The Autobiography Of Miss Jane Pittman Part 11

"I'll catch him," I said, and left.

But I knowed then I would never catch Albert Cluveau at that house. Him or one of them children would see me long before I ever got there. I would have to catch him somewhere else.

Not to kill Albert Cluveau. That wasn't it. What would I look like killing Albert Cluveau? Let G.o.d kill him; let the devil take him. I just wanted to speak to him. But he did everything to stay out of my way. He kept one of them children looking out for me at his house. If I was fishing or getting water out the river, he wouldn't even pa.s.s on the main road, he would go use the back road. If he knowed it was the time of day I like to sit on my gallery, he would go down the river bank to pa.s.s my house. Sometimes I would see him laying down far as he could on that mule to keep me from seeing him. I knowed if I had run out of the yard or if I had jumped on Pigeon he would 'a' been too far for me to catch him. So I just waited. I bid my time.

One day the devil fooled Albert Cluveau. Guy Collier was fishing in front of my house. Me and Aunt Guy Collier was about the same size and color and he thought it was me down there. So he turned around and headed for the back road. I was back there on Pigeon, on my way to see Dune White at Grosse Tete. The crop was high and we didn't see each other till we made the bend and Pigeon almost b.u.t.t George in the head. Now Albert Cluveau wanted to turn and run. But I had already seen him, and he had no place to go. So he turned his head. I let him turn his head good, but I told him what I had been waiting to tell him for a long time. "Mr. Albert Cluveau, when the Chariot of h.e.l.l come rattling for you, the people will hear you screaming all over this parish. Now, you just ride on."

The people wanted to say I went to a hoo-doo for Albert Cluveau. But I didn't go to no hoo-doo, because I don't believe in no hoo-doo. I went to just one hoo-doo in my life-that was for Joe Pittman and that horse-but even then I didn't believe in her the way you suppose to. I went to her because n.o.body else would listen to me. But after I had gone I still didn't take her advice. Anyhow, the word got back to Albert Cluveau that I had gone to a hoo-doo, and, he, so simple-minded, he started to believe it.

A year or so later he came down sick and thought he was go'n die, and now he jumped in bed with his two daughters, Adeline and Christine. His wife had been dead and him and his sons had done so much dirt together he was scared to sleep in the same room with them. Adeline and Christine begged and begged Albert Cluveau to get out their bed. It wasn't nice. What would people think. Albert Cluveau said he didn't care what people thought, he heard the Chariot of h.e.l.l in that other room with his sons. Adeline told him there wasn't no such thing. Albert Cluveau said he knowed better, he heard it. He dared them to get out the bed and sleep on the floor; they had to sleep on both sides of him and protect him from the Chariot of h.e.l.l.

By and by he started hearing the Chariot of h.e.l.l even in this room with the girls. But he heard it in just one ear, the ear that was pointed toward Adeline. So he reckoned Adeline hated him. She had always been ashamed of him, so now she must hate him, too. Besides that he was sure she was messing round with men when he wasn't at the house. And he didn't want his daughters to be rotten like him and his sons. He wanted them to stay pure. That's why he always made them go to church-to keep them pure. But either Adeline wasn't pure or she hated him. Cluveau: "Adeline, you hate your pap?" Adeline: "No, Papa." Cluveau: "Adeline, you pure?" Adeline: "I swear by the Holy Mother I'm pure, Papa." Albert Cluveau would turn over, but still the Chariot of h.e.l.l would come from Adeline's side of the bed. Cluveau: "Adeline, if you so pure; Adeline, if you don't have no hate in your heart for your papa who never do you no wrong; Adeline, how come that Chariot of h.e.l.l he just run over there, huh?" Adeline told him, "Papa, there ain't no Chariot of h.e.l.l." Cluveau told her she was a d.a.m.n liar and he jumped out of the bed and started beating her with the strap. The boys had to come round there and pull him off. After a while he would get back in bed, but the chariot would start all over. Poor Adeline would lay on her side of the bed crying in the sheet.

This went on for days, for weeks. Then one day Adeline came to my house. She would do anything if I took the hoo-doo off her papa. I told Adeline I had no more hoo-doo on Albert Cluveau than I had on my own self. It was just his sinning ways catching up with him. Adeline pulled her dress down over her shoulders and showed me the welt marks where Albert Cluveau had beat her. She told me to please help a little Cajun gal who had done n.o.body no harm in all her life. I told her I couldn't do a thing because I had no hoo-doo on Cluveau. I asked her if she wanted some coffee and tea cakes. She said yes. She was a big fine gal, big pretty legs. She was already old enough to be married, but they kept her there to cook for them. I gived her some coffee and tea cakes and we sat right there on my gallery.

"It's not me," she said. "I'm not bad. I'm a true virgin, I believe in my Catholic faith. But Christine-ah, she's no virgin. No virgin her. She went bad at 'leven. But she is the baby and they like her. None care for poor Adeline. And the chariot, even the chariot, can find no place to run but on my side. Every night he run, every night Papa jump out of the bed and whip me. I want to leave, but where can poor Adeline go? I change sides with Christine. I say, *Christine, dearie, sleep here. Let your poor sister Adeline get one night peace.' Christine's got a pure soul, poor dear. She says, *All right, my dear.' We change sides-but do that stop the chariot? Christine went bad at 'leven, but that chariot runs right where I sleep. That hoo-doo is against me more than it is against my papa. You must take it off, Jane."

"I ain't got no hoo-doo on your papa," I told her. "I told him when the Chariot of h.e.l.l come for him we will hear him all over this parish. That we will. That I will, less the Lord take me first. Other men who did the dirt your papa done have screamed at that last moment. He will scream, too. Yes, Adeline, he will scream. But that has nothing to do with hoo-doo. It's h.e.l.l beckoning."

"He's poor and foolish, Jane."

"He shouldn't'a' killed my boy."

"Do you hate me, Jane?"

"I don't hate you," I said. "I don't even hate him. But he will pay."

"I'm the one paying," she said. "I'm the one suffering."

"You don't know what suffering is, Adeline," I told her.

"I showed you the marks on my back," she said.

"I wish I could show you the ones on my heart," I told her.

"Poor Jane," she said.

Cluveau didn't come to die for ten more years. Died just before the high water there of '12. Christine had been gone. Had fooled around with every man on that river-black and white. Had gotten more buckets of figs, pecans, muscadines from them black boys on that river than you'd care to name. The one day she got on a wagon with a drummer from St. Francisville. The drummer used to sell pots and pans and sharpen knives and scissors. Him and Christine left here one Sunday evening. But poor Adeline was still at the house. Albert Cluveau wasn't sleeping in the same bed with her now, she told him when Christine ran off with the drummer he had to go back round the other side. If he didn't, she was go'n run off too. He went back round the other side and she stayed there to look after him. Just the two of them there now. The boys had run off just like Christine did.

The weekend Albert Cluveau died, poor Adeline lived in a madhouse. People could hear Cluveau screaming half a mile. He died on a Sunday. Jules Patin pa.s.sed by my house and told me Cluveau was at the point of death. I asked him how he knowed. He said he had heard him screaming and when he asked a Cajun what was the matter the Cajun told him Cluveau was at the point of death. I had always thought I wanted to hear Cluveau scream. I had told myself that ever since he killed Ned. But that had happened so long ago, and now I couldn't help but feel sorry for Cluveau-'specially Adeline there. But everybody else heard him screaming. People went by that house all time of day and night just to hear him scream. The doctor came, the doctor went, and still he screamed. Adeline sat on the side of the bed wiping his face with a damp towel, but Cluveau screamed. Just before he came to die he pushed Adeline away and got out of bed. n.o.body thought he had that kind of strength left. He had his hands up the way you hold a gun. "I'll kill him," he said. "I'll kill him. I'll kill him." He made two steps and fell. He covered his head and screamed and screamed for Adeline to stop the horses. She knelt down on the floor side him. And he died there in her arms.

BOOK III.

THE PLANTATION.

Samson.

I knowed Aunt Hattie Jordan a long time before I came to Samson. She was the cook here then. Had been cooking for the Samsons even before the war between Secesh and North. When she got old-I'm sure she was already in her seventies when I met her-they gived her a horse and buggy to travel round in. Once or twice a week she pa.s.sed by my house when I was living on the river. When Albert Cluveau died I told her I was ready to move off the river. She asked me why didn't I come to Samson. I told her that wasn't too much of a move, seven or eight miles. I told her I wanted to go farther than that, so I wouldn't be reminded of these memories. She told me even if I moved a hundred miles I would still be near memories, because memories wasn't a place, memories was in the mind. And she told me she knowed, too, that I wanted to be close to Ned's grave so I could always put flowers there. After thinking about it I told her she was right-and that's how I came to Samson. I came here one night and asked Paul Samson for the house. Paul Samson was the daddy of Robert Samson who's running the place now. "You kinda spare, ain't you?" he said. "How do I know you can carry your load?" I told him I had been doing it for more than fifty years now. "And you can be a little tired," he said. "I think I'll be around fifty more," I said. "You can have that room side Unc Gilly and Aunt Sara," he said. "But you go'n have to get here by yourself." "I'll get here," I said.

I borrowed a wagon from off the river and moved here by myself. It took me two trips, but I did it all by myself. It was spring, because the people was plowing and hoeing in the field. Buzz Johnson was the water boy; Diamond was his mule. Used to carry the water in a great big barrel with a hyphen stuck at one end. One day he lost the hyphen and wasted all the water, and the people in the field almost wanted to kill him coming back there with nothing in that barrel. He made three trips to the field every day. He came in the morning round nine-thirty, he came at dinner time, and he came again in the evening. On the twelve o'clock run, the middle run, he brought your dinner buckets. Most of the people had the little dime buckets, and Buzz Johnson looked like a junk man coming back there with them shiny little buckets all over the cart. When he was running late he would have Diamond loping, and you could hear them dime buckets. .h.i.tting against that water cart from way cross the field. Thirty or forty dime buckets on that cart. Had so many of them he had to put some of them in a crocker sack and hang the sack on Diamond's back. The people used to mark their buckets with little pieces of cloth-red, yellow, blue. Some put their 'nitials on the top. Toby Lewis put a hog ring on the handle of his bucket. From then on they called him Hog Ring Toby. They was calling Toby Lewis that when I came here: Hog Ring Toby. But he was the best man you had working out there. Could cut and load more cane than any other man ever lived on this place. Every year somebody was crazy enough to challenge him, and every year Toby broke him down. Hawk Brown wanted to cut cane with him; Toby nearly killed Hawk. Joe Simon wanted to load cane with him; when Toby got through with Joe Simon he could hardly pick up enough cane to chew. Now he had to work 'long side the women. In the spring instead of him getting a plow, now he had to get a hoe.

The worse thing happened in the field while I was out there was that thing with Black Harriet. Her name was Harriet Black, but she was so black (she was one of them Singalee people) and the people called her Black Harriet. She didn't have all her faculties, but still she was queen of the field. She was tall, straight, tough, and blue-black. Could pick more cotton, chop more cotton than anybody out there. Cut more cane than anybody out there, man or women, except for Toby Lewis. She was queen long before I came here and she probably would have been queen long after if Katie Nelson hadn't showed up. Katie Nelson was a little tight-b.u.t.t woman from Bayonne. No kin at all to the Nelsons on the St. Charles River. They wouldn't own her. What sent Katie to Samson with that little red n.i.g.g.e.r she called a husband, only G.o.d knows. He looked about much a husband as one of them fence posts. Soon as she got in the field she started running off at the mouth. "I'm go'n beat her. Queen, huh? Well, she ain't go'n be no queen for long. You wait, I'm go'n queen her."

Black Harriet would never say a thing. Would stay to herself all the time-because she lacked all her faculties. Working and singing-singing one of them Singalee songs-but never bothering a soul.

Every morning Katie Nelson would say: "I'm go'n get her. I'm go'n get her." One morning she came out there and said: "This the morning. That man I got gived me so much loving last night I'm just rarrying to go. Y'all ever seen a wild horse just rarrying to go? Well, y'all ain't seen nothing yet. Watch out there, queen of spade, here I come."

We was all for it. I got to say it now, we was all for it. That's how it was in the field. You wanted that race. That made the day go. Work, work, you had to do something to make the day go. We all wanted it. We all knowed Katie couldn't beat Harriet, but we thought the race would be fun. So that morning soon as Katie said this was the day, we all said, "Go get her, Katie. Go get her." Katie said, "Here I come, queen of spade, ready or not."

Katie trying to catch Harriet was like me trying to fight Liston. But Katie kept after her all morning. She knowed she couldn't beat Harriet, but if she kept on talking she could work on Harriet's mind. Twelve o'clock, everybody got their buckets and sat down in the shade. Harriet sat under a little tree by herself and ate her fish and rice. When she got through eating she filed her hoe, and then just sat there waiting for one o'clock. I looked over there at her singing her Singalee song to herself, but she never paid me no mind. Katie was somewhere else with that little red thing she called a husband. About as much a husband as a dry blood weed. Soon as dinner was over she came back and started running off at the mouth again. "I didn't get you this morning, queen of spade, but I'll get you this evening. I'm go'n run all that black off you. When I get through with you you go'n be white as snowman."

This world is so strange. Now, why a Katie Nelson? What good is one? Why here with that little red n.i.g.g.e.r she called a husband? Why not Baton Rouge? New Orleans? Why not the North? Huh? Tell me.

Tom Joe was out there that evening. He always rode that big red horse. Always had on a cowboy hat and cowboy boots. Had been a cowboy in Texas once-according to his story. But he was overseer here now, and he got as much fun out of a race as anybody did. This always made the rest of the people work faster.

The first set of rows, nothing happened. But the next set, Harriet caught a row of wire gra.s.s. Wire gra.s.s is not hard to cut, but you have to get the roots or it'll spring back in a couple of days. The gra.s.s slowed Harriet so much Katie came up almost even with her. Now, to stay ahead of Katie, Harriet started leaving gra.s.s behind. Grace Turner was on the next row. At first she caught all the gra.s.s that Harriet left behind. But the longer the race went on the more gra.s.s Harriet left behind. Now everybody saw it. Tom Joe hollered at her from down the field, but she acted like she didn't even hear him. He hollered at her again; she still didn't hear him. She was chopping faster now and talking to herself in that Singalee tongue. Chopping as much cotton down as she was chopping gra.s.s. Sometimes she was chopping cotton instead of chopping gra.s.s.

We had all stopped and was just watching her now. Watching that hoe go up and down, up and down, digging up as much cotton as it was cutting gra.s.s. We just stood there watching, not saying a word. Not one of us moved till Tom Joe went down there and started beating her 'cross the back. He didn't try to take the hoe from her, he just rode down there and started beating her with the bridle reins. But the more he beat her, the more cotton she was digging up. Grace Turner was the first one to run down there. She pushed Harriet down and laid on top of her. Now Tom Joe started beating Grace just because she was trying to protect Harriet. Bessie Herbert ran down there with the hoe and threatened to chop his head off, and now Grace jumped up off Harriet and grabbed Bessie. We was all down there now. Some of us pleading with Tom Joe, the rest of us trying to help Harriet. Harriet was just laying there laughing and talking in that Singalee tongue. Looking at us with her eyes all big and white one second, then say something in that Singalee tongue the next second, then all of a sudden just bust out laughing.

When we got her quieted down, me and Grace brought her to the front and cleaned her up, and that night they drove her to Jackson. The Samsons didn't do a thing to Tom Joe, but they fired Katie. And they told Bessie she had to leave the place. Bessie had a house full of children, but still she had to go. They told her if she didn't have so many children they would 'a' put her in jail for threatening Tom Joe.

The Travels of Miss Jane Pittman.

Not too long after Harriet went to Jackson, I joined the church. She went to Jackson that spring, I joined the church that summer.

I had been fighting with my conscience ever since Ned was killed. I had been brought up 'round church people all my life, ever since I was a slave, but I doubt if I had ever thought too much about joining the church. Sometimes I would think of myself, yes, I ought to join; serve Him. Other times I didn't see no sense joining at all. But after Ned was killed I knowed I had nothing else in the world but the Lord. Still, I didn't go to Him with all my heart till I moved to Samson. That was twelve, thirteen years after Ned's death.

When I first moved to Samson I was living side Unc Gilly and Aunt Sara, 'cross the road from Grace Turner. Grace was married to Lawrence Hebert at that time and she was staying over there with his people. Me and Grace used to sit out on the gallery every night and listen to the singing up the quarters. We didn't have a church then, the church wasn't built till much later. The people used to hold services 'cross the road from where the church is now. Me and Grace used to sit out there every night and listen to the singing and praying. Sometimes she would come over to my place and sit there with me, but more often we would just talk to each other from 'cross the road. It would be so dark sometimes we couldn't even see each other, but that never stopped us from having a long conversation. One day Grace came up to me and said, "Jane, I'm go'n join church." I said, "Grace, I'm so happy for you." She said, "Jane, why don't you join with me? n.o.body can't say you ain't a nice, decent person. You belong up there." I said, "Grace, you don't know the times I been thinking about doing just that." I said, "Give me a week or two, time to think."

Nancy Williams was praying for religion, too. Me, Nancy, Grace. Peter July. Who else? Lobo. How can I ever forget that? Lobo's travel, he saw Mannie Hall running Lizzy Aaron up a tree. If that wasn't the craziest travel anybody ever had. Everybody laughing, coughing, wiping their eyes. Everybody but Lizzy. Lizzy mad as she can be. Right there in church she called Lobo a lying dog. "You nothing but a lying old dog, you ain't seen n.o.body running me up no tree. I don't even know how to clamb no tree." Lobo standing up there, sweating. "I know what the Lord showed me," he said. "Mannie was throwing clods at you. Them children was saying, *Look. Yonder. She on that limb over yonder.' And you went hopping from limb to limb like a cat."

The people laughed so much at Lobo, the pastor had to hold up service. While he was trying to get the people settled down, Lobo leaned against the pulpit railing, sweating like he was standing in the sun.

"That n.i.g.g.e.r drunk," Lizzy said.

The people started laughing all over. It was near midnight before we left church.

Nancy Williams came through out there in the field-picking cotton. She was picking cotton way down the field by herself, and when we heard her hollering we knowed she had come through. We ran down there where she was. "I got it," she said. "I got it. I got it at last. He done lift my feet out the mirey clay." We told her to go home and get herself ready to talk that night. She dropped her cotton sack and took off for the quarters, just running and whooping.

Tom Joe came out there to weigh up, and he asked us where Nancy was. We told him she had gone home because she had found religion that day. Tom said: "What I care 'bout her and her find 'ligion there? Find that 'ligion at night; find them cotton in the day. And that go for the rest of y'all hunting 'ligion round here, too."

When Grace heard that she broke away from the headland and took off down the field. Tom said, "There go another one there finding her 'ligion." I went after Grace and I found her kneeling in one of the rows. "You done come through, Grace?" I said. "Come through, nothing," she said. "I'm praying to G.o.d to keep me from killing Tom Joe. The no good dog." I said, "Grace, now you praying for religion and you can't think evil." "I know," she said. "But times like these I wish I had let Bessie chop his head off with that hoe. They couldn't do no more than hang her." "Grace," I said. "What's the Lord go'n think hearing you talk like that. Don't you know Tom Joe was put here by the devil?"

We went back to the headland where Tom Joe was weighing cotton. He said: "Well, you find Him down there?"

I could see Grace getting mad again. "Grace," I said.

A week or so later Grace did find religion. It looked like everybody was finding it but me. I said so to Grace. She said, "Just pray harder, Jane." I said, "I'm praying hard as I can now. Maybe I ain't fit for Glory." She said, "That's nonsense. You just keep praying."

I used to pray all day and half the night. Long as I was up I was praying. Sometimes I used to go in the field so tired and so sleepy I couldn't hardly keep my eyes opened. Then one Thursday morning-I won't ever forget it long as I live-I was on my way in the field when it hit me. Looked like a big load just fell off my shoulders.

"Grace," I said. She was walking a little bit ahead of me. "Grace, I got it."

"At last," she said, "At last. Jane, how do you feel? You feel light?"

"I feel light," I said. "Look like I can fly."

"That's it," Grace said. "If you feel light, that's it. It always makes you feel light." She said, "Go back home. Don't go out in the field at all. Go back home and get yourself ready for tonight."

That night I told my travels.

I had a load of bricks on my shoulders and I wanted to drop it but I couldn't. It was weighing me down and weighing me down, but I couldn't let go of the sack. Then a White Man with long yellow hair-hair shining like the sun-came up to me. (He had on a long white robe, too.) He came up to me and said, "Jane, you want get rid of that load?" I said, "Indeed, indeed. But how come you know me? Can you be the Lord?" He said, "To get rid of that load and be rid of it always, you must take it 'cross yon river."

I looked where He was pointing, and yes, there was a river. I turned back to Him, but He was gone. I started toward the river with the sack of bricks on my back. And briars sprung up in front of me where briars had not been, and snakes crawled round my bare feet where snakes had not been, and wide ditches and bayous with green water stood before me where they was not before. And a man, jet black and shiny, with cuckleburrs for hair, stood before me and told me he would take the sack. I told him no. I told him the White Man told me to cross yon river with the sack, and I was go'n cross yon river with it. And just like that this man turned into Ned. "Give me the sack, Mama," he said. I said, "Ned, that's you? That's you, Ned?" "Give me the sack, Mama," he said. I said, "I don't believe that's you, Ned. I believe that's n.o.body but the devil trying to fool poor Jane." I said, "If that's you, Ned, tell me what you carried all them days when your mama was killed." I peered into this devil face playing Ned and I saw him straining and straining trying to think what Ned had carried, but he couldn't remember. And I knowed for sure it wasn't Ned, because Ned would never forget this, and I went on. It was hard to go on, because the warmth he had brought to my heart, but I knowed I had to keep going. And when I came to the river I looked, and there was Joe Pittman, and he wasn't old like me, he was still young. "Give me the sack, Jane," he said. "I must cross that river, Joe." I said. "Give me the sack, Jane," he said. "No, Joe, I must cross the river," I said. And when I didn't give it to him on the third time he asked for it he disappeared. And I moved down into the water, and all round me alligators snapped at my legs. I looked and-snakes-hundreds and hundreds of them swimming toward me. But I kept moving with the sack on my back, and with every step the water got deeper. When it came up to my neck I looked up to see how far I had to go-and there was Albert Cluveau. He was sitting on the horse that had killed Joe Pittman, he was holding the gun that had killed Ned. I looked back over my shoulder, and there was Joe and Ned on the other bank beckoning for me to come back to them. But I would not turn back. I would go on, because the load I was carrying on my back was heavier than the weight of death. When I got near the bank Albert Cluveau raised the gun to shoot me. But when he saw I was 'termined to finish crossing he disappeared, too. And soon as I put my feet on solid ground the Savior was there. He smiled down at me and raised the load off my shoulder. I wanted to bow to His feet, but He told me rise I had been born again. I rose and I felt light and clean and good.

That was my travel. That's how I got over. And that's what the church sang that night.

Tone the bell.

Done got over.

Tone the bell

Done got over.

Tone the bell

Done got over.

Done got over at last.

Plucked my soul from the gate of h.e.l.l

Done got over

From the gate of h.e.l.l

Done got over

From the gate of h.e.l.l

Done got over