Part 15

Bulldog shuffled from one foot to the other. “It was thisaway, Jedge, Yo’ Honour. The las’ six months what you give me, they ain’t up till to-morrow. Cap’n Jim, he startin’ the big ’Geechee Canal to-morrow. Come las’ Friday, Cap’n Jim, he say, ‘Bulldog, yo’ bin a mighty good nigger this trip. Ah’m lettin’ yo’ out a couple ob days ahaid ob time. Mebby you-all be back so’s we kin staht wif the new ‘Geechee Canal together.’ Ah reckon dat Cap’n Jim be right, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, cause heah Ah is!”

As Bulldog broke into another of those infectious grins, it was necessary for Judge Barringer to rap for order, although he was forced to cough to hide his own mirth. Any other morning Bulldog might have been highly amusing entertainment, but the railbirds were calling from the Big Swamp.

“So much for that,” Judge Barringer said. “Tell us what happened. Why is this man in the hospital?”

“It was thisaway, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog repeated the formula: “Ah gits me home an’ Ah finds that a yaller Washin’ton nigger been shinin’ up to my Sally while Ah bin down on de Fahm. Yassuh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, he’s shinin’ when I gits home. I comes in de front do’ an’ he goes out de back. All Ah done, Jedge, was jes’ flicked dat nigger, ’cause he don’ move fas’ enough.”

“You just flicked him. What with?” Judge Barringer asked, as the term was a new one to him.

“Wif the back ob mah han’, Jedge, thisaway.” Bulldog made a snapping gesture with one hand; “jes’ lak yo’d flick on a fly, Jedge. Dat’s all Ah done to dat measly little nigger. He wasn’t big enough to hit.”

“So you just flicked him like you’d flick off a fly?” Judge Barringer questioned.

“Yas-suh, dat’s all, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog answered.

“And now this man is in the hospital and they don’t know when he will be able to appear. It seems to me that the last time you were here you said you had just made a pass at a man and when they got him to the hospital he was cut in ten different places.” Judge Barringer leaned back with an air of resignation. “Bulldog, you’re hopeless. I’m going to send you back to Captain Jim for another six months. For the general safety of the community at large, you’d better do your flicking on the new Ogeechee Canal.”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog answered.

Such a remark coming from any other prisoner would have been impertinence and would have been swiftly treated as such. But between old friends there are no impertinences. Bulldog turned away with a grin and ploughed his way through the crowd in the prisoners’ pen to the bench in the rear. Two Negroes got up hastily to make room for him.

The business of the court moved along swiftly. The railbirds were calling to the judge’s bench from the Big Swamp. Bulldog, on the prisoners’ bench, was thinking of the convict captain. He liked Captain Jim. “Ah guess he knowed Ah’d be back in time all right,” he mused to himself. “Well, Cap’n Jim, Ah’m comin’.”

Later that afternoon there was a meeting between the two. “Been waitin’ all mawnin’ for you, Bulldog,” was the convict captain’s greeting. “Just you run along and get your work clothes and then you can go over and clean up my quarters.”

The regular routine of the check-in was usually dispensed with in Bulldog’s case, as it was to-day. Once safe in the convict camp, he caused no trouble. He did the work of seven ordinary men and had withal the stolid patience of a work horse. Only when he was at liberty was Bulldog dangerous, like a colt turned out to grass which suddenly remembers that he can kick. Captain Jim had been busy for several minutes with the other prisoners before he realized that Bulldog still stood back of him, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. He recalled that the same thing had happened on one other occasion and grinned inwardly.

He half turned. “Bulldog, you go over and tell old Henry,” Cap’n Jim said, “to give you something to eat.”

“Yas-suh, Cap’n Jim,” Bulldog said with alacrity, his eyes brightening and his lower lip hanging expectantly at the thought of food. “Dat’s what Ah was hopin’ yo’ was goin’ to say, Cap’n Jim. Ah ain’t eat since las’ night.” The sheepish grin spread over his face. “Seems lak Ah cain’t relish de bacon and grits what dey gives up to dat city jail. Dey don’t know how to feed a nigger lak yo’ does, Cap’n Jim.”

“So that’s why you came back so soon, is it?” the convict captain said with a laugh.

“No, suh,” Bulldog answered soberly, his brows knit and his lips protruding. “Ah didn’ come back fer no perticular reason, Cap’n Jim. Now Ah stops and figgers it out, Ah guess it jus’ happen.” His face lit up with an idea as he asked with all the wonder of a small boy, “Cap’n Jim, you-all didn’ put no sign on me to make me come back?”

“If you don’t get out of here quick I’ll put a sign on you you won’t forget,” the captain exploded.

“Yas-suh,” Bulldog called back to him over his shoulder, being already half a dozen paces on his way.

Ten minutes later, garbed in his chain-gang work clothes, with a chain dangling from his waist, Bulldog poked his head through the open window of the cook shanty.

“Ev’nin’, Uncle Henry,” he said in a mellifluous tone to a gray-haired Negro in cap and apron who was ladling the contents of a huge pot set at the back of the big square stove.

Uncle Henry looked up, his face crinkled with smiles that seemed to close his eyes until they were shiny, laughing dots.

“Dat you-all, Bulldog? Sho’ nuff I jes’ dis minute ’cided you done dis’point Cap’n Jim an’ slumped a fresh ham bone an’ two pounds ob meat on it into dat soup. But, Bulldog, boy, for you I fishes it out.”

“Yas-suh, Uncle Henry, Ah knowed yo’ ain’t goin’ to see Bulldog starve. Mebbe yo’ has a handful ob dem yaller sweet yams.” Bulldog’s mouth fairly dripped.

“Hush up dat fool talk, boy,” the old cook chuckled. “Don’ it do my heart good to see them what likes they vittles? Bulldog, yo’ am de most satisfactoriest meal hound what I know.” Uncle Henry doubled with laughter, in which Bulldog, his mouth already crammed full, joined heartily.

Uncle Henry sincerely liked Bulldog. The giant never referred to the fact that Uncle Henry was a lifer. For twenty-seven years he had been a convict-camp cook. It was as a young man that, under the influence of ten-cent white mule, he had lifted a chair against his legally married wife. In Uncle Henry’s mind that dreadful event had always remained as an accident. His whole life was being freely given in atonement. When some of the younger convicts taunted him and called him the old murderer, they left a hurt that remained with Uncle Henry for weeks.

Bulldog shuffled toward the door finally with a sigh. “Ef Ah swallows another swallow, Uncle Henry, Ah busts.”

“Boy, come again when yo’s hungry; yo’ makes me proud.” The old cook chortled, looking after him.

As Bulldog turned into the lane to Captain Jim’s quarters, a small whitewashed bungalow, two hounds bayed a ferocious greeting.

“Yo’ Lady Belle, yo’ Junie, hush yo’ mouf!” Bulldog bayed back. Then he grinned and tossed the remains of the fresh ham bone over the chicken-wire inclosure. The hounds left off their racket instantly and pounced on the bone, while Bulldog leaned complacently against the inclosure and eyed them with satisfaction.

“Dem houn’ dawgs go after dat bone lak it was a runaway nigger,” he commented with approval. Though every other Negro on the place looked upon the bloodhounds as a possible Nemesis, such a thought had never entered Bulldog’s massive head. To him they were companions, and the fact that he was allowed to feed them was proof conclusive that he was above the ordinary regulations of the convict camp.

He turned from the hounds presently and made his way to a small outhouse, where he procured a pail, a whitewash brush and a scraper. Captain Jim liked things to look spick-and-span, and the timbers supporting the bungalow porch had acquired a reddish-brown mud colour from the recent rains. Bulldog proceeded at the first job that he knew would catch Captain Jim’s eye. He knew on which side his bread was buttered.

“Wasn’ it sad to see _Titanic_ sinkin’ down, Wasn’ it sad to see _Titanic_ sinkin’ down; Husban’s an’ wives, little chilluns los’ dey lives; Wasn’ it sad to see _Titanic_ sinkin’ down.”

Verse after verse, in the droning singsong of the old spirituals, kept time to the whitewash brush. The underpinning of the bungalow was certainly going to catch Captain Jim’s eye when he came up the lane.

Two and a half hours later Bulldog took up his accustomed place in line on the way to the mess hall. If he had recently gorged until he couldn’t swallow another swallow, that was not going to interfere with his doing full justice to Uncle Henry’s supper. And later, spread out at full length in the bunk room over the mess hall, he lay on his back and slept the sleep of the just. Sleeping on one’s back is said to be conducive to snoring, but Bulldog was a silent sleeper. If he was primitive in his mode of living, so, too, he was primitive in his sleeping hours. Dead to the world he was, yet ready to be instantly awake.

Once upon a time a fellow convict night guard had taken the liberty to bring his stick across the soles of Bulldog’s bare feet as he lay asleep. It was a common trick, and as the sleepers were chained to their flat bunks, the guard had only to step back out of harm’s way, while the startled sleeper rubbed open his eyes and bellowed revenge to the accompaniment of catcalls from the other prisoners. But the unlucky guard who had attempted the prank at Bulldog’s expense carried an eye that squinted forever after as a warning to all and sundry that the giant was equally dangerous, asleep or awake. It must have been that Bulldog had heard the swish of the descending stick in his sleep, for the smack of it against the soles of his feet and the whoosh of his hand striking the unwitting guard had been nearly simultaneous. So Bulldog slept the sleep of the just.

He was awake with the sun, and lay there for half an hour studying his toes, even as a small boy of five or six months studies them. When a man can do that intently for half an hour, his conscience isn’t bothering him. So to breakfast presently and to take his place at the head of the squad line. They were starting the new Ogeechee Canal and Bulldog knew that Captain Jim meant him to set the pace. It was an accepted fact that a squad line with Bulldog at its head got about a week and a half of digging done in a week. It was useless to try to drive labour out of Negro chain gangs, but to lead it out of them--that was different. It explained why Captain Jim needed Bulldog. Winter was coming along and the new drainage canal must be finished before the flood rains of spring.

The beginning was to be made some three miles away from camp, and they marched out in formation, five men to a squad. The chain-gang squad of five meant two ahead, two behind, and one in the middle. Each prisoner had a leg iron around his right ankle, to which was attached the four-foot squad chain. When they were on the march the squad chains of each squad were linked together in a common ring, so that if a man attempted to bolt on the road he would have to take four of his companions with him. Even if the bolt were successful, it was poor work for five men, chained together, to beat off pursuit in the swamp. When they worked, each man carried his own chain hooked to a snaffle sewed to his tunic.

But the work line was watched over by a convict guard whose duty it was to sit on a palmetto stump all day with a sawed-off shotgun across his knees. Sometimes a prisoner escaped, but not often.

Bulldog, at the head of the line, had never tried to escape. When his time was up he had always hurried to town in high glee, but with a certain remote feeling that sooner or later he would be coming back to Cap’n Jim. Once back, he was content to work out his time. He liked to work, he gloried in the fact that he could do the work of seven.

“Ah reckon, big boy, dey hangs yo’ dis time.” Chinkapin, so named because of his size, was the middle prisoner in Bulldog’s squad. He had spoken irrelevantly to the landscape, a dreary waste of cypress knees and cabbage palmetto extending half a dozen miles to the row of live oaks that marked the river line. No one in the squad paid any attention.

“Ah reckon, big boy, dey hangs yo’ dis time!” Chinkapin repeated.

This time Bulldog half turned his head to speak, but as he did so three turkey buzzards flapped crazily out of the swamp just ahead and absorbed his attention for the moment. By the time the buzzards had settled out of sight again Bulldog had forgotten Chinkapin.

But the little convict was not to be so readily neglected. “Ah reckon, big boy, dey hangs yo’ dis time,” he intoned once more.

“Hangs who?” Bulldog demanded bluntly. “Chinkapin, yo’ half-size nigger, shut yo’ mouf befo’ Ah sicks dem eye-pickin’ buzzards on yo’!”

“Ah ain’ kill nobody,” Chinkapin answered glibly; “dem flip-flop death angels ain’ lookin’ fo’ me.”

“What yo’ mean yo’ ain’ kill nobody? What lie yo’ fixin’ to tell now?” Bulldog had stopped and was facing his tormentor. “Who hangs who for what? Yo’ tells de truf or Ah smacks yo’ cross-eyed.”

Chinkapin had an active mind. Although he had never seen him, he had heard about the squint-eyed night guard. Bulldog towered above him. In one glance Chinkapin made full appraisal. Bulldog’s hand was the size of a ham. There was no going back now, for the big Negro was evidently riled. The three buzzards taking wing had been an omen. Chinkapin should have realized that before he pressed his point.

“Ah ain’ lyin’, Bulldog,” the diminutive one countered quickly. “My gal done tol’ me las’ night when she brung mah clo’s. Ah’m leavin’ Sa’day.”

“Who cares when yo’ leaves, han’ful? Did Ah ax yo’ when yo’ leaves? Who hangs for what? Yo’ answer me dat in de whole truf or I slaps you pas’ an’ presen’ an’ back again!”

Chinkapin shivered. The delay had stopped the whole squad line, and back along the line a convict guard was shouting. But Bulldog was intent only on the little Negro before him.

“Does yo’ answer me, Chinkapin, or does I knock you loose?” One hand, open palmed, was raised threateningly.

“Dat Washin’ton nigger died,” Chinkapin blurted out in shaking fear. “My gal tol’ me when she come las’ night.”

Bulldog’s hand dropped to his side. He stood absolutely motionless, looking blankly at the quivering messenger of bad news. For a full minute he stood there, and to Chinkapin it seemed that death itself was standing there.

“Is yo’ tellin’ de whole truf?” Bulldog demanded.

“So help me!” quavered the terror-stricken Chinkapin.

“If yo’ ain’----”

But the sentence was never finished. One of the guards, alarmed at the sudden halt, had fired into the air as a signal to the others. The report of the gun had an electrical effect on Bulldog. If the Washington Negro had died, he would hang. The three turkey buzzards, frightened by the gun, came winging past. Out of the corner of one eye Bulldog saw them.

“Stan’s yo’ back!” he commanded quickly, at the same time shoving the four other members of the squad into a huddle. That gave him about six feet of chain to work on. Swiftly he bent. The chain was coiled like magic first around one forearm and then the other. There was a grunt, the ring of metal, and the chain had parted. Bulldog dived headlong off the trail into the palmetto scrub just as the first convict guard came running up. He fired both barrels of the sawed-off shotgun point-blank in the general direction of Bulldog’s dive. Then he reloaded and fired again, keeping up the process until the other guards arrived. In a circle they closed in on the place. But the turned-back palmetto scrub revealed nothing. Bulldog was gone.

It was Chinkapin who turned an almost pasty gray face toward heaven as he exclaimed, “May de Lawd have mercy on dis pore little nigger’s soul, Ah didn’ mean no hahm!”

When he dived, Bulldog landed in the lush swamp grass and proceeded through it bellywise like a snake. He made a hundred yards that way before he got to his feet and broke into a run. The palmetto scrub was slightly higher than his head as he pressed forward ankle-deep in the slime. He came to a halt presently to get his second wind, knowing that he was safe for the immediate present. The convict guards couldn’t leave the chain gang. They would have to summon Captain Jim and a posse. By that time Bulldog would be well on his way. But where?

Half an hour later, ploughing his way through the swamp grass to the river, he was still pondering the question when his ear caught the far-away bay of a hound.

“Dere’s dat posse, sho’ nuff,” Bulldog grunted, and put on speed. He was nearing the river and higher ground, and the going was easier. The Big Swamp, on both sides of the river, was mostly tidal backwash. There wasn’t a habitation for miles ahead, and once he got to the river, Bulldog felt he could swim downstream and lose himself in the swamps on the other side. Unless the crime were a very terrible one, a white man’s posse wouldn’t break its neck searching the swamps for one chain-gang Negro more or less. Bulldog, for all his uncouthness, had a rough-and-ready knowledge of the customs of the country. But for one day the chase would be hot; the cry of the hounds, giving tongue, assured the big Negro of that. Even now the dogs seemed to have gained on him, and he stopped to listen. They were much nearer than they had been before. Bulldog’s worried face changed to reveal a grin.

“Dem houn’ dawgs ain’ on no leash. Cap’n Jim done loosed ’em!” He chortled aloud as if to convince himself that his ears had not deceived him. He cocked his head on one side and listened intently. “Sho’ nuff! Dat’s Lady Belle and Junie.”

The river line, with its row of live oaks festooned with Spanish moss, was a scant half mile away now, and the going underfoot was solid. Bulldog broke into a steady run. In a few minutes he had reached the first of the live oaks. Back in the glory days of the old South, these magnificent trees had been set out by some long-since-departed rice planter. Now their branches interlaced.

Bulldog swung himself into a tree, got up among the middle branches, ran out a good-sized limb like some giant monkey, paused, and then swung himself into the next tree. The hounds were close now; he could hear them as he climbed. But they were running the trail far ahead of the posse. Through the second tree and into the third swung the apelike giant. He kept on until he had reached the fifth, from which he dropped swiftly to the ground. He found a stout section of an old branch, tested it with the weight of his hand, and then swung back in a circle to lie in wait beside his trail.

He did not wait long. The hounds went by in full cry, Junie in the lead, Lady Belle at his heels. The bloodhound cares neither for sight nor sound, but follows his nose. Bulldog closed in behind them and grinned broadly as they came to a baffled halt at the foot of the live oak.

“Yo’ Lady Belle, yo’ Junie, hush dat racket!”

At the sound of his voice the hounds whirled to face him, baying excitedly at this strange turn of affairs.

“Yo’ heah me? Hush dat racket!” Brandishing the broken limb, Bulldog stepped toward them. “Ah feeds yo’ wiv mah own han’s and yo’ runs me down jes’ lak Ah was a runaway convic’ nigger! Junie, Lady Belle, fo’ dat Ah frails yo!”

The broken limb descended in a sidelong swish and Junie was bowled over. A split second later, in the midst of a protracted howl, Lady Belle got the same treatment. Both hounds scrambled to their feet whimpering.

“Hush dat noise! Yo’ ain’ hurt!” Again the tree branch came swishing down, but this time above their heads. The hounds were cowed. “Tracks me down lak a runaway convic’ nigger, will yo’? Now yo’ gits!” Bulldog grunted savagely. “Home, Junie! Home, Lady Belle, befo’ Ah cuts loose an’ frails yo’ good!”

With tails down, both hounds turned and fled. Bulldog sent the tree branch soaring through the air after them. It lit at their heels and sent them scurrying faster.

“Why fo’ Cap’n Jim let loose dem houn’ dawgs? He might knowed Ah’d frail ’em,” the big Negro commented philosophically. It was common knowledge that a bloodhound loose on the trail could be beaten back, or frailed, as usage had it. But time for philosophy was short. Bulldog went down to the river at a jog trot, hesitated at its brink and then dived overboard into the deep water that cut into the live-oak bank. He came up with a snort and struck out for the opposite shore.

The tide was strong and carried him well downstream, which was to his advantage in putting distance between himself and his pursuers. It was in searching for a convenient landing place that he spied a boat pulled up in a bayou. That meant someone else was there, and he allowed himself to be swept farther downstream. It also offered him means of getting upstream with much less trouble than through the swamp. He cut into shore presently, and keeping well under the bank, worked his way around to the boat. It was high and dry, and a pair of oars were tucked under the seats.

Just as Bulldog reached for them there was the reddish-brown flash of a copperhead that had been sunning itself. Outraged at being disturbed, the reptile struck. But the giant Negro was quicker and snatched his hand back out of harm’s way.

“Jes’ fo’ dat, little red snake, Ah whuffs yo’,” Bulldog grunted.

Sensing danger, the copperhead squirmed for the gunwale of the boat and the safety of the river. Once more the big Negro was quicker. His heel descended and the snake’s head was crushed.

“Whuff!” he grunted. “What Ah tell yo’?” Reaching down, he picked up the remains and tossed them on the sun-baked bank. The whole little drama had consumed not more than ten seconds. Bulldog shoved the boat into the river and clambered quietly aboard.