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DECLARATION OF
INDEPENDENCE
(Alabama)
Tom's note:
One young man's action against the system of time-buying and liens that
amounted to usury during growing season. This story cries out for a
sequel.
"Take this load of wood in to Aunt
Mary's, Mal, and then go by Emmetson's and get us something to eat. Tell
Jeffers I'll go in one day next week and make a lien." Papa spoke with a
sort of ketch in his voice, and Mal knew what he was thinking; he got all
choky mad himself.
But all he said, as he took up the lines and pulled gee on old Butler,
was, "All right, Papa."
With the gray mule solemnly pulling him and the load of wood, Mal had
plenty of time to think on the three-mile trip to the village. But there
was a bitter taste in his mouth, coming up from the feeling in his heart,
and running plumb through his think-box as well.
On both sides of the road, the land was fresh-plowed, "To make crops for
King George," Mal thought. He had stuck the title on George Emmetson's
name himself.
At Aunt Mary's he unloaded the wood, still mad enough to chew up sawdust
and spit out scantlings. Aunt Mary asked about the family, and he couldn't
even remember, later on, what he told her. He got back on the wagon and
drove on up to the hitching rack where Main Street went to seed in the
west. But he didn't get off at once. He just sat there and boiled over
with mad.
Every spring it made him madder and madder for Papa to start his "run" at
Emmetson's Store. Every fall he had seen all of the crop money go to pay
off the lien, leaving nothing for food and clothes for the winter. This
spring his begging had caused Pap to wait two weeks late about opening his
account but now the family was again where Pap could see no other way to
turn.
Mal couldn't see any way either; and they did have to eat. Folks just
couldn't make a crop on a teetotally empty stomach.
Finally he sort of snorted and got out of the wagon. Might as well get it
over with. He just couldn't think of any way to escape the clutches of
King George.
He went into the long, barny-looking store with his feet dragging like he
was going to get a whipping. It was a whipping, only his spirit must take
it instead of his hide. As he entered, Mr. Jeffers himself whisked by,
bumping him, and did not even say "Excuse me;" just acted like Mal was a
sack of nails or something.
He shut his hands tight, to hide the fury of their jerking, and went up to
one of the clerks he knew pretty well.
"How much is flour in 24-pound sacks?" he asked.
"Cash or time?" Gabe wanted to know.
"Both," Mal answered.
"Seventy-five cents, cash; dollar and a quarter on time," Gabe rattled.
Supplies bought on a crop lien are on the merchant's books less than three
months, on the average. That meant, Mal figured quickly, more than 260% a
year on the food people bought on time to make their crops.
"We'll go hungry before I'll pay that much difference," he announced
grimly, and marched back out. Then he stood on the sidewalk with his hands
in his overall pockets and started all over again, figuring out what he
maybe might do.
While he was standing there, George Emmetson himself parked his car and
came toward the store.
"Hello, son," he greeted Mal smoothly, "where is that daddy of yours these
days?"
"He's at home, working," Mal answered so short as to be almost
unrespectful.
Mr. Emmetson didn't notice the shortness at all. "You tell him to come on
in and start buying. He can't make a crop without supplies."
"He sure can't," Mal answered earnestly, but of course the man missed his
real meaning.
Mal looked at all the storefronts in the village. He knew all the
merchants, and they all knew him. Last of all his gaze lit on the little
stable-sized store right at the end of the street. It was where Jeb
Whitson, the newest storekeeper in town, kept his little stock of goods.
Jeb seemed to think a lot of Papa and him both, Mal thought, and began to
feel a sort of glowing of hope again in his mind. Jeb had several times
sold him little things and waited a week or so for his pay. Maybe---
The boy took one long breath, and sort of said a prayer to himself as he
started the three hundred yards to Jeb Whitson's "shop." His heart had got
out of hand by the time he got there that if Jeb had had one customer, his
resolution would have failed him completely.
But there was not one customer. The old man was sitting on his pet apple
box, whittling a stick.
"Howdy, Mal," he greeted warmly, "How's yer Pa and all the folks?"
"They're all up and about," Mal said, "and how is Mrs. Whitson?"
"Oh, she's complaining about as peart as usual," Jeb laughed.
Mal laughed too, then sucked in all the breath he could hold and started
his speech:
"Oh--you know it's coldblooded robbery the way Emmetson holds people up.
After a fellow works the whole year, it sure does hurt to have to hand it
all to that bloodsucker in time charges."
"He certainly is a bloodsucker, Mal. Why, the lowdown crook even tried to
keep me from getting my ice dealer's license renewed this year. He is out
to rule or ruin this whole country, and he has purty near ruined it now."
"Well, here's what I been thinking, Mr. Whitson: Papa told me to go over
there and start an account today on our this year's crop. I went on in and
asked some prices, and do you know he wants fifty cents advance on a sack
of flour over cash prices? I just wouldn't get a thing."
"Fifty cents extra! Mal, you know if I had the money, I'd run your pa and
a few other good men around here, and give 'em a chance to get away from
that cutthroat. He ought to be put in jail!"
Mal scuffed the gray-black dirt with the toe of a ragged shoe. "Mr.
Whitson I wonder if you could do this: Let us buy our stuff from you and
pay you within two weeks? That is, Papa makes a little money, making
fishnets, and I pick up a little work here in town after school. By fixing
our crop work to give us a little time every week, we can manage to just
about keep up with the account, I think."
The old man looked far out across the grove of pines beyond the town
baseball diamond. "Mal," he said finally, "here is how I am fixed. I get
my stuff on ten days' time. They call it ten days, but actually the
salesman comes around every two weeks, and I pay for my last bill of goods
and order a new one. If you are sure you can hold it inside two weeks, I
can carry you on a cash basis and you can tell Emmetson and Jeffers to go
to hell. Just remember that if you fall down, I fall with you. What do you
want to get today?'
Mal's heart leaped like a happy dog. The two went into the little store
and filled the order given Mal at home. While the old grocer weighed
coffee, Mal swallowed the happy choke in his throat enough so that he
could say: "Mr. Whitson, we won't fail you. We will be able to work for
ourselves this year."
"You must remember one thing though, Mal. Don't let anybody know I am
doing this. That infernal Emmetson would stop my credit with every
commission house around here. People don't buck him and get away with it
very often."
"Shucks, Mr. Whitson, I'm not telling anybody but Mamma and Papa; and they
sure won't broadcast it."
"Just the same, son, be careful who you talk to."
Mal's pride of accomplishment was tinged with fear. There were dark rumors
going around of terrible things that had happened to those who bucked the
power of "King George." Men had been taken out and beaten; others had been
ordered out of the district with such force that they had stood not on the
manner of their leaving. Two or three had vanished bodily, to furnish food
for the river catfish, so these same rumors said.
The boy thought of all this, grimly, as he untied the hitchrope and drove
old gray Butler by Whitson's shop to pick up his packages. But none of
those known as the "Emmetson bunch" seemed to be noticing him. Emmetson's
car, empty, still stood at the curb in front of his store.
On his way out of the village, Mal whirled fearfully each time he heard an
unusual sound behind him. But as the gray mule put yard after yard behind
them with his slow homeward walk, the boy gradually lost his feeling of
terror. This was a civilized land, and no man would dare bother a person
for trading with the merchant of his choice. He smiled, a shamed smile, at
having allowed himself to believe there was danger in such a simple act as
his.
Where the heavy timber growth of Black Swamp crowded close on each border
of the roadway, about two miles out of the village, Mal pulled his mule
courteously aside at the raspy request of an automobile horn behind him.
The loaded car whisked around him, turned across the narrow road and
stopped, blocking his way completely.
"Whatcha got in that wagon, Bub?" demanded the dirty, bearded driver as
Mal pulled old Butler to a startled halt.
"Groceries," Mal snapped. Somehow he was not at all scared now. One slight
boy facing five big brutish men, he termbled but with a fury that was
overwhelming him.
"Groceries, huh?" the man, followed by the other four was crowding up to
the wagon. "We was sent to find a feller that robbed Old Man Beckman's
Store a little while ago. Where'd you buy these things?"
Mal throttled his voice down to a very even tone as he answered, "Mister,
I bought these things - and I don't know as it is one durned bit of your
business where. Unless you're looking for more trouble than you ever
thought could happen to you at one time, you better get yourself, your
buddies, and your stinkbuggy out of my way. It's getting right close to
feed time, and I not only ain't used to being late--I don't intend to
start with tonight."
The big car driver threw back his head and laughed. "Hard little devil,
hain't you? Well, we can soon soften you up. Git out of that wagon!" He
lunged viciously at Mal.
Like most gray mules, old Butler had a definite personality. One of his
strongest personality points was an extremely sensitive tail. A mere touch
on that appendage when he was not expecting it made him a snorting demon.
Mal chose precise moment to punch Butler's tall, hard, with his small
wagon switch, and at the same time kick the burly man in the face, while
he pulled hard on the left guide line. With a wild snort, the mule
started. Men rolled like peas in a jolted jug. The frantic animal, forced
in spite of his wildness to heed the tight guide line, turned the
cumbersome wagon around on a dime and left seven cents change.
A plowman working near the woods heard the racket and looked up in time to
see the mule going back toward the village, "traveling like hell after a
yearling, and with Mal and the wagon floatin' along behind him in the
air."
Another car which Mal recognized was racing to meet the runaway. King
George was coming, really batting the ball. Mal clung to the sideboards of
the wagon and did not try to turn the mule. At the last second, Emmetson's
car flipped from the ruts of the road in a wild dive down some man's
cotton rows.
Butler just about had his run out. In a few yards, he dropped to a sedate
walk, then obediently stopped at Mal's shortwinded, "Whoa!" Carefully, Mal
guided the mule around and drive him back to where Emmetson was backing
cautiously into the road again. The time merchant was thoroughly upset,
his always florid face now the color of scorched brick.
Leaving space for him to get the car back into the road, Mal stopped his
wagon and waited. Then he got out and went over to the man.
"Look here, Mr. Emmetson," he said hotly, "you may be the big booger in
this county. We all admit you are. You may have mortgages on all the land
you don't own. I know you have a mortgage on our place. But that mortgage
is not due for three more years, and there's nothing anywhere in it that
says we've got to eat groceries out of your stores. And there's nothing in
it that says your hired beat-uppers can stop our wagon on the road and
threaten me. And I want you to please remember this: We will deal with
anyone we please, any time we please, and any way we please, without
regard to your wishes. And my mamma and my Papa and I are all sure shots,
and we like each other. If anything happens to one of us, the others will
be purty darned likely to return the favor to you, so you better take the
hint and pick on a goose for awhile."
"[?], son, you've got me all wrong. I don't know what got you all worked
up this way, but I certainly haven't done anything to you. In fact I have
a very high regard for all your family, and wouldn't think of doing any of
you even the slightest injury."
"Your words sound good Mister Emmetson, but I've heard smooth words before
that didn't mean a thing. You go on and collect your trash out of the way
up yonder in the woods--and don't forget what I told you. It is time for
me to get on home."
Something like respect shone in the eyes of the domineering time merchant
as he started his motor up again. "I don't blame you for getting hot,
son," he said thoughtfully, "and from now on I'll keep to my own side of
the road with you. But damn your hardheaded time, if that mortgage is not
paid the day it is due, I'll sure get a lot of pleasure out of throwing
you into the middle of the road."
"Go to it and welcome," Mal answered, as he picked up the lines and
clucked to Old Butler.
"You know, Old Mule," Mal said reflectively as the automobile sped away,
"I've got a strong idea King George meant what he said!"
Washington Copy
6/3/38
L.H
Alabama
Luther Clark
Editorial Department
Text from: Library of
Congress, Manuscript Division, WPA Federal Writers' Project Collection
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