The Minstrel's Melody

by Eleanora E. Tate

  The Stone Shed was also where Orphelia had discovered the music for “Lewis County Rag”—the song that had sent him into fits. Could there be a connection? Maybe he had heard the song played when he was there. But why would it bother him to hear the song again?

  The only thing Orphelia knew for sure was that some strange things were beginning to trouble her about Reuben.

  Later Orphelia lay on Lillian’s old bed with her schoolbag for a pillow. “Thanks for giving me my chance, Miz Madame,” she said.

  “You were marvelous.” Madame paused from writing in her ledger. “You’re a curious young lady. You really are determined, aren’t you? You remind me of myself a little, when I finally got bit by the show-business bug.”

  “I do?” Orphelia beamed proudly.

  “Honey, you moved that audience so much with your singing that they turned the place into a riot!” Bertha burst out laughing. “Now if that ain’t some kind of genius, I don’t know what is!” Bertha fell back against the bed, she was laughing so hard. Madame Meritta laughed, too.

  Orphelia crossed her arms and pursed her lips. That didn’t sound funny to her. “Why’re you laughing at me? What’s so funny?”

  “Baby, we’re just playin’ with you,” said Bertha. She struggled up to a sitting position, still chuckling. “You come onstage with your little ol’ self and sing, and people go crazy. You got star quality. Keep hold to it.”

  “It’s good to laugh, Orphelia,” Madame Meritta said gently. “After all we’ve been through these past two days, it’s good to laugh instead of cry. By the time you do get back home, you’ll be a real trouper, just like us.”

  Orphelia thought about the day’s exciting activities. She saw herself onstage over and over as “Orville, the Musical Orphan Boy Prodigy,” with the people cheering and waving at her. And then she saw herself in a stunning gown like Madame Meritta’s, surrounded by adoring fans. Madame Orphelia, musical star! She drifted off to sleep.

  Sometime later, in the middle of the night, she was awakened by sharp, earsplitting booms. Gunshots? She sat up straight. Were the men in those tents after them again? When the sky lit up, she realized the sounds were claps of thunder, and she was seeing lightning. Soon the coach was being pelted by hail and heavy rain. The coach swayed as the storm bore down on them.

  Orphelia curled up around her schoolbag with her hands over her ears. Poppa had always said that thunder could never hurt her, but it still frightened her. A few minutes later, she felt rain drip down on her head from a rent in the coach roof. She scrambled to another spot, but soon the roof was leaking there, too. Orphelia pulled a thin blanket over her head. She could feel the coach moving slower and lurching as the horses strained to pull their load through the muddy road.

  Finally the coach stopped. Peeking out from under the blanket, Orphelia saw Madame Meritta pounding on the wall. “Othello, are you all right?” she said. “Why are we stopping?”

  “I am fine,” Orphelia heard him holler back through the rain. “The bridge, however, isn’t in as good shape. I can see the stream from here, and it’s over its banks. I can’t see the bridge, so I assume that it’s been washed away. We’ll camp here till morning and see what damage has been done.”

  Orphelia pulled the blanket back over her head and shifted her body to another dry spot on the bed. Now the bridge was out. She felt a tiny streak of satisfaction. If the bridge was out, maybe the train track was out, too.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE DIXIE PALACE

  Orphelia stood under a brilliantly blue spring sky Sunday morning with Madame Meritta, Othello, and the other musicians, listening to Laphet read from the Bible. Earlier that morning, when she had looked outside, she discovered that Othello was right—the bridge was gone. All that was left were a few black pilings sticking up on the bank by a roiling, writhing, debris-filled brown river. It continued to suck off chunks of earth from the bank as it stormed over its old creek bed.

  “May the Lord watch between me and thee, while we are absent, one from another. Let us all say amen,” prayed Laphet. He also served as a deacon at his church in St. Louis. Orphelia joined in with the others in saying amen. Back at Calico Creek Missionary Baptist Church, the congregation was probably saying the same words. A wave of homesickness hit her. If she were there, she’d be at the piano. Or would Momma have intervened already and forbidden her to play this morning?

  “What else are we going to do today?” she asked Madame Meritta when the service ended. Orphelia was hoping to have some time on her own. She’d decided it was time to find out more about Reuben, and there was only one way to do that—she’d have to spy. He wasn’t going to be able to give her any answers himself, she knew by now.

  “Today we rest,” Madame Meritta replied, “because we don’t work on Sunday. This is the Lord’s day. Probably some of the fellas will scout around to see what the stream looks like further down or see if there’s another bridge. I just wish there was some way to get a message to your folks—they’ll be frantic when you don’t get off that train in Canton today.”

  Orphelia went back to the sleeper coach. She took off her muddy shoes and smelly stockings and lay down on her bed. Though it was stuffy inside, it was still cooler than being outside in the midday sun.

  Fate had given her a few more hours to live with the minstrel show With the bridge out, it would take longer for them to reach the next train stop. But on the other hand, until the bridge could be replaced or the water went down or they found another route, they couldn’t reach St. Louis, either.

  Orphelia reached into her schoolbag and pulled out the composition book she’d taken from the Stone Shed. She still hadn’t had a chance to examine it closely, and now she thought again about Reuben’s puzzling reaction to “Lewis County Rag.” She opened to that page and studied the notes carefully, as if they might give her some clues.

  Orphelia continued to thumb through the pages of the notebook. Tucked behind the last page was a folded-up piece of newsprint. She unfolded it carefully and saw that it was the front page of the Hannibal newspaper, dated August 8, 1892.

  She scanned the stories. A tornado touched down on the southern outskirts of Canton last week … a steamboat sank in the Mississippi … wholesale prices of hogs remained steady. … Then a headline caught her eye—“Riot at Dixie Palace Ends in Assault Charges Against Two Negroes.”

  She started to read.

  What began as a musical tribute to the Mississippi River heritage in Lewis County on August I ended in a melee with at least one injury. The scene of the disruption was the famous Dixie Palace, a popular facility in Calico Creek where young and old regularly gather on Saturday afternoons to partake in social pleasantries.

  On this date, a Negro musical group called the Bruce Trio, which consists of Thelton Bruce, his wife Otisteen, and her brother Winston Taylor, all of Calico Creek, were engaged in singing and performing on their instruments for the attendees.

  Stunned, Orphelia stopped and reread the words. Momma, Poppa, and Uncle Winston playing music? Where in the world was the Dixie Palace? This was something they had never told her.

  She read on.

  Witnesses say that Taylor became abusive with a white citizen and assaulted him. A group of men came to the citizen’s rescue and held the three Negroes, and the sheriff’s deputies were called. The woman was released, but Taylor and Bruce were taken to the county jail. Taylor was charged with assault with intent to commit bodily harm.

  Enraged that a white citizen had suffered injuries at the hands of a Negro, friends of the victim approached the jail to teach Taylor a lesson. They entered the jail, removed Taylor, beat him, and dumped him into the Mississippi for good measure. Satisfied that justice had been done, the sheriff dismissed charges against Bruce, and the Dixie Palace was shut down until further notice. Sheriff’s officials say that although Taylor’s body has not been found, he is presumed to be dead.

  The story continued on the other side of the page. Orphelia turned
it over. A large picture of the Bruce Trio stared back at her. Momma, Poppa, and Uncle Winston. She realized with a shock that it was the same picture that she’d seen on the handbill back home. And there was also a photograph of the Dixie Palace. Orphelia recognized the building almost immediately—it was the Stone Shed.

  Orphelia stood up and sat back down. Was she dreaming? Could this be true? It didn’t seem possible. Yet there they were. Momma sat at a piano. She looked so young, and her hair was braided just like Orphelia’s. Poppa had a big mustache and held a banjo. Uncle Winston, his head tilted, held a cornet. A tiny silver pin in the shape of a musical note, like the one he wore in his portrait back home, was on his jacket.

  Poppa arrested? She’d never heard of such a thing! Poppa couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone assault anybody. And this was how Uncle Winston had died? Dumped in the Mississippi and drowned? Or was he murdered first? Is that why Momma and Poppa didn’t want to talk about him? Because he had been lynched?

  The words whirled about in Orphelia’s mind. Things had been confusing enough with so much silence around his death. Now all this other information—Poppa arrested, Momma and Poppa part of a musical trio—just made things even more mixed up.

  Orphelia was about to bust with all these questions. She felt a pang of loneliness for Pearl, who, for all her aggravating ways, had an answer for everything. Pearl would have found out from Momma about the music the Bruce Trio had played. Well, until she was with Pearl again, Orphelia would just have to sort out all this on her own.

  She folded the newspaper back up and tucked it inside the songbook, behind the last page again. She looked out the window to where Laphet, Artimus, Bertha, Madame Meritta, and Othello stood in a loose-knit group. She bet they were discussing how to get across the river.

  Orphelia wanted to run out and tell Madame about her discovery But just then she noticed Reuben coming out of the storage wagon. He was carrying his pocket knife in one hand and a new, uncarved piece of wood in the other. He sat down on his bucket-chair a few yards away and began to whittle. Soon he was lost in his work.

  This might be my only chance to do some investigating, thought Orphelia.

  Madame Meritta had said that Reuben didn’t have many belongings, but what he did have he kept in an old burlap sack in the storage wagon. Orphelia crept out of the coach quietly and made her way over to the wagon, keeping an eye on Reuben. He was busy carving away, humming his tuneless song.

  Inside the wagon, she spotted the sack in a corner next to some barrels. Orphelia hesitated for a moment—she knew that snooping around in somebody else’s personal property was wrong. Momma would switch her for sure if she ever found out. But it might be the only way she could ever learn anything that would explain all the strange things about Reuben. Orphelia opened up the sack and looked inside.

  What she saw nearly made her faint with surprise. There were a few raggedy pieces of clothing, some crumpled-up playbills, his bowie knife, and an old hat, but mostly the bag was filled with wooden carvings—carvings that all looked exactly alike! She pulled one carefully out of the bag and turned it around in her hand, studying it. Reuben’s handiwork was pretty rough, but she finally realized what it was supposed to be. It was a musical instrument. And not just any instrument—a cornet. The same instrument her uncle played. Reuben had been carving cornets. But why?

  A noise outside made her jump. Was someone coming? Quickly she put the carving back in the sack, closed it up, and shoved it back into the corner where she’d found it. Then she waited. When she heard nothing more, she checked to make sure the coast was clear and then ducked out the door.

  Orphelia went back to the sleeper coach, her head spinning. First the newspaper article, and now this. Why would Reuben carve cornets? She had never seen him play a real one, or any other instrument for that matter, and she couldn’t imagine he was capable of such a thing anyway. It was clear he didn’t have any musical talent. Poor man—even Pearl could carry a tune better than he could! Well, maybe Reuben just liked cornet music. Being around musical instruments all the time, he was bound to have a favorite one. Maybe he even wished he could be in Madame Meritta’s band! Not much chance of that, thought Orphelia.

  Then another idea came to her. If he liked cornet music so much, maybe he’d always loved it. Maybe he had been a fan of the Bruce Trio! That would explain how he knew Momma’s name. He must have seen her parents perform! The thought of it made Orphelia giddy. If only Reuben could tell her what they had looked and sounded like. But according to Madame Meritta, Reuben couldn’t even tell them his real name.

  Where had Madame gone off to, anyway? She and the others were no longer standing around outside. Probably off rehearsing somewhere, Orphelia figured. Of course they didn’t invite her. Why bother? She was going home soon.

  Right now home didn’t sound so bad, she had to admit. If she were at home, she’d be lying on her own comfortable bed and wearing clean stockings, and she wouldn’t be hot and cramped. And wouldn’t it be nice to take a bath in clean well water in their own washtub? She scratched her head. Were bugs living in her braids by now? Seemed like it had been ages since she’d washed her hair. When she left she hadn’t thought to bring her comb and brush. Miss So-much-in-a-hurry!

  “Madame Meritta, I have something to show you,” Orphelia said that evening as they were getting ready for bed. Bertha was still at the campfire with some of the other musicians and wouldn’t be coming in for a while. It was the first chance Orphelia had had to talk to Madame Meritta alone.

  Orphelia reached into her schoolbag and pulled out the songbook with the newspaper clipping in the back of it. She hesitated. Momma had always warned against “putting family business in the street.” That meant don’t talk to people outside the family about family problems. Yet, their family problems had been in the newspaper, right on page one! Orphelia handed the clipping to Madame.

  “Oh, my goodness.” She gasped as she read the first paragraph. Her eyes got wider and wider. When she had finished the whole article, she took Orphelia’s hand and squeezed it. “You poor thing. How awful for you and your family! But where did you get this?”

  “I found it in the Stone Shed, with this songbook.”

  “The Stone Shed?”

  “It’s a run-down old building back in Calico Creek. But I’m pretty sure it’s what used to be the Dixie Palace.”

  “Well, I declare,” Madame Meritta said, thumbing through the pages of the notebook. “That must be why your momma looked familiar to me.”

  Orphelia swallowed hard. “Momma never told me that she and Poppa were musicians and that they’d performed with Uncle Winston. And she never told me how he died, either. Why didn’t she just tell me the truth?”

  “All the more reason for you to get back home,” said Madame, “so you can find out the answer. People have all kinds of reasons for keeping secrets. Imagine how sad your momma must have been to have a brother die that way, and then to never have a resting place for him where she could go to grieve and lay flowers or visit when the need arose.”

  Orphelia thought about that for a moment. Maybe that was the reason why Momma didn’t like popular music anymore and didn’t want Orphelia to, either.

  And then an even deeper question raised itself. Was that why she didn’t want Orphelia to be a performer? Because of what had happened to Uncle Winston?

  Early Monday morning, Orphelia woke to Bertha’s hand shaking her shoulder. “Morning, sister. Good news! Laphet and them think they can drive the coaches to the other side by this afternoon. Water’s already gone down enough that they don’t think the horses will be scared.”

  Orphelia sat up, rubbing her eyes. So why wake me up at the crack of dawn? All she said was, “Yes, ma’am, that’s good news.”

  “Which means if you got anything you want to wash, you’d best get up and start working on it now so that your clothes can get halfway dry before we have to get moving. Othello’s got some grub cooking, but you better hurry ’cause he
won’t wait.”

  Orphelia wished she had brought along some white birch twigs to brush her teeth with. Maybe she could at least find some salt to rinse out her mouth. Orphelia pulled off her stockings and dug around in her schoolbag for her other clothes, but they were dirty, too. She stood up and examined her dress. It also needed to be washed, badly. She’d ask Madame Meritta what she could wear in the meantime.

  Orphelia went outside into the cool morning. The sun was just beginning to make its climb into the sky, and dew lay thick on the grass.

  Madame Meritta waved a pan of food at her from where she sat by the equipment wagon with a pile of clothes at her feet. “Rice and crawdaddies, courtesy of Othello. He said you loved it the other day.”

  Orphelia hesitated. “Uh, I ate it before I knew what it was,” she said. She picked at the rice, separating the crayfish segments into a small pile by themselves. She was ready for some hominy and fatback about now, and a thick slab of Momma’s johnnycake and some buttermilk.

  “Orphelia, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it,” said Madame Meritta. “You can get some salted fish or beef out of the storage wagon.”

  “No, I can eat it,” she said and jabbed a crayfish tail with her fork. She popped it in her mouth and chewed bravely. It wasn’t bad, but she still couldn’t get the picture out of her mind of the crayfish alive and wiggling, impaled on a fishing hook.

  Madame Meritta handed her a cup of lye soap, a long shirt, and one of her skirts. “They’re too big, but you can wear these while you’re drying your dress.”

  Orphelia took the clothes and the soap, ducked back into the coach, and changed clothes. Then she followed Madame Meritta out a ways to a rocky outcropping near the water. “You have to do everything yourself?” said Orphelia.

  “Everything except cook,” said Madame Meritta. “I leave that to Othello.”