CHAPTER IX
TARKAR LIFE IN AMERICA
Magazine Point--the site of Meaher’s mill and ship-yard--though but three miles from Mobile, was inaccessible, except by water or a circuitous route of some miles by land. Between the two places lay an impenetrable swamp and forest. Red clay hills rolled away from the northern border of this jungle, diversifying the strip of country between Three Mile Creek and Chickasabogue. This extensive area was known as Meaher’s hummock and was thickly wooded by a suburb forest of native trees--pine, cypress, bays, magnolias, beech, junipers, gums, and oaks. These had sheltered the goings and comings of many peoples. This place had been beloved by the Indians; some still lingered on among what the Tarkars called the “high trees,” living in their pine-bark tepees. During the Spanish régime it had been included in the grant of land known as the St. Louis tract, and Dr. Charles Mohr points out in his _Plant Life in Alabama_ that it must have been a feeding place for migratory birds, for tropical plants are found there which are not known to other parts of the coast. Near the mouth of Chickasabogue, overlooking the river, there is a prehistoric shell-mound, overgrown by patriarchal live-oaks, hundreds of years old, and on this the Tarkars had their first dwellings. Much has been told and written by casual visitors of the queer rites and superstitions of “Africa-Town”--the little cluster of huts which have long since been abandoned--none of which is substantiated by fact or by the actual knowledge of those who have known and appreciated the Tarkars. But nothing has been told of the other superstitions with which this region fairly reeks.
Until the saw-mills became so active there were old beeches near Chickasabogue and Hog Bayou, bearing seventeenth, eighteenth, and early nineteenth century dates and curious signs which substantiated the belief of the credulous and imaginative that through this district there was much hidden treasure--treasure buried by early adventurers, by the pirates, and in later times by members of the Copeland gang--and safely guarded by the spirits of those who had concealed it. Though this tract is now largely cleared and settled, these traditions and ghost stories are still told and believed by the negroes, creoles, and ignorant whites. Poinquinette, an old creole fisherman and a repository of interesting lore, has related some of his personal encounters with the Magazine Point ghosts, and so real are they to him, and so vivid his narrative, that his listeners are thrilled with a sort of belief. By a dream it was once made known to him and several companions (Nelson, Sales, Moody, Ebernezar Fisher, and a man named Robinson) that there was a treasure buried just below Turner & Oats’s mill. The spot was thickly wooded--high trees and low shrubs--yet not so dense that they could not see about them--even a bird was visible as it flew through the brush. They went early one Friday morning and began digging at seven o’clock. Almost as soon as their spades touched the earth, the woods began to resound with voices--child voices--and they wondered where children’s voices could come from, but went on with their digging. As the excavation progressed, the sounds came nearer--there were calling and crying and hissing--until finally the voices were right at them and surrounding them. They could hear the voices but could see nothing. Then the voices passed by them with a whirr and back again into the bushes where they were still heard. By this time the hole was some ten feet deep. Nelson Sales, who had had more experience with spirits than the others, offered to go back into the woods and talk to the voices. He was confronted by a fearful apparition--a great blue bull with eyes of fire and a tail as large as a hogshead. It dashed passed him, charged across the hole, and as it went over threw all the earth back, completely filling the excavation. They were all thoroughly frightened and would not go back until they could get the negress Clara Randall, from Charleston. Poinquinette was loud in his praises of this woman, who could see and talk to spirits and was not afraid of them.
She built a tent and camped alone for three days and nights at the scene of their labor. She set a table, provided with milk from a white cow, wine, and honey--inveigling the invisible ones and tempting them by food to give up the secret of the buried treasure. At the end of the third day her persuasions prevailed, and the spirits reluctantly made known the place. Next morning she walked to the spot and placed her foot where the men should dig. They fell to work and had not dug more than twenty minutes, before the top of the treasure-box was uncovered. They rapidly cleared the earth from around it and there lay before their eager wondering eyes a cedar chest which measured five feet in length, two and a half feet wide, and two and a half feet deep. It contained three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in gold, and Ebernezar Fisher, over-zealous and over-anxious, bored two holes in it with an auger. While he was boring the second, the woman warned him to stop--that the spirits were regretting their revelation--but Ebernezar, who was of stubborn temperament, bored on unheedful of her warning. It was a bright day--not a cloud in the sky--the sunlight filtered through the trees and fell in strong beams upon the auger. The other men, standing to one side, watched it glinting on the steel. Again the woman warned Fisher, and as she spoke his arm was wrenched from the auger. Almost at the same instant a black cloud swept across the sky, an awful gust of wind bent the great trees until they looked as if they would break, a crash of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning and the box disappeared! Then all was clear and bright again. It was a spirit storm--purely local, and seen only by the searchers after treasure. “Then all of us had to come away like sick cats and with aching hearts, because we hated to see a treasure like that disappear. It’s there somewhere to-day--and wherever it is, Ebernezar Fisher’s auger is still sticking in it.”
Another time they received intimation that they should go to Meaher’s hummock and hunt a mound and some trees bearing marks like an inverted E; then walk so many feet in a certain direction and dig. On this occasion they took old Adam Boone, a negro who was supposed to have found many hidden treasures. They found the marked trees and the mound, which was six or seven feet high and looked as if it had been built by man. They had just arrived, identified the spot, and were grouped around it talking. Ebernezar Fisher, who was tall, stood with the butt of his gun resting on the ground, and held it with one hand near the end of the barrel. Both hammers were down. Old Adam Smith was saying, “I’ve been hearin’ of this place a long time. They say several men were killed and buried here.” As the last words were uttered, one barrel of Fisher’s gun went off, and he was so startled that he threw it from him; Charlie Tell who was sitting on the ground near him caught it and as he did so the other barrel went off. Needless to add that the seekers for gold left the spot as quickly as they could and have never gone back again.
[Illustration: Charlee.]
There are places in the woods and among the hills where no one can go--unless very brave and then not to stay long--for there are sounds as of the march of soldiers, the clank of their swords, and the orders of the captains. Whoever goes to these places will have to fight the spirits and there is no hope of overpowering them, for they change their forms into those of many “varmints” and especially do they affect the ones that the intruder most fears.
Some of these superstitions were repeated to the Tarkars with the hope of drawing them out and learning just what they believed. They accepted them and Olouala offered the solution of the spirits’ faithful guardianship as it had been explained to him by American negroes. To make this guardianship effective the promise must be obtained during the life of the body. “Suppose some one has a treasure he wishes to conceal--perhaps to bury. He may pick out you who he has never seen before. Perhaps he asks, ‘Do you want to earn ten dollars?’ Of course you do, so you go with him. After he gets to the place where he wishes to bury the gold, he says, ‘I have a treasure here which I wish to bury. But I have to go away--will you promise to watch it until I come back?’ You unsuspectingly promise and as you do so you are killed and your body buried with the treasure that your spirit may guard it forever.” Instead of a person a faithful and intelligent dog or horse may be sacrificed. This, however, is not a Tarkar superstition, but is common to our negro and creole population. The Tarkars during their long residence have explored every foot of this region in their searches for game, berries, fruits, and herbs and they have never had any encounters with the Magazine Point ghosts or any intimation of their presence. Kazoola, however, naïvely intimated that he would prefer not to know where they were located, as he might have occasion to go to these places, and if he did not know where these ghosts were supposed to be, he would not be annoyed or frightened by seeing them.
The life of the Tarkars in America has not been characterized by the superstitions ascribed to them; instead their history has been one of hard work, coöperation, self-sacrifice, and a deep longing for home. Their progress has been deeply interesting. Almost entirely cut off from white influence--and that with which they came in contact during their early years in this country could scarcely inspire them with confidence, for they are keenly watchful and observed the advantage which one white took over another--yet protected by our laws, they have worked out their destiny with much more success and honor to themselves than the generality of American-born negroes or of the free blacks who were carried by the American Colonization Society back to Africa, and whose interests have been guarded and furthered by philanthropists.
When the Tarkars first came to Magazine Point all days were alike to them; they went about doing on Sundays as on other days. Some American negroes who had become interested in them and who were really their friends requested them not to work on Sundays but to gather all their women and children and go with them. They were thus introduced to a church. There they were told that the God who lived in the sky had sent a book to the people of the earth, telling them how they must live. Simple and believing, they readily accepted what was told. The Old Testament and the dualistic dogma of a God and a Devil made the same appeal to them that it had to the American negro--there was the ready response of the primitive imagination to a primitive story. In them they found an amplification of the gropings of their own minds into the spiritual. It soothed their sorrows and gave them hope. Their faith became a simple one, and that of the few old survivors is one of resignation, hope, and a perfect trust. Poleete has said: “We know not why these troubles came upon us, but we are all God’s children--we not always see the way, but his hands guide us and shape our ends.” Kazoola, in speaking of the death of his wife and of all his children, likened God to the doctor who “gives us bad medicine--it’s hard to swallow, but the doctor gives it to us to do us good. We don’t understand why.” Though Kazoola has an intense longing for home, he regards his advent to America as a part of the goodness of God and enjoys telling how after Foster had bought him at Whydah, he was stolen by one of Dahomey’s men and hidden under the white house. While concealed, he heard the surf upon the beach. Urged by an innate curiosity about the mechanism of things, he stole from his hiding-place and climbed upon the stockade fence; “I hear the noise of the sea on shore, an’ I wanta see what maka dat noise, an’ how dat water worka--how it fell on shore an’ went back again. I saw some of my people in a little boat and I holler to them. Then Captain Foster spied me, an’ he say, ‘Oh hee! Oh hee!’ an’ pulla me down. An’ I was the last to go. Supposy I been lef’ behind--what become of Kazoola? Or supposy de ship turna over, an’ de sharks eat us. Oh Lor’! God is good!”
Mrs. Foster, who always lived near the Tarkars, said they have always been gentle, amiable, and honest and much better than the average American negro; that it was their perseverance and religious zeal which built the several churches which are now at Magazine Point. There was only one among them who proved unregenerate--old Zooma who still lives--but she belonged to another tribe, the Tarkbar, and presents totally different characteristics; also different color, physical development, and tribal marks. She has been seen to make a cross and spit in the middle of it. The others do not seem to understand her motive.
After the surrender the Tarkars wished to go back to their own country but had no money. They concluded to save. They worked in the mills for a dollar a day, but could not save without help, so they said to their wives, “Now we want to go home and it takes a lot of money. You must help us save. You see fine clothes--you must not crave them.” The wives promised and replied: “_You_ see fine clothes and new hats--now don’t you crave them either. We will work together.” They made six dollars a week. Of this they could save two dollars, sometimes three, but they had rent to pay and found they could not get ahead that way, for it would take a lot of money to get home. Among themselves they talked over the injustice of their position--how Meaher had brought them from their native land and how they now had neither home nor country. Kazoola, who seems to have always been a spokesman, concluded he would present their case to Meaher. Soon after he was cutting timber (just back of where the schoolhouse now stands), Captain Tim Meaher came along and sat upon a felled tree. Kazoola recognized this to be his opportunity, stopped work, and stood looking at Meaher, all his emotion speaking through his expressive face. The captain looked up from the stick he was whittling and struck by the sorrow in the man’s face asked:
“Kazoola, what makes you so sad?”
“I grieve for my home.”
“But you’ve got a good home.”
“Captain Tim, how big is Mobile?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been to the four corners.”
“If you give Kazoola all Mobile, that railroad, and the banks of Mobile Kazoola does not want them for this is not home.”
When the old man tells this his face reflects overwhelming grief--in his eyes there is the far-away vision of home, and in a low voice he moans, “Oh Lor’! Oh Lor’!” Then he regains himself and goes on with his narrative.
“Captain Tim, you brought us from our country where we had land and home. You made us slaves. Now we are free, without country, land, or home. Why don’t you give us a piece of this land and let us build for ourselves an African Town?”
Kazoola relates Meaher’s reply very dramatically.
“Thou fool! Thinkest thou I will give you property upon property? You do not belong to me now!”
The Tarkars concluded to buy. When one reached this conclusion, the others said: “If you are going to buy, we will too.” They bought property from Meaher, who made them no concessions. They worked and saved, going half clad and living upon half rations. Though accustomed in their own country to Nature’s luxuries, they now lived on molasses and corn-bread or mush (boiled corn-meal). The men worked in the mills and their wives helped by planting gardens and fruit trees and becoming venders of fruit and vegetables. Their Tarkar home began to be a chimera; day after day new ties pushed it farther away.
[Illustration: Drawn by Emma Roche.
Olouala.]
Having no head of the tribe, and understanding that in a country of different institutions a king would be incongruous, they selected Charlee (Orsey, in Tarkar), Gumpa (African Peter), and Jaybee as judges to preside over the colony, to arbitrate their differences, and direct their lives. When disagreements came up, word would be sent each member that there would be a meeting at a certain place after dark--their only leisure time--possibly at the home of one of the judges.[22]
The offenders would be given a hearing before the whole colony--each side would be weighed and each reprimanded with a warning to “go and keep the peace.” If they again broke it, or renewed their disagreements, they were punished--Jaybee, Gumpa, or Charlee administering a whipping to the culprits. Of these judges, there lives to-day only Charlee, who has passed the century mark and is[23] tottering on the brink of the grave. Yet the nine surviving Tarkars, and each of these has seen his three-score years and ten, look upon him as the head, observe his admonitions, and never disobey him. His face is one of the most kindly and he is known among his people as never having disputed or disagreed with any one. As old as they are, if Charlee told them they could not do a thing, no matter how strong the desire, they would not disobey. The judges were not considered above reproach. If any of the colony saw one of them doing that which was wrong, he would be rebuked: “We saw you do this thing. It is not right. How do you expect us to do right if you do not show us the way?”
About ten years after the close of the Civil War, when the South was still largely under carpetbag régime, interest in elections was intense and the outcome of vital importance to the community. Opposing parties used almost any means at their command to obtain votes. Meaher went among the Tarkars, explaining the methods and significance of voting and urging them to vote the Democratic ticket. He was followed by some Republicans who promised them great rewards. They talked this new thing over among themselves and concluded that by voting the Republican ticket they would gain much good. On election day, Olouala, Poleete, and Kazoola walked, one behind the other (a Tarkar custom), to the polls at Whistler. Meaher was there; he pointed them out, “See those Africans? Don’t let them vote--they are not of this country.” They were refused so walked to McGuire’s, but Meaher who had been watching them and knew their persistency, had ridden ahead and forestalled them; they were again refused. This only whetted their desire and their determination, and they walked on down St. Stephen’s Road to the next voting place. Arriving there, Meaher was just getting off his horse. “Don’t let those Africans vote--they have no right--they are not of this country.” Defeated again, the three now wanted to vote so badly, that they put their hands together, raised them to the sky, and prayed God that He would permit them to vote. Strengthened, they walked on to Mobile and at the polls on St. Francis Street told their experience. They were informed that by paying one dollar they could vote. This they did and received a paper which they still treasure. It was their one experience in politics, and it was satisfying for they accomplished what they had set out to do, though the great promises never materialized.
Of the one hundred and sixteen Africans who were brought to this country in the _Clotilde_, there are only eight living: five women, Abaché (Clara Turner), Monabee (Kitty Cooper), Shamber, Kanko (who married Jim Dennison), and Zooma; and three men, Poleete, Kazoola (Cudjoe Lewis), and Olouala (Orsey Kan). Their Tarkar names have been used in this narrative at their request. They love them and with some pathos asked that they be used, because in some way these names might drift back to their native home, where some might remember them. This small fragment gathers on Sundays after church at the home of Poleete, Kazoola, or Abaché and discuss among themselves the things pertaining to their welfare, and they never part without speaking of their African home and telling some incident of that beloved place. Kazoola says he often thinks that if he had wings he would fly back; then he remembers that all he has lies in American soil--the wife who came from his native land, who was his helpmate and companion through the many years, and all his children. It was at some of these Sunday afternoon gatherings that he made the parables about his wife, Albiné (Celie), which are a solace to him in his sorrow and loneliness. The Sunday after her death, the Tarkars were sitting with Kazoola in his home. He sat with head bowed down, grief-stricken, and speaking no word. They said, “Lift up your head, Kazoola, and speak with us.” Kazoola lifted his head; “I will make a parable. Kazoola and Albiné have gone to Mobile together. They get on the train to go home and sit side by side. The conductor comes along and says to Kazoola, ‘Where are you going to get off?’ and Kazoola replies, ‘Mount Vernon.’ The conductor then asks Albiné, ‘Where are you going to get off?’ and she replies ‘Plateau.’[24] Kazoola surprised, turns to Albiné and asks, ‘Why, Albiné! How is this? Why do you say you are going to get off at Plateau?’ She answers, ‘I must get off.’ The train stops and Albiné gets off. Kazoola stays on--he is alone. But old Kazoola has not reached Mount Vernon yet--he is still journeying on.”
On the next Sunday they were again gathered at Kazoola’s house; again he sat with bowed head, and again they asked him to lift up his head and make another parable.
“Suppose Charlee comes to my house and wants to go on to Poleete’s. He has an umbrella which he leaves in my care. When he comes back he asks for his umbrella--must I give it to him or must I keep it?”
The listening Tarkars cried out, “No, Kazoola! You cannot keep it--it is not yours!”
And Kazoola answered, “Neither could I keep Albiné; she was just left in my care.”[25]
Kazoola never married again; he sees Albiné everywhere about the house. Everything reminds him of her. One day he was working in his corn-patch, weeding out superfluous stalks. He came to two growing together--the root of one intertwined with the other. He started to pull one out, but something within told him to stop, that thus had he and Albiné grown together and one stalk could not be pulled up without hurting the other. So he saved the two, giving them especial care, and he was rewarded by each bearing four ears of corn. These he was going to save for seed and grieves that a cow should have gotten in and destroyed them. The old man is cheerful--even merry--possessing a keen sense of humor and a lively imagination. To appreciate him fully he must be surprised at his home. There he will be found probably working in his garden barefooted, trousers rolled up above his knees; his costume clean but a marvelous piece of patchwork, even the old derby upon his head a much mended one. His patches need elicit no sympathy, for patching is an accomplishment in which he takes keen delight; even in the old days when his Albiné was alive, she would wash his clothes and lay them aside for him to patch during the evenings when the day’s work was done.
The Tarkars range in color from light to a very dark brown. All bear upon their faces the Tarkar tribal marks--two lines between the eyes and three on the cheek. While quite distinct, these marks are not disfiguring. Their teeth bear the marks of family and of kinship and vary in each. The process of marking the teeth was by pecking with a stone implement. The lower corners of Poleete’s two front teeth where they meet are pecked off, forming a wedge-shaped opening like an inverted V. When Kazoola’s teeth are closed, on one side there is a circular opening which was formed by cutting off parts of a half-dozen teeth. Six of Abaché’s upper front teeth are trimmed to make a convex opening. The Tarkars differ in feature from the American negro; it is a subtle difference but runs through the whole face. Their heads differ structurally--the line from the forehead to the chin is nearer straight. They have more top head and there is a fullness indicating plenty of intelligence--a possession they have exhibited in their neat homes and thrifty lives. Some of them have even learned to read; this was taught them by their children who have profited by the public schools. Poleete’s constant companion is a small, much worn New Testament. Their countenances naturally vary with their temperaments. Abaché’s and Kazoola’s are as open as a book--intensely emotional and capable of expressing very deep feeling. None have gotten over the shock of their early experience. When these are referred to there comes into Kazoola’s and Abaché’s faces unspeakable and indescribable anguish. Poleete’s is like a mask, unchanging, unscrutable, except for the eyes, and these--small, deep-set, watchful--are almost uncanny.
Among themselves they speak the Tarkar language. Their English is very broken and is not always intelligible even to those who have lived among them for many years. It has more the sound of the dialect spoken by Italians than that spoken by the negroes. They make almost constant use of the “a” sound as a terminal--looka, pulla, worka, etc. Their sentences are short and vivid. The few words of old Gumpa, “My people sold me and your people bought me,” accompanied by his expression, told his whole history.
They are extremely clean both about their persons and their homes, and one of their strongest objections to the average American negro is uncleanliness. Abaché parts her hair in the middle and combs it neatly back. She uses face powder, because it is refreshing and leaves a cleanly feeling. The other women are very old and feeble, except Kanko who, though old, works as a man. Her especial occupation is the breeding and raising of a fine strain of hogs. The Tarkars are very considerate of each other, and their intercourse is marked by kindness, charity, and harmony.
[Illustration: Drawn by Emma Roche.
Charlee, Head of the Tarkars.]
In strong contrast to the Tarkars is old Zooma, who is possibly the last Tarkbar. Rendered almost helpless by a century and more of years and many pounds of superfluous flesh, she sits for the most part silent and brooding in her squalid hut. If near the door or window there are no softening shadows, and the light reveals all her fat, brutal old ugliness--an ugliness, accentuated by disfiguring tribal marks--three deep gashes meeting at the bridge of the nose, and running diagonally across each cheek. Her underlip hangs away as if it had been subjected in her native land to some kind of African beautifying process. Her hair is white and the skin of her hands and feet wrinkled, resembling in texture that of an elephant, and bearing the curious gray color seen in the complexions of very old negroes. It is almost impossible to understand her broken phrases, but a daughter acts as interpreter. Brooding, she is pathetic; aroused and speaking of home she is tragic. She has in common with the Tarkars the same pitiful history and the same despair, without their resignation. For each and all, Heaven could hold no promise so rapturous as just one last vision of home. Such a vision that comes as they sit together, which bows their old heads, lays silent fingers upon their lips, and speaks to their aching hearts of perpetual summer, fertile lands, abundance of fruit--of youth, plenty, and peace--their Land of Long Ago.