The Bishop of Cottontown: A Story of the Southern Cotton Mills
my faith an' hope. I'm gettin' old, but I have been a man in my day,
an' I've still got strength enough left with God's he'p to stop you.
You shan't tech that child."
In an instant Carpenter was ablaze--profane, abusive, insolent--and
as the old man stepped between him and the bed, the Whipper-in's
anger overcame all else.
The child under the cover heard a resounding whack and stuck her head
out in time to see the hot blood leap to the old man's cheeks where
Carpenter's blow had fallen. For a moment he paused, and then the
child saw the old overseer's huge fist gripping spasmodically, and
the big muscles of his arms and shoulders rolling beneath the folds
of his coat, as a crouching lion's skin rolls around beneath his mane
before he springs.
Again and again it gripped, and relaxed--gripped and relaxed again.
Mastering himself with a great effort, the old man turned to the man
who had slapped him.
"Strike the other cheek, you coward, as my Master sed you would."
Even the child was surprised when Carpenter, half wickedly, in rage,
half tauntingly slapped the other cheek with a blow that almost sent
the preacher reeling against the bed. Again the great fist gripped
convulsively, and the big muscles that had once pitched the Mountain
Giant over a rail fence worked--rolled beneath their covering.
"What else kin I do for you at the request of yo' Master?" sneered
Carpenter.
"As He never said anything further on the subject," said the old man,
in a dry pitched voice that told how hard he was trying to control
himself, "I take it He intended me to use the same means that He
employed when He run the thieves an' bullies of His day out of the
temple of God."
The child thought they were embracing. It was the old hold and the
double hip-thrust, by which the overseer had conquered so often
before in his manhood's prime. Nor was his old-time strength gone. It
came in a wave of righteous indignation, and like the gust of a
whirlwind striking the spars of a rotting ship. Never in his life had
Carpenter been snapped so nearly in two. It seemed to him that every
bone in his body broke when he hit the floor.... It was ten minutes
before his head began to know things again. Dazed, he opened his eyes
to see the Bishop sitting calmly by his side bathing his face with
cold water. The blood had been running from his nose, for the rag and
water were colored. His head ached.
Jud Carpenter had one redeeming trait--it was an appreciation of the
humorous. No man has ever been entirely lost or entirely miserable,
who has had a touch of humor in him. As the Bishop put a pillow under
his head and then locked the door to keep any one else out, the
ridiculousness of it all came over him, and he said sillily:
"Wal, I reckin you've 'bout converted me this time."
"Jud Carpenter," said the Bishop, his face white with shame, "for
God's sake don't tell anybody I done that--"
Jud smiled as he arose and put on his hat. "I can stan' bein'
licked," he added good naturedly--"because I remember now that I've
run up agin the old champion of the Tennessee Valley--ain't that what
they useter call you?--but it does hurt me sorter, to think you'd
suppose I'd be such a damned fool as to tell it."
He felt the child's wrist again. "'Pears lak she's got a little fever
since all this excitement--guess I'll jes' let her be to-day."
"I do think it 'ud be better, Jud," said the Bishop gently.
And Jud pulled down his hat and slipped quietly out.
The mother never did understand from the child just what happened.
When she came in the Bishop had her so much better that the little
thing actually was playing with his ginger cake dolls, and had eaten
one of them.
It was bed time that night before the child finally whispered it
out: "Maw, did you ever see two men hug each other?"
"No--why?"
"Why, the Bishop he hugged Jud Carpenter so hard he fetched the bleed
out of his nose!"
It was her first and last sight of a ginger-man. Two days later she
was buried, and few save the old Bishop knew she had died; for
Cottontown did not care.
CHAPTER XX
A LIVE FUNERAL
The next Sunday was an interesting occasion--voted so by all
Cottontown when it was over. There was a large congregation out,
caused by the announcement of the Bishop the week before.
"Nex' Sunday I intend to preach Uncle Dave Dickey's funeral sermon.
I've talked to Dave about it an' he tells me he has got all kinds of
heart disease with a fair sprinklin' of liver an' kidney trouble an'
that he is liable to drap off any day.
"I am one of them that believes that whatever bouquets we have for
the dead will do 'em mo' good if given while they can smell; an'
whatever pretty things we've got to say over a coffin had better be
said whilst the deceased is up an' kickin' around an' can hear--an'
so Dave is pow'ful sot to it that I preach his fun'ral whilst he's
alive. An' I do hope that next Sunday you'll all come an' hear it.
An' all the bouquets you expect to give him when he passes away,
please fetch with you."
To-day Uncle Dave was out, dressed in his long-tail jeans frock suit
with high standing collar and big black stock. His face had been
cleanly shaved, and his hair, coming down to his shoulders, was cut
square away around his neck in the good old-fashioned way. He sat on
the front bench and looked very solemn and deeply impressed. On one
side of him sat Aunt Sally, and on the other, Tilly; and the coon
dog, which followed them everywhere, sat on its tail, well to the
front, looking the very essence of concentrated solemnity.
But the coon dog had several peculiar idiosyncrasies; one of them was
that he was always very deeply affected by music--especially any
music which sounded anything like a dinner horn. As this was exactly
the way Miss Patsy Butts' organ music sounded, no sooner did she
strike up the first notes than the coon dog joined in, with his long
dismal howl--much to the disgust of Uncle Dave and his family.
This brought things to a standstill, and all the Hillites to
giggling, while Archie B. moved up and took his seat with the
mourners immediately behind the dog.
Tilly looked reproachfully at Aunt Sally; Aunt Sally looked
reproachfully at Uncle Dave, who passed the reproach on to the dog.
"There now," said Uncle Dave--"Sally an' Tilly both said so! They
both said I mustn't let him come."
He gave the dog a punch in the ribs with his huge foot. This hushed
him at once.
"Be quiet Dave," said the Bishop, sitting near--"it strikes me you're
pow'ful lively for a corpse. It's natural for a dog to howl at his
master's fun'ral."
The coon dog had come out intending to enter fully into the solemnity
of the occasion, and when the organ started again he promptly joined
in.
"I'm sorry," said the Bishop, "but I'll have to rise an' put the
chief mourner out."
It was unnecessary, for the chief mourner himself arose just then,
and began running frantically around the pulpit with snaps, howls and
sundry most painful barks.
Those who noticed closely observed that a clothes-pin had been
snapped bitingly on the very tip end of his tail, and as he finally
caught his bearing, and went down the aisle and out of the door with
a farewell howl, they could hear him tearing toward home, quite
satisfied that live funerals weren't the place for him.
What he wanted was a dead one.
"Maw!" said Miss Patsy Butts--"I wish you'd look after Archie B."
Everybody looked at Archie B., who looked up from a New Testament in
which he was deeply interested, surprised and grieved.
The organ started up again.
But it grew irksome to Miss Samantha Carewe seated on the third
bench.
"Ma," she whispered, "I've heard o' fun'rals in Irelan' where they
passed around refreshments--d'ye reckin this is goin' to be that
kind? I'm gittin' pow'ful hungry."
"Let us trust that the Lord will have it so," said her mother
devoutly.
Amid great solemnity the Bishop had gone into the pulpit and was
preaching:
"It may be a little onusual," he said, "to preach a man's fun'ral
whilst he's alive, but it will certn'ly do him mo' good than to
preach it after he's dead. If we're goin' to do any good to our
feller man, let's do it while he's alive.
"Kind words to the livin' are more than monuments to the dead.
"Come to think about it, but ain't we foolish an' hypocritical the
way we go on over the dead that we have forgot an' neglected whilst
they lived?
"If we'd reverse the thing how many a po' creature that had given up
the fight, an' shuffled off this mortal coil fur lack of a helpin'
han' would be alive to-day!
"How many another that had laid down an' quit in the back stretch of
life would be up an' fightin'! Why, the money spent for flowers an'
fun'rals an' monuments for the pulseless dead of the world would
mighty nigh feed the living dead that are always with us.
"What fools we mortals be! Why, we're not a bit better than the
heathen Chinee that we love to send missionaries to and call all
kinds of hard names. The Chinee put sweet cakes an' wine an' sech on
the graves of their departed, an' once one of our missionaries asked
his servant, Ching Lu, who had just lost his brother an' had put all
them things on his grave, when he thought the corpse 'ud rise up an'
eat them; an' Ching Lu told him he thought the Chinee corpse 'ud rise
up an' eat his sweetmeats about the same time that the Melican man's
corpse 'ud rise up an' smell all the bouquets of sweet flowers spread
over him.
"An' there we are, right on the same footin' as the heathen an' don't
know it.
"David Dickey, the subject of this here fun'ral discourse, was born
on the fourth day of July, 1810, of pious, godly parents. Dave as a
child was always a good boy, who loved his parents, worked diligently
and never needed a lickin' in his life"--
"Hold on, Bishop," said Uncle Davy, rising and protesting
earnestly--"this is my fun'ral an' I ain't a-goin' to have nothin'
told but the exact facts: Jes' alter that by sayin' I was a
_tollerbul_ good boy, _tollerbul_ diligent, with a big sprinklin' o'
meanness an' laziness in me, an' that my old daddy,--God bless his
memory for it--in them days cleared up mighty nigh a ten acre lot of
guv'ment land cuttin' off the underbrush for my triflin' hide."
Uncle Dave sat down. The Bishop was confused a moment, but quickly
said: "Now bretherin, there's another good p'int about preachin' a
man's fun'ral whilst he's alive. It gives the corpse a chance to
correct any errors. Why, who'd ever have thought that good old Uncle
Dave Dickey was that triflin' when he was young? Much obliged, Dave,
much obliged, I'll try to tell the exact facts hereafter."
Then he began again:
"In manner Uncle Dave was approachable an' with a kind heart for all
mankind, an' a kind word an' a helpin' han' for the needy. He was
_tollerbul_ truthful"--went on the Bishop--with a look at Uncle Davy
as if he had profited by previous interruptions.
"Tell it as it was, Hillard,"--nodded Uncle Dave, from the front
bench--"jes' as it was--no lies at my fun'ral."
"_Tollerbul_ truthful," went on the Bishop, "on all subjects he
wanted to tell the truth about. An' I'm proud to say, bretherin,
that after fifty odd years of intermate acquantance with our
soon-to-be-deceased brother, you cu'd rely on him tellin' the truth
in all things except"--
"Tell it as it was, Hillard--no--filigree work at my fun'ral--" said
Uncle Dave.
--"Except," went on the Bishop, "returnin' any little change he
happen'd to borry from you, or swoppin' horses, or tellin' the size
of the fish he happened to ketch. On them p'ints, my bretherin, the
lamented corpse was pow'ful weak; an' I'm sorry to have to tell it,
but I've been warned, as you all kno', to speak the exact facts."