WAITING TILL THE BRIDEGROOMS COME
On a hot June day a year or two ago, a tall, pumpkin-colored negro was leisurely plowing an unambitious mule in a cornfield in Lower Carolina. Minzacter Singleton was his euphonious name, and he was about 55 years of age.
As he passed up and down the furrows he whistled cheerily, for the brown earth that curled away in long waves from his plowshare was mellow and rich, and the bourgeoning corn that bristled around him, a grand industrial army, uniformed in blue green, epauletted with crimson silk and plumed with cream white tassels, was full of promise for the autumn. Here and there a convolvolus vine that had escaped the last hoeing twined lovingly around a sturdy stalk and, clambering boldly up, swung its purple, white-throated cups among the feathery blooms of the corn, where the swift-winged honey bee and the yellow-barred bumblebee plied their busy trade.
These sights, however, affected not Minzacter. He was a materialist, not a poet; and, mindful of his one-third interest in the crop that he was “laying by,” he concerned himself far more with the occasional bumping of his singletree against the corn stalks, than with the soft music of the wind harps that crept from among the broad blades as the breeze passed through them.
High up in the blue, a crow flew slowly over the field, twisting his head from side to side, while he critically inspected the work in progress; and, finding that it was good, croaked out an occasional “ckwarrow, ckwarrow.”
As the friar of the middle ages—the prototype of this black-robed fellow—unctuously took from the fields of his flock a tithe of the garnered store, so, when the blades should be stripped away and September suns harden the grain, would this “sukkus preechuh” claim the reward of his interest in, and inspection of, the growing crop. As the ominous shadow passed between him and the sun, Minzacter, looking up, said: “N’mine, bredduh! Tek care buzzut don’ dance at yo’ fun’rul dis same berry fall! You smaa’t ’nuf fuh know w’en man got gun een ’e han’, but yo’ eddycashun cyan’ specify w’en ’e come fuh tell w’en shell’ cawn got pizen een um. You fly high een de ellyment teday, tek care you don’ flew low befo’ Chris’mus come!”
Upon reaching the end of his row, Minzacter found awaiting him the burly black constable of a neighboring Trial Justice, accompanied by a middle-aged brown woman, who, as the plowman came to a halt, accosted him with: “Mistuh Singleton, I t’awt you was a juntlemun, but I come to fin’ out you cyan’ specify as a juntlemun, ’cause you run’way en’ lef’ me obuh to Goose Crik, en’ gone en’ marry Paul Jenkin’ grumma jes’ ’cause ’e got fo’ cow en’ I ent got no cow. You run’way en’ lef’ yo’ lawfully lady, en’ I come to tek you to de Trial Jestuss fuh t’row you een Walterburruh jail.”
With apparent nonchalance, Minzacter said: “Go ’way, gal! Who you call husbun’? I nebbuh see you sence I bawn. I gots no time fuh hol’ cumposhashun wid eb’ry w’ich en’ w’y ’ooman dat come ’long de road. Dis cawn gots to lay by.”
Julia Singleton, the ecru claimant, left him with the threat that she would go home and fetch the marriage “stuhstiffikit” to prove that Minzacter was her lawful husband.
Sure enough, on the day set for the preliminary examination, she appeared with not only the marriage certificate, but accompanied by her brother and the Rev. Sancho Middleton, the Goose Creek “locus pastuh,” who was alleged to have performed the ceremony.
Upon being arraigned for bigamy, Minzacter denied indignantly any knowledge of the woman. The “stuhstiffikit” was put in evidence, but as it read simply, “I marry Mistuh Singleton to Missis Singleton,” the Trial Justice ruled that it couldn’t “specify.” The claimant’s brother and the preacher had been tampered with by an agent of Minzacter’s and, at the last moment, they went back on the prosecuting witness. The brother was put up first, and Julia did the questioning.
“Bredduh,” said she, “ent you ’membuh dat een June munt’ een de same year w’en us cut down dat new groun’ ’cross Caw Caw Swamp, en’ de same time w’en Sistuh Frayjuh him had two twin, ent you ’membuh dat de pastuh renite me to dis juntlemun?”
“I yent know nutt’n’ ’bout’um,” said the traitor, “nebbuh shum sence I bawn, ent know ’e name, needuhso ’e farruh, needuhso ’e murruh. Mo’ den one punkin-skin nigguh lib een dis wull’. Yalluh nigguh’ t’ick on de groun’ same as yalluh-hammuh’ t’ick on de tree, en’, as fuh dis nigguh—nebbuh shum sence I bawn.”
“Mistuh Jestuss,” said Julia, ruefully, “I come to ketch my juntlemun, en’ my juntlemun lie. I gone en’ fetch my bredduh Sam, en’ my bredduh Sam lie. I gone en’ fetch de stuhstiffikit, en’ de stuhstiffikit lie. Now, I will ’tarrygate my locus pastuh, en’ I know berry well him ent gwine lie. Pa Sancho,” said she, turning to the sleek divine, “ent you ’membuh, suh, w’en Sistuh Frayjuh him had two twin?”
“Oh yaas, my sistuh, I ’membuh dat, ’cause dat same time Nickuhdemus Wineglass’ niece Joe, w’ich ’e had by ’e fus’ lady, git ’e foot ketch een de ottuh trap on Mistuh Fishpun’ place, en’ de doctuh haffuh cut off ’e right han’ feet close to ’e knee.”
“Well, suh, ent you ’membuh w’en you renite me to dis same juntlemun?”
“My sistuh,” said he, slowly and deliberately, “you see, dis is a berry onrabblin’ t’ing fuh yo’ pastuh fuh ’xamin’ ’e min’ ’bout. You know, all dese common eb’ryday kind’uh nigguh’ kin talk all dese gwinin’ en’ gwinin’, but de preechuh is de Lawd’ renointed, en’, w’en him open he mout’, e’ gots to quizzit ’e min’ berry close, ’speshly w’en ’e talk wid ’ooman, ’cause ’ooman so ’ceitful, ef you ent min’, him will fool de two eye’ out yo’ head; en’, fuh dictate now ’bout dis juntlemun, I mos’ kinduh t’ink I ’membuh leetle kinduh sump’n’, ’bout de time w’en I marry you to a kinduh punkin-skin juntlemun, en’ w’en I fus’ see dis juntlemun, I mos’ t’ink ’e look leetle like yo’ juntlemun, but w’en I come to saa’ch’um close en’ peruse’um puhtickluh, I mos’ kinduh t’ink maybe dis ent yo’ juntlemun.”
“Please Gawd,” said Julia despairingly, “I gone en try fuh ketch my juntlemun en’ I fetch’um yuh, en’ him lie. Den I gone en’ ketch my bredduh en’ fetch’um yuh, en’ him lie. Den I gone en’ ketch de stuhstuffikit en’ fetch’um yuh, en’ him lie; en’, fin’lly at las’, I ketch de locus pastuh en ’fetch’um yuh, en’, ’fo’ de Lawd, him lie. Now, I gwine home en’ fetch de six bridegroom’ w’at bin to dis wedd’n’ w’en I marry dis juntlemun—w’ich my sistuh Amy bin one uh de bridegroom’—en’ I know berry well dem will crucify dat dis is my juntlemun.”
At last accounts, the Justice was still awaiting their coming.