Iola Leroy by Frances E.W. Harper
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Frances E.W. Harper >> Iola Leroy
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"Do you ever go to see old Miss?" asked Robert.
"Oh, yes; I goes ebery now and den. But she's jis' fell froo. Ole
Johnson jis' drunk hisself to death. He war de biggest guzzler I eber
seed in my life. Why, dat man he drunk up ebery thing he could lay his
han's on. Sometimes he would go 'roun' tryin' to borrer money from pore
cullud folks. 'Twas rale drefful de way dat pore feller did frow hisself
away. But drink did it all. I tell you, Bobby, dat drink's a drefful
thing wen it gits de upper han' ob you. You'd better steer clar ob it."
"That's so," assented Robert.
"I know'd Miss Nancy's fadder and mudder. Dey war mighty rich. Some ob
de real big bugs. Marse Jim used to know dem, an' come ober ter de
plantation, an' eat an' drink wen he got ready, an' stay as long as he
choose. Ole Cousins used to have wine at dere table ebery day, an' Marse
Jim war mighty fon' ob dat wine, an' sometimes he would drink till he
got quite boozy. Ole Cousins liked him bery well, till he foun' out he
wanted his darter, an' den he didn't want him fer rags nor patches. But
Miss Nancy war mighty headstrong, an' allers liked to hab her own way;
an' dis time she got it. But didn't she step her foot inter it? Ole
Johnson war mighty han'some, but when dat war said all war said. She
run'd off an' got married, but wen she got down she war too spunkey to
axe her pa for anything. Wen you war wid her, yer know she only took big
bugs. But wen de war com'd 'roun' it tore her all ter pieces, an' now
she's as pore as Job's turkey. I feel's right sorry fer her. Well,
Robby, things is turned 'roun' mighty quare. Ole Mistus war up den, an'
I war down; now, she's down, an' I'se up. But I pities her, 'cause she
warn't so bad arter all. De wuss thing she eber did war ta sell your
mudder, an' she wouldn't hab done dat but she snatched de whip out ob
her han' an gib her a lickin'. Now I belieb in my heart she war 'fraid
ob your mudder arter dat. But we women had ter keep 'em from whippin'
us, er dey'd all de time been libin' on our bones. She had no man ter
whip us 'cept dat ole drunken husband ob hern, an' he war allers too
drunk ter whip hisself. He jis' wandered off, an' I reckon he died in
somebody's pore-house. He warn't no 'count nohow you fix it. Weneber I
goes to town I carries her some garden sass, er a little milk an'
butter. An' she's mighty glad ter git it. I ain't got nothin' agin her.
She neber struck me a lick in her life, an' I belieb in praising de
bridge dat carries me ober. Dem Yankees set me free, an' I thinks a
powerful heap ob dem. But it does rile me ter see dese mean white men
comin' down yere an' settin' up dere grog-shops, tryin' to fedder dere
nests sellin' licker to pore culled people. Deys de bery kine ob men dat
used ter keep dorgs to ketch de runaways. I'd be chokin' fer a drink
'fore I'd eber spen' a cent wid dem, a spreadin' dere traps to git de
black folks' money. You jis' go down town 'fore sun up to-morrer
mornin' an' you see ef dey don't hab dem bars open to sell dere drams to
dem hard workin' culled people 'fore dey goes ter work. I thinks some
niggers is mighty big fools."
"Oh, Aunt Linda, don't run down your race. Leave that for the white
people."
"I ain't runnin' down my people. But a fool's a fool, wether he's white
or black. An' I think de nigger who will spen' his hard-earned money in
dese yere new grog-shops is de biggest kine ob a fool, an' I sticks ter
dat. You know we didn't hab all dese low places in slave times. An' what
is dey fer, but to get the people's money. An' its a shame how dey do
sling de licker 'bout 'lection times."
"But don't the temperance people want the colored people to vote the
temperance ticket?"
"Yes, but some ob de culled people gits mighty skittish ef dey tries to
git em to vote dare ticket 'lection time, an' keeps dem at a proper
distance wen de 'lection's ober. Some ob dem say dere's a trick behine
it, an' don't want to tech it. Dese white folks could do a heap wid de
culled folks ef dey'd only treat em right."
"When our people say there is a trick behind it," said Robert, "I only
wish they could see the trick before it--the trick of worse than wasting
their money, and of keeping themselves and families poorer and more
ignorant than there is any need for them to be."
"Well, Bobby, I beliebs we might be a people ef it warn't for dat
mizzable drink. An' Robby, I jis' tells yer what I wants; I wants some
libe man to come down yere an' splain things ter dese people. I don't
mean a politic man, but a man who'll larn dese people how to bring up
dere chillen, to keep our gals straight, an' our boys from runnin' in de
saloons an' gamblin' dens."
"Don't your preachers do that?" asked Robert.
"Well, some ob dem does, an' some ob dem doesn't. An' wen dey preaches,
I want dem to practice wat dey preach. Some ob dem says dey's called,
but I jis' thinks laziness called some ob dem. An' I thinks since
freedom come deres some mighty pore sticks set up for preachers. Now
dere's John Anderson, Tom's brudder; you 'member Tom."
"Yes; as brave a fellow and as honest as ever stepped in shoe leather."
"Well, his brudder war mighty diffrent. He war down in de lower kentry
wen de war war ober. He war mighty smart, an' had a good head-piece, an'
a orful glib tongue. He set up store an' sole whisky, an' made a lot ob
money. Den he wanted ter go to de legislatur. Now what should he do but
make out he'd got 'ligion, an' war called to preach. He had no more
'ligion dan my ole dorg. But he had money an' built a meetin' house,
whar he could hole meeting, an' hab funerals; an' you know cullud folks
is mighty great on funerals. Well dat jis' tuck wid de people, an' he
got 'lected to de legislatur. Den he got a fine house, an' his ole wife
warn't good 'nuff for him. Den dere war a young school-teacher, an' he
begun cuttin' his eyes at her. But she war as deep in de mud as he war
in de mire, an' he jis' gib up his ole wife and married her, a fusty
thing. He war a mean ole hypocrit, an' I wouldn't sen' fer him to bury
my cat. Robby, I'se down on dese kine ob preachers like a thousand
bricks."
"Well, Aunt Linda, all the preachers are not like him."
"No; I knows dat; not by a jug full. We's got some mighty good men down
yere, an' we's glad when dey comes, an' orful sorry when dey goes 'way.
De las preacher we had war a mighty good man. He didn't like too much
hollerin'."
"Perhaps," said Robert, "he thought it were best for only one to speak
at a time."
"I specs so. His wife war de nicest and sweetest lady dat eber I did
see. None ob yer airish, stuck up folks, like a tarrapin carryin'
eberything on its back. She used ter hab meetins fer de mudders, an'
larn us how to raise our chillen, an' talk so putty to de chillen. I
sartinly did lub dat woman."
"Where is she now?" asked Robert.
"De Conference moved dem 'bout thirty miles from yere. Deys gwine to hab
a big meetin' ober dere next Sunday. Don't you 'member dem meetins we
used to hab in de woods? We don't hab to hide like we did den. But it
don't seem as ef de people had de same good 'ligion we had den. 'Pears
like folks is took up wid makin' money an' politics."
"Well, Aunt Linda, don't you wish those good old days would come back?"
"No, chile; neber! neber! Wat fer you take me? I'd ruther lib in a
corn-crib. Freedom needn't keep me outer heben; an' ef I'se sich a fool
as ter lose my 'ligion cause I'se free, I oughtn' ter git dere."
"But, Aunt Linda, if old Miss were able to take care of you, wouldn't
you just as leave be back again?"
There was a faint quiver of indignation in Aunt Linda's voice, as she
replied:--
"Don't yer want yer freedom? Well I wants ter pat my free foot.
Halleluyah! But, Robby, I wants yer ter go ter dat big meetin' de wuss
kine."
"How will I get there?" asked Robert.
"Oh, dat's all right. My ole man's got two ob de nicest mules you eber
set yer eyes on. It'll jis' do yer good ter look at dem. I 'spect you'll
see some ob yer ole frens dere. Dere's a nice settlemen' of cullud folks
ober dere, an' I wants yer to come an' bring dat young lady. I wants dem
folks to see wat nice folks I kin bring to de meetin'. I hope's yer
didn't lose all your 'ligion in de army."
"Oh, I hope not," replied Robert.
"Oh, chile, yer mus' be shore 'bout dat. I don't want yer to ride hope's
hoss down to torment. Now be shore an' come to-morrer an' bring dat
young lady, an' take supper wid me. I'se all on nettles to see dat
chile."
CHAPTER XIX.
STRIKING CONTRASTS.
The next day, Robert, accompanied by Iola, went to the settlement to
take supper with Aunt Linda, and a very luscious affair it was. Her
fingers had not lost their skill since she had tasted the sweets of
freedom. Her biscuits were just as light and flaky as ever. Her jelly
was as bright as amber, and her preserves were perfectly delicious.
After she had set the table she stood looking in silent admiration,
chuckling to herself: "Ole Mistus can't set sich a table as dat. She
ought'er be yere to see it. Specs 'twould make her mouf water. Well, I
mus' let by-gones be by-gones. But dis yere freedom's mighty good."
Aunt Linda had invited Uncle Daniel, and, wishing to give him a pleasant
surprise, she had refrained from telling him that Robert Johnson was the
one she wished him to meet.
"Do you know dis gemmen?" said Aunt Linda to Uncle Daniel, when the
latter arrived.
"Well, I can't say's I do. My eyes is gittin dim, an I disremembers
him."
"Now jis' you look right good at him. Don't yer 'member him?"
Uncle Daniel looked puzzled and, slowly scanning Robert's features,
said: "He do look like somebody I used ter know, but I can't make him
out ter save my life. I don't know whar to place him. Who is de gemmen,
ennyhow?"
"Why, Uncle Dan'el," replied Aunt Linda, "dis is Robby; Miss Nancy's
bad, mischeebous Robby, dat war allers playin' tricks on me."
"Well, shore's I'se born, ef dis ain't our ole Bobby!" exclaimed Uncle
Daniel, delightedly. "Why, chile, whar did yer come from? Thought you
war dead an' buried long 'go."
"Why, Uncle Daniel, did you send anybody to kill me?" asked Robert,
laughingly.
"Oh, no'n 'deed, chile! but I yeard dat you war killed in de battle, an'
I never 'spected ter see you agin."
"Well, here I am," replied Robert, "large as life, and just as natural.
And this young lady, Uncle Daniel, I believe is my niece." As he spoke
he turned to Iola. "Do you remember my mother?"
"Oh, yes," said Uncle Daniel, looking intently at Iola as she stepped
forward and cordially gave him her hand.
"Well, I firmly believe," continued Robert, "that this is the daughter
of the little girl whom Miss Nancy sold away with my mother."
"Well, I'se rale glad ter see her. She puts me mighty much in mine ob
dem days wen we war all young togedder; wen Miss Nancy sed, 'Harriet war
too high fer her.' It jis' seems like yisterday wen I yeard Miss Nancy
say, 'No house could flourish whar dere war two mistresses.' Well, Mr.
Robert--"
"Oh, no, no, Uncle Daniel," interrupted Robert, "don't say that! Call me
Robby or Bob, just as you used to."
"Well, Bobby, I'se glad klar from de bottom of my heart ter see yer."
"Even if you wouldn't go with us when we left?"
"Oh, Bobby, dem war mighty tryin' times. You boys didn't know it, but
Marster Robert hab giben me a bag ob money ter take keer ob, an' I
promised him I'd do it an' I had ter be ez good ez my word."
"Oh, Uncle Daniel, why didn't you tell us boys all about it? We could
have helped you take care of it."
"Now, wouldn't dat hab bin smart ter let on ter you chaps, an' hab you
huntin' fer it from Dan ter Barsheba? I specs some ob you would bin a
rootin' fer it yit!"
"Well, Uncle Daniel, we were young then; I can't tell what we would have
done if we had found it. But we are older now."
"Yes, yer older, but I wouldn't put it pas' yer eben now, ef yer foun'
out whar it war."
"Yes," said Iola, laughing, "they say 'caution is the parent of
safety.'"
"Money's a mighty tempting thing," said Robert, smiling.
"But, Robby, dere's nothin' like a klar conscience; a klar conscience,
Robby!"
Just then Aunt Linda, who had been completing the preparations for her
supper, entered the room with her husband, and said, "Salters, let me
interdoos you ter my fren', Mr. Robert Johnson, an' his niece, Miss
Leroy."
"Why, is it possible," exclaimed Robert, rising, and shaking hands,
"that you are Aunt Linda's husband?"
"Dat's what de parson sed," replied Salters.
"I thought," pursued Robert, "that your name was John Andrews. It was
such when you were in my company."
"All de use I'se got fer dat name is ter git my money wid it; an' wen
dat's done, all's done. Got 'nuff ob my ole Marster in slave times,
widout wearin' his name in freedom. Wen I got done wid him, I got done
wid his name. Wen I 'listed, I war John Andrews; and wen I gits my
pension, I'se John Andrews; but now Salters is my name, an' I likes it
better."
"But how came you to be Aunt Linda's husband? Did you get married since
the war?"
"Lindy an' me war married long 'fore de war. But my ole Marster sole me
away from her an' our little gal, an' den sole her chile ter somebody
else. Arter freedom, I hunted up our little gal, an' foun' her. She war
a big woman den. Den I com'd right back ter dis place an' foun' Lindy.
She hedn't married agin, nuther hed I; so we jis' let de parson marry us
out er de book; an' we war mighty glad ter git togedder agin, an' feel
hitched togedder fer life."
"Well, Uncle Daniel," said Robert, turning the conversation toward him,
"you and Uncle Ben wouldn't go with us, but you came out all right at
last."
"Yes, indeed," said Aunt Linda, "Ben got inter a stream of luck. Arter
freedom com'd, de people had a heap of fath in Ben; an' wen dey wanted
some one to go ter Congress dey jist voted for Ben ter go. An' he went,
too. An' wen Salters went to Washin'ton to git his pension, who should
he see dere wid dem big men but our Ben, lookin' jist as big as any ob
dem."
"An' it did my ole eyes good jist ter see it," broke in Salters; "if I
couldn't go dere myself, I war mighty glad to see some one ob my people
dat could. I felt like de boy who, wen somebody said he war gwine to
slap off his face, said, 'Yer kin slap off my face, but I'se got a big
brudder, an' you can't slap off his face.' I went to see him 'fore I lef,
and he war jist de same as he war wen we war boys togedder. He hadn't
got de big head a bit."
"I reckon Mirandy war mighty sorry she didn't stay wid him. I know I
should be," said Aunt Linda.
"Uncle Daniel," asked Robert, "are you still preaching?"
"Yes, chile, I'se still firing off de Gospel gun."
"I hear some of the Northern folks are down here teaching theology, that
is, teaching young men how to preach. Why don't you study theology?"
"Look a yere, boy, I'se been a preachin' dese thirty years, an' you come
yere a tellin' me 'bout studying yore ologies. I larn'd my 'ology at de
foot ob de cross. You bin dar?"
"Dear Uncle Daniel," said Iola, "the moral aspect of the nation would be
changed if it would learn at the same cross to subordinate the spirit of
caste to the spirit of Christ."
"Does yer 'member Miss Nancy's Harriet," asked Aunt Linda, "dat she sole
away kase she wouldn't let her whip her? Well, we think dis is Harriet's
gran'chile. She war sole away from her mar, an' now she's a lookin' fer
her."
"Well, I hopes she may fine her," replied Salters. "I war sole 'way from
my mammy wen I war eighteen mont's ole, an' I wouldn't know her now from
a bunch ob turnips."
"I," said Iola, "am on my way South seeking for my mother, and I shall
not give up until I find her."
"Come," said Aunt Linda, "we mustn't stan' yer talkin', or de grub'll
git cole. Come, frens, sit down, an' eat some ob my pore supper."
Aunt Linda sat at the table in such a flutter of excitement that she
could hardly eat, but she gazed with intense satisfaction on her guests.
Robert sat on her right hand, contrasting Aunt Linda's pleasant
situation with the old days in Mrs. Johnson's kitchen, where he had
played his pranks upon her, and told her the news of the war.
Over Iola there stole a spirit of restfulness. There was something so
motherly in Aunt Linda's manner that it seemed to recall the bright,
sunshiny days when she used to nestle in Mam Liza's arms, in her own
happy home. The conversation was full of army reminiscences and
recollections of the days of slavery. Uncle Daniel was much interested,
and, as they rose from the table, exclaimed:--
"Robby, seein' yer an' hearin' yer talk, almos' puts new springs inter
me. I feel 'mos' like I war gittin' younger."
After the supper, Salters and his guests returned to the front room,
which Aunt Linda regarded with so much pride, and on which she bestowed
so much care.
"Well, Captin," said Salters, "I neber 'spected ter see you agin. Do you
know de las' time I seed yer? Well, you war on a stretcher, an' four ob
us war carryin' you ter de hospital. War you much hurt?
"No," replied Robert, "it was only a flesh wound; and this young lady
nursed me so carefully that I soon got over it."
"Is dat de way you foun' her?"
"Yes, Andrews,"--
"Salters, ef you please," interrupted Salters. I'se only Andrews wen I
gits my money."
"Well, Salters," continued Robert, "our freedom was a costly thing. Did
you know that Captain Sybil was killed in one of the last battles of the
war? These young chaps, who are taking it so easy, don't know the
hardships through which we older ones passed. But all the battles are
not fought, nor all the victories won. The colored man has escaped from
one slavery, and I don't want him to fall into another. I want the young
folks to keep their brains clear, and their right arms strong, to fight
the battles of life manfully, and take their places alongside of every
other people in this country. And I cannot see what is to hinder them if
they get a chance."
"I don't nuther," said Salters. "I don't see dat dey drinks any more dan
anybody else, nor dat dere is any meanness or debilment dat a black man
kin do dat a white man can't keep step wid him."
"Yes," assented Robert, "but while a white man is stealing a thousand
dollars, a black man is getting into trouble taking a few chickens."
"All that may be true," said Iola, "but there are some things a white
man can do that we cannot afford to do."
"I beliebs eberybody, Norf and Souf, is lookin' at us; an' some ob dem
ain't got no good blood fer us, nohow you fix it," said Salters.
"I specs cullud folks mus' hab done somethin'," interposed Aunt Linda.
"O, nonsense," said Robert. "I don't think they are any worse than the
white people. I don't believe, if we had the power, we would do any
more lynching, burning, and murdering than they do."
"Dat's so," said Aunt Linda, "it's ralely orful how our folks hab been
murdered sence de war. But I don't think dese young folks is goin' ter
take things as we's allers done."
"We war cowed down from the beginnin'," said Uncle Daniel, "but dese
young folks ain't comin' up dat way."
"No," said Salters, "fer one night arter some ob our pore people had
been killed, an' some ob our women had run'd away 'bout seventeen miles,
my gran'son, looking me squar in de face, said: 'Ain't you got five
fingers? Can't you pull a trigger as well as a white man?' I tell yer,
Cap, dat jis' got to me, an' I made up my mine dat my boy should neber
call me a coward."
"It is not to be expected," said Robert, "that these young people are
going to put up with things as we did, when we weren't permitted to hold
a meeting by ourselves, or to own a club or learn to read."
"I tried," said Salters, "to git a little out'er de book wen I war in de
army. On Sundays I sometimes takes a book an' tries to make out de
words, but my eyes is gittin' dim an' de letters all run togedder, an' I
gits sleepy, an' ef yer wants to put me to sleep jis' put a book in my
han'. But wen it comes to gittin' out a stan' ob cotton, an' plantin'
corn, I'se dere all de time. But dat gran'son ob mine is smart as a
steel trap. I specs he'll be a preacher."
Salters looked admiringly at his grandson, who sat grinning in the
corner, munching a pear he had brought from the table.
"Yes," said Aunt Linda, "his fadder war killed by the Secesh, one night,
comin' home from a politic meetin', an' his pore mudder died a few
weeks arter, an' we mean to make a man ob him."
"He's got to larn to work fust," said Salters, "an' den ef he's right
smart I'se gwine ter sen' him ter college. An' ef he can't get a libin'
one way, he kin de oder."
"Yes," said Iola, "I hope he will turn out an excellent young man, for
the greatest need of the race is noble, earnest men, and true women."
"Job," said Salters, turning to his grandson, "tell Jake ter hitch up de
mules, an' you stay dere an' help him. We's all gwine ter de big
meetin'. Yore grandma hab set her heart on goin', an' it'll be de same
as a spell ob sickness ef she don't hab a chance to show her bes' bib
an' tucker. That ole gal's as proud as a peacock."
"Now, John Salters," exclaimed Aunt Linda, "ain't you 'shamed ob
yourself? Allers tryin' to poke fun at yer pore wife. Never mine; wait
till I'se gone, an' you'll miss me."
"Ef I war single," said Salters, "I could git a putty young gal, but it
wouldn't be so easy wid you."
"Why not?" said Iola, smiling.
"'Cause young men don't want ole hens, an' ole men want young pullets,"
was Salter's reply.
"Robby, honey," said Aunt Linda, "when you gits a wife, don't treat her
like dat man treats me."
"Oh, his head's level," answered Robert; "at least it was in the army."
"Dat's jis' de way; you see dat, Miss Iola? One man takin' up for de
oder. But I'll be eben wid you bof. I must go now an' git ready."
Iola laughed. The homely enjoyment of that evening was very welcome to
her after the trying scenes through which she had passed. Further
conversation was interrupted by the appearance of the wagon, drawn by
two fine mules. John Salters stopped joking his wife to admire his
mules.
"Jis' look at dem," he said. "Ain't dey beauties? I bought 'em out ob my
bounty-money. Arter de war war ober I had a little money, an' I war
gwine ter rent a plantation on sheers an' git out a good stan' ob
cotton. Cotton war bringin' orful high prices den, but Lindy said to me,
'Now, John, you'se got a lot ob money, an' you'd better salt it down.
I'd ruther lib on a little piece ob lan' ob my own dan a big piece ob
somebody else's. Well, I says to Lindy, I dun know nuthin' 'bout buyin'
lan', an' I'se 'fraid arter I'se done buyed it an' put all de marrer ob
dese bones in it, dat somebody's far-off cousin will come an' say de
title ain't good, an' I'll lose it all."
"You're right thar, John," said Uncle Daniel. "White man's so unsartain,
black man's nebber safe."
"But somehow," continued Salters, "Lindy warn't satisfied wid rentin',
so I buyed a piece ob lan', an' I'se glad now I'se got it. Lindy's got a
lot ob gumption; knows most as much as a man. She ain't got dat long
head fer nuffin. She's got lots ob sense, but I don't like to tell her
so."
"Why not?" asked Iola. "Do you think it would make her feel too happy?"
"Well, it don't do ter tell you women how much we thinks ob you. It sets
you up too much. Ole Gundover's overseer war my marster, an' he used ter
lib in dis bery house. I'se fixed it up sence I'se got it. Now I'se
better off dan he is, 'cause he tuck to drink, an' all his frens is
gone, an' he's in de pore-house."
Just then Linda came to the door with her baskets.
"Now, Lindy, ain't you ready yet? Do hurry up."
"Yes, I'se ready, but things wouldn't go right ef you didn't hurry me."
"Well, put your chicken fixins an' cake right in yere. Captin, you'll
ride wid me, an' de young lady an' my ole woman'll take de back seat.
Uncle Dan'el, dere's room for you ef you'll go."
"No, I thank you. It's time fer ole folks to go to bed. Good night! An',
Bobby, I hopes to see you agin'."
CHAPTER XX.
A REVELATION.
It was a lovely evening for the journey. The air was soft and balmy. The
fields and hedges were redolent with flowers. Not a single cloud
obscured the brightness of the moon or the splendor of the stars. The
ancient trees were festooned with moss, which hung like graceful
draperies. Ever and anon a startled hare glided over the path, and
whip-poor-wills and crickets broke the restful silence of the night.
Robert rode quietly along, quaffing the beauty of the scene and thinking
of his boyish days, when he gathered nuts and wild plums in those woods;
he also indulged pleasant reminiscences of later years, when, with Uncle
Daniel and Tom Anderson, he attended the secret prayer-meetings. Iola
rode along, conversing with Aunt Linda, amused and interested at the
quaintness of her speech and the shrewdness of her intellect. To her the
ride was delightful.
"Does yer know dis place, Robby," asked Aunt Linda, as they passed an
old resort.
"I should think I did," replied Robert. "It is the place where we held
our last prayer-meeting."
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