All God's Dangers (22 page)

I was a poor colored man but I didn't work my wife in the field like a dog. Just as sure as God is settin in his restin place, I'd be in the field at work and my wife—I'd look around, see her comin out there with a hoe. I'd say, “What you comin out here for?”

“I thought I'd come out here and help you.”

She was as industrious as the very devil—I aint goin to put her down, I'm goin to tell the truth, all my faults and failures if there's any—I was a fool kind of man over that gal. I loved her and she proved to be a wife to me. Anything that was done in the field—I done been out there a good while, maybe, and she at the house cookin and correctin the children or doin her other house duty, I didn't expect her to show herself in the field. She'd come out there—I'd be choppin cotton and just as quick as she could get things done at the house, here she come with a hoe on her shoulder. She couldn't stay in the field where I was and chop cotton all day, then go to the house and do her work. I considered I was the mainline man to look at conditions and try to keep up everything in the way of crops and stock and outside labor.

If she come to the field where I was and didn't have no hoe, what would she have in her hands? A waiter! Sometimes with somethin tasty to eat and somethin cold to drink. She'd be comin on with a waiter in her hands and wouldn't stop till she got to me. Tell me, “Darlin, I brought you a snack out here to eat, drink.” Come to me, I'd be plowin over yonder and she could see me. It was level country enough for her to see me out in the field every place
we lived: on the Curtis place, on the Ames place, on the Reeve place, on the Tucker place, on the Stark place, on the Pollard place—all of them places was open enough. Even after I was put in prison and come back home in '45, she had that same temper. She seed me over yonder plowin—she looked for me, she could see me.

She was industrious, she didn't mind work, she was born and raised workin in the field. When she was home with her mother and father she was a kind of foreman girl for the business. And she chopped cotton, picked cotton; she milked cows. When we married, that was all off: she milked no cows, I milked em. I wanted her to keep the bucket out of her hands all except to bring the milk in the house and strain it, prepare it for the family to drink and make butter. She worked at the house. Of course, she worked some in the field but she didn't make me no sort of regular hand in the field. When I married her I cut her loose from the field to a great extent. I didn't try to take her teetotally out, but the work she done in the field weren't enough to wear her down.

And I didn't allow her to go about washin for white folks. I didn't want any money comin into my house from that. My wife didn't wait on white folks for their dirty laundry. There was plenty of em would ask her and there'd be a answer ready for em.

In a year's time after I begin rentin on Mr. Reeve's place, she had a cotton patch of her own. She didn't work it—I worked it and I worked my crop too, and hired a little to help me. And when fall of the year come, I'd pick it every bit, chop it, pick it, take it to the gin and sell it and give her the money. Soon as the children got big enough to help me with it, they'd help me and her cotton was comin to her. We all of us worked it for her and gived her the money.

I worked that hundred-dollar mule on the Reeve place 1911, 1912, 1913 and I begin to rise up; I could help myself some. Bought my own guano, planted and worked what I wanted to—Mr. Bill Reeve, old white gentleman, the place belonged to his wife, Miss Hattie Lu. He furnished me all, the word is, all that the cat ever wanted to farm up there.

First year I farmed with him I made five heavy bales of cotton, more cotton than I'd made any place that I'd ever lived. Sold that cotton for better than ten cents a pound. It was dry that year but still I made them five bales and I made plenty of corn to feed my
family and fatten my hogs. Scratched and made corn enough that I didn't have to buy none to feed that mule, and that mule stayed rollin fat. She was fat when I bought her from Mr. Hardy and I kept her fat as a pig. Miss Hattie Lu and Mr. Bill Reeve, they'd ride around on their wagon—they weren't bad to boss you, try to run over you, raise a fuss at you if they caught you sittin down—they'd come by the field, my farm, part of it run right along the public road. They'd see me plowin and stop, wait till I got to the road. I'd speak to em politely and they'd speak to me—there's some good white people in this country. Said, “Nate”—Miss Hattie Lu—“Nate, your mule sure is pretty and fat. You are just naturally a good stockmaster.”

I said, “Well, Miss Hattie Lu, I feed anything that's around me. Any animal I tries to take care of it.”

“Yes,” she said, “you know what it's worth to you.”

First year there I made five bales of cotton. Second year, I made—I just kept a climbin, second year there I made six bales with that hundred-dollar mule; and corn, potatoes, vegetables of all kinds, peanuts, watermelons—didn't have to buy no foodstuffs to speak about. And I killed my meat every year. I was a good Charley-at-the-wheel at that. Third year I stayed there, good God, I made eight bales of cotton with that hundred-dollar mule. I was saving myself a little money at the end of each year, getting a footin to where I wouldn't have to ask nobody for nothin.

They didn't hold back on fertilize like other white people would do, didn't try to stick you by their judgment. You was handlin your own business when Miss Hattie Lu Reeve and Mr. Bill Reeve was furnishin you. Mr. Reeve laid me down a check any time I'd go up to his house—he was as fine a white man as there was in this country, appeared to be, proved out to be. He was a old gentleman with a lot of money and he married a young woman—I'd go there for a check, Mr. Reeve would say, “Come in, Shaw, have a seat.”

I'd sit down.

“Well, Shaw, what are you lookin for this mornin?”

“I'm huntin a check, Mr. Reeve.” Gived you nothin but a check.

“All right, Shaw. Hattie Lu! Hattie Lu! Here's Shaw in here wantin a check. Come in and fix it for him.”

She'd come in. “Good mornin, Nate.”

I'd say, “Good mornin, Miss Hattie Lu.”

“You all right this mornin?”

Tell her, “Yes, I'm gettin along fine, I reckon. Glad to see you all are too.”

She'd say, “Yes, well, Mr. Reeve, he's been a little poor along but he's gettin along all right now. Nate, what sort of check do you want? What do you want it for?”

Never called for no amount that she'd refuse me. First year I lived on Mr. Reeve's and his wife's place I had a mule and a good buggy and I borrowed money from Mr. Reeve to buy me a brand new one-horse wagon, Welbuilt wagon; I bought it from Mr. Sadler in Apafalya—that's who I done my wagon buyin from.

I went and put high bodies on that new one-horse wagon and hauled a bale of cotton at a load with that hundred-dollar mule; didn't have no hills to pull to get to the gin house from where I was livin. Some bales would weigh a little less than five hundred pounds, some would weigh a little more and she could pull it as easy as air because I was livin in level country and the gin was right convenient.

Well, I got tired of packin a heavy bale into a small wagon and havin one mule to pull it all by herself. Made my third crop there, 1913, and went out to Apafalya, bought me another mule, young mule just three years old, had never had the bridle on. Bought her out the drove; I gived Mr. Grimes at the Apafalya mule pen one hundred and eighty-five dollars for that mule, carried her home and put her in the lot with that hundred-dollar mule. Borrowed the money from Mr. Reeve—I knowed it was goin to get me deeper in debt, but I risked it—clear cash money so I knowed exactly how much I was receivin and how much interest he was makin off me. Give me a check and all I had to do was go to the bank and draw that money. No fancy figurin, “I'll let you have this now, that later, and you just pay me right along.” A straight deal all the way.

Put her in the lot with the other mule, fed her, watered her from the well—well was close to the lot. I'd go to the house at dinner time and evenins too when I quit pickin cotton, I'd come in and that mule would be walkin around in that lot lookin with her head up.

My wife asked me one day, said, “Darlin, what you goin to do with a pair of mules and aint got a child big enough to hand you a glass of water?” Them's the words she spoke. And said, “You aint
got no two-horse wagon; you got a one-horse wagon out there and just can work one mule to it. You got two mules now and aint got no way of hitchin both of em to it.”

I said, “I'll handle em. If I can't have a two-horse wagon to hitch em both to, I'll plow em double; that's the main thing, plowin. I can take em out to the field and break my land double. Come to the wagon business I may have a pole put in front of that one-horse wagon and hitch em both to it.”

My mind told me—I was talkin to her—my mind told me, ‘That wagon too light; a one-horse wagon won't take a pair of mules, it's just too light.'

I went right on and studied every day, thought about it as best I could, what I'd do about havin two mules and only a one-horse wagon to hitch em to and that wouldn't take em.

One mornin I got up, told my wife, “Well, darlin, get breakfast ready quick as you can. I'm goin to hitch Lu to that one-horse wagon, who was bought to work her to it. And I'm goin to lead that other mule behind. I'm goin out to Apafalya and I'm goin to swap that one-horse wagon and get me a two-horse wagon.”

I left off from home leadin that young mule—my wife had named her Mattie—had never been harnessed. Turned in my one-horse wagon—good one-horse wagon, the paint hadn't worn off it. I walked in Mr. Sadler's store that mornin; he looked me over, said, “Shaw, what'll you have?”

I said, “Well, Mr. Sadler, I come out here this mornin to make a wagon deal with you if I could. I want to swap you that one-horse wagon back that I bought from you for a two-horse wagon.”

He said, “All right, Shaw, I'll go out and look. Where's your wagon at?”

I said, “It's right there in the back way.”

He said, “I'll go out and look at it just as soon as I get through in my little office here.”

He got up and come out there right soon enough and looked over my wagon. Tugged at it—that was one of the best grade wagons put out in them days, a Welbuilt wagon.

He said, “Tell you what I'll do. You let your harness go back with this one-horse wagon—” I'd got it all from him, wagon, harness, and a nice seat on that one-horse wagon and a little false bottom. He said, “You let your wagon stay just as it stands and your seat, let that stay: harness, wagon, and seat. I'll put you up a two-horse
wagon and all that you aint got that you need with this two-horse wagon, I'll furnish that to you, thirty-five dollars to boot.”

I made the trade right there. He went in then—I didn't have a thing for this young mule, even to a bridle. She had a halter on and I hitched a plow line to it and led her into Apafalya that mornin.

Well, I followed Mr. Sadler back on in the store. And he had a fellow clerkin in there for him by the name of Priestly. He told him, “Priestly, go out there and put Nate up a two-horse Welbuilt wagon.”

Looked at me and said, “You'll help him, won't you?”

Told him, “Yes sir.”

Went out there and me and Mr. Priestly got all the parts—it was all shipped in there loose: the bed, wheels, axles, and everything that go to the wagon. We got out there and put it up, put the tongue in it and got it ready for the road. Went back in the store, Mr. Priestly did—he was young, he wasn't a real young fellow; he was young but he wasn't as young as he had been—went back in there and Mr. Sadler got me up brand new breast chains for that wagon, double length breast chains; britchin—that was all that old mule needed, britchin to go on her hips and britchin to go on that young mule's hips; and lines, a good heavy set of lines, brand new; a collar, haines, and traces for that young mule—just fixed me up direct. Handed em over to me—all that for thirty-five dollars to boot. Of course, he didn't give me no backbends for plowin but he fitted me up with everything else.

There was a fellow out there by the name of Elihu Swift, colored fellow, helped me hitch them mules up that mornin. Worked with me at it on account of me havin that young mule. And when I got her hitched up, I twisted her nose to see if she weren't goin to take it; and Elihu held that twist on that mule for me to harness her. Then we backed her up to the tongue and I goes around and hitches the old mule up first and full. Told Elihu to hold that twist. I goes around there—Elihu holdin the twist on the young mule's nose—and I hitched the traces, breasted her up and all like that. Lines snapped in on em just nice. I crawled up on the wagon and wrapped my hands in them lines. I knowed I had to put my weight to them lines to hold em—I had a young mule there, never been hitched to a wagon before. I got up there, I told Elihu to pull the twist off her—I had em held, I thought, and I did have em. Said, “Pull the twist off.”

When he pulled the twist off that young mule just stood there. And I said, “Come up.”

She raised up and made a lunge just as hard as she could; but them bits on her, brand new bridle, and them lines, brand new heavy leather lines—she settled back down.

That older mule there, she was ready to go; she knowed what her job was. She couldn't move, though—she did start off; I kept workin my lines and tellin em, “Come up”; the old mule made one or two moves off, that young mule just stretched out on the ground like a dog. The older mule couldn't drag her off. I kept a coaxin her and the young mule took a notion in a jiffy to get up and when she got up she got up jumpin. I was swingin along with her, checkin her at every step. I worked them lines—let em loose and pulled up on em, let em loose and pulled up—and that Lu mule just teached that younger mule the way.