Bricks Without Straw Part 7

"Yes, that's the trouble," responded the sheriff. "Our people ain't used to that and won't stand it. He's putting on altogether too much style for a n.i.g.g.e.r."

"Pshaw," said the chairman, "if there were more like him it would be better for everybody. A man like him is worth something for an example. If all the race were of his stamp there would be more hope."

"The devil!" returned the sheriff, with a sneering laugh, "if they were all like him, a white man couldn't live in the country. They'd be so d.a.m.ned sa.s.sy and important that we'd have to kill the last one of 'em to have any peace."

"Fie, sheriff," laughed the chairman good-naturedly; "you seem to be vexed at the poor fellow for his thrift, and because he is doing well."

"I am a white man, sir; and I don't like to see n.i.g.g.e.rs gittin'

above us. Them's my sentiments," was the reply. "And that's the way our people feel."

There was a half-suppressed murmur of applause among the group of white men at this. The chairman responded,

"No doubt, and yet I believe you are wrong. Now, I can't help liking the fellow for his st.u.r.dy manhood. He may be a trifle too positive, but it is a good fault. I think he has the elements of a good citizen, and I can't understand why you feel so toward him."

There were some appreciative and good-natured cries of "Dar now,"

"Listen at him," "Now you're talkin'," from the colored men at this reply.

"Oh, that's because you're a Yankee," said the sheriff, with commiserating scorn. "You don't think, now, that it's any harm to talk that way before n.i.g.g.e.rs and set them against the white people either, I suppose?"

The chairman burst into a hearty laugh, as he replied,

"No, indeed, I don't. If you call that setting the blacks against the whites, the sooner they are by the ears the better. If you are so thin-skinned that you can't allow a colored man to think, talk, act, and prosper like a man, the sooner you get over your squeamishness the better. For me, I am interested in this Nimbus.

We have to go to Red Wing and report on it as a place for holding a poll and I am bound to see more of him."

"Oh, you'll see enough of him if you go there, never fear," was the reply.

There was a laugh from the white men about the sheriff, a sort of cheer from the colored men in waiting, and the business of the board went on without further reference to the new-made citizen.

The slave who had been transformed into a "contraband" and mustered as a soldier under one name, married under another, and now enfranchised under a third, returned to his home to meditate upon his transformations--as we found him doing in our first chapter.

The reason for these metamorphoses, and their consequences, might well puzzle a wiser head than that of the many-named but unlettered Nimbus.

CHAPTER VII.

DAMON AND PYTHIAS.

After his soliloquy in regard to his numerous names, as given in our first chapter, Nimbus turned away from the gate near which he had been standing, crossed the yard in front of his house, and entered a small cabin which stood near it.

"Dar! 'Liab," he said, as he entered and handed the paper which he had been examining to the person addressed, "I reckon I'se free now. I feel ez ef I wuz 'bout half free, ennyhow. I wuz a sojer, an' fought fer freedom. I've got my house an' bit o' lan', wife, chillen, c.r.a.p, an' stock, an' it's all mine. An' now I'se done been registered, an' when de 'lection comes off, kin vote jes' ez hard an' ez well an' ez often ez ole Ma.r.s.e Desmit. I hain't felt free afore--leastways I hain't felt right certain on't; but now I reckon I'se all right, fact an' truth. What you tinks on't, 'Liab?"

The person addressed was sitting on a low seat under the one window which was cut into the west side of the snugly-built log cabin. The heavy wooden shutter swung back over the bench. On the other side of the room was a low cot, and a single splint-bottomed chair stood against the open door. The house contained no other furniture.

The bench which he occupied was a queer compound of table, desk, and work-bench. It had the leathern seat of a shoemaker's bench, except that it was larger and wider. As the occupant sat with his back to the window, on his left were the shallow boxes of a shoemaker's bench, and along its edge the awls and other tools of that craft were stuck in leather loops secured by tacks, as is the custom of the crispin the world over. On the right was a table whose edge was several inches above the seat, and on which were some books, writing materials, a slate, a bundle of letters tied together with a piece of shoe-thread, and some newspapers and pamphlets scattered about in a manner which showed at a glance that the owner was unaccustomed to their care, but which is yet quite indescribable.

On the wall above this table, but within easy reach of the sitter's hand, hung a couple of narrow hanging shelves, on which a few books were neatly arranged. One lay open on the table, with a shoemaker's last placed across it to prevent its closing.

Eliab was already busily engaged in reading the certificate which Nimbus had given him. The sun, now near its setting, shone in at the open door and fell upon him as he read. He was a man apparently about the age of Nimbus--younger rather than older--having a fine countenance, almost white, but with just enough of brown in its sallow paleness to suggest the idea of colored blood, in a region where all degrees of admixture were by no means rare. A splendid head of black hair waved above his broad, full forehead, and an intensely black silky beard and mustache framed the lower portion of his face most fittingly. His eyes were soft and womanly, though there was a patient boldness about their great brown pupils and a directness of gaze which suited well the bearded face beneath. The lines of suffering were deeply cut upon the thoughtful brow and around the liquid eyes, and showed in the mobile workings of the broad mouth, half shaded by the dark mustache. The face was not a handsome one, but there was a serious and earnest calmness about it which gave it an unmistakable n.o.bility of expression and prompted one to look more closely at the man and his surroundings.

The shoulders were broad and square, the chest was full, the figure erect, and the head finely poised. He was dressed with unusual neatness for one of his race and surroundings, at the time of which we write. One comprehended at a glance that this worker and learner was also deformed. There was that in his surroundings which showed that he was not as other men. The individuality of weakness and suffering had left its indelible stamp upon the habitation which he occupied. Yet so erect and self-helping in appearance was the figure on the cobbler's bench that one for a moment failed to note in what the affliction consisted. Upon closer observation he saw that the lower limbs were sharply flexed and drawn to the leftward, so that the right foot rested on its side under the left thigh.

This inclined the body somewhat to the right, so that the right arm rested naturally upon the table for support when not employed.

These limbs, especially below the knees, were shrunken and distorted.

The shoe of the right foot whose upturned sole rested on the left leg just above the ankle, was many sizes too small for a development harmonious with the trunk.

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 Ma.r.s.e Gleason purty smart like, and _he_ sed I'd a right ter enny name I chose ter carry, kase n.o.body 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 Ma.r.s.e 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 Ma.r.s.e 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 Ma.r.s.e 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 n.o.body'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 n.i.g.g.as 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 G.o.d, 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!"