Belleboo, Chapters I-IV [pp. 79-87]

Belleboo.
grass pastures to a dell in a low sweep of
the woodland, where had stood a few
years back a log church, which had been
destroyed by fire. Kneeling in the shadow of its yet upright chimney, he poured
forth his anxious heart in a torrent of
words. Had it been a bright Sunday
morning at "meetin'" he would have
sawed out his prayer in a drawling wail
befitting the honor of "leading." But
here there was no affectation. The very
canebrakes might have paused and listened to this surging music, well nigh
as beautiful as their own. The crude
thought rose in a natural sequence,
sometimes grand, always poetic. He
flung his sinewy arms abroad with a comprehensive sweep, taking in the canebrakes, the forests, the pastures, the
hills, as his witnesses, or addressing them
by gesture as though the spirits he invoked brooded among them. But it was
all marred by the superstition of his race.
Instinctively he was moved to pray amid
grand surroundings; yet the rustling of
the trees behind held something uncanny, and fear and trembling were ever
the burden of his prayer.
Pete knew that much in Hal's character that was strong and enduring had
been fostered by himself. He had
guarded the boy from bad company, and
delivered quaint moral lectures to him
when they were alone hunting or trapping. He felt that he was still responsible; that brave words and warnings were yet needed now and then, and
prayers constantly. He had understood
Hal's character accurately, every shade
that crossed his countenance. He wisely
yielded the farm to him month by month,
but the work of curbing Hal's wild temper seemed ever more difficult. His master was getting beyond him, going out of
his sphere of thought and feeling, day
by day growing into the likeness of
Squire Somers. It was because of this
he prayed. Indiana was a night of dark-.
ness. Even his promised freedom, in
which he covertly gloried, was engulfed
in the general gloom of Marse Hal's future. Trusting to superstition, to luck,
to God least of all, Pete prayed by the
chimney night after night.
Philly was not so engrossed in her
house duties but that she discovered this
nightly absence of Pete, who was usually fond of an early bed-time. She possessed her soul with patience for some
two weeks, but one night, coming to the
cabin and finding him absent, she questioned Silly sharply as to where he was.
Getting only mumbled answers, she
was silent a moment and then rose up.
"I'm gwine arter him. I'se gwine ter
foller him ef I goes clar ter de moon.
Now, I doan' come back widout dat Pete.
Yo' may see yer mammy no mo'. I'se
'stracted, I'se suercided wid de worry an'
'sponsibility uv dat niggah."
She bent with sorrowful majesty above
Silly's trundle bed, and then quitted the
cabin. Silly bounded up, stuffed herself
into something made of linsey, perhaps
her father's shirt, and crept behind her
mother, who had seen on coming down
to the quarters a figure striding through
the pasture that looked much like Pete.
She did not notice Silly for some time,
but on seeing her, jerked off a long grape
vine shoot and swept the air behind her,
heaping maledictions on her small shadow, who discreetly hid in the brush.
"Yo' owdacious chile, go back. I'11
skin ye'live, bof o' ye, yo' an' yer mis'ble daddy. I's stewed, I's cooked in
my marshil troubles, widout a ongrateful chile taggin' ter my heels. Yo' no
'count frowsy niggah, go back; de sperits git ye!"
"I wants ter keep daddy from doin'
yer any hurt, mammy. I'll hide in de
bresh, an' creep onter'im when yer
needs me."
She wiggled through the fence at hand,
and made for the brush, while her mother, who was a splendid, big, laughingeyed negress, drew her person with much
labor over its high, shaky difficulties,
muttering and swelling with wrath the
84'
'[Jan.