Jemimah chuckles deep in her throat. "And you can be sure there'll be one very smart rabbit on hand to confuse them both. Heh! No, Sister Girl and Brother Boy, the stories never end. Now back to work, both of you."
The kids scurry out and Jemimah brings her gaze to bear upon me.
"I hear things down below. Late at night. Things rustlin' about. Sets my mind to thinkin'...and what I think is, Brother Rabbit may be the smart one in the Big Woods, but you, girl, you somehow be the trickster in this here story. I knowit to be true."
I don't say anything to that, just continue to stroke Gringo's feathers as Jemimah continues to knead the bread.
She's humming a tune as she does it and I say, "Jemimah. That song you're hummin'. It sounds right familiar. Will you sing it for me?"
She slaps a dough ball on the board and commences to knead it. And she lifts her head and starts to sing and beat the bread at the same time:
Oh, the High Sheriff, he told his Deputy,
Go out and bring me Lazarus. (Huh!)
Oh, the High Sheriff, he told his Deputy,
Go out and bring me Lazarus. (Huh!)
Bring him dead or alive, Lord, Lord,
Bring him dead or alive.
I was right, I had heard the song before. On the way down the Mississippi River, work gangs on the banks would sing this as they brought their big hammers down on the rocks they were splitting. They would time the hammer blows to fit the song, and so make the work pass easier. Just like sailors sing shanties when they're raising heavy sails, and just as Jemimah does as she kneads her bread, grunting huh! and slamming the dough down where the hammers would come down.
Oh, they found poor Lazarus,
up between two mountains. (Huh!)
Oh, they found poor Lazarus,
up between two mountains. (Huh!)
And they brought him down, Lord, Lord,
They brought him down.
I'm noticing that the bread dough is taking a good deal of punishment, as Jemimah seems to be putting a good deal of anger into her huh! She sings on, her big voice filling the galley.
And they shot poor Lazarus,
shot him with a great big number. (Huh!)
And they shot poor Lazarus,
shot him with a great big number. (Huh!)
Number forty-five, Lord, Lord,
Number forty-five.
She pauses a bit to put another dough ball on the board, and then takes up the song again.
And they taken poor Lazarus,
laid him on the commissary counter. (Huh!)
And they taken poor Lazarus,
laid him on the commissary counter. (Huh!)
And they walked away, Lord, Lord,
They just walked away.
Lazarus's mother,
she come a'runnin'. (Huh!)
Oh, Lazarus's mother,
she come a'runnin'. (Huh!)
Cryin', My only son, Lord, Lord,'
Cryin', My only son.'
Jemimah stops singing, and she stops kneading, too, and just stands there for a while, her head up, her eyes closed.
"That was beautifully sung, Jemimah," I say, meaning it.
She nods and goes back to her task.
A thought occurs to me and though I know that I'm probably treading where I should not go, I ask, "Jemimah, you've told us some things about your children, but you haven't said anything about your husband. Where is he?"
She snorts. "He's either in Heaven or in Hell, but he's dead all the same."
Oh.
"How did it happen, if you don't mind me asking?" I say, as gentle as I can. "You can tell me to mind my own business and I will shut up and do that."
"No, child, it's all right. I will tell you." She takes a deep breath. "His name was Moses and everybody called him Mose. He was a big man and did the blacksmithin' work on the plantation, poundin' out hot iron and steel. Worked with the horses, too. Everybody liked him, colored and white, alike. When he was a young man, he run away twice, tryin' to get to freedom, but he was caught and brought back each time and whipped. After me and the children come along, he stopped tryin' to run away. He learned to get along, just like the rest of us."
She is quiet again for a while, then heaves a great sigh and goes on.
"He was good to me and he was a good father to the kids, too. Raised 'em up as good as he could—bein' a slave and all, you ain't got all that much say in things. Yes, he loved his children and that's what brought him down at the end. When things went bad and the plantation was bein' broke up, some men from Charleston come up to take our two oldest kids away. When Mose saw my Josh and my Rosie bein' bound up and put in the wagon to be taken off and sold, sumthin' happened in his mind and he rushed at the men and tried to set our chil'ren loose so's they could run off to the woods and maybe get away, but he didn't have much luck in that. They hit at him with clubs and told him to lie down and don't cause no trouble, but he wouldn't do it, no, he swung on the men with his big fists and when two of 'em was on the ground and he saw that they was bringin' guns, he re'lized what he had done and he run off into the woods, all crazy in his head.
"They sent out armed men on horses with dogs, and they run him down and they killed him. Shot him when he run and cut him down when he turned and tried to make a stand.
"They brought him back in a buckboard with his toes draggin' in the dust, and just like poor Lazarus, they laid him out all bloody on a plank, right there in front of me and what children were left. Did it as an example to us Nigras what would happen if we ever act up. We buried him that afternoon, and the next day they come and took the rest of my kids down to the Charleston Slave Market. In a few days, they come and took me there, too."
She paused for a moment, her eyes still closed.
"Mose thought he was strong as Brother Bear, fast as Brother Fox, and clever as Brother Rabbit, but he warn't none of those, no," she says, shaking her head. "But he was my good old man, and I miss him."
With that, Jemimah Moses takes off her dusty apron and hangs it up. And as for Jacky Faber, she who used to think she had seen some trouble in her life, well, I just sit there and don't say a mumblin' word.
Chapter 45
I left Gringo's vest on him for the journey to La Pelea de Gallos Arena, and this time I put it on over his wings so he wouldn't flap about and waste his strength. Carnival is still in full swing and the bird's beady little eyes seem to take in the excitement that swirls all about. The place is packed, with crowds of people pushing and shoving to get in the still-open doors. Davy, Tink, and Daniel, who had come with us, go off to join the throng. Joannie, I keep by me.
Before we go in the contestant entrance, I put the little leather hood over Gringo's head to keep him from getting too excited at the sight of the other birds. Still, I can feel his heart thumping in the palm of my hand.
I'm given my fight number. It's three, my lucky numeral, and we settle down to await our turn. The other handlers look at El Gringo curiously—what with his tight vest and all. The others have their birds in cages and they flutter nervously within.
Soon Red Sash leaves the holding area, and shortly we hear a trumpet blast and then:
"Señores y señoritas! Welcome to La Pelea de Gallos Arena on the last day of the season! Tomorrow we shall all don our ashes and there will be no contests for forty days! But today, eat, drink, be happy, and place your bets! The first fight will be between El Pollo Feo of Rancho Verde, and Chucho from La Playa Hermosa! Handlers, to your positions!"
The doors swing open and the first two contestants are marched out. Through the open doors I can see that Tink and Davy have managed to worm their way to spots right on the rail.
"Joannie. When we go out, I want you to join Davy and Tink and Daniel. They're right there." The doors close. "And here"—I dig in my pocket and pull out a gold coin—"put this on El Gringo to win. You should get good odds. And I'll give you Gringo's vest when we get to the center."
She nods, and a roar goes up from the arena. The first two gladiators are definitely at it now.
I spy El Matador's handler sitting nearby with a cage next to him. He is a small man with a large mustache, and wears the loose white linen suit so favored in this country. I've heard him addressed as Señor Maza. I am sure he remembers me from the last match—female trainers are not all that common—and I know he is eyeing me with a certain smug confidence.
We'll see about that.
I unlace Gringo's leather hood and pull it off. I had made it to look like the hoods that falconers put on their harriers, and the effect is not lost on the other handlers in the place. I have their undivided attention.
Gringo shakes his head and looks about, fierce as any hawk. Then he crows out his challenge, loud and clear.
"Hush, Gringo," I say, stroking his head, his uncut bright red comb a taunt to all the bald heads sticking out of cages. "Save it for the ring." I reach up under him and massage his legs and thighs to loosen him up, something I have been doing of late and which he seems to enjoy, or at least tolerate.
I have found that, in any game, be it cards or swordfighting or chess or whatever, part of the victory will be won by messing with your opponent's head in the lead-up to the actual battle. Make him lose his confidence, like.
In that spirit I remove the lead slugs from Gringo's vest, one by one, and drop them in my pocket. This also is not missed by the others, especially by El Matador's handler. Could it be that I have started a new kind of training for the gamecocks of Cuba? If so, I pity the poor things.
There is another roar from outside and then silence, which means the first fight is over. Sure enough, the doors swing open and two men walk in, one triumphant, holding his struggling gladiator with both hands, the other disconsolate, carrying a very limp and very dead bird in his. The men put their birds, both the quick and the dead, back in their cages, and the defeated pair make their exit through the back door, while the victors sit and await the awards ceremony that will happen when all the fights are done. The Spanish, like most of us, do love their ceremonies.
I pull another coin from my pocket and walk over to Señor Maza.
"Buenos días, Señor. It seems our fighters are to meet again in combat," I say in Spanish. He nods. "Would you like to place a side bet on the outcome?" I hold up the piece of eight. "Even odds, even though your bird is heavily favored. Yes?"
He considers and again he nods, but he does not seem quite so confident now.
There is another trumpet call and two more men and their birds tromp out to meet their fates. I settle back down and undo the lacings on Gringo's vest, but I do not take it off just yet. Instead I reach in my pocket and pull out a few seeds and offer them to El Gringo. He pecks at them avidly. We didn't feed him this morning, wanting him to stay lean and mean and hungry. But I figure a bit of a treat now won't hurt, and it'll keep his mind off the other birds.
Again there is a roar as the second bout ends, so we stand up and get ready. The doors open, and two men come back in, bearing their now quiet burdens—both cocks are still alive, but just barely. Blood trickles down through the fingers of one of the men, and from his expression, his bird was clearly the loser.
The trumpet calls and we rise, and, next to Señor Maza and El Matador, we march into the ring.
When we turn and face each other, Red Sash gestures to me and calls out, "In this next bout, we present the challenger El Gringo Furioso from Rancho..."—here he squints at his notes—"Dove-coot..."