# Rare Earth/Chapter 11

Chapter XI
Linda Joel was a true American, for even though her ancestors had not come over on 'The Mayflower,' still they had been brought over from the Ivory Coast of West Africa by New England Puritans whose sanctity and litany did not prevent them from entering into a trade that was both degrading and bestial. Black Ivory, more valuable than white, worth fighting for. The frightened natives were packed below decks in as close proximity as sardines in a box. When they were all lying down at night there was not an inch of floor space. Though usually the congestion lessened somewhat on slave ships after a week or so, for there were many deaths. Always the prayer book must be set ​aside at the call of commerce. Religion is all very well for most folks as long as it does not
The Mind of a Slave Trader would have been a wonderful field for Freudian exploration. What did a Slave Trader talk about when he returned to his own family after a particularly profitable voyage? Did he tell about the poor black wretches who had been snatched from their forest peace, thrown into the hold of his fetid ship, a festering, stinking, disease-racked vessel of untold horrors, to be later sold in the open market like so many hogs? No distinction made between husbands and wives, mothers and daughters. Families wantonly broken up. The noble white man guiding the destinies of savages. Did he tell his youngest boy sitting perched upon his knee of the odd lot of children he had sold that day? If genealogies gave more than dates and names there are few of us who would care to brag about our noble ancestry. It is well to remember that the worst blot on American ​history was not entirely a Southern institution, for the majority of the slaves originally were brought over on Northern ships. To a great extent slavery was forced on Southern landowners.
Linda Joel had been born in the Carolina low country, that strange strip of rice-land where Gullah negroes flourish and give so much color to the annals of Colonial America. They were dragged originally from the West Coast of Africa, bringing with them many quaint African words which later became blended with early peasant English. The Gullah dialect of today is rich in metaphor, in folklore and native wit. Tobacco is 'tuh-backuh,' an angel is an 'ainjul' and destruction is 'strucksun.' The justly famous 'Uncle Remus' stories of Joel Chandler Harris had their source in this section. There is no book about the Gullah negroes that is more charming than 'The Black Border,' by Ambrose E. Gonzales, which is redolent with an abundance of warm native beauty.
The ancestors of Linda had been slaves. ​Her mother had been a slave. But slavery had passed into history years before Linda was born. Then her parents were free, often hungry, but free. They had been miserably poor, living in a small cabin on the border of a whispering swamp, a swamp of endless mystery which Linda never tired of exploring. How she loved the smell of the water-drenched trees, sycamore and cypress, the green velvet moss, occasionally a bit of Spanish bayonet, the countless gorgeous butterflies that flittered about in the winding mazes of verdure like winged flowers. Here were mystery and romance, awe-inspiring beauty and always that eternal whispering like the murmur of fairy voices. That the whispering was caused by the lapping of the water in the brooks, the springs and sluggish streams never occurred to Linda. To her they were the voices of goblins, ghouls, ghosts and witches.
By moonlight the swamp was at its most absorbing peak of sorcery. Then all that was earthly moved out and spooks and other wraiths of necromancy glided in to take its ​place. No voodoo legend was more bloodcurdling than the screeching that emanated, it was rumored, from the heart of that gruesome swamp. When the moon rose the goblins came out and capered about the narrow trails. During the day they hid in the mud and quicksand to grip the heels of any unlucky person who chanced by accident to set foot in the purling ooze.
Of course Linda never entered the swamp at night. There were few inhabitants of the low country that would. One must not tempt the spirits too far, else they might send a haunt to moan beneath one's window, a haunt such as had made miserable the nights of Jerry Cane until he was forced in desperation to flee from his home. No one knew where he went. Soipe said he left the state. Others pointed to the swamp and dolefully shook their heads. Yes, Linda was very careful not to displease the spirits.
The cabin was so flimsily built it was possible to see the stars through cracks in the warped boards on summer evenings. Though ​the family was poor it was rich in many things, in music, in song, in contentment. Linda's father, Uke Dixon, used to sit for hours before the door of his cabin, lazily stringing on an old guitar, with a group of tattered friends about him, crooning bits of old songs, some a throw-back to the pre-slave days in Africa, a few Spirituals with now and then a reference to the Civil War and Mr. Lincoln.
"A possum, a possum Is a-hidin' in de tree, A nice fine possum Is a-hidin' in de tree. Whut a gran' dinner Dey's goin' to be. 'Cause I know where dere's a possum, I know where dere's a possum, Now listen to me. I know where dere's a possum But I done lost de tree."
Groups of negroes would amble over and join the merry throng. Perhaps someone would start a fire, a bit of a fire cleaving the ​darkness of the night, making the figures of the singers stand out in weird relief against the shadowy forest.
"Hear about ma brudder, Hear about ma brudder, He done foun' a shoe. A shoe, a shoe, Brudder whut you goin' to do? With jus' one shoe, Guess you gotta hop, With only one shoe, Guess you gotta hop, 'Cause one shoe am worse Than a chile withou' a pop."
The nights were seldom cool enough to make a bonfire necessary but the Gullahs loved the warm friendliness of the fire. They sang and dozed and found some measure of happiness in the eternal quietude on the edge of the whispering swamp.
Thus quietly in the Carolina low country was the girlhood of Linda Dixon lived. It was a kingdom of rice. All the neighbors worked in the rice-fields. They lived isolated lives, ​seldom coming in contact with people other than those in the small coterie about them. They were children of the wild, well versed in woodcraft. They understood the character of the soil, of animals and birds. In their legends and folklore stories they interpreted the quaint tales of the wild things about them. And Linda was interested in every story she heard. Most of her education had been derived from legend. She had never attended school but her mother had taught her to read and write. As time went on she read every book that she could get her hands on. There were not many. Few of the Gullahs had a library that numbered more than two or three books. But these she read over and over again until she knew them by heart. Her favorite was a volume of Mr. Lincoln's speeches. There were no books procurable anywhere that could teach her simple, forceful English more beautifully. How she thrilled every time she read his Gettysburg Address.
Her father had taught her to sing. He was the most indolent, merriest chap that ever ​lived, never complaining, never envying anybody and always singing or whistling. In his whole life he never accomplished anything except to make happy everyone about him. Perhaps this in itself was somewhat of an accomplishment. The singers of earth, the ones who make the music, may be as important as the workers.
Thus, calmly, without heat or hurry the life of Linda Dixon might have continued to flow onward had it not been for the arrival of Benda Joel who came from Chicago. He had journeyed down to the low country to visit his aunt whose shack was a short distance from that of Linda Dixon.
Benda Joel was well educated, a college student who had but recently graduated from one of the larger mid-west colleges. This was the first vacation he had had in years, a summer spent among the Gullah negroes of whom his mother had been one. It was good to be able to take time to rest, to loll about under trees, reading snatches of books and planning his career. He had worked very hard. And ​now the long, long college trail was ended and the fear that he might not be able to keep earning his tuition was no longer dogging his footsteps. He had struggled for an education and he had won. He had earned his C.E. degree.
Then he met Linda Dixon and romance. That summer was one of beauty, to be remembered. Together they explored the vast snakelike trails of the swamp or sat before the cabin in the evening gazing at the blood-burning moon rising in mellow splendor over the murmuring swamp. They were nights of romance and love. They confided in one another. Exchanged confidences. Linda felt as though she were walking on air. Some hidden force had awakened within her. She worked tirelessly about the cabin. She would not permit her mother to lift her hand to do a thing. So grateful she was for Benda's friendship she felt as though she wanted to lessen the burden of everyone.
When summer was ended, Linda consented to become Benda's wife. It had to be. They ​were born for one another. Before they left for Chicago they were married by ‘Pastuh’ Bimeby who was also a blacksmith, a dentist and a letter-writer for the multitude. His name was not really ‘Bimeby’ but that is what everybody called him because he was forever putting off chores that he had to do.
“Do it bimeby,” he used to say.
But at weddings he was always punctual. The young folks of the countryside saw to that.
For three years Linda and her husband had lived in Chicago. He had hoped to become a successful civil engineer but nothing seemed to go right for him. It was a field for white men. Night after night he returned home in despair. Commercial Chicago crushed him.
Then Enoch was born. It made the outlook a bit less gloomy. Benda Joel took on new courage.
“It doesn’t matter anyhow,” he said. “I don’t have to be a civil engineer. We’ll buy a farm, you and I and baby. The soil doesn’t care what color a man is born. The important thing is what color he lives. Just as good ​potatoes or wheat will grow for me as for any other man."
So they commenced searching about for a farm. Anywhere in Illinois would do. It is hard to explain why they did not return to the Carolinas. Though perhaps Benda did not wish to be too far away from Chicago, the city of promise. He had always imagined that some day Chicago would acknowledge his intellect. And even when he abandoned work as a civil engineer he could not utterly forsake the state that had been the cradle of his dreams.
It was not so easy to buy a place that was within their means. They had not much money. Most of the farms required a large down payment. But at last they had located that place near Galvey. It was a pitiable house. No one had lived in it for more than a year. The roof leaked and the tiny porch slanted at a perilous angle. But to them it represented home. Benda who was efficient at all kinds of work decided he could repair it himself at slight expense and make it livable. Far ​off there in the fields they were away from everybody. There were no other houses near them.
"If the white man will not accept us," said Benda, "he should stop to consider that our ancestors did not ask to be brought to America to be sold into slavery. The early Colonists should not be held up as paragons of virtue to be gazed at in awe and honor. After all what were their two chief accomplishments? They ruined the Indian and drove him from his own soil, his own home. They dragged the black man from Africa and forced him into thralldom. Noble Colonists. America might well be proud of such accomplishments."
On their farm they found happiness. For there there was quietness and rest. They had each other and the baby. No wonder Linda walked about the fields singing, always singing. Sometimes she carried the boy in her arms.
"Whut's a lullaby? Don' you know? Jus' a lull at eve
As de clouds go by. An' de Spirits are puttin' De moon in de sky, An' stickin' de stars Here and dere like a fly, A firefly lighting De sky up above. An' crooked in my arm A wee un to love. Lullaby? Lullaby? Whut can it be? Hush! 'tis a secret 'Tween baby an' me."
Those first few years on the farm were rather lean years. Benda had not been educated to be a farmer although his early youth had been spent on a plantation. It was not easy for him to get back to plowing. However, he set about the study of the soil with the same determination that he had gone in for civil engineering. He possessed two assets—courage and enthusiasm. Sometimes he even plowed at night by lantern light. He had to get the work done. He could not afford hired help.
​But there was something alluring, too, about following the plow across the fragrant fields in the moonlight. It was an excellent time to give to dreams and immortal longings. And all those dreams were of the comfort and happiness he was going to draw from the soil for his wife and Enoch. It was pleasant to muse about his boy. He wondered what Enoch would be when he grew up. He hoped he'd be a farmer. A farmer can work hard. No one can force him to be idle by disregarding his very existence. He can accomplish things. He need not depend on a fair skin for success. His life is marred by fewer disappointments.
During those years Linda was very happy. She had all the treasures that life affords. A simple house that she adored, a thoughtful husband and a handsome baby. There weren't many children anywhere that had larger, darker and more beautiful eyes than Enoch. From the very first he turned to the fields. He liked to follow his daddy about at his work.
Sometimes Benda permitted him to drive the horse while he himself guided the plow. ​On those occasions Enoch felt very pompous. When he grew up he decided he'd buy a horse and a plow. It never dawned on him that he might need a held as well.
The height of his ambition was a horse and a plow.
Once when he was sitting beside his mother on the porch steps it suddenly occurred to him that he was very selfish not to wish for anything for her.
"Ma," he said, "ud you like a horse?"
"Think I would," said she, "but I'd rather you, my little lamb."
Enoch took the matter very seriously. "But if you cud have me too," he persisted, "wouldn't yo' like a horse?"
"I guess so."
"Wai, 'en," he said emphatically, "I'll get yo' one. Ef yo' wants a horse, yo' gotta have it."
"All right," said she, "but there's no hurry. Don' need it right away. Besides 'twould be rather awkward to know where to put it"
"'At," said he disdainfully, "is easy."
​And the boy grew older. Benda personally saw to his education, at least he tried to. For hours each night he taught him the intricacies of arithmetic, spelling, reading. Reading he liked from the start, especially travel stories, but in arithmetic he was a woeful failure.
"Dey's sumpin' wrong with dese numbers," he used to say. "Dey jus' won't add up right."
He couldn't see what good numbers were. Why did people bother with things that were so uninteresting? But best of all he liked his father to take him out in the fields and tell him about everything. The mystery of wheat. Why should so many potatoes grow when you only planted one? Why didn't they grow on trees?
He never tired of asking questions about the land. He was a born farmer and from earliest childhood he always had a small vegetable garden of his own in back of the house. How his little chest used to swell with pride as he harvested his crops and carried them jubilantly to his mother. They were all for her. No wonder he sang as he worked.
"Let it rain, let it snow, Let winter come, an' summer go. Whut I care? I'se happy as can be, 'Slong as it doesn' rain on me.
Oh, it's nice to raise 'tatoes, It's nice to raise corn, To sleep at night An' wake at dawn.
Nothin' could be nicer. Seems to me, But to snooze all de time Beneath a tree."