A Short Tale of Black Superstition
BLACK CUNJER
BLACK CUNJER’S CABIN was in the thick of the pine woods where the saw-mill had been located for a month. It had proved difficult to find any negroes in that vicinity willing to work there; money was no object when they feared Black Cunjer's wrath.
They believed he exercised a sort of proprietorship over the forest—a claim much stronger than that of the actual property owners, a corporation which knew nothing and cared less about local superstition. Certain it is that from time immemorial Black Cunjer had lived in the heart of the woods, where the pines grew closest and the shadows made twilight of midday. There, it was whispered, within a semi-circle of tall trees he worshipped his god, and burned fire before him on black nights.
It was a mystery how the ancient negro managed to subsist, for there was no garden, nor cultivated acres about his dilapidated cabin. It was rumored that he ate bats and moles, and that this repulsive fare gave him "night eyes," so he could see in the dark. His eyes did have a curiously sunk expression, imparting to his wizened face an unearthly aspect.
No one knew Black Cunjer's age; the negroes thought he came straight from Africa two hundred years ago. Judge Blake said he remembered when the old man had been a boy on his father’s plantation, and that he clung to the cabin in the pine woods now, because his young wife had died there years ago and was buried in the semi-circular space of trees. Because they guarded her rest, and witnessed his religious rites for her soul, he had grown to regard the pines as sacred.
It was true that Judge Blake appeared to be the only person of either race with whom the solitary negro ever held communication, but the judge, after all, was in his dotage and given to queer fancies. In spite of the fact that a few had seen—so they said—a mound under the tallest trees resembling a grave, it was impossible to connect Black Cunjer with human ties, however long past.
On the rare occasions when he appeared among the negroes, they were excessively polite, but after nightfall they shunned his cabin as a haunted spot.
The order had gone forth that the entire pine woods must be cut. Some of the logs were to be shipped down the river, and the rest cut into cord wood before the end of September. Work had progressed slowly, for there had been much trouble in securing and keeping enough men for the job; finally, about midsummer, a new foreman was sent down with orders to rush things through at all costs.
This foreman was a huge, hulking brute called Hock Oberman. He came from "out yonder," with a record for getting results. He had worked only among the lowest class of laborers—mainly foreigners—and rose to his present position by his undoubted power over subordinates. He had had no previous experience with "niggers," but he boasted to the few poor whites, who would consort with him in the village, that he’d sweat the soul out of those fool blacks for once in their lives, and get the pine woods cleaned up on schedule time.
For a month after his arrival at the sawmill the work progressed much more quickly. From early dawn until sunset the chug-chug of the engine mingled with the voices of the negroes as they felled the trees, hauled the logs, or joked around the campfire at night.
Oberman was a great drinker, and it began to be rumored that he supplied the workmen with liquor. He always said—when questioned—that he "had a system," accompanying this cryptic remark with a wink from his small, close-set, cruel eyes.
It seemed to work—for a time. Finally all of the larger trees had been cut, except those surrounding Black Cunjer's cabin, for the radius of half a mile. Then trouble began. For some reason, the gang sent day after day to fell those trees returned empty-handed. Once, three axes broke in succession; another time, a gnarled pine, falling on a workman, seriously injured him,
The day after this catastrophe Oberman drove the negroes out to the woods with threats and curses. They went, muttering sullenly. But less than an hour afterward, in the midst of crashing thunder and livid streaks of lightning, they came running back to camp, nor could they be moved to stir beyond shelter for the rest of that day.
Oberman raged and swore in a frenzy. Utterly ignorant of the type of creature he was dealing with, he could stir no response from the sulky group of negroes.
Then something happened that again gave him the upper hand.
After the storm a steady drizzle had set in; now, at nightfall, the gray skies and cold rain made the gloom inside the rude buildings less preferable than the fire built under a shed. This was open on three sides, facing the branch road which skirted the edge of the forest.
The few white laborers whom Oberman had brought down with him were inside the bunkhouse playing cards by the light of several tin lanterns swung from the low roof. But the negroes were huddled around the fire outside, talking softly among themselves, now that Oberman had finished his harangue.
Tom, a strapping, light-colored negro, who the foreman said was the only one with a spoonful of brains, spoke in a vibrant undertone that sent an electric tenseness through the group:
"Dyah he now," Tom said—"dyah ole Black Cunjer comin' up de road straight to'ard dis camp! Lordy, lordy, he gwine trick us all... he say nobody cyant cross his threshold—he gwine cross ourn now"—his voice died in a sort of wail.
Oberman whirled round on them.
"You damned fools—what can one old half dead nigger do against all this bunch? If you just wasn't afraid of him—like me—you'd see some sense!" His voice rose boastfully. "I bet I can look at him—and he'll go where he belongs."
If the bent figure slowly approaching the shed heard these words he gave no sign. The negroes, moaning, shrank closer together. Oberman seized his chance to show them. Raising his voice, he shouted across the dim curtain of mist:
