Mr. Baptiste

by Alice Dunbar-Nelson

　　

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He might have had another name; we never knew. Some one hadchristened him Mr. Baptiste long ago in the dim past, and itsufficed. No one had ever been known who had the temerity to askhim for another cognomen, for though he was a mild-manneredlittle man, he had an uncomfortable way of shutting upoyster-wise and looking disagreeable when approached concerninghis personal history.He was small: most Creole men are small when they are old. It isstrange, but a fact. It must be that age withers them sooner andmore effectually than those of un-Latinised extraction. Mr.Baptiste was, furthermore, very much wrinkled and lame. Like theSon of Man, he had nowhere to lay his head, save when some kindlyfamily made room for him in a garret or a barn. He subsisted bydoing odd jobs, white-washing, cleaning yards, doing errands, andthe like.The little old man was a frequenter of the levee. Never a daypassed that his quaint little figure was not seen moving up anddown about the ships. Chiefly did he haunt the Texas and Pacificwarehouses and the landing-place of the Morgan-line steamships.This seemed like madness, for these spots are almost the busieston the levee, and the rough seamen and 'longshoremen have leasttime to be bothered with small weak folks. Still there wasmethod in the madness of Mr. Baptiste. The Morgan steamships, asevery one knows, ply between New Orleans and Central and SouthAmerican ports, doing the major part of the fruit trade; and manywere the baskets of forgotten fruit that Mr. Baptiste took awaywith him unmolested. Sometimes, you know, bananas and mangoesand oranges and citrons will half spoil, particularly if it hasbeen a bad voyage over the stormy Gulf, and the officers of theships will give away stacks of fruit, too good to go into theriver, too bad to sell to the fruit-dealers.You could see Mr. Baptiste trudging up the street with his quaintone-sided walk, bearing his dilapidated basket on one shoulder, anondescript head-cover pulled over his eyes, whistling cheerily.Then he would slip in at the back door of one of his clients witha brisk,--"Ah, bonjour, madame. Now here ees jus' a lil' bit fruit, somebananas. Perhaps madame would cook some for Mr. Baptiste?"And madame, who understood and knew his ways, would fry him someof the bananas, and set it before him, a tempting dish, with abit of madame's bread and meat and coffee thrown in forlagniappe; and Mr. Baptiste would depart, filled and contented,leaving the load of fruit behind as madame's pay. Thus did heeat, and his clients were many, and never too tired or too crossto cook his meals and get their pay in baskets of fruit.One day he slipped in at Madame Garcia's kitchen door with such awoe-begone air, and slid a small sack of nearly ripe plantains onthe table with such a misery-laden sigh, that madame, who was fatand excitable, threw up both hands and cried out:"Mon Dieu, Mistare Baptiste, fo' w'y you look lak dat? What eesde mattare?"For answer, Mr. Baptiste shook his head gloomily and sighedagain. Madame Garcia moved heavily about the kitchen, putting theplantains in a cool spot and punctuating her foot-steps withsundry "Mon Dieux" and "Miseres.""Dose cotton!" ejaculated Mr. Baptiste, at last."Ah, mon Dieu!" groaned Madame Garcia, rolling her eyesheavenwards."Hit will drive de fruit away!" he continued."Misere!" said Madame Garcia"Hit will.""Oui, out," said Madame Garcia. She had carefully inspected theplantains, and seeing that they were good and wholesome, wasinclined to agree with anything Mr. Baptiste said.He grew excited. "Yaas, dose cotton-yardmans, dose'longsho'mans, dey go out on one strik'. Dey t'row down dey toolan' say dey work no mo' wid niggers. Les veseaux, dey lay in deriver, no work, no cargo, yaas. Den de fruit ship, dey can' mak'lan', de mans, dey t'reaten an' say t'ings. Dey mak' big fight,yaas. Dere no mo' work on de levee, lak dat. Ever'body jus'walk roun' an' say cuss word, yaas!""Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" groaned Madame Garcia, rocking herguinea-blue-clad self to and fro.Mr. Baptiste picked up his nondescript head-cover and walked outthrough the brick-reddened alley, talking excitedly to himself.Madame Garcia called after him to know if he did not want hisluncheon, but he shook his head and passed on.Down on the levee it was even as Mr. Baptiste had said. The'long-shoremen, the cotton-yardmen, and the stevedores had goneout on a strike. The levee lay hot and unsheltered under theglare of a noonday sun. The turgid Mississippi scarce seemed toflow, but gave forth a brazen gleam from its yellow bosom. Greatvessels lay against the wharf, silent and unpopulated. Excitedgroups of men clustered here and there among bales ofuncompressed cotton, lying about in disorderly profusion.Cargoes of molasses and sugar gave out a sticky sweet smell, andnow and then the fierce rays of the sun would kindle tiny blazesin the cotton and splinter-mixed dust underfoot.Mr. Baptiste wandered in and out among the groups of men,exchanging a friendly salutation here and there. He looked thepicture of woe-begone misery."Hello, Mr. Baptiste," cried a big, brawny Irishman, "sure an'you look, as if you was about to be hanged.""Ah, mon Dieu," said Mr. Baptiste, "dose fruit ship be ruined fo'dees strik'.""Damn the fruit!" cheerily replied the Irishman, artisticallydisposing of a mouthful of tobacco juice. "It ain't the fruit wecare about, it's the cotton.""Hear! hear!" cried a dozen lusty comrades.Mr. Baptiste shook his head and moved sorrowfully away."Hey, by howly St. Patrick, here's that little fruit-eater!"called the centre of another group of strikers perched oncotton-bales."Hello! Where--" began a second; but the leader suddenly held uphis hand for silence, and the men listened eagerly.It might not have been a sound, for the levee lay quiet and themules on the cotton-drays dozed languidly, their ears pitched atvarying acute angles. But the practiced ears of the men heard afamiliar sound stealing up over the heated stillness."Oh--ho--ho--humph--humph--humph--ho--ho--ho--oh--o --o--humph!"Then the faint rattle of chains, and the steady thump of amachine pounding.If ever you go on the levee you'll know that sound, the rhythmicsong of the stevedores heaving cotton-bales, and the steadythump, thump, of the machine compressing them within the hold ofthe ship.Finnegan, the leader, who had held up his hand for silence,uttered an oath."Scabs! Men, come on!"There was no need for a further invitation. The men rose insullen wrath and went down the levee, the crowd gathering innumbers as it passed along. Mr. Baptiste followed in its wake,now and then sighing a mournful protest which was lost in theroar of the men."Scabs!" Finnegan had said; and the word was passed along, untilit seemed that the half of the second District knew and had risento investigate."Oh--ho--ho--humph--humph--humph--oh--ho--ho--oh--o--o--humph!"The rhythmic chorus sounded nearer, and the cause manifesteditself when the curve of the levee above the French Market waspassed. There rose a White Star steamer, insolently settlingitself to the water as each consignment of cotton bales wascompressed into her hold."Niggers!" roared Finnegan wrathily."Niggers! niggers! Kill 'em, scabs!" chorused the crowd.With muscles standing out like cables through their blue cottonshirts, and sweat rolling from glossy black skins, the Negrostevedores were at work steadily labouring at the cotton, withthe rhythmic song swinging its cadence in the hot air. The roarof the crowd caused the men to look up with momentaryapprehension, but at the over-seer's reassuring word they bentback to work.Finnegan was a Titan. With livid face and bursting veins he raninto the street facing the French Market, and uprooted a hugeblock of paving stone. Staggering under its weight, he rushedback to the ship, and with one mighty effort hurled it into thehold.The delicate poles of the costly machine tottered in the air,then fell forward with a crash as the whole iron framework in thehold collapsed."Damn ye," shouted Finnegan, "now yez can pack yer cotton!"The crowd's cheers at this changed to howls, as the Negroes,infuriated at their loss, for those costly machines belong to thelabourers and not to the ship-owners, turned upon the mob andbegan to throw brickbats, pieces of iron, chunks of wood,anything that came to hand. It was pandemonium turned loose overa turgid stream, with a malarial sun to heat the passions tofever point.Mr. Baptiste had taken refuge behind a bread-stall on the outsideof the market. He had taken off his cap, and was weakly cheeringthe Negroes on."Bravo!" cheered Mr. Baptiste."Will yez look at that damned fruit-eatin' Frinchman!" howledMcMahon. "Cheerin' the niggers, are you?" and he let fly abrickbat in the direction of the bread-stall."Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" wailed the bread-woman.Mr. Baptiste lay very still, with a great ugly gash in hiswrinkled brown temple. Fishmen and vegetable marchands gatheredaround him in a quick, sympathetic mass. The individual, theconcrete bit of helpless humanity, had more interest for themthan the vast, vague fighting mob beyond.The noon-hour pealed from the brazen throats of many bells, andthe numerous hoarse whistles of the steam-boats called theunheeded luncheon-time to the levee workers. The war wagedfuriously, and groans of the wounded mingled with curses androars from the combatants."Killed instantly," said the surgeon, carefully lifting Mr.Baptiste into the ambulance.Tramp, tramp, tramp, sounded the militia steadily marching downDecatur Street."Whist! do yez hear!" shouted Finnegan; and the conflict hadceased ere the yellow river could reflect the sun from thepolished bayonets.You remember, of course, how long the strike lasted, and how manybattles were fought and lives lost before the final adjustment ofaffairs. It was a fearsome war, and many forgot afterwards whosewas the first life lost in the struggle,--poor little Mr.Baptiste's, whose body lay at the Morgue unclaimed for daysbefore it was finally dropped unnamed into Potter's Field.

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