The Homesteader: A Novel

by Oscar Micheaux

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE ADMINISTRATING ANGEL

  Never before since Jean Baptiste had come West and staked his lot andfuture there, doing his part toward the building of that little empireout there in the hollow of God's hand, had he worked so hard as he didin the days that followed that summer. When the rains for a time ceasedand the warm, porous soil had dried sufficiently to permit a return tothe fields, from early morn until the sun had disappeared in the westlate afternoons, did he labor. Observation with him seemed to beinherent. Ever since he had played as a boy back in old Illinois he hadbeen deeply sensitive with regards to his race. To him, notwithstandingthe fact that he realized that less than fifty years had passed sincefreedom, they appeared--even considering their adverse circumstances--toprogress rather slowly. He had not as yet come fully to appreciate andunderstand why they remained always so poor; always the serf; always inthe position to gain so little--but withal to suffer so much! Oh, theanguish it had so often given him!

  His being in the West had come of an ulterior purpose. It has beenstated that he was a keen observer. While so he had cultivated also thefaculty of determination. By now it had became a sort of habit, a sortof second nature as it were. But there were certain things he could notseem to get away from. For instance: It seemed to him that the mostdifficult task he had ever encountered was to convince the averagecolored man that the Negro race could ever be anything. In after yearshe understood more fully why this was--but we deal with the present;those days when Jean Baptiste with a great ambition was struggling to"do his bit" in the development of the country of our story. Hestruggled with these problems at times until he became fatigued; notknowing that he could never understand until the time came for him to.

  When he dined late one afternoon and found himself alone with Agnes, hespoke of being tired.

  "You work too hard, Jean," she said, kindly.

  "Perhaps so," he admitted. "And, still, the way I choose to see that is,that I'll not know the difference this time next year."

  "That is quite possible," she agreed thoughtfully. "But your case isthis, I think. You seem inspired by some high compulsion; some infinitepurpose in the way you work, and in your mind this is so uppermost thatyou forget the limit of your physical self." She paused and gazed at theknife she held. Her mind appeared to deliberate, and he wondered at herdeep logic. What a really mindful person she was, and still but a girl.

  "I cannot help thinking of you and your effort here," she resumed, "andif I was asked, I would advise you to exercise more discretion in regardto yourself. To labor as you do, without regard to rain, sun, or time,is not practical. It would be very sad if, in conducting yourself as youdo, something should happen to you before you had quite fulfilled thatto which you are aspiring--not to accomplish altogether, but todemonstrate."

  "You seem to have such a complete understanding of everything, Agnes,"he said. "You appear to see so much deeper than the people I have met,to look so much beneath the surface and read what is there. I cannotalways understand you." He paused while she continued in thatthoughtful manner as if she had not heard what he said. "Now in yourremark of a moment ago, you so defined a certain thing I would like totell you.... But I shall not now. The instance is always so much in mymind that indeed, I lose sense of physical endurance; I lose sight ofeverything but the one object. It is not that I care so much for thefruits of my labor; but if I could actually succeed, it would mean somuch to the credit of a multitude of others.--Others who need theexample...." He paused and thought of his race. The individual here didnot count so much, it was the cause. His race needed examples; theyneeded instances of successes to overcome the effect of ignorance and ananimal viciousness that was prevalent among them.

  In this land, for instance, which had been advertised from one end ofthe country to the other; this land where four hundred thousand acres ofvirgin soil had been opened to the settler, he was about the only one ofthat race who had come hither, or paid the instance any attention. Suchexamples of neglected opportunity stood out clearly, and were recorded;and the record would give his race, claiming to be discriminatedagainst, no credit.... Such examples of obliviousness to what was aroundthem would be hard to explain away. So in his ambitious youth, JeanBaptiste's dream was to own one thousand acres of land. He was nowtwenty-three and possessed half that much. He conjectured that he couldreach the amount by the time he was thirty--providing nothing serioushappened to retard him....

  He had finished his meal and was ready to go back to that little placeover the hill. The girl who had made proof on the homestead he hadpurchased, had lived fourteen months alone in a little sod house herfather had built for her in which he now had his bed. She had come of aprosperous family in the East. She had come hither and put in the time,and the requirements, and had sold the land that he had bought at a goodprofit to herself. Such instances were common in that country, so commonindeed, that little was thought of it. In his trips back East whenBaptiste told of such opportunities, he was not taken seriously. Thefact that the wealth of the great Central Valley was right at theirdoor; that from the production there they purchased the food they ate;that sheep were raised whose wool was later manufactured into the veryclothes they wore, had no meaning to them. And always he feltdiscouraged when he returned from a visit among them.

  He had never seen Agnes so serious as she was that night. She arose andfollowed him to the door, and stood with him a moment before he left.Her eyes were tired and she appeared worried. He became possessed withan impulse to shake her hand. She seemed to sense his desire, and as hestepped out into the night, she extended it. He grasped and held itbriefly. He whispered goodnight to her, and as he went through the yardand out into the road, she watched him from the open door until he wasout of sight.

  * * * * *

  Jean Baptiste thought he had secured a bargain in a team he hadpurchased a week before, and, from all appearances he had. For, afterworking them a week, he found them model horses--apparently. As stated,he slept in the little sod house on the place near Stewart's, and alsohad a barn there in which he kept his horses while working. The morningfollowing the conversation with Agnes, just related, he went out tocurry and feed this team along with the other horses, and received akick that was almost his ending. Right at the temple one spiked him, andhe knew no more for hours.

  "I wonder why Jean is so late," said Agnes, going to the window andgazing up the road. He was a hardy eater and the fact that he was latefor breakfast was unusual. They waited a while longer and then atewithout him. Bill who had been to care for his horses at the placebefore breakfast, reported that he had seen Baptiste go into the barn.So he had arisen, that was sure; but why had he not come for his meal?The subject was dismissed by all except Agnes, who was strangely uneasy.

  "Bill," said she, "see what is the matter with your boss when you goover, and tell him to come to breakfast."

  Bill had no difficulty ascertaining, and returned quickly with the news.

  "I knew it!" exclaimed Agnes, excitedly. "I just felt that something wasthe matter," whereupon she got into a light coat and followed her fatherand brothers to where he lay outside the barn door, bleeding freely fromthe temple.

  They carried him into their house, and were cheered to see that theblood had ceased to flow. His head was bandaged while Bill went for Doc.Slater, who pronounced the wound serious but not fatal. He awakenedlater in the day and called for water. It was brought him forthwith byAgnes.

  When he had drunk deeply and lay back weakly upon the pillow, he heard:

  "How do you feel, Jean?" He looked around in the semi-darkness of theroom, and upon seeing her, sighed before answering. When he did it was agroan. She came quickly to where he lay and bent over him.

  "Jean," she repeated softly, tenderly. "How do you feel? Does your headpain you much?"

  "Where am I?" he said, turning his face toward her. She put her handlightly over his bandaged head.

  "You're here, Jean. At Stewart'
s. You are hurt, do you understand?"

  "Hurt?" he repeated abstractedly.

  "Yes, hurt, Jean. You were kicked on the temple by one of your horses."

  "Is that so?" and he suddenly sat up in the bed.

  "Careful, careful," she cried, excitedly, pushing him gently back uponthe pillow. He was silent as if in deep thought, while she waitedeagerly. Presently she said in a low voice:

  "Do you feel hurt badly, Jean?"

  "I don't know." He raised his hand to his head as if trying to thinkmore clearly. She caught his hands and held them as if trying toestimate his pulse, to see if he had any fever.

  "How did you come to get kicked, Jean?" she asked, speaking in the samelow tone.

  "I don't know. When I opened the barn door I had a vision of one of thehorses moving and I knew no more."

  "You must be very careful and not start the bleeding again," sheadvised. "You bled considerably."

  "And you say I am at your house. At where I board?"

  "Yes, Jean."

  He turned and stared at her, and for the first time seemed to behimself. He closed his eyes a moment as if to shut out something he didnot wish to see.

  "And you have me here and are caring for me?"

  "We brought you here and are caring for you, Jean," she repeated.

  "It is singular," said he.

  "What is singular?"

  "That you have twice happened to be where you can serve me when I aminjured or in danger." She was silent. She didn't know how to answer, orthat there was to be any answer.

  "Has a doctor been here?"

  "Yes."

  "What did he seem to think of it?"

  "He said your wound was serious, but not fatal."

  "Did he say I could get up soon?"

  "He didn't say, Jean; but I don't think it would be wise." He groaned.

  "Now you must be patient and not fret yourself into a fever," she saidseriously.

  "But I have so much work to do."

  "That will have to wait. Your health is first," she said firmly.

  "But the work should be done," he insisted.

  "But you must consider your health before you can even think about thework."

  He groaned again. She was thoughtful. She was considerate, and she couldsee that he would worry about his work and injure himself or risk fever.

  "I'll speak to papa, and perhaps George can take your place for a fewdays, a week or until you can get out."

  "You are so kind, Agnes," he said then. "You are always so thoughtful. Idon't know how I can accept all you do for me."

  "Please hush--don't mention it." She arose and presently returned withher father.

  "Ah-ha," he always greeted. "So you've come to. Thought something wouldshow up in that 'bargain.'"

  "Please don't, father," admonished Agnes, frowningly.

  "I'll look after everything while you are down, old man," said Stewart."I'll start the horses you've been working this afternoon. Aggie hasexplained everything. I understand."

  "I'm so thankful," he said, then closing his eyes, and a few minuteslater had fallen asleep.