“Yep. They were real scared of it. Told the sheriff it had red, glowing eyes and grew larger every time they looked at it. Guess the sheriff must have hit ’em too hard on the head,” Jonathan said with a grin. “Well, I’d best pass the news along to the Smiths.”
He hurried out the door on his way to the Smith house across the road. Aunt Jenny looked over at Uncle Henry as she closed the door behind him.
“You still think that white dog was an evil spirit?” she asked.
“No,” Uncle Henry said, sitting down shakily on a chair.
“I think that white dog saved your life,” Aunt Jenny said, sitting down opposite him. Uncle Henry nodded, speechless for once in his life.
“And you know what else I think?” asked Aunt Jenny. “I think you’d best get home before dark from now on.”
“I think you’re right,” said Uncle Henry.
The Baseball Game
9
Chattanooga’s Ghost
New Orleans, Louisiana
My pal Chattanooga was just about the best roustabout that ever worked a steamboat here in New Orleans. But he had one vice, as the preacher would say. Some roustabouts drank their pay away, but not Chattanooga. Chattanooga smoked his pay away. As soon as we were paid, Chattanooga’d go down to the store and spend his pay on expensive cigars. It was a terrible shame. Chattanooga’s clothes were always in tatters, and some weeks he’d have to catch fish to eat ’cause he’d spent all his money on cigars. Worst thing about it, to my mind, was the fact that he wouldn’t let me smoke even one of those cigars. And I was his best friend.
“Piece o’ Man,” he’d say to me, “I love ya like a brother. But if ya want a cigar, ya gotta go buy it for yourself.”
“Chattanooga,” I’d say back to him, “if you worked harder and smoked less, you’d have more money. I’ve got money ’cause I don’t smoke.”
Chattanooga would just laugh and walk over to the icehouse to get a cigar. That’s where he kept them, in the icehouse. Chattanooga claimed that keeping them in the icehouse made cigars taste right. I didn’t notice any difference myself the day I snuck one of his cigars out of the icehouse. It tasted just the same as all the other ones I’d ever bought. But Chattanooga was an expert smoker, so I guess he knew what he was talking about.
Every night after supper, Chattanooga would go get one of his expensive cigars out of the icehouse, sit down in his favorite chair, and start smoking. I usually sat with him, and we’d gossip and tell jokes. While we were talking, Chattanooga would blow one, two, three smoke rings. He tried to make them as big as he could. When three of the rings would line up in front of him, he’d light a match and throw it through all three smoke rings at once. It was a great trick. Chattanooga said he’d seen it in a show once and practiced it till he got it just right. Word got around the docks, just like it always did, and many a night we’d have two or three roustabouts stop by to see Chattanooga’s trick.
One night, Chattanooga was working late hauling coal off a fuel flat. He must have tripped while he was wheeling his load, ’cause he fell into the river and was drowned before anyone could get to him. Oh my, I was laid down with sorrow. My best friend was gone, and I wouldn’t ever see him again.
The next night after supper, I went and sat in my chair near the icehouse. Chattanooga’s chair stood empty beside mine, and I was feeling mighty low. Chattanooga had left almost a month’s supply of cigars in the icehouse, but I didn’t feel like smoking any.
Just then, the door of the icehouse opened. I looked around and saw Chattanooga standing inside the icehouse, picking up cigars and feeling them over, like he always did, trying to get the best one. I jumped to my feet.
“Chattanooga,” I shouted. “I thought you were dead!”
I stepped toward the icehouse and then stopped suddenly, realizing I could see right through Chattanooga’s body. For a moment, I was chilled to the bone. He was a ghost. But as I watched Chattanooga carefully picking out a cigar, I just couldn’t stay scared. He might be a ghost, but he was still my pal Chattanooga.
Chattanooga’s Ghost
He ignored me completely, carefully putting all the cigars back into the box except the one he thought was the best. Then he walked right out the icehouse door. I stepped aside quick, ’cause I didn’t want any ghost—not even Chattanooga’s—walking through me.
Chattanooga sat down in his chair, lit up the cigar, and began smoking. He didn’t seem to see me, and didn’t answer me when I called his name. Still, it was a comfort to see him enjoying his cigar. I sat down next to him and watched him blowing smoke rings. One, two, three large smoke rings floated up in the air. Chattanooga lit a match and tossed it at the smoke rings. It went through the first ring, but fell short of the second. Chattanooga’s ghost frowned. He blew three more smoke rings, and tried again. The second time, the match made it through the first two rings, but not the third.
“Bad luck, Chattanooga,” I said.
Chattanooga’s ghost didn’t answer. He just went on smoking and blowing smoke rings and trying to throw a lighted match through all three rings at once. Chattanooga finished his cigar before he managed to do his trick, and he cussed something awful before he disappeared into thin air.
I wasn’t surprised the next night when I met Chattanooga’s ghost coming out of the icehouse with a cigar. I sat beside him and told him about my day, even though he didn’t seem to hear me. He just blew smoke rings and tried to throw the lighted match through them. He kept burning his fingers and cussing because no matter how many times he tried, Chattanooga couldn’t get the match through all three smoke rings. Finally he ground out the cigar, cussed once more, and disappeared. Boy, was he mad. I had never seen Chattanooga madder than that.
For about a month, Chattanooga would join me each night after supper. He would smoke and blow smoke rings and burn match after match trying to do his trick. He never got it right. I guess death does that to you. But Chattanooga kept trying. Each night, he would get madder and madder, and one night Chattanooga up and disappeared right out of his chair with a loud popping noise. He hadn’t even finished his cigar.
The next evening, Chattanooga appeared as usual in the icehouse. I waited for him to choose his cigar and come out to sit with me, but he just stood in the icehouse looking at something. Finally, I went in to see what was keeping him. I looked where he was looking and saw that Chattanooga’s cigar box was empty. Chattanooga had smoked all his cigars. My heart dropped into my toes. I turned to look at Chattanooga and saw that he was holding one last cigar in his hand. He shook his head sadly, nodding at the empty box.
Then, for the first and last time, Chattanooga’s ghost spoke to me: “This one’s for you, Piece o’ Man. Have a cigar.”
Chattanooga handed me his last cigar, and then he disappeared. I knew it was the last time I would ever see him.
I went out and sat in my seat and smoked that cigar as slow as I could. When I was down to the last little bit, I blew smoke rings, one, two, three. Then I lit a match and threw it at those smoke rings. The match went right through all three rings, like it used to when Chattanooga was alive. Just for a moment, I could see the dim outline of Chattanooga’s ghost sitting in his chair. He laughed and said, “Good one, Piece o’ Man.”
Then I was alone again.
10
Hold Him, Tabb
Hampton, Virginia
“I remember what it was like before the railroad came through these parts,” Uncle Jeter reminisced, tapping the stem of his pipe against his cheek as he relaxed into the most comfortable chair by the fire.
I was sitting on a stool right next to the fireplace, occasionally throwing on another log, impatient for him to continue. Uncle Jeter told the best stories about the old days, but he wouldn’t be rushed. I knew from previous experience that if I tried to hurry him, he would clam up and refuse to
tell any stories at all. So I just waited, trying not to fidget.
“Back in those days, Matthew my boy, men had to be tough. I used to earn my living by carting supplies from town to town on horse-drawn wagons. Not easy work, no sir. Especially in winter.”
Uncle Jeter paused to light his pipe with a small stick he took from the fireplace.
“One cold December day,” he continued after the pipe was lit to his satisfaction, “I was traveling together with a number of wagons. About the middle of the afternoon, it began to snow. We decided mighty quick that we should stop somewhere and wait until morning to continue on. Old Ned, the tinsmith, he was the one who spotted an abandoned settlement near the roadside. It looked like a good place to ride out the storm. There was an old house and a barn with plenty of stalls for all our horses.”
Uncle Jeter paused for a moment and shook his head. “We thought we were real lucky, finding such a good shelter. We were just about through unhitching the horses from the wagons when a fellow stopped by to talk to us. Claimed he was the owner of the property. Told us we were welcome to stay but the house was haunted. ‘Haunted?’ Tabb, a tinker traveling with us, asked. ‘What do you mean, haunted?’ The owner said that no one who had ever stayed in that house had made it out alive, not for the last twenty-five years. That was good enough for me. I hitched Ol’ Betsy back up to the wagon and moved up the road about half a mile to where a stand of trees offered some shelter from the snow. Everyone else followed me, except for Tabb. He thought we were plumb foolish, and said so. He wasn’t afraid of no ghosts, and he didn’t plan on perishing in the snow with the rest of us.
“I was real uneasy about that, but I wasn’t about to risk my neck in a haunted house. I stayed next to the road, though. I could see that Tabb had settled into the house nice and comfy, ’cause there was a light in the window and I saw smoke coming from the chimney. The rest of us built a fire as best we could and huddled together for warmth through the long night. I wondered a couple of times if Tabb wasn’t the smart one and we the foolish. But the owner of the settlement had looked like an honest fellow, and he seemed right scared of that house, so I figured there must be something to it.”
Hold Him, Tabb
Uncle Jeter was so involved in his story now that he let his pipe go out.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Well, just about dawn, I gave up trying to sleep and went back down the road to see how Tabb had fared for the night. I didn’t go into the house, but I did peek through the windows on the first floor. When I got round the back, I saw Tabb snoozing peacefully in a big bed. He looked warm and happy. Then I saw a movement on the ceiling. I looked up, and there was a large man dressed all in white, floating flat against the ceiling. The man was right over Tabb, looking down on him. Scared me out of my wits.
“ ‘Tabb,’ I hissed, tapping at the window. ‘Tabb, get out of there you fool!’
“Tabb woke up at once, but instead of looking toward the window, he looked straight up and saw the man in white on the ceiling. Tabb gave an awful yell, but before he could move out of bed that man fell down off the ceiling and landed right on top of him. Now Tabb was a big, strong fellow, but that ghost was powerful, and Tabb couldn’t get the ghost to let him go. They wrestled back and forth on the bed. Sometimes Tabb would be on top and sometimes the ghost. I gave a shout and smashed the glass in the window, shouting ‘Hold him, Tabb, hold him!’
“ ‘You can bet yer soul I’ve got him,’ Tabb panted as he and the ghost fell off the bed.
“I could hear shouts behind me as I started to crawl in the window. The other wagoneers had heard the commotion and came to see what was wrong. Just then, the ghost flung himself and Tabb right at me, knocking me back out of the window and into the snow. The ghost levitated himself and Tabb right up onto the roof of the front porch. We all ran around the house to get a better view, shouting, ‘Hold him, Tabb. Hold him!’ The ghost and Tabb were wrestling frantically in the snow on the porch roof.
“ ‘You can bet yer life I’ve got him,’ gasped Tabb.
“The ghost gave a mighty leap and threw Tabb onto the roof of the house.
“ ‘Hold him Tabb,’ I shouted with the other men. ‘Hold him!’
“ ‘You can bet yer boots I’ve got him,’ Tabb yelled as he and the ghost tumbled over and over on the roof. Snow was pouring off the roof on all sides as they struggled. And then the ghost lifted Tabb right into the air.
“ ‘Hold him Tabb,’ old Ned shouted. ‘Hold him.’ The rest of us were silent.
“ ‘I got him,’ Tabb cried. ‘But he got me too!’
“They were floating a few feet off the roof, still grappling with each other. And then the ghost carried Tabb straight up into the air. We watched them until they were both out of sight.”
Uncle Jeter slowly leaned back into his chair.
“What happened to Tabb?” I cried. Uncle Jeter shook his head.
“None of us ever saw Tabb again,” he said.
11
Steal Away Home
Berlin, Maryland
I knew Thursday was the day to run—yes, sweet Lawd—when I heard my auntie singing in the harvest field: “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.” That was Moses’ song, and I knew it meant that she’d received word that Moses—Harriet Tubman—had made another trip south. If I hurried, I could maybe jump on the Glory Train with Moses and ride “home” to Canada!
My mama and my pappy had both run north when I was little, and my mama’s sister had looked after me ’til I grew big and strong. My aunt’s man had a bad leg and would never be able to run, and she refused to leave him. But she always kept track of the railroad signals, and she’d been teaching me everything she’d ever heard about the way north.
My auntie had a rich, wonderful voice, and she always sang when she worked in the fields. She used the songs to teach me how to escape. “Follow the Drinking Gourd” was the song she used to show me the group of stars that told a-body where the North Star was. “Wade in the Water” taught me to stay near water and jump into it if I heard bloodhounds baying. And whenever she had something new to tell me, she’d sing “Steal Away Home,” and that meant I was to meet her in the woods to talk about the Glory Train.
Steal Away Home
Sure enough, as soon as my auntie was done singing about the chariot, she started singing “Steal Away Home.” Yes, Lawd, today was the day! I met my auntie in the woods after sunset. She’d put together a little bag with my best Sunday clothes to wear when I got to town so I wouldn’t look like a runaway slave, and some food. She wrapped me up good in my uncle’s jacket, ’cause the winter nights were cold, and she told me to look for a house with a lantern on a hitching post or a Jacob’s Ladder quilt hung on the railing; both signs that the place was a “depot” where I could sleep safe for the night and maybe get a good meal.
I kissed my auntie and promised to buy her and my uncle’s freedom when I was a rich man living in Canada. Then I ran as softly and as swiftly as I knew how. Moses was meeting a group about two days’ north of here, and I had to get there by Saturday, which was always the day that Moses took her passengers north—or risk missing the Glory Train.
I knew the first few miles well, but soon I was in new territory, making my way through swampy land and avoiding the road. My auntie told me it was best to sleep and eat off the land until I reached my conductor. It was cold—yes, Lawd—the coldest winter I could remember, but I kept myself wrapped up good and ate only a little bread at a time. I even found some roots to chew on. It was enough to keep me alive, but it weren’t tasty and it didn’t keep the rumble out of my belly.
To keep my mind off my hunger, I thought about Moses. Harriet Tubman had been born a slave, just like me, right here in Maryland. She worked as a house servant when she was little and then went out into the fields as soon as she
grew big and strong. When she was a teenager, she was hurt in the head trying to protect another slave from an angry overseer, who threw a two-pound weight that hit Harriet instead of the other slave. All the rest of her life, Moses suffered from that head injury, sometimes falling into a heavy sleep right out of the blue.
She later ran away from her master because she was afraid she was going to be sold, following the North Star each night until she reached Philadelphia. Since Pennsylvania was a free state, she settled there and got a job. After about a year, she decided to join the Underground Railroad and help other slaves find their way north. She rescued her sister and her sister’s children, her brother, and many others.
I paused to eat a little more of the bread around dusk the next day, and that’s when I heard the bloodhounds baying. I hadn’t planned on pursuit, at least not right away, but apparently my master had already spread the news that I was missing. I tossed my bread back into my sack and I ran—oh yes, Lawd—I ran as fast as my legs would go, until I found me a stream. I waded until I thought my feet would freeze off, and then climbed from tree to tree like a squirrel before dropping back into the stream to wade some more. I didn’t hear them dogs again, but I was so chilled that I knew I needed shelter or I’d die of the cold.
I took a risk and went out onto the road for awhile, hoping to find a depot. I couldn’t believe my eyes when the first house I saw through the growing darkness had a lantern on the hitching post. I turned into the lane, shivering something fierce, and realized that the house was dark. No one was home. What was I going to do? Them dogs were still out there, and I had to find shelter or at least build me a fire.
As I stood there, too cold and numb to think, I saw a pretty golden-haired lady wearing a long white dress come around the corner of the house. She held a lantern in her hand that lit up her figure until it glowed. I thought she must be an angel. She beckoned to me, and I followed her at once, not doubting for a minute that she would help me. She led me through the yard to an old woodpile. Leaning over it, she pointed to some logs piled in the corner and motioned for me to move them.
Spooky South Page 4