Balaam and His Master, and Other Sketches and Stories. Joel Chandler Harris

Somebody ’low, ‘Yo’ marster want you.’ Den I bawl out, ‘Is Marse Berry come?’ De niggers all laugh, an’ one un ’em say, ‘Dat nigger man dreamin’, mon. He ain’t woke good yit.’

      “By dat time I done come ter my senses, an’ den I ax dem wharbouts marster is. Bimeby, when I done foun’ de white man w’at bring me in his buggy, he look at me sorter funny an’ say, ‘You know whar you lef’ my buggy: well, you go down an’ raise up de seat an’ fetch me de little box you’ll fin’ in dar. Wrop it up in de buggy rug an’ fetch it an’ put it on de table dar.’ Well, suh, I went an’ got dat box, an’ time I put my han’ on it I knowed des ’zactly w’at wuz on de inside er it. I done seed too many er ’em. It wuz under lock an’ key, but I knowed it wuz a farrar box like dem w’at Marse Berry done his gamblin’ wid. By de time I got back ter de room in de tavern de white man done had de table kivered wid a piece er cloff w’at he got out ’n his satchel. He tuck de box, onlocked it, rattled de chips in his han’, an’ shuffled de kyards. Den he look at me an’ laugh. He was de quarest white man dat ever I laid eyes on.

      “Atter while I ax ’im ef I hadn’t better be gitten’ ’long todes de eend er my journey. He ’low: ‘Lord, no! I want you ter set round yere atter supper an’ gi’ me luck. You ain’t losin’ no time, kaze I’m a-gwine plumb to Chattanoogy, an’ ef you’ll be ez spry ez you kin be I’ll take you ’long wid me.’ De ups an’ odds er it was dat I stayed wid de man. De folks named ’im Judge, an’ he was a judge, mon. ’Long ’bout nine dat night he come ter his room, whar I was waitin’ fer ’im, an’ soon atter dat de young gentlemens ’bout town ’gun ter drap in, an’ ’t wa’n’t long ’fo’ de game got started. Look like de man ain’t wanter play, but de yuthers dey kep’ on coaxin’, an’ presently he fotch out de box an’ opened up. Well, sah, I done seed lots er gamblin’ fust an’ last, but dat white man beat my time. Dey played poker, stidder farrar, an’ it look like ter me dat de man done got de kyards trained. He dealt ’em ’boveboard, an’ dey des come in his han’ ’zackly like he want ’em ter come. Ef he had any tricks like w’at Marse Berry played on folks, dey was too slick fer my eye, yit he des beated dem yuther mens scand’lous. It was des like one er dese yere great big river cats ketchin’ minners.

      “Atter dey been playin’ some little time, de white man what brung me dar ’low: ‘Boy, you better go git some sleep. We’ll start soon in de mornin’.’ But I say, ‘No, suh; I’ll des set in de cornder here an’ nod, an’ I’ll be close by ef so be you want me.’ I sot dar, I did, an’ I had a good chance ter sleep, kaze, bless yo’ heart! dem mens ain’t make much fuss. Dey des grip der kyards an’ sorter hol’ der bref. Sometimes one un ’em would break out an’ cuss a word er two, but inginer’lly dey ’d plank up der scads an’ lose ’em des like dey wuz usen ter it. De white man w’at dey call Judge he des wiped ’em up, an’ at de een’ he wuz des ez fresh ez he wuz at de start. It wuz so nigh day when de game broke up dat Marse Judge ’lowed dat it was too late fer supper an’ not quite soon ’nough fer breakfas’, an’ den he say he wuz gwine ter take a walk an’ git some a’r.

      “Well, suh, it wuz dat away all de time I wuz wid dat white man—laughin’ an’ jokin’ all day, an’ gamblin’ all night long. How an’ when he got sleep I’ll never tell you, kaze he wuz wide awake eve’y time I seed ’im. It went on dis away plumb till we got ter de Tennessy River, dar whar Chattynoogy is. Atter we sorter rested, de white man tuck me ’cross de river, an’ we druv on ter whar de stage changes hosses. Dar we stopped, an’ whilst I wuz waitin’ fer de stage de white man ’low, ‘Balaam!’ He kotch me so quick, dat I jump des like I’d been shot, an’ hollered out, ‘Suh!’ Den he laugh sorter funny, an’ say: ‘Don’t look skeered, Balaam; I knowed you fum de offstart. You’r’ a mighty good boy, but yo’ marster is a borned rascal. I’m gwine send you whar you say he is, an’ I want you ter tell ’im dis fum me—dat dough he tried ter rob me, yit fer de sake er his Cousin Sally, I he’ped you ter go whar he is.’

      “Den de man got in his buggy an’ driv back, an’ dat de las’ time I ever laid eyes on ’im. When de stage come ’long I got up wid de driver, an’ ’t wa’n’t long ’fo’ I wuz wid Marse Berry, an’ I ain’t no sooner seed ’im dan I knowed he was gwine wrong wuss and wuss: not but w’at he was glad kaze I come, but it look like his face done got mo’ harder. Well, suh, it was des dat away. I ain’t gwine ter tell you all w’at he done an’ how he done it, kaze he was my own marster, an’ he never hit me a lick amiss, ’ceppin’ it was when he was a little boy. I ain’t gwine ter tell you whar we went an’ how we got dar, kaze dey done been too much talk now. But we drapped down inter Alabam’, an’ den inter Massasip’, an’ den inter Arkansaw, an’ back ag’in inter Massasip’; an’ one night whilst we wuz on one er dem big river boats, Marse Berry he got inter a mighty big row. Dey wuz playin’ kyards fer de bigges’ kind er stakes, an’ fust news I know de lie was passed, an’ den de whole gang made fer Marse Berry. Dey whipped out der knives an’ der pistols, an’ it look like it wuz gwine ter be all night wid Marse Berry. Well, suh, I got so skeered dat I picked up a cheer an’ smashed de nighest man, and by dat time Marse Berry had shot one; an’, suh, we des cleaned ’em out. Den Marse Berry made a dash fer de low’-mos’ deck, an’ I dashed atter ’im. Den I hear sumpin’ go ker-slosh in de water, an’ I ’lowed it was Marse Berry, an’ in I splunged head-foremos’. An’ den—but, Lord, suh, you know de balance des good ez I does, kaze I hear tell dat dey wuz sumpin’ n’er ’bout it in de papers.”

      This was as far as Balaam ever would go with the story of his adventure. He had made a hero of Berrien Cozart from his youth, and he refused to dwell on any episode in the young man’s career that, to his mind, was not worthy of a Cozart. When Berrien leaped to the lower deck of the steamboat his foot touched a stick of wood. This he flung into the river, and then hid himself among the cotton bales that were piled on the forward part of the boat. It will never be known whether he threw the piece of wood into the water knowing that Balaam would follow, or whether his sole intention was to elude pursuit. A shot or two was fired, but the bullets fell wide of their mark, and the boat swept on, leaving the negro swimming around, searching for his master.

      At the next landing-place Berrien slipped ashore unseen. But fortune no longer favored him; for the next day a gentleman who had been a passenger on the boat recognized him, and an attempt was made to arrest him. He shot the high sheriff of the county through the head, and became a fugitive indeed. He was pursued through Alabama into Georgia, and being finally captured not a mile away from Billville, was thrown into jail in the town where he was born. His arrest, owing to the standing of his family, created a tremendous sensation in the quiet village. Before he was carried to jail he asked that his father be sent for. The messenger tarried some little time, but he returned alone.

      “What did my father say?” Berrien asked with some eagerness.

      “He said,” replied the messenger, “that he didn’t want to see you.”

      “Did he write that message?” the young man inquired.

      “Oh, no!” the messenger declared. “He just waved his arm—so—and said he didn’t want to see you.”

      At once the troubled expression on Berrien Cozart’s face disappeared. He looked around on the crowd and smiled.

      “You see what it is,” he said with a light laugh, “to be the pride of a family! Gentlemen, I am ready. Don’t let me keep you waiting.” And so, followed by half the population of his native village, he was escorted to jail.

      This building was a two-story brick structure, as solid as good material and good work could make it, and there was no fear that any prisoner could escape, especially from the dungeon where Berrien’s captors insisted on confining him. Nevertheless the jailer was warned to take unusual precautions. This official, however, who occupied with his family the first story of the jail, merely smiled. He had grown old in the business of keeping this jail, and certainly he knew a great deal more about it than those Mississippi officials who were strutting around and putting on such airs.