles, added, "Yes, Mandy Jane, save thy wind till the cows come home."

What mystery was this that caused our men-folks to be so uncommonly elated, even hilarious and overflowing with animation? Even at the distance which separated the spring-house from our point of observation, we could discern a strange telltale twinkle in father's eyes which betrayed a feeling of satisfaction too overpowering to be concealed. Surely, something wonderful had happened.

While father and David were scrubbing their faces in the spring-house, Jonathan came through the orchard gate and joined us at the wood-pile.

"Sakes alive! What in the world?" cried Mandy Jane, trying vainly to control her quaking voice.

The joy wrinkles in Jonathan's face deepened into the broadest of smiles, but he made no reply.

"We was afraid them slavers had done somethin' awful to you," she quavered.

"What slavers?" said Jonathan contemptuously. "We hain't seen no slavers."

"Didn't you see them there queer-lookin' fellers that rid down to the lower deadenin' to find you?" she asked.

"They had beards on their upper lips and long hog whips on their saddle horns," I explained, quite gratuitously.

"Oh! them  fellers?" said Jonathan. "Them warn't no slavers. They was hog buyers from way down on the 'Hio." Then he sat down on the wood-pile and indulged in a good laugh—not a loud, unbecoming, thigh-slapping laugh, such as David would have delivered, but a genteel, satisfied, chuckling laugh that made you long to share his good fortune and his joy.

"Well, I never!" ejaculated Cousin Mandy Jane. "And what kind of business was it that they wanted with father?"

"Why, they're buyin' up all the hogs and cows they can git hold of; and they're goin' to drive a big drove of cattle to Nopplis next week; and then they'll put 'em on the cars there and send 'em down to the 'Hio on the railroad."

"And where have they gone to now?"

"Oh! they rid on out by the back way; but I tell thee we had right smart of business, a-traipsin' all over the pasturs and a-lookin' at the live critters!"

"Sakes alive!"

"Yes, and what does thee think? They bought father's dry cow and David's two ye'rlin's and the red bull; and they paid half the money, cash down."

"Well, I declare!"

"Yes, and that ain't all. They bought all the fattenin' hogs—sixteen head of father's and ten head of David's and eight head of mine; and they're goin' to let us feed 'em till the ground frizzes up so they can drive 'em to Nopplis and butcher 'em standin'."

"I guess that'll bring thee a right smart lot of money, won't it?"

"Thee guesses right, Mandy Jane. But what does thee think? I sold 'em my yoke of steers, and they're goin' to pay me thirty dollars, cash down, when they come to git 'em next week."

"Laws a me, Jonathan! What will thee do with so much money?"

"Thee knows," he answered, twisting the corners of his mouth and trying to wink one eye. "Hain't I told thee that when I sold them there steers I was goin' to buy that forty-acre piece over by the Corners?"

"It will take more than thirty dollars to do that," I ventured to remark.

"And hain't I got it?" the young man exclaimed somewhat savagely. "I've been a-savin' up for a right smart spell; and father he's goin' to lend me enough to make up the difference—and then, and then—"

"And then I reckon thee and Esther will be a-givin' in at meetin'," suggested Cousin Mandy Jane in a voice that was soothing and sweet.

"Thee's right!" and Jonathan jerked savagely at his galluses and looked both sheepish and triumphant.

"S'posin' Old Enick won't let thee have her. What'll thee do then?"

"I'll have her anyhow. 'Tain't none of Old Enick's business. She's of age. She's a Lamb, she ain't no Fox."

"But he'll git up in meetin' and say thee cain't have her."

"Well, jist let him git up. Who keers for what Old Enick says? If he won't let us git spliced in meetin', we'll take the short cut and git spliced out of meetin'."

"Oh, Jonathan! Would thee do sich a wicked thing as that?"

"Well, I might if I was driv to it; but don't thee tell nobody;" and he rose to go into the cabin.

Father and David were coming up the path from the spring-house, and mother, her eyes swollen and red, was issuing with undignified haste from the weavin'-room.

"Well! I guess the supper's been waitin' for you men-folks a right smart spell," she remarked by way of greeting. It was not in her nature to betray the feelings of her heart.

But father was somewhat less guarded. "Mother," he said, "the markets have surely and truly come to our very doors."

And as we sat at the table, he told her of the good fortune that had come to us that afternoon through the medium of the supposed "slavers."