Back Home: Being the Narrative of Judge Priest and His People

Ten minutes passed – fifteen. Judge Priest shuffled his feet and fumed a little. He hauled out an old silver watch, bulky as a turnip, with the flat silver key dangling from it by a black string and consulted its face. Then he heard steps on the stairs and he straightened himself in his chair and Sergeant Jimmy Bagby entered, alone. The Sergeant carried his coat over his arm and he patted himself affectionately on his left side and dragged his feet a little. As Commander of the Camp, the Judge greeted him with all due formality.

“Don’t know what’s comin’ over this here town,” complained the sergeant, when he had got his wind back. “Mob of these here crazy country niggers mighty near knocked me off the sidewalk into the gutter. Well, if they hadn’t been movin’ tolerable fast, I bet you I’d a lamed a couple of ‘em,” he added, his imagination in retrospect magnifying the indignant swipe he made at unresisting space a good half minute after the collision occurred. The Sergeant soothed his ruffled feelings by ft series of little wheezing grunts and addressed the chair with more composure:

“Seems like you and me are the first ones here, Judge.”

“Yes,” said the Judge soberly, “and I hope we ain’t the last ones too – that’s what I’m hopin’. What with the weather bein’ so warm and darkies thick everywhere” – he broke off short. “It’s purty near nine o’clock now.”

“You don’t say so?” said the Sergeant. “Then we shorely oughter be startin’ purty soon. Was a time when I could set up half the night and not feel it scarcely. But here lately I notice I like to turn in sort of early. I reckin it must be the weather affectin’ me.”

“That must be it,” assented the Judge, “I feel it myself – a little; but look here, Sergeant, we never yet started off a regular meetin’ without a little music. I reckin we might wait a little while on Herman to come and play Dixie for us. The audience will be small but appreciative, as the feller says.” A smile flickered across his face. “Herman manages to keep younger and spryer than a good many of the boys.”

“Yes, that’s so too,” said the Sergeant, “but jest yestiddy I heared he was fixin’ to turn over his business to his son and that nephew of his and retire.”

“That’s no sign he’s playin’ out,” challenged Judge Priest rather quickly, “no sign at all. I reckin Herman jest wants to knock round amongst his friends more.”

Sergeant Bagby nodded as if this theory was a perfectly satisfactory one to him. A little pause fell. The Sergeant reached backward to a remote and difficult hip pocket and after two unsuccessful efforts, he fished out what appeared to be a bit of warped planking.

“They’re tearing away the old Sanders place,” he confessed somewhat sheepishly, “and I stopped in by there as I come down and fetched away this here little piece of clapboard for a sort of keepsake. You recollect, Judge, that was where Forrest made his headquarters that day when we raided back into town here? Lawsy, what a surprise old Bedford did give them Yankees. But shucks, that was Bedford’s specialty – surprises.” He stopped and cocked his whity-gray head toward the door hopefully.

“Listen yonder, that must be Herman Felsburg comin’ up the steps now. Maybe Doctor Lake is with him. Weather or no weather, niggers or no niggers, it’s mighty hard to keep them two away from a regular meetin’ of the Camp.”

But the step outside was too light a step and too peart for Mr. Felsburg’s. It was Ed Gafford who shoved his head in.

“Judge Priest,” he stated, “you’re wanted on the telephone right away. They said they had to speak to you in person.”

The Sergeant waited, with what patience he could, while the Judge stumped down the long flights, and after a little, stumped back again. His legs were quivering under him and it was quite a bit before he quit blowing and panting. When he did speak, there was a reluctant tone in his voice.

“It’s from Herman’s house,” he said. “He won’t be with us tonight. He – he’s had a kind of a stroke – fell right smack on the floor as he was puttin’ on his hat to come down here. ‘Twas his daughter had me on the telephone – the married one. They’re afraid it’s paralysis – seems like he can’t move one side and only mumbles, sort of tongue tied, she says, when he tried to talk. But I reckin it ain’t nowhere near as serious as they think for.”

“No suh,” agreed the Sergeant, “Herman’s good for twenty year yit. I bet you he jest et something that didn’t agree with him. He’ll be up and goin’ in a week – see if he ain’t. But say, that means Doctor Lake won’t be here neither, don’t it?”

“Well, that’s a funny thing,” said the old Judge, “I pointedly asked her what he said about Herman, and she mumbled something about Doctor Lake’s gittin’ on so in life that she hated to call him out on a hot night like this. So they called in somebody else. She said, though, they aimed to have Lake up the first thing in the momin’ unless Herman is better by then.”

“Well, I’ll say this,” put in Sergeant Bagby, “she better not let him ketch her sayin’ he’s too old to be answerin’ a call after dark. Lew Lake’s got a temper, and he certainly would give that young woman a dressin’ down.”

The old Judge moved to his place on the platform and mounted it heavily. As he sat down, he gave a little grunting sigh. An old man’s tired sigh carries a lot of meaning sometimes; this one did.

“Jimmy,” he said, “if you will act as adjutant and take the desk, we’ll open without music, for this onc’t. This is about the smallest turn-out we ever had for a regular meetin’, but we can go ahead, I reckin.”

Sergeant Bagby came forward and took a smaller desk off at the side of the platform. Adjusting his spectacles, just so, he tugged a warped drawer open and produced a flat book showing signs of long wear and much antiquity. A sheet of heavy paper had been pasted across the cover of this book, but with much use it had frayed away so that the word “Ledger” showed through in faded gilt letters. The Sergeant opened at a place where a row of names ran down the blue lined sheet and continued over upon the next page. Most of the names had dates set opposite them in fresher writing than the original entries. Only now and then was there a name with no date written after it. He cleared his throat to begin.

“I presume,” the Commander was saying, “that we might dispense with the roll call for tonight.”

“That’s agreeable to me,” said the acting adjutant, and he shut up the book.

“There is an election pendin’ to fill a vacancy, but in view of the small attendance present this evenin’ – ”

The Judge cut off his announcement to listen. Some one walking with the slow, uncertain gait of a very tired or a very feeble person was climbing up the stairs. The shuffling sound came on to the top and stopped, and an old negro man stood bareheaded in the door blinking his eyes at the light and winking his bushy white tufts of eyebrows up and down. The Judge shaded his own eyes the better to make out the new comer.

“Why, it’s Uncle Ike Copeland,” he said heartily. “Come right in, Uncle Ike, and set down.”

“Yes, take a seat and make yourself comfortable,” added the Sergeant. In the tones of both the white men was a touch of kindly but none the less measurable condescension – that instinctive turn of inflection by which the difference held firmly to exist between the races was expressed and made plain, but in this case it was subtly warmed and tinctured with an essence of something else – an indefinable, evasive something that would probably not have been apparent in their greetings to a younger negro.

“Thanky, gen’l’men,” said the old man as he came in slowly. He was tall and thin, so thin that the stoop in his back seemed an inevitable inbending of a frame too long and too slight to support its burden. And he was very black. His skin must have been lustrous and shiny in his youth, but now was overlaid with a grayish aspect, like the mould upon withered fruit. His forehead, naturally high and narrow, was deeply indented at the temples and he had a long face with high cheek bones, and a well developed nose and thin lips. The face was Semitic in its suggestion rather than Ethiopian. The whites of his eyes showed a yellow tinge, but the brown pupils were blurred by a pronounced bluish cast. His clothes were old but spotlessly clean, and his shoes were slashed open along the toes and his bare feet showed through the slashed places. He made his way at a hobbling gait toward the back row of chairs.

“I’ll be plenty comfor’ble yere, suhs,” he said in a voice which sounded almost like an accentuated mimicry of Judge Priest’s high notes. He eased his fragile rack of bones down into a chair and dropped his old hat on the matting of the aisle beside him, seemingly oblivious to the somewhat puzzled glances of the two veterans.

“What’s the reason you ain’t out sashaying round on the Eighth with your own people?” asked the Judge. The old negro began a thin, hen-like chuckle, but his cackle ended midway in a snort of disgust.

“Naw suh,” he answered, “naw suh, not fur me. It ‘pears lak most of de ole residenters dat I knowed is died off, and mo’ over I ain’t gittin’ so much pleasure projectin’ round ‘mongst all dese brash young free issue niggers dat’s growed up round yere. They ain’t got no fitten respec’ fur dere elders and dat’s a fac’, boss. Jes’ now seen a passel of ‘em ridin’ round in one of dese yere ortermobiles.” He put an ocean of surging contempt to the word: “Huh – ortermobiles!”

“And dis time dar wam’t no place on de flatform fur me at de festibul out in dat Fisher’s Gyarden as dey names it, do’ it taint nothin’ ‘ceptin’ a grove of trees. Always befoah dis I set up on de very fust and fo’most row – yas suh, always befoah dis hit wuz de rule. But dis yeah dey tek and give my place to dat ‘bovish young nigger preacher dat calls hisse’f de Rev’rund J. Fontleroy Jones. His name is Buddy Jones – tha’s whut it tis – and I ‘members him when he wam’t nothin’ but jes’ de same ez de mud onder yore feet. Tha’s de one whut gits my place on de flatform, settin’ there in a broadcloth suit, wid a collar on him mighty nigh tall nuff to saw his nappy haid off, which it wouldn’t be no real loss to nobody ef it did.

“But I reckin I still is got my pride lef ef I ain’t got nothin’ else. My grandmaw, she wuz a full blood Affikin queen and I got de royal Congo blood in my veins. So I jes’ teks my foot in my hand and comes right on away and lef’ dat trashy nigger dar, spreadin’ hisse’f and puffin’ out his mouf lak one of dese yere ole tree frogs.” There was a forlorn complaint creeping into his words; but he cast it out and cackled his derision for the new generation, and all its works.

“Dey ain’t botherin’ me none, wid dere airs, dat dey ain’t. I kin git long widout ‘em, and I wuz gwine on home ‘bout my own business w’en I seen dese lights up yere, and I says to myse’f dat some of my own kind of w’ite folks is holdin’ fo’th and I’ll jess drap up dar and set a spell wid ‘em, pervidin’ I’se welcome, which I knows full well I is.

“So you go right ahaid, boss, wid whutever it ‘tis you’s fixin’ to do. I ‘low to jes’ set yere and res’ my frame.”

“Course you are welcome,” said Judge Priest, “and we’ll be mighty glad to have you stay as long as you’re a mind to. We feel like you sort of belong here with us anyway, Unde Ike, account of your record.”

The old negro grinned widely at the compliment, showing two or three yellowed snags planted in shrunken bluish gums. “Yas suh,” he assented briskly, “I reckin I do.” The heat which wilted down the white men and made their round old faces look almost peaked, appeared to have a briskening effect upon him. Now he got upon his feet. His lowliness was falling away, his sense of his own importance was coming back to him.

“I reckin I is got a sorter right to be yere, tho’ it warn’t becomin’ in me to mention it fust,” he said. “I been knowin’ some of you all gen’l’men since ‘way back befoah de war days. I wonder would you all lak to hear ‘bout me and whut I done in dem times?”

They nodded, in friendly fashion, but the speaker was already going on as though sure of the answer:

“I ‘members monstrous well dat day w’en my young marster jined out wid de artillery and Ole Miss she send me ‘long wid him to look after him, ‘cause he warn’t nothin’ but jess a harum-scarum boy noway. Less see, boss – dat must be goin’ on thutty or forty yeah ago, ain’t it?”

It was more than thirty years or forty either, but neither of them was moved to correct him. Again their heads conveyed an assent, and Uncle Ike, satisfied, went ahead, warming to his theme:

“So I went ‘long with him jess lak Ole Miss said. And purty soon, he git to be one of dese yere lieutenants, and he act mighty biggotty toward hisse’f wid dem straps sewed onto his cote collar, but I bound I keep him in order – I bound I do dat, suhs, ef I don’t do nothin’ else in dat whole war. I minds the time w’en we wuz in camp dat fust winter and yere one day he come ridin’ in out of de rain, jess drippin’ wet. Befoah ‘em all I goes up to him and I says to him, I says, ‘Marse Willie, you git right down off’en dat hoss and come yere and lemme put some dry clothes on you. What Ole Miss gwine say to me ef I lets you set round here, ketchin; yore death?

“Some of dem y’other young gen’l’men laff den and he git red in de face and tell me to go ‘way from dere and let him be. I says to him, I says, ‘I promised yore maw faithful to ‘tend you and look after you and I pintedly does aim to do so.’ I says, ‘Marse Willie,’ I says, ‘I hope I ain’t gwine have to keep on tellin’ you to git down off’en dat hoss.’ Dem y’others laff louder’n ever den and he cuss and r’ar and call me a meddlin’ black raskil. But I tek notice he got down off’en dat hoss – I lay to dat.

“But I didn’t have to ‘tend him long. Naw suh, not very long. He git killed de very fust big battle we wuz in, which wuz Shiloh. Dat battery shore suffer dat day. ‘Long tow’rds evenin’ yere dey come failin’ back, all scorified and burnt black wid de powder and I sees he ain’t wid ‘em no more and I ax ‘bout him and dey tells me de Battery done los’ two of its pieces and purty near all de hosses and dat young Marse Willie been killed right at de outset of de hard fightin’. I didn’t wait to hear no mo’n dat – dat wuz ‘nuff fur me. I puts right out to find him.

“Gen’l’men, dat warn’t no fittin’ place to be prowlin’ ‘bout in. Everywhahs you look you see daid men and crippled men. Some places dey is jess piled up; and de daid is beginnin’ to swell up already and de wounded is wrigglin’ round on de bare ground and some of ‘em is beggin’ for water and some is beggin’ for somebody to come shoot ‘em and put ‘em out of dere miz’ry. And ever onc’t in a wile you hear a hoss scream. It didn’t sound like no hoss tho’, it sound mo’ lak a pusson or one of dese yere catamounts screamin’.

“But I keep on goin’ on ‘count of my bein’ under obligations to ‘tend him and jess him alone. After while it begin to git good and dark and you could see lanterns bobbin’ round whar dere wuz search parties out, I reckin. And jess befo’ the last of de light fade ‘way I come to de place whar de Battery wuz stationed in the aidge of a little saige-patch lak, and dar I find him – him and two y’others, right whar dey fell. Dey wuz all three layin’ in a row on dere backs jes’ lak somebody is done fix ‘em dat way. His chist wuz tore up, but scusin’ de dust and dirt, dar wam’t no mark of vilence on his face a t’all.

“I knowed dey wam’t gwine put Ole Miss’s onliest dear son in no trench lak he wuz a daid hoss – naw suh, not wile I had my stren’th. I tek him up in my arms – I wuz mighty survig’rous dem times and he wam’t nothin’ but jes’ a boy, ez I told you – so I tek him up and tote him ‘bout a hundred yards ‘way whar dar’s a little grove of trees and de soil is sort of soft and loamy; and den and dere I dig his grave. I didn’t have no reg’lar tools to dig wid, but I uses a pinted stick and one of dese yere bay-nets and fast ez I loosen de earth I cast it out wid my hands. And ‘long towo’ds daylight I gits it deep nuff and big nuff. So I fetch water frum a little branch and wash off his face and I wrop him in a blanket w’ich I pick up nearby and I compose his limbs and I bury him in de ground.”

His voice had swelled, taking on the long, swinging cadences by which his race voices its deeper emotions whether of joy or sorrow or religious exaltation. Its rise and fall had almost a hypnotizing effect upon the two old men who were his auditors. The tale he was telling was no new one to them. It had been written a score of times in the county papers; it had been repeated a hundred times at reunions and Memorial Day services. But they listened, canting their heads to catch every word as though it were a new-told thing and not a narrative made familiar by nearly fifty years of reiteration and elaboration.

“I put green branches on top of him and I bury him. And den w’en I’d done mark de place so I wouldn’t never miss it w’en I come back fur him, I jes’ teks my foot in my hand and I puts out fur home. I slip through de No’thern lines and I heads for ole Lyon County. I travels light and I travels fast and in two weeks I comes to it. It ain’t been but jes’ a little mo’n a year since we went ‘way but Gar Almighty, gen’l’men, how dat war is done change ever’thing. My ole Miss is gone – she died de very day dat Marse Willie got killed, yas suh, dat very day she taken down sick and died – and her brother, ole Majah Machen is gone too – he’s ‘way off down in Missippi somewhars refugeein’ wid his folks – and de rest of de niggers is all scattered ‘bout ever’whars. De Fed’ruls is in charge and de whole place seem lak, is plum’ busted up and distracted.

“So I jedge dat I is free. Leas’wise, dar ain’t nobody fur me to repote myse’f to, an’ dar ain’t nobody to gimme no ordahs. So I starts in follerin’ at my trade – I is a waggin maker by trade as you gen’l’men knows – and I meks money and saves it up, a little bit at a time, and I bury it onder de dirt flo’ of my house.

“After ‘while shore-nuff freedom she come and de war end, soon after dat, and den it seem lak all de niggers in de world come flockin’ in. Dey act jess ez scatter-brained as a drove of birds. It look lak freedom is affectin’ ‘em in de haid. At fust dey don’t think ‘bout settlin’ down – dey say de gover’mint is gwine give ‘em all forty acres and a mule apiece – and dey jess natchelly obleeged to wait fur dat. But I ‘low to my own se’f dat by de time de gover’mint gits ‘round to Lyon County my mule is gwine be so old I’ll have to be doctorin’ him ‘stid of plowin’ him. So I keeps right on, follerin’ my trade and savin’ a little yere and a little dar, ‘tell purty soon I had money nuff laid by fur whut I need it fur.”

There was a crude majesty in the old negro’s pose and in the gesturing of his long arms. It was easy to conceive that his granddam had been an African Chieftainess. The spell of his story-telling filled the bare hall. The comb of white that ran up his scalp stood erect like carded wool and his jaundiced eyeballs rolled in his head with the exultation of his bygone achievement. In different settings a priest of ancient Egypt might have made such a figure.

“I had money nuff fur whut I needs it fur,” he repeated sonorously, “and so I goes back to dat dere battle-field. I hires me a wite man and a waggin and two niggers to help and I goes dar and I digs up my young marster frum de place whar he been layin’ all dis time, and I puts him in de coffin and I bring him back on de railroad cyars, payin’ all de expenses, and actin’ as de chief mourner. And I buries him in de buryin’ ground at de home-place right ‘longside his paw, which I knowed Ole Miss would a wanted it done jes’ dat way, ef she had been spared to live and nothin’ happened. W’en all dat is done I know den dat I is free in my own mind to come and to go; and I packs up my traps and my plunder and leave ole Lyon County and come down yere to dis town, whar I is been ever since.

“But frum dat day fo’th dey calls me a wite folks’ nigger, some of ‘em does. Well, I reckin I is. De black folks is my people, but de wite folks is always been my frends, I know dat good and well. And it stands proven dis very night. De black people is de same ez cast me out, and dat fool Jones nigger he sets in my ‘pinted place on de flatform,” – a lament came again into his chanting tone, and he took on the measured swing of an exhorter at an experience meeting – “Dey cast me out, but I come to my wite friends and dey mek me welcome.”

He broke off to shake his wool-crowned head from side to side. Then in altogether different voice he began an apology:

“Jedge, you and Mistah Bagby must please suh, s’cuse me fur ramblin’ on lak dis. I reckin I done took up nuff of yore time – I spects I better be gittin’ on towo’ds my own home.”

But he made no move to start, because the old Judge was speaking; and the worn look was gone from the Judge’s face, and the stress of some deep emotion made the muscles of his under jaws tighten beneath the dew-laps of loose flesh.

“Some who never struck a blow in battle, nevertheless served our Cause truly and faithfully,” he said, as though he were addressing an audience of numbers. “Some of the bravest soldiers we had never wore a uniform and their skins were of a different color from our skins. I move that our comrade Isaac Copeland here present be admitted to membership in this Camp. If this motion is regular and accordin’ to the rules of the organization, I make it. And if it ain’t regular – I make it jest the same!”

“I second that motion,” said Sergeant Jimmy Bagby instantly and belligerently, as though defying an unseen host to deny the propriety of the step.

“It is moved and seconded,” said Judge Priest formally, “that Isaac Copeland be made a member of this Camp. All in favor of that motion will signify by saying Aye!”

His own voice and the Sergeant’s answered as one voice with a shrill Aye.

“Contrary, no?” went on the Judge. “The Ayes have it and it is so ordered.”

It was now the Sergeant’s turn to have an inspiration. Up he came to his feet, sputtering in his eagerness.

“And now, suh, I nominate Veteran Isaac Copeland for the vacant place of color bearer of this Camp – and I move you furthermore that the nominations be closed.”

The Judge seconded the motion and again these two voted as one, the old negro sitting and listening, but saying nothing at all. Judge Priest got up from his chair and crossing to a glass cabinet at the back of the platform, he opened the door and drew forth a seven foot staff of polished wood with a length of particolored silk wadded about its upper part and bound round with a silken cord.

“Unde Ike,” he said, reverently, “You are our color-sergeant now in good and proper standin’ – and here are your colors for you.”

The old negro came shuffling up. He took the flag in his hands. His bent back unkinked until he stood straight. His long fleshless fingers, knotted and gnarled and looking like fire-blackened faggots twitched at the silken square until its folds fell away and in the gas light it revealed itself, with its design of the starred St. Andrew’s cross and its tarnished gold fringe.

“I thanky suhs, kindly,” he said, addressing the two old white men, standing at stiff salute, “I suttinly does appreciate dis – and I’ll tell you why. Dey done drap me out of de Cullid Odd Fellers, count of my not bein’ able to meet de dues, and dis long time I been feared dat w’en my time come to go, I’d have to be buried by de co’pperation. But now I knows dat I’ll be laid away in de big stylish cemetary – wid music and de quality wite gen’l’men along and ker’riges. And maybe dar’ll be a band. Ain’t dat so, gen’l’men – ain’t dar goin’ to be a band ‘long too?”

They nodded. They were of the same generation, these two old white men and this lone old black man, and between them there was a perfect understanding. That the high honor they had visited upon him meant to their minds one thing and to his mind another thing was understandable too. So they nodded to him.

They came down the steep stairs, the Judge, and the Sergeant abreast in front, the new color bearer two steps behind them, and when they were outside on the street, the Judge fumbled in his pocket a moment, then slipped something shiny into the old negro’s harsh, horny palm, and the recipient pulled his old hat off and thanked him, there being dignity in the manner of making the gift and in the manner of receiving it, both.

The Judge and the Sergeant stood watching him as he shuffled away in the darkness, his loose slashed brogans clop-lopping up and down on his sockless feet. Probably they would have found it hard to explain why they stood so, but watch him they did until the old negro’s gaunt black shadow merged into the black distance. When he was quite gone from sight, they faced about the other way and soberly and silently, side by side, trudged away, two stoutish, warm, weary old men.

At the corner they parted. The Judge continued alone along Jefferson Street. A trolley car under charter for the Eighth whizzed by him, gay with electric lights. On the rear platform a string band played rag time of the newest and raggedest brand, and between the aisle and on the seats negro men and women were skylarking and yelling to friends and strangers along the sidewalk. The sawing bleat of the agonized bass fiddle cut through the onspeeding clamor, but the guitars could hardly be heard. A little further along, the old Judge had to skirt the curbing to find a clear way past a press of roystering darkies before a moving picture theatre where a horseshoe of incandescent glowed about a sign reading Colored People’s Night and a painted canvas banner made enthusiastic mention of the historic accuracies of a film dealing with The Battle of San Juan Hill, on exhibition within. The last of the rented livery rigs passed him, the lathered horse barely able to pluck a jog out of his stiff legs. Good natured smiling faces, brown, black, and yellow showed everywhere from under the brims of straw hats and above the neckbands of rumpled frocks of many colors. The Eighth of August still had its last hours to live and it was living them both high and fast.

When Judge Priest, proceeding steadily onward, came to where Clay Street was brooding, a dark narrow little thoroughfare, in the abundant covert of many trees, the tumult and the shouting were well dimmed in the distance behind him. He set his back to it all and turned into the bye-street, an old tired man with lagging legs, and the shadows swallowed him up.