A Fool's Errand & Bricks without Straw

by Albion Winegar Tourgée

  Nimbus sat down in the splint-bottomed chair by the door and fanned himself with his dingy hat while the other read.

  "How is dis, Nimbus? What does dis mean? Nimbus Ware? Where did you get dat name?" he asked at length, raising his eyes and looking in pained surprise toward the new voter.

  "Now, Bre'er 'Liab, don't talk dat 'ere way ter Nimbus, ef yo please. Don't do it now. Yer knows I can't help it. Ebberybody want ter call me by ole Mahs'r's name, an' dat I can't abide nohow; an' when I kicks 'bout it, dey jes gib me some odder one, Dey all seems ter tink I'se boun' ter hev two names, though I hain't got no manner o' right ter but one."

  "But how did you come to have dis one — Ware?" persisted Eliab.

  "Wal, you see, Bre'er 'Liab, de boss man at der registerin' he ax me fer my las' name, an' I tell him I hadn't got none, jes so. Den Sheriff Gleason, he put in his oar, jes ez he allus does, an' he say my name wuz Desmit, atter ole Mahs'r. Dat made me mad, an' I 'spute him, an' sez I, 'I won't hev no sech name'. Den de boss man, he shet up Marse Gleason purty smart like, and he sed I'd a right ter enny name I chose ter carry, kase nobody hadn't enny sort o' right ter fasten enny name at all on ter me 'cept myself. But he sed I'd better hev two, kase most other folks hed 'em. So I axed Marse Si War' ef he'd lend me his name jes fer de 'casion, yer know, an' he sed he hadn't no 'jection ter it. So I tole der boss man ter put it down, an' I reckon dar 'tis."

  "Yes, here it is, sure 'nough, Nimbus; but didn't you promise me you wouldn't have so many names?"

  "Co'se I did; an' I did try, but they all 'llowed I got ter have two names whe'er er no."

  "Then why didn't you take your old mahs'r's name, like de rest, and not have all dis trouble?"

  "Now, 'Liab, yer knows thet I won't nebber do dat."

  "But why not, Nimbus?"

  "Kase I ain't a-gwine ter brand my chillen wid no sech slave-mark! Nebber! You hear dat, 'Liab? I hain't got no ill-will gin Marse Desmit, not a mite — only 'bout dat ar lickin, an' dat ain't nuffin now; but I ain't gwine ter war his name ner giv it ter my chillen ter mind 'em dat der daddy wuz jes anudder man's critter one time. I tell you I can't do hit, nohow; an' I won't, Bre'er 'Liab. I don't hate Marse Desmit, but I does hate slavery — dat what made me his — worse'n a pilot hates a rattlesnake; an' I hate everyting dat 'minds me on't, I do!"

  The black Samson had risen in his excitement and now sat down upon the bench by the other.

  "I don't blame you for dat, Nimbus, but — "

  "I don't want to heah no 'buts' 'bout it, an' I won't."

  "But the chillen, Nimbus. You don't want dem to be different from others and have no surname?"

  "Dat's a fac', 'Liab," said Nimbus, springing to his feet. "I nebber t'ought o' dat. Dey must hev a name, an' I mus' hev one ter gib 'em, but how's I gwine ter git one? Dar's nobody's got enny right ter gib me one, an' ef I choose one dis week what's ter hender my takin' ob anudder nex week?"

  "Perhaps nothing," answered 'Liab, "but yourself. You must not do it."

  "Pshaw, now," said Nimbus, "' what sort o' way is dat ter hev things? I tell ye what orter been done, 'Liab; when de law married us all, jes out of han' like, it orter hev named us too. Hit mout hev been done, jes ez well's not. Dar's old Mahs'r now, he'd hev named all de niggas in de county in a week, easy. An' dey'd been good names, too."

  "But you'd have bucked at it ef he had," said 'Liab, good-naturedly.

  "No I wouldn't, 'Liab. I hain't got nuffin 'gin ole Mahrs'r. He war good enough ter me — good 'nuff. I only hate what made him 'Old Mahs'r,' an' dat I does hate. Oh, my God, how I does hate it, Liab! I hates de berry groun' dat a slave's wukked on! I do, I swar! When I wuz a-comin' home to-day an' seed de gullies 'long der way, hit jes made me cuss, kase dey wuz dar a-testifyin' ob de ole time when a man war a critter — a dog — a nuffin!"

  "Now you oughtn't to say dat, Nimbus. Just think of me. Warn't you better off as a slave than I am free?"

  "No, I warn't. I'd ruther be a hundred times wuss off ner you, an' free, than ez strong as I am an' a slave."

  "But think how much more freedom is worth to you. Here you are a voter, and I — "

  "Bre'er 'Liab," exclaimed Nimbus, starting suddenly up, "what for you no speak 'bout dat afore. Swar to God I nebber tink on't — not a word, till dis bressed minit. Why didn't yer say nuffin' 'bout bein' registered yo'self, eh? Yer knowed I'd a tuk yer ef I hed ter tote ye on my back, which I wouldn't. I wouldn't gone a step widout yer ef I'd only a t'ought. Yer knows I wouldn't."

  "Course I does, Nimbus, but I didn't want ter make ye no trouble, nor take the mule out of the crap," answered 'Liab apologetically.

  "Damn de crap!" said Nimbus impetuously.

  "Don't; don't swear, Nimbus, if you please."

  "Can't help it, 'Liab, when you turn fool an' treat me dat 'ere way. I'd swar at ye ef yer wuz in de pulpit an' dat come ober me, jes at de fust. Yer knows Nimbus better ner dat. Now see heah, 'Liab Hill, yer's gwine ter go an' be registered termorrer, jes ez sure ez termorrer comes. Here we thick-headed dunces hez been up dar to-day a-takin' de oath an' makin' bleve we's full grown men, an' here's you, dat knows more nor a ten-acre lot full on us, a lyin' here an' habin' no chance at all."

  "But you want to get de barn full, and can't afford to spend any more time," protested 'Liab.

  "Nebber you min' 'bout de barn. Dat's Nimbus' business, an" he'll take keer on't. Let him alone fer dat. Yis, honey, I'se comin' d'reckly!" he shouted, as his wife called him from his own cabin.

  "Now Bre'er 'Liab, yer comes ter supper wid us. Lugena's jes' a callin' on't."

  "Oh, don't, Nimbus," said the other, shrinking away. "I can't! You jes send one of the chillen in with it, as usual."

  "No yer don't," said Nimbus; "yer's been a scoldin' an' abusin' me all dis yer time, an' now I'se gwine ter hab my way fer a little while."

  He went to the door and called:

  "Gena! Oh, Gena!" and as his wife did not answer, he said to one of his children, "Oh, Axylone, jes run inter de kitchen, son, an' tell yer ma ter put on anudder plate, fer Bre'er 'Liab's comin' ober ter take a bite wid us."

  Eliab kept on protesting, but it was in vain. Nimbus bent over him as tenderly as a mother over the cradle of her first-born, clasped his arms about him, and lifting him from the bench bore him away to his own house.

  With an unconscious movement, which was evidently acquired by long experience, the afflicted man cast one arm over Nimbus' shoulder, put the other around him, and leaning across the stalwart breast of his friend so evenly distributed his weight that the other bore him with ease. Entering his own house, Nimbus placed his burden in the chair at the head of the table, while he himself took his seat on one of the wooden benches at the side.

  "I jes brought Bre'er 'Liab in ter supper, honey," said he to his wife; "kase I see'd he war gettin' inter de dumps like, an' I 'llowed yer'd chirk him up a bit ef yer jes hed him over h'yer a while."

  "Shan't do it," said the bright-eyed woman saucily.

  "Kase why?" queried her husband.

  "Kase Bre'er 'Liab don't come oftener. Dat's why."

  "Dar, now, jes see what yer done git fer being so contrary-like, will yer?" said the master to his guest. H'yer, you Axylone," he continued to his eldest born, " fo'd up yer han's while Bre'er 'Liab ax de blessin'. You, too, Capting," shaking his finger at a roll of animated blackness on the end of the seat opposite.

  "Now, Bre'er 'Liab."

  The little black fingers were interlocked, the close-clipped, kinky heads were bowed upon them; the master of the house bent reverently over his plate; the plump young wife crossed her hands demurely on the bright handle of the big coffee-pot by which she stood, and "Bre'er 'Liab," clasping his slender fingers, uplifted his eyes and hands to heaven, and uttered a grace which grew into a prayer. His voice was full of thankfulness, and tears crept from under his trembling lids.

  The setting sun, which looked in upon the peaceful scene, no doubt flickered and giggled with laughter as he sank to his evening cou
ch with the thought, "How quick these 'sassy' free-niggers do put on airs like white folks!"

  In the tobacco-field on the hillside back of his house, Nimbus and his wife, Lugena, wrought in the light of the full moon nearly all the night which followed, and early on the morrow Nimbus harnessed his mule into his canvas-covered wagon, in which, upon a bed of straw, reclined his friend Eliab Hill, and drove again to the place of registration. On arriving there he took his friend in his arms, carried him in and sat him on the railing before the Board. Clasping the blanket close about his deformed extremities the cripple leaned upon his friend's shoulder and answered the necessary questions with calmness and precision.

  "There's a pair for you, captain," said Gleason, nodding good-naturedly toward Nimbus as he bore his helpless charge again to the wagon.

  "Is he white?" asked the officer, with a puzzled look.

  "White?" exclaimed Sheriff Gleason, with a laugh. "No, indeed! He's a nigger preacher who lives with Nimbus down at Red Wing. They're great cronies — always together. I expect he's at the bottom of all the black nigger's perversity, though he always seems as smooth and respectful as you please. He's a deep one. I 'llow he does all the scheming, and just makes Nimbus a cat's-paw to do his work. I don't know much about him, though. He hardly ever talks with anybody."

  "He seems a very remarkable man," said the officer.

  "Oh, he is," said the sheriff. "Even in slave times he was a very influential man among the niggers, and since freedom he and Nimbus together rule the whole settlement. I don't suppose there are ten white men in the county who could control, square out and out, as many votes as these two will have in hand when they once get to voting."

  "Was he a slave? What is his history?"

  "I don't exactly know," answered the sheriff. "He is quite a young man, and somehow I never happened to hear of him till some time during the war. Then he was a sort of prophet among them, and while he did a power of praying for you Yanks, he always counselled the colored people to be civil and patient, and not try to run away or go to cutting up, but just to wait till the end came. He was just right, too, and his course quieted the white folks down here on the river, where there was a big slave population, more than a little."

  "I should like to know more of him," said the chairman.

  "All right," said Gleason, looking around. "If Hesden Le Moyne is here, I'll get him to tell you all about him, at noon. If he is not here then, he will come in before night, I'm certain."

  CHAPTER VIII

  A FRIENDLY PROLOGUE

  Table of Contents

  As they went from the place of registration to their dinner at the hotel, the sheriff, walking beside the chairman, said: "I spoke to Le Moyne about that negro fellow, Eliab Hill, and he says he's very willing to tell you all he knows about him; but, as there are some private matters connected with the story, he prefers to come to your room after dinner, rather than speak of it more publicly."

  "I am sure I shall be much obliged to him if he will do so," said

  Pardee.

  "You will find him one of the very finest men you ever met, I'm thinking," continued Gleason. "His father, Casaubon Le Moyne, was very much of a gentleman. He came from Virginia, and was akin to the Le Moynes of South Carolina, one of the best of those old French families that brag so much of their Huguenot blood. I never believed in it myself, but they are a mighty elegant family; no doubt of that. I've got the notion that they were not as well off as they might be. Perhaps the family got too big for the estate. That would happen with these old families, you know; but they were as high-toned and honorable as if their fore-bears had been kings. Not proud, I don't mean — not a bit of that — but high-spirited and hot-tempered.

  "His mother was a Richards — Hester Richards — the daughter of old man Jeems Richards. The family was a mighty rich one; used to own all up and down the river on both sides, from Red Wing to Mulberry Hill, where Hesden now lives. Richards had a big family of boys and only one gal, who was the youngest. The boys was all rather tough customers, I've heard say, taking after their father, who was about as hard a man to get along with as was ever in this country. He came from up North somewhere about 1790, when everybody thought this pea-vine country was a sort of new Garden of Eden. He was a well educated and capable man, but had a terrible temper. He let the boys go to the devil their own way, just selling off a plantation now and then and paying their debts. He had so much land that it was a good thing for him to get rid of it. But he doted on the gal, and sent her off to school and travelled with her and give her every sort of advantage. She was a beauty, and as sweet and good as she was pretty. How she come to marry Casaubon Le Moyne nobody ever knew; but it's just my opinion that it was because they loved each other, and nothing else. They certainly were the best matched couple that I ever saw. They had but one child — this young man Hesden. His mother was always an invalid after his birth; in fact hasn't walked a step since that time. She was a very remarkable woman. though, and in spite of her sickness took charge of her son's education and fitted him for college all by herself. The boy grew up sorter quiet like, probably on account of being in his mother's sick room so much; but there wasn't anything soft about him, after all.

  "The old man Casaubon was a Unioner — the strongest kind. Mighty few of them in this county, which was one of the largest slave-holding counties in the State. It never had anything but a big Democratic majority in it, in the old times. I think the old man Le Moyne, run for the Legislature here some seven times befo're he was elected, and then it was only on his personal popularity. That was the only time the county ever had a Whig representative even. When the war came on, the old man was right down sick. I do believe he saw the end from the beginning. I've heard him tell things almost to a fraction jest as they came out afterward. Well, the young man Hesden, he had his father's notions, of course, but he was pluck. He couldn't have been a Le Moyne, or a Richards either, without that. I remember, not long after the war begun — perhaps in the second year, before the conscription came on, anyhow — he came into town riding of a black colt that he had raised. I don't think it had been backed more than a few times, and it was just as fine as a fiddle. I've had some fine horses myself, and believe I know what goes to make up a good nag, but I've never seen one that suited my notion as well as that black. Le Moyne had taken a heap of pains with him. A lot of folks gathered 'round and was admiring the beast, and asking questions about his pedigree and the like, when all at once a big, lubberly fellow named Timlow — Jay Timlow — said it was a great pity that such a fine nag should belong to a Union man an' a traitor to his country. You know, captain, that's what we called Union men in them days. He hadn't more'n got the words out of his mouth afore Hesden hit him. I'd no idea he could strike such a blow. Timlow was forty pounds heavier than he, but it staggered him back four or five steps, and Le Moyne follered him up, hitting just about as fast as he could straighten his arm, till he dropped. The queerest thing about it was that the horse follered right along, and when Timlow come down with his face all battered up, and Le Moyne wheeled about and started over to the Court House, the horse kept on follerin' him up to the very steps. Le Moyne went into the Court House and stayed about ten minutes. Then he came out and walked straight across the square to where the crowd was around Timlow, who had been washing the blood off his face at the pump. Le Moyne was as white as a sheet, and Timlow was jest a-cussing his level best about what he would do when he sot eyes on him again. I thought there might be more trouble, and I told Timlow to hush his mouth — I was a deputy then — and then I told Le Moyne he mustn't come any nearer. He was only a few yards away, with a paper in his hand, and that horse just behind him. He stopped when I called him, and said:

  "'You needn't fear my coming for any further difficulty, gentlemen. I merely want to say' — and he held up the paper — ' that I have enlisted in the army of the Confederate States, and taken this horse to ride — given him to the Government. And I want to say further, that if Jay Timlow wa
nts to do any fighting, and will go and enlist, I'll furnish him a horse, too.'

  "With that he jumped on his horse and rode away, followed by a big cheer, while Jay Timlow stood on the pump platform sopping his head with his handkerchief, his eyes as big as saucers, as they say, from surprise. We were all surprised, for that matter. As soon as we got over that a little we began to rally Timlow over the outcome of his little fracas. There wasn't no such timber in him as in young Le Moyne, of course — a big beefy fellow — but he couldn't stand that, and almost before we had got well started he put on his hat, looked round at the crowd a minute, and said, 'Damned if I don't do it!' He marched straight over to the Court House and did it, too.

  "Le Moyne stood up to his bargain, and they both went out in the same company a few days afterward. They became great friends, and they do say the Confederacy had mighty few better soldiers than those two boys. Le Moyne was offered promotion time and again, but he wouldn't take it. He said he didn't like war, didn't believe in it, and didn't want no responsibility only for himself. Just about the last fighting they had over about Appomattox — perhaps the very day before the Surrender — he lost that horse and his left arm a-fighting over that same Jay Timlow, who had got a ball in the leg, and Le Moyne was trying to keep him out of the hands of you Yanks.