Short Stories for English Courses

V >> Various (Rosa M. R. Mikels ed.) >> Short Stories for English Courses

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Such was the negro's earnestness that he put one foot in the
gutter, and fell heavily against his master. The parson threw him
off angrily.

"Thar, now! Why, Colossus, you most of been dosted with sumthin';
yo' plum crazy.--Humph, come on, Jools, let's eat! Humph! to tell
me that when I never taken a drop, exceptin' for chills, in my
life--which he knows so as well as me!"

The two masters began to ascend a stair.

"Mais, he is a sassy; I would sell him, me," said the young
Creole.

"No, I wouldn't do that," replied the parson; "though there is
people in Bethesdy who says he is a rascal. He's a powerful smart
fool. Why, that boy's got money, Jools; more money than religion,
I reckon. I'm shore he fallen into mighty bad company"--they
passed beyond earshot.

Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the tavern kitchen,
passed to the next door and entered the dark rear corner of a low
grocery, where, the law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold
to slaves. There, in the quiet company of Baptiste and the grocer,
the colloquial powers of Colossus, which were simply prodigious,
began very soon to show themselves.

"For whilst," said he, "Mahs Jimmy has eddication, you know--
whilst he has eddication, I has 'scretion. He has eddication and I
has 'scretion, an' so we gits along."

He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying half his
length upon the damp board, continued:

"As a p'inciple I discredits de imbimin' of awjus liquors. De
imbimin' of awjus liquors, de wiolution of de Sabbaf, de playin'
of de fiddle, and de usin' of by-words, dey is de fo' sins of de
conscience; an' if any man sin de fo' sins of de conscience, de
debble done sharp his fork fo' dat man.--Ain't that so, boss?"

The grocer was sure it was so.

"Neberdeless, mind you"--here the orator brimmed his glass from
the bottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye--"mind you, a
roytious man, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body-
sarvants, can take a LEETLE for de weak stomach."

But the fascinations of Colossus's eloquence must not mislead us;
this is the story of a true Christian; to wit, Parson Jones.

The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee M. St.-Ange
declared he could not touch; it was too wretchedly bad. At the
French Market, near by, there was some noble coffee. This,
however, would have to be bought, and Parson Jones had scruples.

"You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which
it does so in--"

"Oh, yes!" cried St.-Ange, "conscien'; thad is the bez, Posson
Jone'. Certainlee! I am a CATHOLIQUE, you is a SCHISMATIQUE; you
thing it is wrong to dring some coffee--well, then, it IS wrong;
you thing it is wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price
--well, then, it IS wrong; I thing it is right--well, then, it IS
right; it is all 'abit; c'est tout. What a man thing is right, IS
RIGHT; 'tis all 'abit. A man muz nod go again' his conscien'. My
faith! do you thing I would go again' my conscien'? Mais allons,
led us go and ged some coffee."

"Jools."

"Wat?"

"Jools, it ain't the drinkin' of coffee, but the buyin' of it on a
Sabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools it's again' conscience,
you know."

"Ah!" said St.-Ange, "c'est very true. For you it would be a sin,
mais for me it is only 'abit. Rilligion is a very strange; I know
a man one time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday
evening. I thing it is all 'abit. Mais, come, Posson Jone'; I have
got one friend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some
coffee. Come; Miguel have no familie; only him and Joe--always
like to see friend; allons, led us come yonder."

"Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know," said the shamefaced
parson, "I never visit on Sundays."

"Never w'at?" asked the astounded Creole.

"No," said Jones, smiling awkwardly.

"Never visite?"

"Exceptin' sometimes amongst church-members," said Parson Jones.

"Mais," said the seductive St.-Ange, "Miguel and Joe is church-
member'--certainlee! They love to talk about rilligion. Come at
Miguel and talk about some rilligion. I am nearly expire for me
coffee."

Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair and rose up.

"Jools," said the weak giant, "I ought to be in church right now."

"Mais, the church is right yonder at Miguel', yes. Ah!" continued
St.-Ange, as they descended the stairs, "I thing every man muz
have the rilligion he like' the bez--me, I like the Catholique
rilligion the bez-for me it IS the bez. Every man will sure go to
heaven if he like his rilligion the bez."

"Jools," said the West-Floridian, laying his great hand tenderly
upon the Creole's shoulder, as they stepped out upon the
banquette, "do you think you have any shore hopes of heaven?"

"Yass!" replied St.-Ange; "I am sure-sure. I thing everybody will
go to heaven. I thing you will go, et I thing Miguel will go, et
Joe--everybody, I thing--mais, hof course, not if they not have
been christen'. Even I thing some niggers will go."

"Jools," said the parson, stopping in his walk--"Jools, I DON'T
want to lose my niggah."

"You will not loose him. With Baptiste he CANNOT ged loose."

But Colossus's master was not reassured.

"Now," said he, still tarrying, "this is jest the way; had I of
gone to church--"

"Posson Jone'," said Jules.

"What?"

"I tell you. We goin' to church!"

"Will you?" asked Jones, joyously.

"Allons, come along," said Jules, taking his elbow.

They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several corners, and by
and by turned into a cross street. The parson stopped an instant
as they were turning and looked back up the street.

"W'at you lookin'?" asked his companion.

"I thought I saw Colossus," answered the parson, with an anxious
face; "I reckon 'twa'n't him, though." And they went on.

The street they now entered was a very quiet one. The eye of any
chance passer would have been at once drawn to a broad, heavy,
white brick edifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag-pole
standing out like a bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a
pair of lamps hanging before a large closed entrance. It was a
theatre, honey-combed with gambling-dens. At this morning hour all
was still, and the only sign of life was a knot of little barefoot
girls gathered within its narrow shade, and each carrying an
infant relative. Into this place the parson and M. St.-Ange
entered, the little nurses jumping up from the sills to let them
pass in.

A half-hour may have passed. At the end of that time the whole
juvenile company were laying alternate eyes and ears to the
chinks, to gather what they could of an interesting quarrel going
on within.

"I did not, saw! I given you no cause of offence, saw! It's not
so, saw! Mister Jools simply mistaken the house, thinkin' it was a
Sabbath-school! No such thing, saw; I AIN'T bound to bet! Yes, I
kin git out. Yes, without bettin'! I hev a right to my opinion; I
reckon I'm a WHITE MAN, saw! No, saw! I on'y said I didn't think
you could get the game on them cards. 'Sno such thing, saw! I do
NOT know how to play! I wouldn't hev a rascal's money ef I should
win it! Shoot, ef you dare! You can kill me, but you cayn't scare
me! No, I shayn't bet! I'll die first! Yes, saw; Mr. Jools can bet
for me if he admires to; I ain't his mostah."

Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to St.-Ange.

"Saw, I don't understand you, saw. I never said I'd loan you money
to bet for me. I didn't suspicion this from you, saw. No, I won't
take any more lemonade; it's the most notorious stuff I ever
drank, saw!"

M. St.-Ange's replies were in falsetto and not without effect; for
presently the parson's indignation and anger began to melt. "Don't
ask me, Jools, I can't help you. It's no use; it's a matter of
conscience with me, Jools."

"Mais oui! 'tis a matt' of conscien' wid me, the same."

"But, Jools, the money's none o' mine, nohow; it belongs to
Smyrny, you know."

"If I could make jus' ONE bet," said the persuasive St.-Ange, "I
would leave this place, fas'-fas', yes. If I had thing--mais I did
not soupspicion this from you, Posson Jone'---"

"Don't, Jools, don't!"

"No! Posson Jone'."

"You're bound to win?" said the parson, wavering.

"Mais certainement! But it is not to win that I want; 'tis me
conscien'--me honor!"

"Well, Jools, I hope I'm not a-doin' no wrong. I'll loan you some
of this money if you say you'll come right out 'thout takin' your
winnin's."

All was still. The peeping children could see the parson as he
lifted his hand to his breast-pocket. There it paused a moment in
bewilderment, then plunged to the bottom. It came back empty, and
fell lifelessly at his side. His head dropped upon his breast, his
eyes were for a moment closed, his broad palms were lifted and
pressed against his forehead, a tremor seized him, and he fell all
in a lump to the floor. The children ran off with their infant-
loads, leaving Jules St.-Ange swearing by all his deceased
relatives, first to Miguel and Joe, and then to the lifted parson,
that he did not know what had become of the money "except if" the
black man had got it.

In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites of the old
rampart, a trio of Spanish forts, where the town has since sprung
up and grown old, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Creole
summer, lay the Congo Plains. Here stretched the canvas of the
historic Cayetano, who Sunday after Sunday sowed the sawdust for
his circus-ring.

But to-day the great showman had fallen short of his printed
promise. The hurricane had come by night, and with one fell swash
had made an irretrievable sop of everything. The circus trailed
away its bedraggled magnificence, and the ring was cleared for the
bull.

Then the sun seemed to come out and work for the people. "See,"
said the Spaniards, looking up at the glorious sky with its great,
white fleets drawn off upon the horizon--"see--heaven smiles upon
the bull-fight!"

In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat the gaily-
decked wives and daughters of the Gascons, from the metaries along
the Ridge, and the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their
shining hair unbonneted to the sun. Next below were their husbands
and lovers in Sunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-
bearded fishermen, Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese
sailors, in little woollen caps, and strangers of the graver sort;
mariners of England, Germany, and Holland. The lowest seats were
full of trappers, smugglers, Canadian voyageurs, drinking and
singing; Americains, too--more's the shame--from the upper rivers
--who will not keep their seats--who ply the bottle, and who will
get home by and by and tell how wicked Sodom is; broad-brimmed,
silver-braided Mexicans, too, with their copper cheeks and bat's
eyes, and their tinkling spurred heels. Yonder, in that quieter
section, are the quadroon women in their black lace shawls--and
there is Baptiste; and below them are the turbaned black women,
and there is--but he vanishes--Colossus.

The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though loudly demanded,
does not begin. The Americains grow derisive and find pastime in
gibes and raillery. They mock the various Latins with their
national inflections, and answer their scowls with laughter. Some
of the more aggressive shout pretty French greetings to the women
of Gascony, and one bargeman, amid peals of applause, stands on a
seat and hurls a kiss to the quadrooms. The mariners of England,
Germany, and Holland, as spectators, like the fun, while the
Spaniards look black and cast defiant imprecations upon their
persecutors. Some Gascons, with timely caution, pick their women
out and depart, running a terrible fire of gallantries.

In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull: "The bull,
the bull!--hush!"

In a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling--standing
head and shoulders above the rest--calling in the Americaine
tongue. Another man, big and red, named Joe, and a handsome little
Creole in elegant dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him,
but the flat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it.
Ah, through some shameful knavery of the men, into whose hands he
has fallen, he is drunk! Even the women can see that; and now he
throws his arms wildly and raises his voice until the whole great
circle hears it. He is preaching!

Ah! kind Lord, for a special providence now! The men of his own
nation--men from the land of the open English Bible and temperance
cup and song are cheering him on to mad disgrace. And now another
call for the appointed sport is drowned by the flat-boatmen
singing the ancient tune of Mear. You can hear the words--

"Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul"

--from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with laughter, from
singers who toss their hats aloft and roll in their seats; the
chorus swells to the accompaniment of a thousand brogans--

"He used to wear an old gray coat All buttoned down before."

A ribboned man in the arena is trying to be heard, and the Latins
raise one mighty cry for silence. The big red man gets a hand over
the parson's mouth, and the ribboned man seizes his moment.

"They have been endeavoring for hours," he says, "to draw the
terrible animals from their dens, but such is their strength and
fierceness, that--"

His voice is drowned. Enough has been heard to warrant the
inference that the beasts cannot be whipped out of the storm-
drenched cages to which menagerie-life and long starvation have
attached them, and from the roar of indignation the man of ribbons
flies. The noise increases. Men are standing up by hundreds, and
women are imploring to be let out of the turmoil. All at once,
like the bursting of a dam, the whole mass pours down into the
ring. They sweep across the arena and over the showman's barriers.
Miguel gets a frightful trampling. Who cares for gates or doors?
They tear the beasts' houses bar from bar, and, laying hold of the
gaunt buffalo, drag him forth by feet, ears, and tail; and in the
midst of the melee, still head and shoulders above all, wilder,
with the cup of the wicked, than any beast, is the man of God from
the Florida parishes!

In his arms he bore--and all the people shouted at once when they
saw it--the tiger. He had lifted it high up with its back to his
breast, his arms clasped under its shoulders; the wretched brute
had curled up caterpillar-wise, with its long tail against its
belly, and through its filed teeth grinned a fixed and impotent
wrath. And Parson Jones was shouting:

"The tiger and the buffler SHELL lay down together! You dah to say
they shayn't and I'll comb you with this varmint from head to
foot! The tiger and the buffler SHELL lay down together. They
SHELL! Now, you, Joe! Behold! I am here to see it done. The lion
and the buffler SHELL lay down together!"

Mouthing these words again and again, the parson forced his way
through the surge in the wake of the buffalo. This creature the
Latins had secured by a lariat over his head, and were dragging
across the old rampart and into a street of the city.

The northern races were trying to prevent, and there was
pommelling and knocking down, cursing and knife-drawing, until
Jules St.-Ange was quite carried away with the fun, laughed,
clapped his hands, and swore with delight, and ever kept close to
the gallant parson.

Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child's-play an interruption.
He had come to find Colossus and the money. In an unlucky moment
he made bold to lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken
barriers in the hands of a flat-boatman felled him to the sod, the
terrible crowd swept over him, the lariat was cut, and the giant
parson hurled the tiger upon the buffalo's back. In another
instant both brutes were dead at the hands of the mob; Jones was
lifted from his feet, and prating of Scripture and the millennium,
of Paul at Ephesus and Daniel in the "buffler's" den, was borne
aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing Americains. Half an hour
later he was sleeping heavily on the floor of a cell in the
calaboza.

"When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for
midnight. Somebody was at the door of his cell with a key. The
lock grated, the door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped
back, and a ray of moonlight fell upon M. Jules St.-Ange. The
prisoner sat upon the empty shackles and ring-bolt in the centre
of the floor.

"Misty Posson Jone'," said the visitor, softly.

"O Jools!"

"Mais, w'at de matter, Posson Jone'?"

"My sins, Jools, my sins!"

"Ah! Posson Jone', is that something to cry, because a man get
sometime a litt' bit intoxicate? Mais, if a man keep ALL THE TIME
intoxicate, I think that is again' the conscien'."

"Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened--oh! Jools, where's my pore
old niggah?"

"Posson Jone', never min'; he is wid Baptiste."

"Where?"

"I don' know w'ere--mais he is wid Baptiste. Baptiste is a
beautiful to take care of somebody."

"Is he as good as you, Jools?" asked Parson Jones, sincerely.

Jules was slightly staggered.

"You know, Posson Jone', you know, a nigger cannot be good as a
w'ite man--mais Baptiste is a good nigger."

The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his hands.

"I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on the Isabella
schooner. Pore Smyrny!" He deeply sighed.

"Posson Jone'," said Jules, leaning against the wall and smiling,
"I swear you is the moz funny man I ever see. If I was you I would
say, me, 'Ah! 'ow I am lucky! the money I los', it was not mine,
anyhow!' My faith! shall a man make hisse'f to be the more sorry
because the money he los' is not his? Me, I would say, 'it is a
specious providence.'

"Ah! Misty Posson Jone'," he continued, "you make a so droll
sermon ad the bull-ring. Ha! ha! I swear I think you can make
money to preach thad sermon many time ad the theatre St. Philippe.
Hah! you is the moz brave dat I never see, mais ad the same time
the moz rilligious man. Where I'm goin' to fin' one priest to make
like dat? Mais, why you can't cheer up an' be 'appy? Me, if I
should be miserabl' like that I would kill meself."

The countryman only shook his head.

"Bien, Posson Jone', I have the so good news for you."

The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry.

"Las' evening when they lock' you, I come right off at M. De
Blanc's house to get you let out of de calaboose; M. De Blanc he
is the judge. So soon I was entering--' Ah! Jules, me boy, juz the
man to make complete the game!' Posson Jone', it was a specious
providence! I win in t'ree hours more dan six hundred dollah!
Look." He produced a mass of bank-notes, bons, and due-bills.

"And you got the pass?" asked the parson, regarding the money with
a sadness incomprehensible to Jules.

"It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight."

"Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain."

The Creole's face became a perfect blank.

"Because," said the parson, "for two reasons: firstly, I have
broken the laws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly--you
must really excuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been got
onfairly, I'm afeerd. You told the judge I was innocent; and in
neither case it don't become a Christian (which I hope I can still
say I am one) to 'do evil that good may come.' I muss stay."

M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at this
exhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit
upon. "Mais, Posson Jone'!"--in his old falsetto--"de order--you
cannot read it, it is in French--compel you to go hout, sir!"

"Is that so?" cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face--"is
that so, Jools?"

The young man nodded, smiling; but, though he smiled, the fountain
of his tenderness was opened. He made the sign of the cross as the
parson knelt in prayer, and even whispered "Hail Mary," etc.,
quite through, twice over.

Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of villas behind the
city, nestled under live-oaks and magnolias on the banks of a deep
bayou, and known as Suburb St. Jean.

With the first beam came the West-Floridian and the Creole out
upon the bank below the village. Upon the parson's arm hung a pair
of antique saddle-bags. Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his
eyes were encircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek-bone
bore the official impress of every knuckle of Colossus's left
hand. The "beautiful to take care of somebody" had lost his
charge. At mention of the negro he became wild, and, half in
English, half in the "gumbo" dialect, said murderous things.
Intimidated by Jules to calmness, he became able to speak
confidently on one point; he could, would, and did swear that
Colossus had gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost
certain; in fact, he thought so.

There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared upon the
bayou's margin, and Baptiste pointed out, in the deep shadow of a
great oak, the Isabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just
spreading her sails for departure. Moving down to where she lay,
the parson and his friend paused on the bank, loath to say
farewell.

"O Jools!" said the parson, "supposin' Colossus ain't gone home! O
Jools, if you'll look him out for me, I'll never forget you--I'll
never forget you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he
taken that money. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal"--he set foot
upon the gang-plank--"but Colossus wouldn't steal from me. Good-
bye."

"Misty Posson Jone'," said St.-Ange, putting his hand on the
parson's arm with genuine affection, "hol' on. You see dis money--
w'at I win las' night? Well, I win' it by a specious providence,
ain't it?"

"There's no tellin'," said the humbled Jones. "Providence

"' Moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform.'"

"Ah!" cried the Creole, "c'est very true. I ged this money in the
mysterieuze way. Mais, if I keep dis money, you know where it
goin' be to-night?"

"I really can't say," replied the parson.

"Goin' to de dev'," said the sweetly-smiling young man.

The schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds, and even
Baptiste, laughed outright.

"O Jools, you mustn't!"

"Well, den, w'at I shall do wid IT?"

"Any thing!" answered the parson; "better donate it away to some
poor man----"

"Ah! Misty Posson Jone', dat is w'at I want. You los' five hondred
dollar'--'twas me fault."

"No, it wa'n't, Jools."

"Mais, it was!"

"No!"

"It WAS me fault! I SWEAR it was me fault! Mais, here is five
hondred dollar'; I wish you shall take it. Here! I don't got no
use for money.--Oh, my faith! Posson Jone', you must not begin to
cry some more"

Parson Jones was choked with tears. "When he found voice he said:

"O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, mis-guidened friend!
ef you hed of hed a Christian raisin'! May the Lord show you your
errors better'n I kin, and bless you for your good intentions--oh,
no! I cayn't touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa'n't
rightly got; you must really excuse me, my dear friend, but I
cayn't touch it."

St. Ange was petrified.

"Good-bye, dear Jools," continued the parson. "I'm in the Lord's
haynds, and he's very merciful, which I hope and trust you'll find
it out. Good-bye!"--the schooner swang slowly off before the
breeze--"goodbye!"

St. Ange roused himself.

"Posson Jone'! make me hany'ow dis promise: you never, never,
NEVER will come back to New Orleans."

"Ah, Jools, the Lord willin', I'll never leave home again!"

"All right!" cried the Creole; "I thing he's willin'. Adieu,
Posson Jone'. My faith'! you are the so fighting an' moz
rilligious man as I never saw! Adieu! Adieu!"

Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master toward the
schooner, his hands full of clods.

St. Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of Colossus of
Rhodes emerge from the vessel's hold, and the pastor of Smyrna and
Bethesda seize him in his embrace.

"O Colossus! you outlandish old nigger! Thank the Lord! Thank the
Lord!"

The little Creole almost wept. He ran down the towpath, laughing
and swearing, and making confused allusion to the entire PERSONNEL
and furniture of the lower regions.

By odd fortune, at the moment that St.-Ange further demonstrated
his delight by tripping his mulatto into a bog, the schooner came
brushing along the reedy bank with a graceful curve, the sails
flapped, and the crew fell to poling her slowly along.

Parson Jones was on the deck, kneeling once more in prayer. His
hat had fallen before him; behind him knelt his slave. In
thundering tones he was confessing himself "a plum fool," from
whom "the conceit had been jolted out," and who had been made to
see that even his "nigger had the longest head of the two."

Colossus clasped his hands and groaned.

The parson prayed for a contrite heart.

"Oh, yes!" cried Colossus.

The master acknowledged countless mercies.

"Dat's so!" cried the slave.

The master prayed that they might still be "piled on."

"Glory!" cried the black man, clapping his hands; "pile on!"

"An' now," continued the parson, "bring this pore, backslidin'
jackace of a parson and this pore ole fool nigger back to thar
home in peace!"

"Pray fo' de money!" called Colossus.

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