All God's Dangers (24 page)

I thought very deep at his past operations; go to the field it was all right, if he didn't it was all right. Well, that aint the way to make no crop. That's why I chopped him off like I did. I just got right busy and went on to the field. And I told him at the last words, I
said, “Bye, bye, Papa. I'll be plowin right over yonder in the field. Come out to the field if you want to, why don't you? I'll be plowin right straight across over yonder.”

I had no reasons to believe he'd come to the field.

I said, “You can see me from the house. If you want to talk with me or bid me goodbye, come on over to the field where I'm at.”

I was goin to be out there at work. Weren't much chance I would lose many minutes more. Whenever I went to the field I went to work.

So I caught my mule and hit it to the field, left him there. I said, “You can stay here.” I gived him the privilege of comin to the field, knowin that I was goin to keep a drivin. “You can stay here and talk with Hannah and the babies.”

I had three little old children at that time: Calvin was my oldest one, first child to come in this world that I was the father of; Rachel was next, she was born on Mr. Ames' place; and Vernon. Hannah was pregnant when I moved off of Mr. Ames' place up on Mrs. Reeve's place and Vernon was born there.

I said, “It's your pleasure whatever you do, but I'm goin to the field.”

I don't know when my daddy left my house that day. I was workin out yonder toward the north end of my farm and he never did come out there. And he never did in his lifetime notice my crop, never did walk over it with me.

W
HILE
we was livin on Mrs. Reeve's place, my wife's baby brother—she didn't have but one brother and three sisters: Lily, Lena, and Mattie—that boy got throwed in Beaufort jail. He was accused of burnin up a church buildin but he got cleared of it. The ones that had him arrested couldn't prove he done it. Little Waldo Ramsey—his name was Waldo but he was “little” on account of him bein his daddy's son. He was twenty-one or twenty-two years old at the time; might have been as high as twenty-three.

He was married too then. His first wife was a girl named Leola Hawkins, Joe Hawkins' oldest daughter. And old man Joe Hawkins—this church was supposed to be on his premises but he didn't have it paid for. The church set about a half a mile from where I was livin, over toward the back side of Miss Hattie Lu's
farm. One night it burnt up. The buildin weren't much account, weren't no fine place at all, just a old buildin, never had been painted, but they held meetin there—called the place Manassas.

And this boy was livin with his wife way down here in the piney woods on a man by the name of John Walker's place. Old man Joe Hawkins didn't like the boy nohow. And when that old buildin burnt down old man Joe Hawkins jumped up and laid it on little Waldo, which was his son-in-law. High Sheriff of Tukabahchee County come down and arrested the boy, carried him to Beaufort jail. Me and the boy's daddy went up there on a buggy together—hitched my mule and his mule and went up to Beaufort, me and old man Waldo Ramsey; got up there and we hired a lawyer to clear the boy. Day the trial come up, Hawkins and his crowd didn't have no witnesses to prove the boy done it. It was just a malice affair. The prosecutor went up there and he didn't have a bit of help under the sun. The judge just throwed that thing out; the boy come clear.

Hawkins stayed against the boy but for what cause I really don't know. And the boy, after he come clear, he went back to his wife—her daddy wanted to break that up, wanted to separate em, just kept a diggin at him. He was a preacher too—he built that church on his own premises where he could boss it—but he had hell in him. He weren't no God-sent minister, just somethin that called hisself a preacher. I read his pedigrees a heap of ways.

So, rocked along, he kept a diggin at this boy. He didn't realize that people had their eyes on him: what was he diggin at that boy for? And the boy and that gal couldn't get along good—probably it was brought about by her father—and it was said that they had a argument and the boy give her a little scratch somewhere on the wrist, nothin more than that. Joe Hawkins jumped up, big man, rode out and sent the sheriff at the boy again and arrested him. Swore out a warrant—and this time put him in the Tuskegee jail.

Well, at that time, I was fixin to move down on the Tucker place on Sitimachas Creek off of Mrs. Reeve's place. So I was buildin a barn down there, preparin a place for my stock—I put four stables under that roof—workin down there every day, goin out from Mrs. Reeve's place in the fall of the year, 1913. I was buildin that barn on the creek when I heard the news—they jumped up and put little Waldo in jail again about that scratch on his wife's
wrist; put him in jail in Tuskegee, headquarters for Macon County. He was already livin down there in Macon County when they accused him of burnin up that church buildin.

Didn't stay on Mrs. Reeve's place but three years and he got put in jail twice durin that time. Second time, his daddy went down alone—I'd gone over to
my
daddy's and got my brother Peter to stay with me and help me, what he could, two or three days. That mornin, I went first to Apafalya to swap that one-horse wagon for a brand new two-horse Welbuilt wagon; that one-horse wagon didn't have no blemish against it, been lightly used—I picked up my brother Peter and carried him on to my house. And durin of that day's trip, old man Waldo Ramsey went to Tuskegee to see about his boy.

Next mornin, me and my brother was aimin to go to work on my barn down on Sitimachas. But I didn't feel right about it until I'd a heard what the outcome of little Waldo's case was. Told my wife, that mornin, “Darlin, Pa went to Tuskegee yesterday to see about Buddy”—little Waldo's people called him Buddy—“and I aint heard from him what the situation is. I believe I'll run over there”—didn't live no more than a mile apart—“and see whether he got him out of jail or not.” I was under the impression—didn't nobody tell me but I thought if he went down there to see about the boy, he probably woulda got him out.

So I said, “Now you and Peter and the little fellas, you all just go ahead and eat. I'll be back just as soon as I can run over there and back.”

I took off. Trotted on over there that mornin and I met old lady Molly comin out—their house set off the road way out in a oak grove, in a level place, on their own fifty acres of land—so I met Hannah's mother comin out from the house. I didn't ask her where she was goin but they had some neighbors there, old Price MacFarland's family, right up the road. I met her, said, “Good mornin, Ma.”

“Good mornin, son.”

I said, “Well, Ma, you all well and up this mornin?”

She said, “Yes, Nate, we all doin very well.”

She asked about Hannah and the children. I told her, “They's all right. I just left from up there and come over here quick as I could get here this mornin to see what Pa done about gettin Buddy out of jail.”

She said, “Nate, he weren't able to do it. Ramsey—” she called her husband Ramsey; his name was Waldo Ramsey—“Nate, Ramsey didn't get him. Just went down there and talked with him and he didn't get him. I'm afraid Ramsey goin to let my child stay there—”

He was the boy's own dear daddy. But he was one of these old kind of fellows, he weren't fast to jump up and do a thing; he'd take his time and eventually he'd do it if he ever did it at all.

“I'm afraid,” she remarked to me, “I'm afraid that Ramsey goin to let my child be sent off. He didn't get him yesterday. He just went down there and talked with him and I'm afraid he goin to let him be sent off.”

She let into cryin. And when she let into cryin about him bein in Tuskegee jail and his daddy didn't get him out the day before I went over there that mornin, I said, “Ma, aint no use to cry about it; it aint goin to happen that way. Don't worry. If I'd a went down there yesterday I'd a got him. And furthermore, I'm goin today and get him.”

She said, “Nate, you reckon you can get my child out of jail?”

I said, “Of course I can; it just takes a little money. And I'm goin to get him. Quit worryin. I'm goin to have him here at your house before the sun goes down as a satisfaction to you.”

She made a great moderation. She said, “If you get my child out of jail I'll make him stay with you as long as you want.”

I said, “You don't have to do that, Ma. He's grown. Your authority over him to make him do such things is over with. If he don't want to do it, you can't make him do it.”

She said, “I'll make him stay with you—” repeated it two or three times.

O, she was so glad to hear my talk. She didn't know like I knowed—it didn't take nothin but a little money to move him.

I said, “I'll go back home now. Ma, I'm busy workin down on Sitimachas Creek every day, and I aint got time to loose up on my job because I got to move down there, made a trade for the old Bannister place to move down on it. But you just go ahead and rest satisfied. I'll get him here today. I aint goin to
try
, I'm goin to get him and bring him home.”

She become hopeful off my talk. I knowed what I could do—with money. I knew I had the money to move him; I didn't have to beg nobody.

Went right on back home quick as I could, told my wife, “Darlin, your brother Waldo, only brother you got in the world, he's settin down in Tuskegee jail and your daddy weren't able to get him out. I'm goin down to spring him. I promised your mother I would get him and bring him back to her house before dark. I'll set down now and eat what little breakfast I want, then catch my mule out and hitch her to the buggy”—I had that young mule in the lot had never had a bridle on and I was goin to catch my older mule, which was well broke—“and while I'm doin that, you get me out forty dollars from the trunk.”

I decided it would take maybe forty or fifty dollars to spring the boy. Time I et my breakfast, caught that mule out, brushed her off, harnessed her and hitched her to the buggy, my wife walked up to me and handed me that forty dollars. I crawled in my buggy and went up by this boy's baby sister's husband, Clarence Reed, and picked him up for company. After he got on the buggy with me I didn't stop drivin till I got in Tuskegee. I told Clarence I was ridin in defense of the boy and I was goin down to get him.

Went on down there, got off my buggy and walked into the courthouse. I didn't know nothin bout no law but I knowed to have some money if I were goin to get that boy; I knowed that money would speak to get him. I walked in the courthouse—Clarence was foolin around there in town someway—went right straight to the probate judge.

“Good mornin, Mr. Judge.”

“Good mornin.”

I said, “Mr. Judge, your honor, I'm huntin a boy by the name of Waldo Ramsey that's here in jail.”

I went on and explained his troubles to him. The boy's wife's daddy and her together put him in there—he had put a scar on her wrist but it didn't amount to nothin. This girl's daddy had already proved hisself to be against the boy—he had put him in the Beaufort jail one time. The boy was livin in Macon County at the time with a fellow named John Walker; there was three of them Walker boys: John Walker, Alvin Walker, and Dan Walker. Dan Walker was dead at that time.

I went on down there blue about it—addressed him nice as I could. I told him I come after the boy and if money would buy him out I was ready to pay it.

So he said, “Yes, your money will do it.”

And he wrote me out a script to the clerk of the court and he left it up to the clerk to tell me the price—that was his business. Quite natural, I believe they done talked it over between em and if they didn't talk it over, why, you take a crowd of laws, every man knows his business. I took that script from the probate judge and went straight to the clerk of the court and consulted with him, showed him the script from the probate judge. When he seed who that script was from he set down and questioned me some. And I asked him, “What will it cost me to get the boy out?”

He said, “It'll cost you thirty-six dollars and ten cents.”

I said, “Well, I want him, please, sir. I got the money to pay you.”

He said, “You have?”

I told him, “Yes sir, I can meet your price.”

Had forty dollars in my pocket or maybe a little over with what I already had in my pocket before my wife gived me money out of the trunk.

He wrote me a note after he asked me was I ready to pay it.

I said, “Yes sir, any time I can get my boy.”

Then he wrote me out a paper givin information to the jailer. Told me to go out there—fellow by the name of Bert Calhoun was the sheriff at that time. Clerk said, “You go out and give this to the jailer, you'll find him out there somewhere.”

I walked out on the steps of the courthouse and looked over the city—had the money still in my pocket, I was just totin notes. I walked out on the steps of the courthouse and looked every whichway. And I was lucky to spy the sheriff standin bout a half a block from the steps, in a old long overcoat near about touchin the ground. Standin there smokin a cigar—Sheriff Bert Calhoun. I walked on right quick to him before he moved.

“Good mornin, Mr. Sheriff.”

“Good mornin.”

I said, “I have a note here for you from the clerk of the court.”

I pulled it out and handed it to him. He stood there and read it. He said, “Uh-huh, what you want is this man out of jail, Waldo Ramsey.”

I said, “Yes sir, that's the man, Mr. Sheriff.”

He said, “I'll get him for you in a few minutes.”

And he took off down the block right in front of a line of stores—I knowed the town well—and he went down the street so
far, to about the middle of the second block and he went right in a store door. I looked at that and I said to myself, ‘Now you goin in that store there and kill a whole lot of time'—I didn't know where the jail was, all to my surprise about it—‘and I'm kind of in a hurry; I want to get back home quick as I can, work on my barn. No tellin how long you'll be in there before you come out.'