Bayou Folk/A Rude Awakening
“Take de do’ an’ go! You year me? Take de do’!”
Lolotte’s brown eyes flamed. Her small frame quivered. She stood with her back turned to a meagre supper-table, as if to guard it from the man who had just entered the cabin. She pointed toward the door, to order him from the house.
“You mighty cross to-night, Lolotte. You mus’ got up wid de wrong foot to’s mo’nin’. Hein, Veveste? hein, Jacques, w’at you say?”
The two small urchins who sat at table giggled in sympathy with their father’s evident good humor.
“I’m wo’ out, me!” the girl exclaimed, desperately, as she let her arms fall limp at her side. “Work, work! Fu w’at? Fu feed de lazies’ man in Natchitoches pa’ish.”
“Now, Lolotte, you think w’at you sayin’,” expostulated her father. “Sylveste Bordon don’ ax nobody to feed ‘im.”
“W’en you brought a poun’ of suga in de house?” his daughter retorted hotly, “or a poun’ of coffee? W’en did you brought a piece o’ meat home, you? An’ Nonomme all de time sick. Co’n bread an’ po’k, dat’s good fu Veveste an’ me an’ Jacques; but Nonomme? no!”
She turned as if choking, and cut into the round, soggy “pone” of corn bread which was the main feature of the scanty supper.
“Po’ li’le! Nonomme; we mus’ fine some’in to break dat fevah. You want to kill a chicken once a w’ile fu Nonomme, Lolotte.” He calmly seated himself at the table.
“Didn’ I done put de las’ roostah in de pot?” she cried with exasperation. “Now you come axen me fu kill de hen’! W’ere I goen to fine aigg’ to trade wid, w’en de hen’ be gone? Is I got one picayune in de house fu trade wid, me?”
“Papa,” piped the young Jacques, “w’at dat I yeard you drive in de yard, w’ile go?”
“Dat’s it! W’en Lolotte wouldn’ been talken’ so fas’, I could tole you ‘bout dat job I got fu to-morrow. Dat was Joe Duplan’s team of mule’ an’ wagon, wid t’ree bale’ of cotton, w’at you yaird. I got to go soon in de mo’nin’ wid dat load to de landin’. An’ a man mus’ eat w’at got to work; dat’s sho.”
Lolotte’s bare brown feet made no sound upon the rough boards as she entered the room where Nonomme lay sick and sleeping. She lifted the coarse mosquito net from about him, sat down in the clumsy chair by the bedside, and began gently to fan the slumbering child.
Dusk was falling rapidly, as it does in the South. Lolotte’s eyes grew round and big, as she watched the moon creep up from branch to branch of the moss-draped live-oak just outside her window. Presently the weary girl slept as profoundly as Nonomme. A little dog sneaked into the room, and socially licked her bare feet. The touch, moist and warm, awakened Lolotte.
The cabin was dark and quiet. Nonomme was crying softly, because the mosquitoes were biting him. In the room beyond, old Sylveste and the others slept. When Lolotte had quieted the child, she went outside to get a pail of cool, fresh water at the cistern. Then she crept into bed beside Nonomme, who slept again.
Lolotte’s dreams that night pictured her father returning from work, and bringing luscious oranges home in his pocket for the sick child.
When at the very break of day she heard him astir in his room, a certain comfort stole into her heart. She lay and listened to the faint noises of his preparations to go out. When he had quitted the house, she waited to hear him drive the wagon from the yard.
She waited long, but heard no sound of horse’s tread or wagon-wheel. Anxious, she went to the cabin door and looked out. The big mules were still where they had been fastened the night before. The wagon was there, too.
Her heart sank. She looked quickly along the low rafters supporting the roof of the narrow porch to where her father’s fishing pole and pail always hung. Both were gone.
“’T ain’t no use, ‘t ain’t no use,” she said, as she turned into the house with a look of something like anguish in her eyes.
When the spare breakfast was eaten and the dishes cleared away, Lolotte turned with resolute mien to the two little brothers.
“Veveste,” she said to the older, “go see if dey got co’n in dat wagon fu feed dem mule’.”
“Yes, dey got co’n. Papa done feed ‘em, fur I see de co’n-cob in de trough, me.”
“Den you goen he’p me hitch dem mule, to de wagon. Jacques, go down de lane an’ ax Aunt Minty if she comes set wid Nonomme w’ile I go drive dem mule’ to de landin’.”
Lolotte had evidently determined to undertake her father’s work. Nothing could dissuade her; neither the children’s astonishment nor Aunt Minty’s scathing disapproval. The fat black negress came laboring into the yard just as Lolotte mounted upon the wagon.
“Git down f’om dah, chile! Is you plumb crazy?” she exclaimed.
“No, I ain’t crazy; I’m hungry, Aunt Minty. We all hungry. Somebody got fur work in dis fam’ly.”
“Dat ain’t no work fur a gal w’at ain’t bar’ seventeen year ole; drivin’ Marse Duplan’s mules! W’at I gwine tell yo’ pa?
“Fu me, you kin tell ‘im w’at you want. But you watch Nonomme. I done cook his rice an’ set it ‘side.”
“Don’t you bodda,” replied Aunt Minty; “I got somepin heah fur my boy. I gwine ‘ten’ to him.”
Lolotte had seen Aunt Minty put something out of sight when she came up, and made her produce it. It was a heavy fowl.
“Sence w’en you start raisin’ Brahma chicken’, you?” Lolotte asked mistrustfully.
“My, but you is a cu’ious somebody! Ev’ything w’at got fedders on its laigs is Brahma chicken wid you. Dis heah ole hen” –
“All de same, you don’t got fur give dat chicken to eat to Nonomme. You don’t got fur cook ‘im in my house.”
Aunt Minty, unheeding, turned to the house with blustering inquiry for her boy, while Lolotte drove away with great clatter.
She knew, notwithstanding her injunction, that the chicken would be cooked and eaten. Maybe she herself would partake of it when she came back, if hunger drove her too sharply.
“Nax’ thing I’m goen be one rogue,” she muttered; and the tears gathered and fell one by one upon her cheeks.
“It do look like one Brahma, Aunt Mint,” remarked the small and weazened Jacques, as he watched the woman picking the lusty fowl.
“How ole is you?” was her quiet retort.
“I don’ know, me.”
“Den if you don’t know dat much, you betta keep yo’ mouf shet, boy.”
Then silence fell, but for a monotonous chant which the woman droned as she worked. Jacques opened his lips once more.
“It do look like one o’ Ma’me Duplan’ Brahma, Aunt Mint.”
“Yonda, whar I come f’om, befo’ de wah” –
“Ole Kaintuck, Aunt Mint?”
“Dat ain’t one country like dis yere, Aunt Mint?”
“You mighty right, chile, dat ain’t no sech kentry as dis heah. Yonda, in Kaintuck, w’en boys says de word ‘Brahma chicken,’ we takes an’ gags ‘em, an’ ties dar han’s behines ‘em, ‘an fo’ces ‘em ter stan’ up watchin’ folks settin’ down eatin’ chicken soup.”
Jacques passed the back of his hand across his mouth; but lest the act should not place sufficient seal upon it, he prudently stole away to go and sit beside Nonomme, and wait there as patiently as he could the coming feast.
And what a treat it was! The luscious soup, - a great pot of it, - golden yellow, thickened with the flaky rice that Lolotte had set carefully on the shelf. Each mouthful of it seemed to carry fresh blood into the veins and a new brightness into the eyes of the hungry children who ate of it.
And that was not all. The day brought abundance with it. Their father came home with glistening perch and trout that Aunt Minty broiled deliciously over glowing embers, and basted with the rich chicken fat.
“You see,” explained old Sylveste, “w’en I git up to’s mo’nin’ an’ see it was cloudy, I say to me, ‘Sylveste, w’en you go wid dat cotton, rememba you got no tarpaulin. Maybe it rain, an’ de cotton was spoil. Betta you go yonda to Lafirme Lake, w’ere de tront was bitin’ fas’er an’ mosquito, an’ so you git a good mess fur de chil’en.’ Lolotte – w’at she goen do yonda? You ought stop Lolotte, Aunt Minty, w’en you see w’at she was want to do.”
“Did n’ I try to stop ‘er? Did n’ I ax ‘er, ‘W’at I gwine tell yo’ pa?’ An she ‘low, ‘Tell ‘im to go hang hisse’f, de triflind ole rapscallion! I ‘s de one w’at’s runnin’ dis heah fambly!’”
“Dat don’ soun’ like Lolotte, Aunt Minty; you mus’ yaird ‘er crooked; hein, Nonomme?”
The quizzical look in his good-features was irresistible. Nonomme fairly shook with merriment.
“My head feel so good,” he declared. “I wish Lolotte would come, so I could tole ‘er.” And he turned in his bed to look down the long, dusty lane, with the hope of seeing her appear as he had watched her go, sitting on one of the cotton bales and guiding the mules.
But no one came all through the hot morning. Only at noon a broad-shouldered young negro appeared in view riding through the dust. When he had dismounted at the cabin door, he stood leaning a shoulder lazily against the jamb.
“Well, heah you is,” he grumbled, addressing Sylveste with no mark of respect. “Heah you is, settin’ down like comp’ny, an’ Marse Joe yonda sont me see if you was dead.”
“Joe Duplan boun’ to have his joke, him,” said Sylveste, smiling uneasily.
“Maybe it look like a joke to you, but t’ aint no joke to him, man, to have one o’ his wagons smoshed to kindlin’, an’ his bes’ team tearin’ t’rough de country. You don’t want to let ‘im lay han’s on you, joke o’ no joke.”
“Malédiction!” howled Sylveste, as he staggered to his feet. He stood for one instant irresolute; then he lurched past the man and ran wildly down the lane. He might have taken the horse that was there, but he went tottering on afoot, a frightened look in his eyes, as if his soul gazed upon an inward picture that was horrible.
The road to the landing was little used. As Sylveste went he could readily trace the marks of Lolotte’s wagon-wheels. For some distance they went straight along the road. Then they made a track as if a madman had directed their course, over stump and hillock, tearing the bushes and barking the trees on either side.
At each new turn Sylveste expected to find Lolotte stretched senseless upon the ground, but there was never a sign of her.
At last he reached the landing, which was a dreary spot, slanting down to the river and partly cleared to afford room for what desultory freight might be left there from time to time. There were the wagon-tracks, clean down to the river’s edge and partly in the water, where they made a sharp and senseless turn. But Sylveste found no trace of his girl.
“Lolotte!” the old man cried out into the stillness. “Lolotte, ma fille, Lolotte!” But no answer came; no sound but the echo of his own voice, and the soft splash of the red water that lapped his feet.
He looked down at it, sick with anguish and apprehension.
Lolotte had disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed her. After a few days it became common belief that the girl had been drowned. It was thought that she must have been hurled from the wagon into the water during the sharp turn that the wheel-tracks indicated, and carried away by the rapid current.
During the days of search, old Sylveste’s excitement kept him up. When it was over, an apathetic despair seemed to settle upon him.
Madame Duplan, moved by sympathy, had taken the little four-year-old Nonomme to the plantation Les Chêniers, where the child was awed by the beauty and comfort of things that surrounded him there. He thought always that Lolotte would come back, and watched for her every day; for they did not tell him the sad tidings of her loss.
The other two boys were placed in the temporary care of Aunt Minty; and old Sylveste roamed like a persecuted being through the country. He who had been a type of indolent content and repose had changed to a restless spirit.
When he thought to eat, it was in some humble negro cabin that he stopped to ask for food, which was never denied him. His grief had clothed him with a dignity that imposed respect.
One morning very early he appeared before the planter with a disheveled and hunted look.
“M’sieur Duplan,” he said, holding his hat in his hand and looking away into vacancy, “I been try ev’thing. I been try settin’ down still on de sto’ gall’ry. I been walk, I been run; ‘t ain’ no use. Dey got al’ays some’in’ w’at push me. I go fishin’, an’ it’s some’in w’at push me worser ‘an ever. By gracious! M’sieur Duplan, gi’ me some work!”
The planter gave him at once a plow in hand, and no plow on the whole plantation dug so deep as that one, nor so fast. Sylveste was the first in the field, as he was the last one there. From dawn to nightfall he worked, and after, till his limbs refused to do his bidding.
People came to wonder, and the negroes began to whisper hints of demonical possession.
When Mr. Duplan gave careful thought to the subject of Lolotte’s mysterious disappearance, an idea came to him. But so fearful was he to arouse false hopes in the breasts of those who grieved for the girl that to no one did he impart his suspicions save to his wife. It was on the eve of a business trip to New Orleans that he told her what he thought, or what he hoped rather.
Upon his return, which happened not many days later, he went out to where old Sylveste was toiling in the field with frenzied energy.
“Sylveste,” said the planter, quietly, when he had stood a moment watching the man at work, “have you given up all hope of hearing from your daughter?”
“I don’ know, me; I don’ know. Le’ me work, M’sieur Duplan.”
“For my part, I believe the child is alive.”
“You b’lieve dat, you?” His rugged face was pitiful in its imploring lines.
“I know it,” Mr. Duplan muttered, as calmly as he could. “Hold up! Steady yourself, man! Come; come with me to the house. There is some one who has seen her.”
The room into which the planter led the old man was big, cool, beautiful, and sweet with the delicate odor of flowers. It was shady, too, for the shutters were half closed; but not so darkened but Sylveste could at once see Lolotte, seated in a big wicker chair.
She was almost as white as the gown she wore. Her neatly shod feet rested upon a cushion, and her black hair, that had been closely cut, was beginning to make little rings about her temples.
“Aie!” he cried sharply, at sight of her, grasping his seamed throat as he did so. Then he laughed like a madman, and then he sobbed.
He only sobbed, kneeling upon the floor beside her, kissing her knees and her hands, that sought his. Little Nonomme was close to her, with a health flush creeping into his cheek. Veveste and Jacques were there, and rather awed by the mystery and grandeur of everything.
“W’ere’bouts you find her, M’sieur Duplan?” Sylveste asked, when the first flush of his joy had spent itself, and he was wiping his eyes with his rough cotton shirt sleeve.
“M’sieur Duplan find me ‘way yonda to de city, papa, in de hospital,” spoke Lolotte, before the planter could steady his voice to reply. “I did n’ know who ev’ybody was, me. I did n’ know me, myse’f, tell I tu’n roun’ one day an’ see M’sieur Duplan, w’at stan’en dere.”
“You was boun’ to know M’sieur Duplan, Lolotte,” laughed Sylveste, like a child.
“Yes, an’ I know right ‘way how dem mule was git frighten’ w’en de boat w’istle fu stop, an’ pitch me plumb on de groun’. An’ I rememba it was one mulâtresse w’at call herse’f one chembamed, all de time aside me.”
“You must not talk too much, Lolotte,” interposed Madame Duplan, coming to place her hand with gentle solicitude upon the girl’s forehead, and to feel how her pulse beat.
Then to save the child further effort of speech, she herself related how the boat had stopped at this lonely landing to take on a load of cotton-seed. Lolotte had been found stretched insensible by the river, fallen apparently from the clouds, and had been taken on board.
The boat had changed its course into other waters after that trip, and had not returned to Duplan’s Landing. Those who had tended Lolotte and left her at the hospital supposed, no doubt, that she would make known her identity in time, and they had troubled themselves no further about her.
“An’ dah you is!” almost shouted Aunt Minty, whose black face gleamed in the doorway; “dah you is, settin’ down, lookin’ jis’ like w’ite folks!”
“Ain’t I always was w’ite folks, Aunt Mint?” smiled Lolotte, feebly.
“G’long, chile. You knows me. I don’ mean no harm.”
“And now, Sylveste,” said Mr. Duplan, as he rose and started to walk the floor, with hands in his pockets, “listen to me. It will be a long time before Lolotte is strong again. Aunt Minty is going to look after things for you till the child is fully recovered. But what I want to say is this: I shall trust these children into your hands once more, and I want you never to forget again that you are their father – do you hear? – that you are a man!”
Old Sylveste stood with his hand in Lolotte’s, who rubbed it lovingly against her cheek.
“By gracious! M’sieur Duplan,” he answered, “w’en God want to he’p me, I’m goen try my bes’!”