A BLACK POLITICIAN
On a bright June morning in the year 1811, old Cuddymonk sat in the cheerful sunlight at the open door of his house, on the banks of Lake Petaquamscut, in old Narragansett. Cuddymonk was a negro; but a Narragansett negro was, at that date, of almost another race than a Southern negro. He was free; he was usually respected and self-respecting; he might, and often did, own a house and farm of his own; and he had a certain independent social position which was far from being a despised one, for he enjoyed, with his rich white neighbors, who had been slave-owners, a friendly intimacy that was denied to a poor white man. He was, however, somewhat lazy, occasionally untruthful, and even dishonest—like his Southern colored brother. Cuddymonk was a typical Narragansett negro—sharp, shrewd, and in the main thrifty. He was deeply and consistently superstitious, and knew a thousand tales of ghosts and spirits and witches and Manitous, old traditions of African Voodooism and Indian pow-wows. He was profoundly learned in the meaning of dreams and omens and predictions, and he did not hesitate to practise—or attempt to practise—all kinds of witch-charms and “conjures” and “projects,” though he was a member in good standing, as he proudly stated, of “de Pistikle Church.”
He was a good cobbler, a fair tinker, a poor mason, a worse carpenter, a first-class fisherman. He worked at any and all of these trades with cheerful and indolent impartiality, just as he fiddled, and sheared sheep, and ploughed, and sowed, and raked, and harvested for his rich white neighbors; but when anyone asked him his real trade, he proudly answered, “I’s er pollertishun.”
He was indeed a politician, for he had held the highest political position that his State and race afforded: he had thrice been elected “Black Gov’nor” of Narragansett on “Nigger ’Lection Day”—not on account of his master’s great wealth and high position, as was in slavery times “Gov’nor” Aaron Potter; not for his military prowess, as was “Gov’nor” Guy Watson, who had served bravely at Ticonderoga and at the absurd capture of General Prescott; not, as was “Gov’nor” Prince Robinson, for his handsome person and stately appearance, for poor Cuddy possessed neither. He had been elected just as white governors frequently are elected nowadays—because he was a politician. His office, however, bore no salary and but few emoluments; but it conferred great honor and dignity, and through it he received many small favors. He was consulted as to the settlement of many petty disputes among his black brothers, and his decision was law. His office thus had a certain power, and commanded some respect among the white people, who through him could obtain small settlements and adjustments, and arrange many matters in their relations with the negroes, without the trouble of personal effort. Cuddy had the honor of having many of his legal decisions and political aphorisms and his abstruse financial opinions quoted at the white Governor’s table, where they had been received with much laughter, and some praise, also, for their shrewdness.
His election had been a scene of great festivity. On the third Saturday in June (on which Nigger ’Lection was always held) there gathered in the great oak grove on Rose Hill the black inhabitants, riding on saddles and pillions, in chaises and farm-wagons, in ox-carts even—men, women, and children—all in their gayest and finest attire, from all the towns around. At ten o’clock the canvass commenced. Weeks of “’lectureneerin’ and parmenteerin’” had roused great interest in the event, and at last the two rows of the male friends of the respective candidates were arranged in lines under the trees in the charge of two pompous marshals, while the women stood admiringly around. Cuddymonk, mounted on Colonel Gardiner’s gray horse, and wearing a fine coat and knee-breeches that had been given him by the colonel, with a great borrowed gold-laced cocked hat balanced on the back of his head, rode up and down the line flourishing a long sword that had been lent him for the occasion. And he kept quiet and order, that no one might change ranks after the counting began, or step from one end of the line to the other, and thus fraudulently increase the number of votes. When the counting was done the number of votes and successful candidate was announced. Cuddymonk’s election was received with tumultuous cheers and congratulations.
Only one event occurred to mar the dignity of this first election. As he was about to end his inauguration address with a glorious flourish and climax of ornate rhetoric, his defeated opponent called out, in a high, malicious voice, “Cuddy, yer calfs has got round in front!” Cuddy glanced down at his legs with apprehensive mortification. Alas! it was too true. Colonel Gardiner had given with the knee-breeches a pair of his fine long stockings: but as he was as sturdy and muscular as Cuddy was thin, and as the politician had even more “negative calf and convex shin” (as said Randolph of Virginia) than have most of his race, the colonel’s stockings hung in unsightly folds; that Cuddy’s wife, Rosann, remedied by thrusting into each stocking-leg a great roll of sheep’s wool. In the heat of “parmenteerin’,” and through constant friction against his horse’s sides, Cuddy’s woollen calves had indeed “got round in front.” In vain did he try, amid the jeers of his opponents, to replace the unsightly wads in a dignified and proper position; they refused to stay placed, and for the rest of the day, at the dinner and at the dance, the false calves hung in front of and under his sharp old knees, looking for all the world, in the gray, wrinkled stockings, like a pair of hornets’ nests under the eaves of a house.
It may plainly be seen that by virtue of his position old Cuddymonk was of the high aristocracy of Narragansett black society. He was also an aristocrat by birth. The blood of African kings ran in his veins, and a strong cross of Indian blood, that of old King Ninigret, showed in his high cheek-bones and coarse black hair. His skin, too, was far from black. As he sat in the clear sunlight on this May morning, his bare feet and hands and face were of a uniform glowing golden-brown color, as rich and cheerful, though not as orange-tinted, as a ripe pumpkin. The appearance of his head was, also, most unlike the wool-covered, low-browed, heavy-jawed cranium of a negro; for his half-curly, coarse hair grew on the back part of his head only, and stuck out in a great stiff, surrounding halo. The top and sides of his head being thus left bare gave to him the appearance of having an extraordinarily high and brain-developed forehead; and altogether these peculiarities caused him to bear a comical cranial resemblance both to the noble Shakespeare and a blue-haired, ring-crowned baboon. His teeth and eyeballs showed the brilliant, glittering white of the negro, not at all like the dingy black snags and reddish, inflamed eyeballs seen in the Indian. He wore a collarless and rather ragged white shirt, an ancient and much-worn long-tailed blue coat with brass buttons, the very coat which had been given to him by Colonel Gardiner to attire him fitly and gloriously upon his election as “Gov’nor.” But the garment having served through three terms of office (to say nothing of the many years it had faithfully covered the colonel’s back), was now degraded to every-day wear. Cuddy was also clad in a shapeless pair of loose yellowish tow trousers called “tongs,” that bore strong evidence not only of home spinning and weaving, but of home tailoring as well, if such unsightly great linen bags could be said to be tailored.
Cuddy regarded with much satisfaction a row of dilapidated beehives that stood by his door, whose busy inhabitants furnished to him the toothsome honey he so dearly loved, and which he could so readily and profitably sell when he could “spare” it. He looked with equal pride on a row of thriving okra-plants, whose long green pods would in midsummer make for him such succulent and nourishing soups, and would also be sliced into delicate pale green, six-rayed stars, and displayed for weeks on window-sills and door-stones and shed-tops and stone walls in his small domain, through sunny, windless days when the starry wafers would not be blown away, drying for his own winter use and to carry to Newport to sell. His only other crop was represented by a freshly turned plot of earth—a potato-field—which he had planted the previous day.
Cuddymonk stretched himself with delight in the sunshine, and thus spoke to his wife, Rosann, a gay-turbaned old woman, who was twice as fat and twice as black as he was:
“I tell ye, Rosann, ’tatoes an’ honey an’ okra is a tousan’ times better’n pigs; ye don’ have ter feed ’em, an’ tend ’em, and watch ’em eaten theirselves up. Dey jess grows an’ grows for nothin’. Ef more folks growed ’tatoes an’ okra in dis country, times’d be better’n dey is.”
Rosann did not answer him, she seldom did; and now her attention was called to a horse and rider that had turned from the main road and were advancing up the narrow lane that led to Cuddy’s house. Mounted visitors were not frequent at Cuddy’s humble home, even on gubernatorial business; and when he and Rosann saw that the horseman was no less a person than Constable Cranston, of North Kingston, they stared in open-mouthed amazement. No less astonished were they when the sheriff announced his errand—that he had come to arrest the “Gov’nor” for debt. Suit had been brought against him and judgment rendered, and his arrest was the next step.
For Cuddymonk, like many another philosopher and many another politician, was careless and even tricky in business matters, and had been accused by both black and white neighbors of “never paying fer nothing if he could help it.” That he should have been arrested for this special debt was to him most astonishing, and he denounced it as keen injustice. He thus protested to the sheriff:
“Mass’ Cranston, yer don’t know what yer a-doin’. I don’t owe ole man Hazard nothin’! Yer see, it was jess like dis. I say ter him, I mus’ hab er pig ter raise. He say ter me, ‘Take one ob mine;’ an’ he press me ter take it, kase it’s a runtlin’, an’ he’s afear’d it’ll die. An’ Rosann, she knows how ter mother runtlin’s, so I takes der pig. An’ I say, ‘Ole man Hazard, I pay you free dollar ob de money I git for der pig.’ He say, ‘All right, Cuddy.’ Now I don’t nebber git no money fer dat pig. I buy de corn ter feed der pig of Peleg Brown; an’ when I kill de pig an’ take him ter Peleg ter sell, he don’ come ter ser much as de corn he eat. I t’ink he shrink kase I kill him in de discrease ob de moon. So I nebber got nothin’ fer de pig, so in course I don’ owe ole man Hazard nothin’. I ain’t got no money ter pay wid, anyway. I tell ye, Mass’ Cranston, times nebber’ll be good in dis country till corn’s a pistareen a bushel an’ pork a pistareen a pound. Den de pore man’ll hab some chance.”
Mr. Cranston knew old Cuddy too well to allow him to proceed into the discussion of political economy; and he interrupted the “Gov’nor,” saying, with much gravity, that the law must take its course, nor could the execution of justice be delayed; that since Cuddy could not pay, he must come at once with him to jail. The negro rose cheerfully, saying, as he hobbled into the house:
“Wal, ef I mus’ go I mus’; but de exertootion ob justice’ll hab to move mighty slow a-takin’ ole Cuddy ter jail. I’se got der rheumatiz, so I can’t hardly walk. I’se dat bad I t’inks I mus’ be witch-rid by ole Tuggie Bannocks. Dat’s why dat pig eat ser much corn kase she conjured him. Times nebber’ll be good in dis country whiles dey don’ hang ole witches like Tuggie Bannocks. Hitch yer hoss ter de button-wood tree an’ come in an’ set down while I’se packin’ up, an’ Rosann’ll cook ye some early ’tatoes. Run out an’ git some of our first crap, Sanna.”
“Early potatoes!” exclaimed Mr. Cranston, “at this time of the year!”
“Yis, I’se a fust-rate farmer, ef I ain’t much on pig-raisin’. I allays has fine early ’tatoes, de fust yer see anywheres. Jes’ look at dem!”
Rosann appeared with her apron full of the freshly planted potatoes, that, negro-fashion, he had planted whole, and that had spent a few hours only on Cuddy’s farm; and as the sheriff refused to allow her to cook them for him, she placed them upon a blanket in the centre of the floor, upon which she and Cuddy were accumulating the articles that the negro wished to take to jail with him. The pile rapidly increased. Old coats and shirts, a feather pillow, a fiddle, a prayer-book, a pair of long boots filled with flax-seed, were added to the contents of the blanket.
“Come, come,” said the sheriff; “you can’t take all that along with you. How are you going to carry it?”
“I guess you’ll hab ter tote it for me, Mass’ Cranston, I’se dat bad wid the rheumatiz.”
This was more than the constable had bargained for. This arrest of old Cuddy was more than half a joke, and was done at the instigation of several farmers who hoped thus to obtain some satisfaction for the many debts Cuddy had argued and twisted himself out of paying. They had all fancied that the terrified politician would gladly pay over the three dollars at once, as it was well known that Rosann had a good stockingful of silver dollars hidden under the hearth-stone—and one of her stockings full of silver was well worth having. The constable was on his way to attend to other and more pressing duties, and had but little time to spend over this arrest; much less did he wish to ride to Kingston jail carrying a great pack of Cuddymonk’s clothing and possessions behind him. He told Rosann to remove half of the articles from the blanket, and a long and wordy argument with the “Gov’nor” arose over every relinquished treasure, ending in the constable’s complete rout when he attempted to leave the foot-stove behind and to pour the flax-seed out of his boots. “I can’t do dat, noway,” said Cuddy; “it’ll spoil deir shape ef I don’ keep flax-seed in ’em, an I’se afeard I can’t get none in jail.” At the end of half an hour the blanket with its contents was rolled into a great, irregular, unwieldy bundle and strapped on the horse’s back.
The man of law mounted his horse, and with his prisoner passed slowly down the narrow lane and through the rocky cross-road under the feathery pale-green foliage and sweet-scented pink-and-white blossoms of the graceful locust-trees that form such a glory in early summer by all the roadsides throughout sunny Narragansett. Flickering patches of glowing sunlight fell through the clusters of peachy locust-blossoms on the stone walls and hedgerows, that were a great, luxuriant, tangled garden of faintly perfumed wild flowers. The leaves of sweetbrier and bayberry sent out a pungent, spicy odor that mingled with the vapid and cloying sweetness of the locust-blossoms. Great fields of clover wafted their fresh balm in little puffs of pure sweetness that routed the combined fragrance of locust, bayberry, and brier. Thousands of bees hummed over the sweet, sunny fields and in the fragrant, flowering branches—Cuddy’s own bees gathering for him the luscious honey he loved. Singing-birds flew lightly and warbled softly around. The tropical blood of the old negro fairly glowed with the sense of light and perfume and melody and warmth, and he laughed aloud with sensuous delight as if the road to jail lay through Paradise.
He hobbled painfully, however, even in the warm sunlight, and he frequently sat down on a sunny stone to rest his rheumatic old bones; but his tongue never ceased wagging, and he poured forth to the constable a flood of political, ethical, physical, legal, spiritual, meteorological, thaumaturgical, and medical advice, and also a complete local history of past events in Narragansett. A flame of youth and memory and happiness seemed kindled by the glorious summer day in his heart and brain, though his poor body was too stiff and worn to renew also its activity and youth.
At last he said, smilingly, to the constable: “Mass’ Cranston, ef you’ll go de ribber road an’ wants ter let me stop ter Kernel Gardiner’s I kin get some money; he owes me five dollar for honeycomb.”
Gladly did Sheriff Cranston consent, though Colonel Gardiner’s house was two miles out of the way, for he saw now a prospect of release from his cumbersome charge. “Here, Cuddy,” he said, “we sha’n’t get to the Colonel’s for two hours at this rate—you talk so much and walk so little. You get up and ride and I’ll walk for awhile, then we shall get along faster.”
The old negro, with the constable’s assistance, mounted and smiled with delight; for he loved a horse, as do all of his race. A gleam of humor twinkled in his eye as he urged on the sturdy sorrel, a half-blooded Narragansett pacer, until she ambled along at a rate that forced the constable to walk at an uncomfortably rapid and perspiring pace. Nor was Mr. Cranston altogether comfortable mentally. He winced several times in his progress at the laughing inquiries and jeers of the farmers that he saw in the field or passed in the road; and the shouts of the district-school children at the “Corner,” who chanced to be “out at recess” as the “Black Gov’nor” and his white foot-runner coursed along, made him keenly conscious that the dignity of the law was not fully preserved, either in his hurrying, panting figure or in the grotesque appearance of short-legged Cuddy. For the Narragansett pacer, like others of her race, was phenomenally broad-backed; and Cuddy’s short, stiff legs, clad in their unsightly, flapping tow tongs, stuck out at an absurd angle, showing a long expanse of skinny, bare ankles that looked like yellow turkey-legs; and the enormous uncurried leather shoes that he had donned, in which to walk in comfort to jail, looked twice as large as ever in that prominent position. The constable had an uneasy suspicion that Cuddy had retained his tow tongs and long-tailed coat, and had put on his old black satin brass-buckled stock and red woollen comforter and great moth-eaten fur cap—the worst clothes he had in the world—in order to look as ridiculous as possible, and thus guy his captor. But the cheerful yellow countenance of the prisoner bore not a trace of any possibility of ever cherishing a sinister design.
When they reached the great gambrel-roofed house of Colonel Gardiner the negro dismounted and entered. He soon reappeared, saying, cheerfully, “I’se got de money, Mass’ Cranston.”
“Hurry up, then, and give me the three dollars,” said the constable, impatiently. “I want to get off.”
The negro stared in astonishment: “I ain’t agoin’ ter spen’ dat honey-money dat way—payin’ fer an ole dead pig I don’ owe nothin’ fer. I’se goin’ to keep it ter be comferable in jail wid. Didn’ yer hear Rosann say, ‘Keep comferable, Cuddy?’ Dat’s why I brung de foot-stove fer!”
The constable was wild with indignation and disgust. He had gone two miles out of his way—painfully running and perspiring while his prisoner rode at ease—and now he was farther from the end of his vexatious business than ever. He impatiently explained and argued to the stubborn negro that if he would only pay over part of the five dollars he would need no jail comforts. Still the old man was persistent in his determination; he had started to go to jail, and to jail he would go.
“I ain’t agoin’ ag’inst de course ob de law. It ’ud be a pretty scandal fer de Gub’nor not ter go ter jail when he ’rested. Set ebberybody a bad edsample. I’se er law-erbidin’ citterzman, an’ I’se goin’ ter ’bey de law ob de lan’. B’sides, Rosann she say she t’inks I get red ob my rheumatiz’ in jail. Ole Tuggie Bannocks can’t get me out nights ter witch-ride me.”
The discomfited sheriff at last rode slowly on, while Cuddy again hobbled alongside, still cheerful, still philosophizing, still advising. Mr. Cranston was puzzled. He could not abandon his prisoner, nor could he persuade or force him to pay the debt; still less could he hurry him, and the time to perform other and more important duties was close at hand. At last, completely baffled and conquered, he suddenly exclaimed: “Here, Cuddymonk, I’ve had enough of this; take your bundle, I’ll pay your debt to old Hazard and the costs, too.”
“Mass’ Cranston, is dat de way yer does yer duty? I’se agoin’ ter jail ef I hab ter walk dere alone, an’ tell de jedge dat de constable run off an’ leff me. I ain’t no runnagadore. I’se goin’ in de cause ob de right. You’se ’rested me, an’ I’se agoin’ ter stay ’rested. I nebber see a jail, anyway, an’ I wants ter see one. Times neber’ll be good in dis country till bof people an’ rulers knows erbout de instertootions ob de lan’!”
Again did the baffled sheriff explain and expostulate and seek to rouse in Cuddy a sense of pride and dread of shame. “It’s most time for ’Lection Day, Cuddy. You’ll never be elected again if you go to jail. They’ll never want a rogue for Gov’nor.”
“’Cause de Gov’nor am a rogue this year ain’t no sign de next one won’t be,” answered wise Cuddy. And when the constable had straightened out Cuddy’s ambiguous thought, he said to himself that black politics were much like white.
“I can’t see why all you blacks are so dishonest and tricky!”
“Why, Mass’ Cranston” (with an injured but unresentful air), “dey has ter be—dey so kep’ down. It all de fault ob dat unrageous ole George Washin’ton. When he a-dyin he rolls his eyes an’ say: ‘Forebber keep de nigger down’—an’ it take a hundred year to work out a dyin’ spell.”
This astounding piece of post-mortem news about the Father of his Country was new to the constable, though it was commonly believed by negroes then as now. He answered Cuddy severely and sharply:
“Who told you that nonsense? It’s no reason, anyway. There is no need for any nigger to be dishonest unless he wants to.”
“Now, Mass’ Cranston, dis’ jess de way I looks at it. Times nebber’ll be good in dis country till things is fixed an’ proputty’s divided so no one can’t be poor; den no one can’t be dishonest, cause ef dey has plenty dey won’t want ter be.”
The constable felt that it was useless to argue further with such a philosopher, and rode on for some time in silence; then he desperately exclaimed: “Cuddy, what’ll you take to go home again? I can’t bother any longer with you. I’ve got to go to Wickford to-night, and you can’t walk there.”
The old negro shook his head profoundly and thoughtfully, and sighed deeply, as though abandoning with keen regret a dearly loved and cherished plan; then he said, solemnly:
“No bribe’ll ebber soil dis hand while it fills de office ob de Gub’nor’s seat! But dey do say de best charm eber seed ter bring good luck forebber is ter look at a constable a-dancin’ ober runnin’ water. Now here’s de bridge an’ a good dancin’-floor. I’ll hole der hoss an’ sing ‘Old Charmany Fair,’ an’ you dance, ter bring good luck ter me in de ’lection next week. Den I s’pose I’ll hab ter gib up going ter jail dis time just ter please yer.”
The constable was stunned by this audacious and fairly insulting proposition; but being thoroughly convinced that Cuddy was half demented, he thought it better to yield at once to the stubborn negro’s condition, and thus save his precious and much-wasted time. He jumped from his horse and angrily yanked off Cuddy’s blanketful of jail equipage, and threw it on the ground. He glanced apprehensively up and down the road to see that there was no approaching traveller to spread the tale of his ridiculous discomfiture and abject submission, and then walked to the middle of the bridge and began to sullenly dance to Cuddy’s lively and rollicking dance-tune. The jolly song and dismal jig were nearly ended, when a most surprising and inexplicable event took place. The constable’s sedate and quiet horse gave a sudden snort, reared, broke away from Cuddy’s restraining hand, and plunged violently down the hill.
“Stop her! Stop her, Cuddy!” roared Mr. Cranston, as he suddenly ceased his forced dance and began to run.
“I ain’t agoin’ ter run none after dat ole hoss,” said Cuddy; “I’se got de rheumatiz’ too bad. You jess see ef you can’t run faster as you can dance. You can’t catch her, dough,” he called after the retreating sheriff. “I know she’s conjured by de way she run. It always do conjure a hoss to see a constable a-dancin’ ober runnin’ water.”
As the constable shouted “Whoa!” at the top of his lungs and chased wildly down the hill out of sight, Cuddy walked to the side of the bridge and threw into the water the long, sharp locust-thorn that had done such sly and good execution as a spur, as a “conjure” to the sheriff’s steed. Then he sat down by the side of his blanket bundle in the hot noonday sunlight, and he took out his fiddle and scraped and sawed to the bees and birds and butterflies like a jolly yellow Pan. And he chuckled and laughed and whistled and sang, and once he jumped up and danced through “Old Chalmouni Fair” with a brisk vigor that put to shame the unwilling and clumsy efforts of the constable, and made the tow tongs and the blue coat-tails snap and flap around his shrivelled old yellow legs. It was certainly most astonishing to see such agility and activity in a man so aged, and in one so rheumatic and so witch-ridden an hour previously. At last a passing farm-wagon picked him up and carried him and his great bundle to his own door.
As Cuddymonk replanted his early potatoes the following morning, he once more soliloquized to his wife:
“I tell you, Rosann, dat ole fool ob a Cranston won’t nebber ’rest me fer debt no more. I ain’t goin’ to raise no more pigs anyway, even ef I does get ’em somewhat cheap. ’Tatoes is better’n pigs. Times nebber’ll be good in dis country till ebberybody stops raisin’ pigs an’ plant ’tatoes; dat’s de true secret ob de pollitercul crisis ob dis land.”