In some way it was generally understood that, supplementing the plantation prayers, “Mass Clinch,” through personal magnetism or the exercise of some former-gubernatorial authority, had had a great deal to do with speeding the going leonine guest. This rumor traveled by grapevine thirty-odd miles from Combahee to Adams Run, the abiding place of Joe Fields, the former governor’s former slave, whose confidence in “Maussuh’s” powers of accomplishment, equalled the Mohammedan belief in the esteemed Prophet’s ability to stock the Hereafter with Houris. It was true that “Maussuh” had commanded the roaring to cease—and it did, but Joe’s imagination insisted upon supplying all the “corroborative detail.”
Joe foregathered with some of his friends at the railway station, for things were not going pleasantly at home. His wife Philippa was one of those hard-working, aggravating creatures who, by her very industry and self-abnegation, forced upon the lordly loafer by whom she was husbanded a sense of his own inferiority. Philippa worked out among the white people, cooking and washing and scrubbing, while Joe rode about on a mortgaged horse or ox and boasted as a Sir Oracle at the Cross Roads or the station. Philippa was always willing to feed Joe, but she was none the less ready to season his food with the sauce of her tongue, and whenever she came home, her sense of duty urged her to remind Joe of his shortcomings. Once a fighter, hard work and scanty food had worn her body and somewhat broken her spirit, and she no longer thrashed her grown daughter Christopher Columbus as she once did, “jes’ ’cause ’e look lukkuh ’e pa,” but Joe, having to take the sauce with the meat, seldom wasted time in replying that he could utilize in eating, and thus the more speedily put himself out of earshot. Once away among his cronies, however, he expressed himself boldly and truculently. “Da’ ’ooman keep on fuh onrabble ’e mout’ ’tell uh w’ary fuh yeddy’um. ’E stan’ sukkuh briah patch w’en blackberry ripe. ’E gi’ you bittle fuh eat, but ’e ’cratch you w’ile you duh eat’um! Him iz uh fait’ful ’ooman fuh true, en’ ’e lub fuh wu’k, but w’en him dey home, uh yent fuh hab no peace. Seem lukkuh nutt’n’ wuh uh do nebbuh suit’um. Ef uh seddown een me rockin’ cheer duh fiah fuh tek me res’ w’ile uh duh nyam me bittle, ’e fau’t me fuh dat. Same fashi’n ef uh git ’puntop me oxin fuh ride to de Cross Road, oonuh kin yeddy’um talk ’bout uh lazy man ent wut!”
“’E ebbuh fau’t you w’en you got axe, eeduhso hoe een yo’ han’?”
“Who, me? Me fuh hab hoe een me han’? No, suh! Maussuh’ nigguh ent fuh hol’ hoe! Wuffuh me haffuh hol’ hoe w’en uh hab po’buckruh nigguh fuh wife? Him fuh hol’ hoe! Philpuh’ maussuh duh po’ buckruh f’um town. Him binnuh bake bread ebbuh sence slabery time. Wuh him ebbuh do? Him ebbuh kill lion?”
“Kill lion! Wuh you duh talk ’bout nigguh? Whoebbuh you ebbuh yeddy kin kill lion?”
“My maussuh fuh kill’um!”
“Go’way, Joe! You duh dream. Een de fus’ place, no lion ent fuh dey een dis country, een de two place, you ent got no maussuh, en’ een de t’ree place, ef you iz bin hab maussuh, him ent able fuh kill no lion.”
“Me yent hab no maussuh! Enty you know suh uh nyuse to blonx to Mass Clinch Heywu’d to Lewisbu’g plantesshun ’puntop Cumbee? Oonuh eegnunt nigguh’, oonuh yent know suh him hab t’ree t’ous’n’ acre’ rice en’ mo’nuh t’ree t’ous’n’ nigguh’ en’ mule en’ t’ing’? Oonuh nebbuh yeddy ’bout da’ lion wuh git’way f’um de sukkus to Orangebu’g todduh day en’ gone down Sawlketchuh swamp ’tell ’e git Cumbee, en’ ’e run all Maussuh’ nigguh’ out ’e fiel’ en’ ’e mek Maussuh’ ob’shay, Mistuh Jokok, fuh climb tree?”
“Nobody nebbuh yeddy ’bout’um, Joe, en’ you nebbuh yeddy ’bout’um. Hukkuh you fuh yeddy ’bout’um? You bin Cumbee?”
“Uh yent bin no Cumbee, but uh got uh titile lib on Maussuh’ place Cumbee, dat how uh yeddy ’bout’um.”