All God's Dangers (21 page)

Well, I knowed she was a good work horse; she had a little age on her but her age wouldn't hinder her from plowin. I said, “What do you want for her then?”

“Take a smooth hundred to move her.”

I said, “Well, Mr. Stokes, you aint doin what you promised you'd do. You want a hundred for her now and you told me to start I could buy her this fall—I told you I was comin this fall for her if you kept her here. I got your money, seventy-five dollars, what you told me it would take.”

“No, Shaw, I can't take that for her. That's one of the best mares in this country. She's got all sorts of gaits; she's got more gaits in her than any horse ever walked through a barn door.”

I said to myself, ‘I aint after her for her gaits, I'm after her for her to plow.'

So I said to him, “All right, Mr. Stokes. I can't give you a hundred dollars because I aint got but eighty dollars in my pocket. You'll have to knock off the price to near about your first quotation or I can't buy the mare.”

I just put my foot in the road and I had heard that Mr. Ed Hardy was aimin to sell his oldest mule—he had a pair of good mules. I watched Mr. Ed Hardy's hands plow them mules for two years, the two years I stayed with Mr. Ames—Mr. Hardy's plantation was right joinin Mr. Ames'. His mules was named Lu and Cola. George Todd plowed Lu and Jake Upton plowed Cola, heavy-bodied mule. And I heard somebody say that Mr. Hardy said he was goin to sell that Lu mule. So I just walked right out of Mr. Stokes' yard and went on up to Mr. Hardy.

“Hello, Mr. Hardy.”

“Hello, Nate.”

I said, “Come out, Mr. Hardy, I want to talk with you a little, please, sir.”

He come out, spoke a word or two to me.

I said, “Mr. Hardy, I heard some days ago that you said you was goin to sell that Lu mule of yours and get a younger mule, somethin to match your Cola mule.”

He looked at me and said, “Yes, I did say that, Nate. I did put it out that I was goin to sell her. But I aint decided yet just definitely whether I'd sell her or not. I been studyin over it. Lu's a damn good mule. She's got a little age on her but she's a damn good mule. I couldn't tell you right now that I'd let her go or not, though I might, I might let her go if I get what I want for her.”

I said, “What do you want for her, Mr. Hardy?”

“I wants a smooth hundred dollars for her. I wouldn't take ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents for the mule.”

I stood there and listened at him. I was willin to buy the mule at any reasonable price. I said, “Where is your mules, Mr. Hardy?”

He said, “They're out there in the barn.”

I said, “Would you mind me lookin at Lu?”

“No, help yourself.”

Me and him went out there to look. He had the mules in the stable, one in one stall, one in another, and a bar across the double doors. Walked in there; he said, “Come out of there Lu, you and Cola.”

Just snapped at em thataway and they jumped out of there and by the way they moved you couldn't tell the old one from the young one, only by their size: Cola was a little heavier than Lu but Lu weighed all of a thousand pounds. Soon as they jumped out of the stable I followed Lu around, looked her over good. I said, “Mr. Hardy, you say you'll take a smooth hundred for her?”

“Yes, if you want her I'll let you have her for that.”

I looked her over—just a doggone good mule, had some age on her; she had hit up there in her teens of years and she was good I reckoned for twenty-odd years, so she had maybe ten years of work left in her. I've seed a mule thirty-five years old, still was a good plowin mule; she just walked slow.

I said, “Well, Mr. Hardy, I aint got the money to pay you this mornin, but I'm goin to ask you one question: will you keep this mule here until Monday morning and give me a chance to bring you your money?”

He said, “Yeah, I'll keep her right here. I'll do that if it takes the hair off my head, I'll do it.”

I said, “All right, Mr. Hardy. Look for me, I'll be back. If I don't come back and get this mule—I'm goin to definitely try.”

Went right on home and told my wife: “Well, I went over to Mr. Stokes this mornin to buy that mare and he turned me down complete. Told me it would cost me a hundred dollars after promisin the mare this fall for seventy-five dollars. Went up to Mr. Hardy's place and I bought Mr. Hardy's mule fair and square for a hundred dollars. All I got to do is carry him the money. Now I lack twenty dollars of havin what I need. If I had that twenty dollars more I could go and bring that little mule home, bein it would belong to us. So I'm goin up to your father; I believe he'll let me have twenty dollars.”

She said, “Yes, darlin, if Papa's got it you can get it.” Because her mother and father thought the world—I found that out before I ever married their daughter. They'd take up with me and I showed my manners with the family after I started correspondin Hannah. I'd walk in there and nothin but care and respect would pass from me to them. I'd talk to her mother and father just as quick as I'd talk to her. Of course, I'd rather been alone in her company but they was her parents and they was to be respected.

It was drizzlin rain that Saturday mornin. I walked up about three miles to my daddy-in-law's house. And when I pulled on in there, old man Waldo Ramsey was out there in a oak grove in front of his house, cuttin wood.

I said, “Good mornin, Pa.”

“Good mornin, Nate.”

I said, “How are you all this mornin?”

“O, we doin fair, we're up and well. How is Sweet and the babies gettin along?”

I said, “They just all right, all right.”

We talked a minute or two and I said, “Now, Pa, for my business up here, I thought I was buyin a mare from Mr. Charley Stokes last spring. And I went up there this morning and he done runned the price up to a hundred dollars. I just walked off from him and went up to Mr. Ed Hardy's and bought one of his mules at a hundred dollars. I didn't have—I bought it fair and square; all I got to do is carry him a hundred dollars there Monday mornin. And I lack twenty dollars of havin that hundred. I come up here to see if I could get it from you. I'm just obliged to hustle it up from somewhere.”

He looked at me and said, “Well, Nate, you just obliged to have it then, you just obliged to have it.”

He laid his tools down and walked on in the house; he come back out to where me and him was standin talkin and he laid a twenty-dollar bill in my hand.

I hit the road and come right straight back down to Mr. Hardy.

“Hello, Mr. Hardy.”

“Hello, Nate.”

“Well, Mr. Hardy, I come back to close the trade out and get my mule.”

“Where'd you get the money that quick?”

I said, “I had to get it up—a man will get about, someway, if he has to. Now I got your price and I want the mule. I'm ready for her.”

I paid him that smooth hundred dollars. He accepted it and said, “Well, let's go catch the mule.”

I said, “No, Mr. Hardy, I ain't got no bridle. If you first let me have a bridle—I aint askin you to give me a bridle—”

“No, I couldn't give you a bridle, Nate. It's a brand new bridle and I'm goin to get me another mule—”

I said, “Just loan it to me till Monday. If you let me use it till Monday, that will give me a chance to go buy me a bridle.”

He agreed. I went on and led that mule away from Mr. Hardy's lot right straight to Mr. Ames' premises. Mr. Ames had two boys and one girl there with him and Mrs. Ames. I passed their house and the boys was at the window. Boys yelled out, “What are you goin to do with Mr. Hardy's mule?”

I said, “She don't belong to Mr. Hardy no more. She belongs to me.”

Led the mule on down to my house, down across the field and across a road. My wife come out the house and we put the mule in the barn, first mule we ever called our own. Next morning, Sunday mornin, I hitched that mule to the buggy, took my wife and two little chaps on it, went to her daddy's and mother's. I kept that mule—made the first crop with her, 1911, after I'd moved off of Mr. Ames' place and on to a twenty-two-acre farm, rentin. Got me a mule and gived up workin on halves.

Worked on halves with Mr. Curtis two years, 1907, 1908, and made nothin. Left him, worked on halves with Mr. Gus Ames two years, 1909, 1910, and made nothin there. 1911 I moved on to Mr.
Bill Reeve's wife's place, close to where I used to live when I first married. I commenced makin a heavier crop, makin a better crop, handlin my own affairs. Paid cash rent and made a profit from my farmin: I come up from the bottom then.

M
Y
first child was born August twentieth, 1907, on the Curtis place—that was Calvin Thomas. I kept the dates for the first ones but after the work commenced a comin on substantially I quit checkin on dates. But I do know when the first two was born: Calvin and then come Rachel, August twenty-second, 1909. We was livin on the Ames place at the time. And it kept on till there was ten born into my home and nine of em livin today.

Hannah had a doctor to the births of all her children: Dr. Andrews, in his lifetime, and Dr. Collins, in his lifetime. For the oldest children, her mother come, but the doctor come too.

When Calvin was born, I went to Apafalya and got Dr. Andrews. Hannah was in labor and he come in before sundown Sunday evenin, stayed till nine or ten o'clock Monday mornin before that child was born. Stayed there all night long—it was a doctor's duty, you know. He set there patiently with her in the south room—we stayed in the south room of the house. And in the late hours of the night, Dr. Andrews went in the north room and lay down on the company bed. And he told me and her mother, if he was needed wake him at once. She was a long time bringin that baby into this world. Dr. Andrews said, “Generally it's that way. A woman is slow to deliver, on the average, her first child. She'll linger.” And when sunup come, he got up off that bed and set by her through the end of her labor.

This midwife business was stylish then. Many a child born in this country, white and black, nothin but a midwife at the mother's bed. At my daddy's home, back yonder when I was born, it weren't much recognized but a midwife. And to the best of my knowledge there was more midwives had jobs around the birth of a chap than a doctor did. Well, durin of my first married life when my wife got around to havin babies, her mother would go there like hotcakes and I had confidence that she could take care of the proposition until the doctor could get there.

When that Vernon of mine was born, I was in the road huntin a doctor—we was livin on the Reeve place, five miles from Apafalya,
where there was doctors. And I knowin too that when my wife begin to complain I had to get up and get. So I got up that mornin busy as a bee and as soon as she begin to cry out, touched by labor at the birth of that child, and that was Vernon, I run out and called Dr. Collins. And I found out that Dr. Collins was down at Sam MacFarland's—he'd tarried there for some cause—just about three miles from our house; that's where he answered at. Told me he'd be there just as quick as he could. And I turned to go back home from where I was, out on the Apafalya road, and when I got there the baby was born and Dr. Collins was already there. Told me the baby was born before
he
got there. My wife's mother was with her, who I'd left by her bed when I run out to get the doctor.

My wife's mother said, “Doctor, you haven't examined her.”

He said, “Well, Aunt Molly, she's all right; I can see that.”

But to please her and to please me he went in there and thoroughly examined her and he announced her to be all right, okay. And he said, “Aunt Molly”—that's what they called old colored women as a rule, “Aunt this” and “Aunt that”—“Aunt Molly, you just as good as gold. If everybody handled cases like you handled your daughter here, wouldn't nobody need a doctor at birth. I couldn't a done no more.”

Well, lingered along, lingered along from child to child and doctors always gived us satisfaction. And Mother Ramsey was the only midwife that I ever cared to have around my wife. I trusted her accordin to what the doctor said himself. One time she taken sick and my wife was due to have a baby—that was the next child behind Mattie Jane. We was livin on the Bannister place at that time and the doctors was scattered when I called for one. My wife was a woman like this: after her first child, whenever she complained and laborin pains begin to hit her, it was
now
; she weren't goin to linger, it was
now.
So, knowin that, I run around and struck up with a old lady by the name of Prue Todd, old lady Prue Todd. She was a midwife. Me runnin around to get a doctor and I couldn't get connected with a doctor that day, hardly, noway, looked like. Aunt Prue, she went on over there and stuck around. Well, after so long I got a doctor but the baby was born, boy baby. My wife named him after one of her brothers that her mother lost: named him John Alton. And durin of his birth, my wife watched Aunt Prue and she told me that the old lady done some things around her that she
didn't like—I weren't there to see it, out hustlin for a doctor. And Aunt Prue didn't cut the baby's navel string exactly right, and then she throwed the waste in the fire. That was somethin my wife never seen before. Well, in that, if you feel doubtful of a thing, heap of times it's just like you feel. And that baby never was healthy. It lived to be three months old; that's as long as it lived and it died.

H
ANNAH
stayed off of her cookin job a month after each of her children was born. Her sisters stayed close to her and helped her—Mattie, the baby girl, she stayed especially close to her durin them times. And when Hannah did go back to workin, she didn't work in the field then. She didn't make no field hand—never did allow it. When my girl children got big enough to help in the house, they took over her work durin the birthin periods.