[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Willie got up from his cot and walked unsteadily behind the mess hall and
picked up the severed pieces of rope that had bound his wrists and ankles and
the salvia-soaked gun rag that had been stuffed in his mouth and the sticks
that had been threaded under his knees and pushed back in his teeth. He
crossed the parade ground to Corporal Clay Hatcher's tent and went inside.
A small oil lamp burned on the floor, a coil of black smoke twisting from the
glass up through an opening in the canvas. Hatcher slept on his side, in a
pair of long underwear, his head on a dirty pillow, his mouth open. The inside
of the tent smelled like re-breathed whiskey fumes, unwashed hair, and shoes
someone had worn for long hours in a dirt field.
Willie kicked the cot. Hatcher lifted his head uncertainly from the pillow,
his pale blue eyes bleary with sleep.
Willie threw the sticks and pieces of rope and thong into his chest. "God love
Jim for his loyalty to a friend. But you finish your work, you malignant
cretin, or one morning find glass in your mush," Willie said.
Hatcher sat up, his lips caked with mucus. "Finish my work?" he said stupidly.
"Did your mother not clean your ears when she dug you out of her shite? You
and Atkins do your worst. I'll live to piss in your coffin, you pitiful fuck."
Hatcher continued to stare at Willie, unable to comprehend the words being
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
spoken to him, the bad whiskey he had drunk throbbing in his head.
Willie started for him.
"I'm coming. I got to relieve myself first," Hatcher said, jerking backward,
clutching his groin under the coarse cotton sheet. His throat swallowed in
shame at the fear his voice couldn't hide.
EXCEPT for the house servants, Ira Jamison's slaves were free to do as they
wished on Sunday. Until sunset they could visit on other plantations, sit
upstairs at a white church, play a card game called pitty-pat, roll dice, or
dance to fiddle music. Even though Jamison's slaves were forbidden to possess
"julep," a fermented mixture of water, yeast, and fruit or cane pulp,
Jamison's overseers looked the other way on Sunday, as long as no slave became
outrageously drunk or was sick when he or she reported for bell count on
Monday.
On Sunday mornings Flower usually put on her gingham dress and bonnet and
walked one and a half miles to a slat church house, where a white Baptist
minister conducted a service for slaves and free people of color after he had
completed services at the white church in town. He was considered a liberal
minister and tolerant man because he often allowed one of the congregation to
give the homily.
This morning the homilist was a free man of color by the name of Jubal
Labiche, who actually never attended services in the church unless he was
asked to give the sermon. He owned slaves and, upstream from town, a brick
kiln on Bayou Teche. Behind a long tunnel of oak trees on the St. Martinville
Road he had built a house that sought to imitate the classical design of his
neighbors' houses, except the columns and porch were wood, not marble, the
workmanship utilitarian, the paint an off-white that seemed to darken each
year from the smoke of stubble fires.
He was a plump, short man, his eyes turquoise, his skin golden, his hair
flattened with grease against his scalp. Even though it was warm inside the
building, he wore a checkered silk vest with his suit, a gold watch as fat as
a biscuit tucked in the pocket.
"No one loved God more than St. Paul. He was bound and jailed and whipped, but
no matter how great his suffering, he never listened to false prophets. When
the Ephesians were of a rebellious mind, this is what he told them..."
Jubal Labiche fitted on his spectacles and looked down at the Bible that
rested on the podium in front of him.
" 'Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh,
with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ,'" he
read.
The people seated on the plank benches knotted their hands in their laps
uncomfortably or looked at their shoes, or glanced furtively at the white
minister, a sheep-shorn rail of a man with a long nose and pointed chin. Some
of the people in the congregation nodded assent, before anyone perceived a
glimmer of dissent in their eyes.
Flower looked directly into Jubal Labiche's face. He stared back at her, then
raised his eyes, as though he were caught in a sudden spiritual moment. He
began a long prayer of thanks to God during which the congregation would say
in unison "Amen" or "Yes, Lord" whenever he paused.
Page 33
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
After the service Jubal Labiche was climbing into his carriage when Flower
walked past him. He stepped back down in the road and automatically started to
touch his hat, then lowered his hand.
"You seemed to have great interest in the homily," he said.
"St. Paul wrote down that slaves is s'pposed to do what the master say?" she
asked. /
"He's telling us to put our faith in the Lord. Sometime the Lord's voice comes
to us - through those who know more about the world than a simple servant such
as myself," he replied, bowing slightly.
"How come we cain't learn from the Bible ourself? How come it got to be read
to us?"
"I guess I'm not really qualified to talk about that," he said. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl szamanka888.keep.pl
Willie got up from his cot and walked unsteadily behind the mess hall and
picked up the severed pieces of rope that had bound his wrists and ankles and
the salvia-soaked gun rag that had been stuffed in his mouth and the sticks
that had been threaded under his knees and pushed back in his teeth. He
crossed the parade ground to Corporal Clay Hatcher's tent and went inside.
A small oil lamp burned on the floor, a coil of black smoke twisting from the
glass up through an opening in the canvas. Hatcher slept on his side, in a
pair of long underwear, his head on a dirty pillow, his mouth open. The inside
of the tent smelled like re-breathed whiskey fumes, unwashed hair, and shoes
someone had worn for long hours in a dirt field.
Willie kicked the cot. Hatcher lifted his head uncertainly from the pillow,
his pale blue eyes bleary with sleep.
Willie threw the sticks and pieces of rope and thong into his chest. "God love
Jim for his loyalty to a friend. But you finish your work, you malignant
cretin, or one morning find glass in your mush," Willie said.
Hatcher sat up, his lips caked with mucus. "Finish my work?" he said stupidly.
"Did your mother not clean your ears when she dug you out of her shite? You
and Atkins do your worst. I'll live to piss in your coffin, you pitiful fuck."
Hatcher continued to stare at Willie, unable to comprehend the words being
Page 32
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
spoken to him, the bad whiskey he had drunk throbbing in his head.
Willie started for him.
"I'm coming. I got to relieve myself first," Hatcher said, jerking backward,
clutching his groin under the coarse cotton sheet. His throat swallowed in
shame at the fear his voice couldn't hide.
EXCEPT for the house servants, Ira Jamison's slaves were free to do as they
wished on Sunday. Until sunset they could visit on other plantations, sit
upstairs at a white church, play a card game called pitty-pat, roll dice, or
dance to fiddle music. Even though Jamison's slaves were forbidden to possess
"julep," a fermented mixture of water, yeast, and fruit or cane pulp,
Jamison's overseers looked the other way on Sunday, as long as no slave became
outrageously drunk or was sick when he or she reported for bell count on
Monday.
On Sunday mornings Flower usually put on her gingham dress and bonnet and
walked one and a half miles to a slat church house, where a white Baptist
minister conducted a service for slaves and free people of color after he had
completed services at the white church in town. He was considered a liberal
minister and tolerant man because he often allowed one of the congregation to
give the homily.
This morning the homilist was a free man of color by the name of Jubal
Labiche, who actually never attended services in the church unless he was
asked to give the sermon. He owned slaves and, upstream from town, a brick
kiln on Bayou Teche. Behind a long tunnel of oak trees on the St. Martinville
Road he had built a house that sought to imitate the classical design of his
neighbors' houses, except the columns and porch were wood, not marble, the
workmanship utilitarian, the paint an off-white that seemed to darken each
year from the smoke of stubble fires.
He was a plump, short man, his eyes turquoise, his skin golden, his hair
flattened with grease against his scalp. Even though it was warm inside the
building, he wore a checkered silk vest with his suit, a gold watch as fat as
a biscuit tucked in the pocket.
"No one loved God more than St. Paul. He was bound and jailed and whipped, but
no matter how great his suffering, he never listened to false prophets. When
the Ephesians were of a rebellious mind, this is what he told them..."
Jubal Labiche fitted on his spectacles and looked down at the Bible that
rested on the podium in front of him.
" 'Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh,
with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ,'" he
read.
The people seated on the plank benches knotted their hands in their laps
uncomfortably or looked at their shoes, or glanced furtively at the white
minister, a sheep-shorn rail of a man with a long nose and pointed chin. Some
of the people in the congregation nodded assent, before anyone perceived a
glimmer of dissent in their eyes.
Flower looked directly into Jubal Labiche's face. He stared back at her, then
raised his eyes, as though he were caught in a sudden spiritual moment. He
began a long prayer of thanks to God during which the congregation would say
in unison "Amen" or "Yes, Lord" whenever he paused.
Page 33
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
After the service Jubal Labiche was climbing into his carriage when Flower
walked past him. He stepped back down in the road and automatically started to
touch his hat, then lowered his hand.
"You seemed to have great interest in the homily," he said.
"St. Paul wrote down that slaves is s'pposed to do what the master say?" she
asked. /
"He's telling us to put our faith in the Lord. Sometime the Lord's voice comes
to us - through those who know more about the world than a simple servant such
as myself," he replied, bowing slightly.
"How come we cain't learn from the Bible ourself? How come it got to be read
to us?"
"I guess I'm not really qualified to talk about that," he said. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]