John knocked at the door, and a woman came. Behind her stood three children, each one only a little taller than the others.
“Does John Stevens live here?” he asked.
She was about to answer when a voice from in the room called out, “Who is it, Nellie?”
“I’m John McClure, from the Wentworth Mills,” John said to her.
She went back into the room and the young ones stood together, staring at John. The woman came back and smiled at him. “He’s still in bed,” she said, “but he’ll get up in a minute. He’ll be glad to see you.”
“I don’t wish to disturb him.”
“It’s about his usual time of getting up,” she said comfortably. “Come in, now, and sit down in this room. When he’s up we’ll go in there and sit. This room is where the children sleep and play, and it looks like it.” He could see that she was rather ashamed because the house was not cleaned up for a stranger.
He sat on a chair from which she took some jeans.
“Johnnie,” she said to the oldest boy, “go put on these old jeans while I wash your good ones.”
The boy took the jeans and went into the other room. John looked after him, for he walked with a peculiar hitching motion.
“He’s got tuberculosis of the bone,” Nellie Stevens said, “so I’ve got two that limp.”
She did not say this with shame as someone else might have done, but very simply as if she had long ago accepted what was before her.
The door opened again and John Stevens himself limped into the room.
“I’m glad to see you,” he said to John.
“I thought maybe you might have forgotten me.”
“No,” John Stevens said. “I’d never forget you.”
“Hit’s right kind of ye to say that,” John told him. They were not at home with each other. Now he was there, John was not at all sure what he had come for, or whether he would find what he wanted. He had come and must wait to see what the day would bring forth.
He had remembered that John Stevens seemed a person who possessed a knowledge of events and people, and in himself kept something hid that he did not give out to everyone but kept it secret because it was precious; knowledge, that was not to be given lightly, or without preparation.
Mrs. Stevens had the dinner ready and they all sat down around the kitchen table. There was a feeling of understanding in the whole house that was something John had not often felt when among people. They seemed to take him for what he was, a young man they might like or might not like, but one who had with them some common interest that drew them to him, and held them all together; just as the food for the time being held them together around the table.
After dinner John Stevens said: “Would you like to walk out along the big road?”
“You don’t wish to sleep again?”
“I’ve had enough for the day.”
“Then I’d like t’ go.”
“Come back in time t’ get a little supper before work time,” Mrs. Stevens said to her husband.
He smiled at her from the door and she nodded to him.
The road led them down near a swamp. They did not turn to the left when the road forked, but took the outside road that skirted the swamp instead of that which went through. It was better in the sunshine.
“How are you getting along?” John Stevens asked, as a beginning. “And how are your people?”
John spoke of Emma’s death, and repeated as far as he could remember what she had said the night before she died.
“A death seems worse,” he said. “And hit seems to stay in you bitter and hard, when somebody dies wanting a thing like she wanted a good life.”
“And, too,” John Stevens said, “when you know she needn’t have died.”
“Needn’t have died?”
“Didn’t you say she had pellagra?”
“She had it.”
“Do the rich have pellagra?”
“I never heard.”
“It’s a poor man’s disease. Haven’t you heard that?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“If she had the right nourishment, she needn’t have died. You see the mill owners killed her.”
“I don’t know that I’d go so far. Everybody thinks a lot of the Wentworths, and they are too kind to want anybody to die.”
“I don’t doubt that. There’s plenty that are kind, and good. But during the time I was in the village, I saw grown people, young children, and babies die from lack of right food, and from lack of the right way of living, and I lay their deaths to the owners of the mill, and all those that get money from the mills.”
John walked along in silence. He kicked a rock down the road, and saw it roll into the dry grass at the edge.
At last he spoke. “Those are hard words,” he said.
“They are hard words. But they are true ones. You might say old Mr. Wentworth began the factory, but young Mr. Wentworth, what has he to do with the blame? He inherited it and must go on with the business. But I tell you, John, they are all to blame—from our side.”
“You take a rattlesnake, or the copperheads. From their side, they shouldn’t be blamed. They grew up on earth, but just because I know they can harm me or mine, I know I’ve got to kill one when I see it: and it isn’t because I hate the snake as a snake, but because of the poison in his mouth.
“These owners have power, and their power is poison to our young ones and to us. If you can take away the power, like you would cut the fangs from a snake, then you needn’t have a grudge against the person. They’re probably kind hearted (well, some of them), and full of good wishes to the world.”
“Maybe,” John spoke, “sometime they’ll come to see they are doing us harm, and do better by us. I remember hearing a preacher who was a preacher to the rich say that some day the rich would get the love of God in their hearts and share everything half and half with the poor.”
“As well expect a snake to come up and open its mouth gentle and humble for you t’ take out the fangs.”
They made a turn in the road. John Stevens looked back at the sun, as if he was trying to make out the time, but he did not suggest that they go back. John was glad, for he was not ready to go back.
“You know, John, I’ve traveled to the east and traveled to the west, as the ballad of John Hardy says. I have talked to many people, and with my eyes I’ve seen many things, curious, and some of them almost unbelievable. It’s the same everywhere.
“Once in the West there was a strike of mining people. The owner of that mine was a God-fearing churchgoing man. He is one of the richest in the country. The miners struck for a better living, for they lived mighty poor—and this rich man that is good to his own children, and kind, and a builder of churches, had those people—who hadn’t broken a law except the unwritten law that the poor must not speak for something better without crawling on their bellies before their owners—he had those people thrown out of their cabins. And when they put up tents to live in he sent soldiers down there and had two women and eleven children, I think it was, shot down. And not only were they shot, but those that were wounded were burned up with the tents. That man is what is called a good man.”
“He must have been a hard man.”
“No, he was just usual. And he didn’t have t’ use his own hands. There were paid servants to do this for him.”
“You talked of a strike. There was one here, wasn’t there? Hit’s one of the things I wanted t’ ask ye. I had almost expected t’ find ye discharged, for there were some that came to our mill to get work that were discharged.”
“I wasn’t discharged,” John Stevens said.
“Were you not in it?”
“I was in it, and in two before in the North, run by the same crowd. But my heart wasn’t in it.”
“Is it true they went off with the dues?”
“It’s true. But that, to my mind, is a small thing compared to another thing I have against them.”
“What was
that?”
“Well—they want you to go up to a rattlesnake coiled in the middle of the road, and fondle him on the head, and say, ‘Please, Mr. Rattlesnake, can I go by?’
“You see, they go on the supposition that I and the snake have got something in common. We have. We’ve got the road, and it’s a public road, but unless I’ve got a gun or a big rock the snake has all the advantage.
“It’s this they won’t understand. They don’t want you to fight. They simply ain’t interested much in people that can’t pay big dues. Sometimes they make a show of being interested, like here, but it peters out very soon. And then—they’ve got no further message. We have enough fear in us as it is. And they don’t aim t’ give us courage.”
“Fear?” John asked.
“Yes, fear.”
“I have not any fear,” John said emphatically. It was something a man could not stand very well, to be told he was a coward. John himself was slow about getting up his anger but when he did, no man could walk over him.
He spoke again. “I’m not afraid of any man, not Mr. Wentworth or no one.”
It was some time before John Stevens answered. “No,” he said. “You are not afraid of Mr. Wentworth as a man. If he came down and tried to do harm to Bonnie, say, you would stand up to him. What you fear is his power, his poison. Don’t you fear to lose your work? And if you were married with young ones, you’d fear that more. And don’t Bonnie fear losing her work, and don’t your Granpap fear his old age with no money? If it was demanded of him he would grovel in the dust at Mr. Wentworth’s feet to keep the work he has. To get away from that fear, to show I was independent, I’ve traveled all over, and everywhere I’ve found my owner.”
John Stevens looked back, squinting at the sun that shone almost straight in his face from the west. “We’d best turn back,” he said.
They walked with their heads down, away from the sun, until some trees cut off the strongest rays.
“There are some,” John said, “who seem to get on, by themselves.”
“And there’s less chance of that than there was. This country used to be open for those that wanted to get another chance. Now it’s crowded with those struggling to make their way up. So if you want to get up you’ve got to push somebody down unless the start has been made before you, and then, ten to one, it was done in the same way.”
John Stevens began to limp faster toward the house that was now where they could see it, through the trees that had no leaves on them. John was not ready to talk. There were things that had happened to him, and they had forced him to consider what was happening to himself and to others. He was trying to put events together, and make something of them. His trouble with Mr. Burnett, his friendship with Robert and the others—Robert’s feelings about living—Emma’s death.
Now he had received some words from John Stevens and those must be. sorted out, so that he could try to fit them with the things which had happened. If he could do so, well and good. If he could not, he would perhaps try something else.
He ate supper with the others, then walked with John Stevens to the mill, which was not far off, and leaving him there found the road. He walked along it in the darkness that was getting blacker.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
ABOUT four years after Emma’s death Jim Calhoun had an accident in the mill that changed him and made his and Bonnie’s life together more difficult. He was on night work, and because he was tired, or because he had been growing careless, no one could say, he broke his wrist in a frame machine. Doctor Foley, the same one who had come to Emma, set the wrist, but it did not heal, and the hand was cut off.
With a stump in place of a right hand Jim could not work in the mill. He got odd jobs around the village: but where he had been a man who took some pride in having his work done well, he became careless about everything, and uninterested. He had never been the best sort of husband, but Bonnie understood him, and had learned early not to expect too much. And she loved him. Loving was as natural to her as the breath she took into herself without thought, so she had a child every year. To them she gave every care she could, and was very proud of each one. The oldest, who had been born before Emma left them, was named Emma, the next was a boy, John, and there were two others, Laurel and Kirkland.
John was married to Zinie during the year that followed Emma’s death. They had one child and another on the way; and lived in the same house with Bonnie. Together John and Bonnie managed to keep Granpap, who had lost his place as a watchman because he was too old and was caught asleep more than once.
At home, with nothing to do, Granpap lost all interest in life. He lay in bed most of the day, and at last stayed there. Until one evening, he called Bonnie and talked to her about his coming death, of which he was sure.
“I’m a-going t’ my long home,” he said.
“No,” Bonnie told him. “You’ll live t’ be a hundred.”
This was what she had told him so many times, but there was nothing else to say.
“No, Bonnie, I’ll follow Emma soon. Maybe if the good Lord had seen fit to let me stay in the country I might have lived. But hit was not t’ be . . . . I want you and John t’ give me a good funeral. And remember to turn my feet to the east, so I can meet my Lord face to face on Judgment Day. Now I want t’ see John.”
A few days afterward the old man died. He had asked for a tombstone, but this was something they could not afford. John cut out a headpiece from a slab of wood, and carved Granpap’s name, John Kirkland, across the top. They set this up at the head of the grave.
With Granpap gone they all thought of moving to Bethune where a huge factory had been built by a northern manufacturer. They had seen word about it written in the papers for months before, and had heard many things—that new houses were being prepared for those who worked, with bath rooms and every sort of new device for making people comfortable.
The papers had great headlines across the top that were easy to read, saying that the people from the North who were building the factory were welcome. Everyone seemed happy about the new mill—especially those in the town. The stores and banks had signs of welcome in them, and even the preachers spoke of it, saying that at last the interests of North and South, which had been severed by the Civil War, were brought together again—the blue and the gray were one.
Zinie was rather cautious by nature, and she persuaded John to wait until others went to work in Bethune, so they might hear first how things went there. It was well they did wait. For, one by one, families came back, or those that stayed found they were no better off than they had seen before.
The bathrooms were there in the new houses. But the wages were lower, and no matter whether a man had one child or eight he must take in boarders; so people were forced to keep mattresses in the new bath tubs where a boarder of two of the youngest children could sleep. Sometimes when the boarder happened to be on the night shift the tub was used as a bed day and night. So John and Zinie remained at the Wentworth Mills.
One day, quite suddenly, in the twist room where he worked, big Jim Martin fell down on the floor. Doctor Foley said he died of heart trouble, for which he had been giving Jim medicine bought at his drug store.
Jim’s death forced John and Zinie to break up the house with Bonnie, for Jennie needed them to help with money, in order that all the Martin young might have enough food. Lillie was in the mill, and Jennie worked there, but this did not make enough for the rest to live on. They needed what John could bring in.
Bonnie could see that it was right for Zinie to go to her people, but she felt bereft when they were gone from her. She liked them both, and it had been more than good to have them in the house, especially since Jim Calhoun often stayed away for days together. Though the Company did not charge much for rent, she found it necessary to get a place that was cheaper.
In a field of broom straw, off Company land, she knew of a cabin that had been lived in by colored people. This would rent for a small sum. She moved in immediately;
and one Saturday afternoon and Sunday cleaned the two rooms and kitchen leanto. She scrubbed the floors, and with a flour mixture pasted fresh newspapers over the walls.
During the day she left the children at home with five-year-old Emma. Each morning she rose at four, made her own breakfast, and left coffee and a pot of hominy with flour gravy on the stove where little Emma could reach them when the children woke. She left them regretfully, lying across the bed in which she had slept with them during the night. Thoughts of them stayed with her during the day while she walked before her looms. She was afraid a flame from the chimney might set fire to the house, and sometimes the fear that some accident had happened to one of them made her long to give up the work and rush back to see that they were well.
At night, being tired, she walked slowly home for part of the way. But as she neared the cabin, in spite of trying to be sensible, she would begin to walk fast and then to run. Only when she came just outside the cabin and heard their voices in the room, talking naturally, could her fears quiet down.
On Sundays she stayed away from church, partly because that was the only day on which she could be with the children. But she had lost interest in the church. Mr. Turnipseed had gone to Bethune, and a Mr. Simpkins had come to the Wentworth village. Even before she had moved to the cabin, Mr. Simpkins had made Bonnie angry, though she herself acknowledged at the time to Zinie that there was no good reason in her anger. The preacher was very much worked up over the way young people were behaving. He said they no longer had any reverence for parents: no longer any morals. The young girls went about painting their cheeks and lips and dancing unholy dances, learned from the moving pictures. They thought, not of God and heaven, but of the flesh and the devil.
Zinie said he was right, for recently Lillie, her younger sister, had gone away from the mill to work in the ten cent store in town. She still lived at home, but she painted herself, and danced, and even drank some while she was out late at night, with men who were not known in the village.
Bonnie felt that young people should enjoy themselves, and she sympathized too much with Lillie. Perhaps, she said to Zinie, the sort of time Lillie was having was not the best, but she could see that the girl was only feeling around to enjoy life so long as she could, while she was still young.
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