Part 16

Once in the current, he pulled upstream, using a long, steady, untiring stroke. As a pickaninny, a flat-bottomed river rowboat had been his hobbyhorse. It would be a full hour before the posse would get within sight of the river, he figured, even if it came that far, now that the hounds were no longer giving cry to guide it. Lady Belle and Junie had cut it straight for home.

Ten miles above the place where he had first struck the river, Bulldog pulled the boat into a bayou, beached it well up among a covering screen of scrub palmetto, and then crawled under it and went to sleep.

The frogs were singing the sun to sleep when he awoke hungry. All along he hadn’t had any idea at all where he was going, but that was a matter which could easily remain indeterminate. The gnawing at his stomach was serious. He would starve to death in the swamp; so, as a hiding place, the swamp was cast aside.

“Ah got to git me goin’,” he mumbled to himself, his lips protruding as they always did when he was perplexed. In an hour it would be dark. He decided to wait. Presently, in the growing dusk, he dragged the boat down to the river, and tucking the oars under the seats as he had found them, he gave it a heave that sent it well out into the stream. He watched while the current caught it up, nosed it around and bore it from sight in the gloom. “Dey don’ git me fo’ stealin’ no boats,” he grumbled dispassionately, “but I sho’ would relish me some food.”

The yellowest of yellow moons, as big as a house, bathed the palmettos with metallic beauty when Bulldog silently and sullenly struck off through the swamp, heading south. He was going down to the sea, but there was no romance in his going. It was the urge of his stomach that led him that way rather than striking inland. The sea coast below the Big Swamp was a series of wind-swept savannas. It was broken by innumerable inlets and fringed with islands. But there were no settlements along this strip for miles and he would be safe from the sight of men. The beaches offered clams, crawfish, and prawn. He had never been a fugitive before. He was lonely for the companionship of his kind. Most of all, he was hungry.

Hour after hour he went on and on through the swamp, another shadow among a million, yet the only one that moved. His gait was rapid, but not hurried, a relentless, ever-forward swinging rhythm of motion. If he took bearings, he took them subconsciously. He made no plan. At the sea he would find something to eat. His mind travelled no farther than that. He even forgot that he was lonely.

A sudden cry through the stillness of the night sent dread loneliness over him like a pall and stirred every fibre of him, so that he quivered where he stood, as frozen as the other million shadows about him. At once the night had a myriad of tiny sounds that mounted and mounted, until, joined with the pulsations of his own body, they seemed to roar in his ears.

But the cry that had startled him had been human. He sensed that, as he stood listening to hear it again, stood like a statue in the moonlight, motionless and breathless. Had the cry come from above or below him, from before or behind him? He couldn’t tell, but as he strained his senses he became gradually aware that he was not alone in the swamp. The moon was well overhead now, and though it was half as bright as day in the upper world, every shadow was as black as pitch. Insects droned, the palmetto leaves caught a fitful breeze and rasped dully, unseen things crackled in the undergrowth.

“Whar yo’ is?”

Bulldog jumped two yards at the sound of his own voice, not realizing that he had experienced a psychological moment, that the very stress he had put on his senses of perception had caused him to speak out, just as a householder who fancies he has heard someone outside his door will call out, “Who’s there?” And while he stood there unable to decide whether to remain or run, that human cry came to him again, this time almost at his feet.

His teeth chattered now from mental if not bodily fear. Sounds do not come from nothing; and yet, strain his eyes as he would, he saw only a cabbage palmetto and its jet-black shadow in the place from whence it seemed to him the cry had come. Still he stared at the shadow. Something was there. As he stared, he saw it take form. Slowly at first it grew round and whitish, then its shape became more definite. Bulldog was hypnotized by it now, glued to the spot where he stood. He tried to ask it what it was, but his lips refused to move. He was cold now--cold and shivering. Then, with a rush, his breath came back to him. The thing had moved and was looking at him and he knew what he saw.

“Bulldog!” the thing gasped.

“Jedge Barringer! Ah thought yo’ was a ghos’!”

“Thank God you’ve come,” the judge said weakly. “I’ve had an accident. I’m shot in the leg. Not bad, but I lost a lot of blood before I got the flow stopped. I guess I’ve crawled ten miles trying to find the river and my boat. But I’m all right now. Who’s with you? Captain Jim?”

Bulldog heard and yet didn’t hear. Judge Barringer had been hunting and had shot himself in the leg. He had tried to reach his boat and had failed. The boat in question was the one Bulldog had found and appropriated; the boat he had later set adrift. The judge thought Bulldog had been sent out to look for him by Captain Jim.

“You black hyena, don’t stand there like that!” Judge Barringer exploded feebly. “I’m no ghost. Call Captain Jim.”

“Jedge, Yo’ Honour, dey ain’ nobody heah but me,” said Bulldog, simply stating a fact.

“You mean to say you came for me alone?” Judge Barringer was suffering from a terrible ordeal and was not thinking very clearly. “But how did you know----”

He stopped. Bulldog had not come for him. No one had come for him. He had slipped off quietly to hunt alone, expecting to go on that night to Bryan Neck. The whole idea of someone coming for him had been a sort of nightmare of hope when his brain had failed to function properly. He might still be suffering from hallucinations.

“Bulldog!” He spoke to make sure this towering Negro before him was real.

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour.” Time and circumstances could not alter custom, and Bulldog’s answer was a tribute to habit.

“Bulldog, what are you doing here?”

“Jedge, Yo’ Honour, it’s thisaway,” the big Negro began.

“That’s enough,” the judge cut in with a sigh of relief. “As long as it’s you, I don’t give a damn what you’re doing here. Just give me a hand and help me get to the river. I’ve got a boat there in a little bayou between two live oaks.”

Bulldog bent and helped the judge to a sitting posture. The judge groaned and then swore.

“Dat boat, Jedge Barringer?” Bulldog asked. “Dat was’n de boat wiv de red paint on de oar handles?”

“Yes, that’s the one. So you know where it is? That makes things easier.” Judge Barringer was fast being able to think once more.

“De las’ time Ah see dat boat, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, she was gwine down de middle ob de ’Geechee all by itself,” Bulldog explained honestly.

“You mean adrift?”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, jes’ lak a ol’ tree log.”

“All right.” It was no time to bewail the loss of a boat. “Then you can take me back in your boat, Bulldog.”

“Me, Jedge? Ah swum.”

Judge Barringer put out a quick hand to Bulldog’s leg. The big Negro’s clothes were dry. “You swam across? When?” he asked warily.

“Ah reckon it mus’ ’a’ been a couple hours befo’ dinnertime,” Bulldog answered. He knew from experience it was useless to try to lie to Judge Barringer. But the thought of dinnertime prompted him to add hopefully, “Yo’ ain’t got nuthin’ to eat on yo’, has yo’, Jedge, Yo’ Honour?”

“Do you mean to tell me you broke away from the chain gang?”

“No, suh!” Bulldog answered hurriedly. “Ah didn’ do nuthin’ lak dat. It was thisaway, Jedge, Yo’ Honour: Dat Washin’ton nigger die an’ Ah cain’ see no use in cravin’ to hang by mah neck.”

Judge Barringer was thoroughly aroused now. “Who told you that nigger died?”

“Chinkapin.”

“Where?”

“He’s on de chain gang.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Befo’ de Lawd, Ah wouldn’ lie to yo’, Jedge Barringer, an’ yo’ knows it!” Bulldog said fervently.

“I mean I don’t believe that nigger died,” the judge explained.

“If yo’ believes it or don’ believes it, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, dat don’ save mah neck.”

“Well, we’ll see about that when we get back. In the meantime you can have my word for it, that nigger didn’t die.”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour. Ah’ll take yo’ word for it--on’y, we ain’ goin’ back,” said Bulldog emphatically.

“Do you mean to say you aren’t going to help me get out of here--that you’d go away and leave me?” Judge Barringer looked straight up into the face of the big Negro.

“No, suh! Ah ain’ goin’ away an’ leave yo’, Jedge Barringer, but also Ah ain’ goin’ back wiv yo’ an’ git hung by de neck for no yaller Washin’ton nigger.... Ain’ yo’ even got a san’widge, Jedge?”

Judge Barringer was rapidly, in his weakened state, becoming exasperated. “Now, you listen to me, Bulldog, and don’t be a fool. I don’t want you to hang any more than you want to hang. Chinkapin never told the truth in his life. If he said that nigger died, he meant it as a joke, and you jumped to conclusions and----”

“No, suh, Jedge, Ah ain’ jump to nuthing. Jes when Chinkapin say dat nigger die three flip-flop death-angel buzzards come flyin’ right ovah mah haid.... If yo’ ain’ even got a san’widge, we goes hungry, both of us; but, Jedge, we ain’ gwine back fo’ to git me hung.” Bulldog was adamant on that point.

“If I had a gun, Bulldog, I’d shoot you!” Judge Barringer threatened.

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog agreed solemnly. “But dat wouldn’t be gittin’ me hung by de neck. Ah saw oncet a lynch nigger an’ his neck was stretch out as long as mah arm. No, suh, Jedge Barringer, when Ah dies Ah dies so dey can put me in de coffin beautiful.”

“Can’t you do something besides talk like a fool?” Judge Barringer felt that his strength was slipping away from him. The hope that had come with Bulldog’s arrival was fast disappearing. His head sank resignedly to his chest. His brain was beginning to grow muddled again from sheer exhaustion, when he felt that Bulldog had taken him by the shoulder. From a long way off he could hear the big Negro’s voice.

“Jedge Barringer, don’ yo’ go passin’ out. Ah’ll git you home someways. Gives me yo’ arm an’ I totes you to Ossabaw.”

Ossabaw? That was an island at the mouth of the river fully fifteen miles distant. Now Judge Barringer, semiconscious as he was, knew that Bulldog was crazy. If he should be taken to Ossabaw, he would be farther away from help than ever. He would stay rather where he was. It was warm here, and quiet.

But when the black giant reached down and picked him up he made no protest. He was not even aware that he was being carried. Under this new burden, Bulldog found the going heavy in the swamp and made for the higher ground near the river bank. It was the wind coming up from the sea some two hours later that had a reviving effect on Judge Barringer. He opened his eyes to see a shadow a yard away.

“Is that you, Bulldog?” he asked.

“Yas-suh, Jedge, dis is me.”

“If you won’t do anything, why do you stay here?” Judge Barringer said petulantly in his weakness.

“Shucks, Jedge, we ain’ heah no mo’; we’s halfway to Ossabaw. Yo’ weighs like ce-ment, Jedge. When Ah gits me a li’l’ res’ we goes on.”

“Halfway to Ossabaw?”

“Yas-suh, Jedge.”

Judge Barringer lapsed again. It was useless to try to argue with the crazy hyena. If Bulldog had made up his mind to take him to Ossabaw, he would have to go, being unable to resist. He saw a picture of himself as a fellow Crusoe, fugitive from justice with a chain-gang Negro. But if that leg of his lost its soreness, if he ever was able to get around again, he swore that it would be much better for Bulldog to have hanged. A sudden jolt, a feeling that he was floating, and he knew that they were on their way.

When he opened his eyes again they were still on the go. His injured leg--it had been a flesh wound in the calf--was numb and did not pain him now. It occurred to him that he might even be able to walk. But the side-to-side sway, as he was carried along, seemed much easier; and besides, there was little weight to his body now; he felt as light as a feather. Years after, he was to look back at that moment and wonder what ever had put such a crazy notion in his head. He closed his eyes again.

“Jedge Barringer!... Jedge Barringer!” Bulldog was calling to him, but it was cold and he did not want to get up.

“Jedge Barringer!”

That was not Bulldog’s voice. He roused himself with a great effort and sat up. A bent old Negro was on his knees before him, his face a picture of despair. Suddenly it was wreathed in smiles of thankfulness.

“Jedge Barringer, yo’ is alive, thank de Lawd! Ah been callin’ yo’ fo’ de longes’ time until Ah jes’ ’bout reckon yo’ was a corp’.”

“Daddy Ike!” Judge Barringer gasped. “Where did you come from? Where’s Bulldog?”

“Down on de plantation, Jedge.” The old Negro’s face looked puzzled. “How come yo’ don’ know Ah ain’ nebber lef’ Ossabaw, Jedge?”

And then Judge Barringer remembered. Ossabaw Island was the seat of the old Depford plantation, now only a relic of the past, and Daddy Ike was the oldest Negro in the section. He still lived in the old ramshackle slave quarters and eked out a living by fishing and raising truck. Everyone knew Daddy Ike, and yet Judge Barringer had forgotten until now. This was the reason they had come to Ossabaw. It was dawn. Bulldog had been carrying him all night. He owed his life to the big Negro.

Daddy Ike misread the judge’s thoughts. “Bulldog he gone,” the old Negro said quickly. “Yo’ fergit all ’bout him, Jedge Barringer, while Ah helps yo’ to mah boat.”

“That crazy nigger’s gone? Where?”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Bulldog’s de craziest nigger in de worl’. Why fo’ yo’ an’ me gib two goobers wheah dat fool nigger’s gone? Us is gwine to git yo’ home, Jedge. How’s yo’ laig?” Daddy Ike changed the subject.

Judge Barringer smiled. “Daddy Ike, you old rascal, don’t lie to me. Bulldog saved my life. Where is he?”

“Jedge Barringer, Ah don’ know. De las’ time Ah seed him he was sittin’ in mah house eatin’ hominy grits an’ side meat an’ yams an’ black-eye peas; an’ lissen to me, Jedge, if Ah don’t git yo’ home and git back dat crazy nigger’s gwine to eat me into de po’house. But Ah don’ know wheah he is now.”

“All right,” Judge Barringer laughed. “We’ll see about that later. Where’s your boat, Daddy Ike? If you’ll give me a hand I think I can hobble.”

“Dat’s right, Jedge, lets us go. Heah’s de boat. Bulldog he swum across to de island an’ like to scairt me senseless, comin’ up to mah do’ in dem chain-gang clo’s. Ah’d ’a’ come across to yo’ right away, Jedge, but dat crazy Bulldog said Ah got to feed him fust. If we don’ get yo’ home he’ll eat up all mah winter rations!”

With the old Negro’s help, Judge Barringer managed to bear his weight on the uninjured leg and hobble down the few feet of bank to the boat. Ossabaw Island lay like a black blob in the early morning mist a quarter of a mile away. But their way lay in the opposite direction, and Daddy Ike, for all his eighty-odd years, lost no time in pushing off. Bulldog had told him to bring back a pair of overalls and a shirt, and he wanted to get back as soon as possible before the ravenous giant ate him “into de po’house.” Also he was genuinely alarmed for the escaped convict’s sake and wanted him to get away before the law came after him.

“Yo’ ain’ gwine to say nuthin’ ’bout Bulldog, is yo’, Jedge?” the old man asked presently. “Dat nigger’s crazy, but fo’ all he size, he’s jes’ lak a baby.”

“I’ll let you know later,” Judge Barringer said absently. He was pondering the question of just what was to be done with Bulldog. He knew that the big Negro would not go far. It was only a matter of time before he would be caught in some shanty or other, giving way to his appetite. But Judge Barringer was also convinced in his own mind that the story of the Washington Negro’s death had been a hoax--a hoax that had worked too well. And when they landed at one of the first river settlements where the judge could get a conveyance that would take him back to the city, the first thing he did was to get to a telephone and wait while he had his secretary at the other end give him a report from the hospital.

“Discharged yesterday, Judge,” the secretary reported. “It would be pretty hard to find him now. After his experience with Bulldog I guess he’s left town.”

“All right; didn’t want him anyway,” said the judge. “Tell Dr. Rafe Kirby to go out to the hospital and wait for me. I’ll be there in about an hour, bringing an accident case.”

Before the secretary could question him further, he hung up the receiver. Judge Barringer hated personal publicity unless it had to do with politics.

He turned to the storekeeper, whose telephone he had used. “Would you mind telling that old nigger out there I want to see him a moment?”

Daddy Ike came in with his hat in his hand. “What dey say, Jedge?” he asked anxiously.

“That Washington nigger was let out of the hospital yesterday and by now he’s halfway home.”

“Praise de Lawd for dat!” breathed Daddy Ike.

“And tell Bulldog when he finishes eating that he is to come and report to me before he goes back to the chain gang,” Judge Barringer said. The least he could do was suspend sentence, but if possible, he wanted to do something more substantial than that.

* * * * *

Thorough examination by Dr. Rafe Kirby showed that the gunshot wound was superficial. The hardship of crawling mile after mile through the swamp had caused most of the judge’s suffering. He was promised that he would be around with the aid of a crutch in a day or two.

“But I thought you went after railbirds, Judge,” Dr. Kirby said with a grin when the patient’s wound had been dressed.

“Rafe, if you-all don’t want me to lose my reputation as a gentleman before this young lady nurse, get out of here quick,” Judge Barringer bellowed.

* * * * *

It was the following Monday, still hobbling with the aid of a crutch, that Judge Barringer returned to the bench. There had been no word from Bulldog and he did not quite know what to make of it. When the first case was called, a small Negro, whose head was almost completely shrouded in bandages, stood before him, Judge Barringer looked down compassionately.

“Well, what did you run into--a truck?” he asked.

There was a movement in the prisoners’ pen. The Monday-morning crowd was being swayed by some unseen force. Then the force came into view in the shuffling, sheepish form of Bulldog.

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, heah Ah is!”

“Bulldog!”

Judge Barringer was accustomed to almost anything that might happen in his court, but for the moment he was nonplussed. “Didn’t Daddy Ike bring you my message?”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, it was thisaway----”

“Why didn’t you come to me if you got my message?” Judge Barringer interrupted, his dismay turning to reproof.

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, Ah’m comin’ to dat. It was thisaway,” Bulldog pleaded apologetically: “If yo’ was to take dem rags offen dat little half-size nigger, yo’d see it was Chinkapin hidin’ behin’ ’em.”

“Chinkapin!”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, de same what tol’ me dat lie ’bout dat Washin’ton nigger dyin’. Dis heah Chinkapin cause all de trouble, Jedge, Yo’ Honour. If it wasn’ fo’ Chinkapin’s lyin’, Jedge, Ah wouldn’ ’a’ bus’ loose from de chain gang. If it wasn’ fo’ dat little han’ful lyin’, I wouldn’ hab tote’ yo’ all de way to Ossabaw. Don’ blame me fo’ totin’ yo’ to Ossabaw, Jedge; blame Chinkapin; he done it. Dat Chinkapin nigger’s to blame fo’ ev’y las’ bit ob de trouble. So’s when Ah’m comin’ from Ossabaw Sa’day night, comin’ to see you, Jedge, Ah bumps into dat Chinkapin an’ Ah jes nachelly squeeze his lyin’ haid fo’ him and gib him a couple ob shakes and dat’s all.”

“Why did you wait until Saturday to come?” Judge Barringer asked.

“’Deed, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, how come Ah could come befo’ Sa’day? Cap’n Jim didn’ let Chinkapin loose offen de chain gang until Sa’day,” said Bulldog honestly.

Judge Barringer did not smile this morning. The business before him was too personal. The little bandaged Negro had lied to Bulldog. But in breaking away from the chain gang, Bulldog had been the means of saving the judge’s life, for he might never have been found in the swamp. It had been his purpose to suspend sentence on the big Negro, to take him under his wing and get him a job. Now that seemed impossible.

“What do you think I ought to do, Bulldog?” he asked the giant gravely.

“Who, me?” Bulldog looked incredulous. “Shucks, Jedge Barringer, Ah’ don’ know what yo’ ought to do, but Ah knows what yo’ is gwine to do.”

“What’s that?”

Bulldog grew suddenly serious. He had heard enough tales of road gangs in the northern counties of the state, where it was cold in winter, where the prisoners were badly treated, and the food was poor.

“Yo’ ain’ funnin’ wiv me, Jedge, Yo’ Honour? Yo’ ain’ holdin’ it agin me for totin’ yo’ all de way down to Ossabaw? ’Deed, Jedge Barringer”--and here pathos entered Bulldog’s voice--“’deed, if yo’ sen’ me anywheres besides to de Fahm, yo’ll bus’ Cap’n Jim’s heart.”

Judge Barringer sighed a sigh of relief. “All right, Bulldog, you win. Six months on the Fahm. And you, Chinkapin,” he said, turning to the little Negro--“you go with him.”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog grinned. As long as he could be under the gentle tutelage of Captain Jim and Uncle Henry, the cook, he was happy.

“An’ yo’ kin trus’ me, Jedge Barringer,” he said solemnly. “Ah won’ bus’ loose no mo’.”

HE MAN

BY MARJORY STONEMAN DOUGLAS

From _Saturday Evening Post_