“THE WILES THAT IN THE WOMEN ARE”
For many years old John, as country coachman for the late Governor Aiken, periodically drove a pair of switch-tailed mules to the Governor’s carriage, making round trips between Jehossee Island and Adams Run station, whenever his employer came from Charleston to visit the great rice plantation. John was a trim and finicky old darkey, with quite a manner, and, in his old beaver hat and long-tailed coat, made a notable figure among the darkeys usually loafing about the station.
Low-country negroes never miss a train. Journeying by rail, they take no chances, but invariably reach the station several hours ahead of train time, where, chattering and gossiping, the waiting time passes quickly and pleasantly.
Among these groups old John, with his long-handled whip of plaited buckskin, correctly looped, and carried coachman fashion, moved and exchanged pleasantries. He, too, was always ahead of time, and his docile mules, switching their long, untrimmed tails about, and hitched to the only closed carriage in the community, were always objects of interest to the station idlers.
“Uncle John, mekso oonuh ent shabe dem mule tail?” inquired one of a group that squatted upon the platform.
“Sistuh, you ebbuh yeddy ’bout Johossee muskittuh’?”
“No, suh.”
“Ahnhn, uh t’awt so. Gal, you ebbuh see blackbu’d’ ’puntop’uh rice rick? You is shum, enty? Berry well; dem muskittuh’ een Johossee maa’sh stan’ same fashi’n. W’en dem light ’puntop’uh mule, dem kibbuhr’um ’tell oonuh cyan’ see dem haa’ness! One time, jis’ attuh daa’k, uh binnuh dribe comin’ een late f’um Adam’ Run, en’ w’en uh ’trike de causeway, all ub uh sudd’nt uh nebbuh yeddy no mule’ foot duh trot ’puntop’uh de groun’! De cyaaridge duh moobe, but uh yent yeddy no soun’ f’um de mule’ foot. Uh say tuh mese’f, eh, eh, duh warruh dish’yuh? Uh look ’gen, en’, uh ’cla’ tuh goodness, de muskittuh’ dat t’ick ’puntop de mule’ belly, dem hice’um up off de groun’, en’ duh flew t’ru de ellyment duh cya’um ’long! Dem wing’ duh sing sukkuh bee duh swawm, en’ de mule’ duh trot wid all fo’ dem foot, but ’e nebbuh tetch no groun’! Uh nebbuh do nutt’n ’tell uh cross de bridge, ’cause de bridge mek out’uh pole, en’ dem berry slip’ry duh night time, en’ uh glad de mule’ ent haffuh pit dem foot ’puntop’um, but attuh uh done cross de bridge, uh tek me lash en’ uh cut de mule’ two’t’ree time onduhneet’ dem belly, en’, uh ’cla’ tuh my Mastuh, t’ree peck uh muskittuh’ drap ’puntop de groun’ en’ uh yeddy de mule’ foot duh trot ’gen een de road! So, attuh dat, uh nebbuh shabe de Gub’nuh’ cyaaridge mule’ tail no mo’, en’ now you shum stan’ dey, dem kin lick muskittuh’, fly en’ t’ing’ same lukkuh hawss.”
So old John, coachman and raconteur, a faithful and respected servant, lived his days, which were long, and when at last he was gathered to his fathers, his funeral was the talk of the colored countryside, and his grave, ornately decorated with broken bits of old blue china and the stone bottles in which Bass’ ale had once been imported, was much admired by those whose sad occasions brought them to the plantation God’s-Acre under the spreading live-oaks.
“Eh, eh, Buh John sho’ hab uh fine grabe.”