“Why, howdy? Deacon, howdy?” was the friendly response, as
one of the men laid down his heavy cotton hoe, and approached the
fence.
“How is work, January?” asked Deacon Atwood, pleasantly.
“I gets along mighty well, I thank yo’. I hope yo’ do,” said the
freedman, who, though about the age of his neighbor, was too much
accustomed to being addressed as a boy, and by his Christian name,
to take offense at the familiarity.
“Well, I’ll be blamed if yo’ niggers don’t get along better’n the
white folks! These confounded carpet-baggers are larnin’ yo’ how to
fleece us that owns the land, and blowed if yo’ ain’t doing it!”
“Why, Deacon, I don’t know what yo’ mean. I ha’n’t been fleecing
nobody, I’m shor’. If God Almighty gives me my freedom, and gives
me strength to work what land I’m able, and makes the crops grow,
why ha’n’t I a right to get ’long? I can’t see who’s hurt, not to my
serious knowledge?”
“It a’n’t yo’r working, it’s yo’r voting. Yo’ vote them villains into
office, and they’re bleeding the country to death with taxes. Now,
we a’n’t gwine to stand it. All the gentleman has agreed together
that yo’ve got to come over to our side. It’s for yo’r interest to be
thar.”
“Can’t do it, nohow, Deacon,” replied the negro, smiling good-
humoredly.
“If yo’ don’t there’ll lots of yo’ be killed,” said Deacon A., kindling.
“Now, Deacon Atwood,” said January Kelly, deliberately, “I think a
parcel of gentleman that was raised and been college-bred, men
that would undertake to ride over things by killing out a few niggers
—well, I think its a very small idea for an educated man. I think they
must have lost all conscience of heart; I think all conscience of heart
are gone when they come to do that, I do; but you a’n’t in earnest,
Deacon? You’re a Christian man. I ha’nt got no neighbors as would
hurt me. I’m a honest man as works hard, and minds my own
business, and takes care o’ my family; and nobody ain’t gwoine to
kill me, nohow.”