Tobacco Road - Erskine Caldwell [47]
“Ain’t no use in talking no more, Jeeter,” they had said. “There’s farmers coming into Fuller every day from all over the country wanting the same thing. If there’s one, there’s a hundred been here. But we can’t help you people none. Last year we let some of you farmers have seed-cotton and guano on credit, and when fall came there was durn little cotton made, and what there was didn’t bring more than seven cents, middling grade. Ain’t no sense in farming when things is like that. And we can’t take no more chances. All of us has just got to wait until the rich give up the money they’re holding back.”
“But, praise God, me and my folks is starving out there on that tobacco road. We ain’t got nothing to eat, and we ain’t got nothing to sell that will bring money to get meal and meat. You storekeepers won’t let us have no more credit since Captain John left, and what is we going to do? I don’t know what’s going to happen to me and my folks if the rich don’t stop bleeding us. They’ve got all the money, holding it in the banks, and they won’t lend it out unless a man will cut off his arms and leave them there for security.”
“The best thing you can do, Jeeter,” they had said, “is to move your family up to Augusta, or across the river in South Carolina to Horsecreek Valley, where all the mills is, and go to work in one of them. That’s the only thing left for you to do now. Ain’t no other way.”
“No! By God and by Jesus, no!” Jeeter had said. “That’s one thing I ain’t going to do! The Lord made the land, and He put me here to raise crops on it. I been doing that, and my daddy before me, for the past fifty years, and that’s what’s intended. Them durn cotton mills is for the women folks to work in. They ain’t no place for a man to be, fooling away with little wheels and strings all day long. I say, it’s a hell of a job for a man to spend his time winding strings on spools. No! We was put here on the land where cotton will grow, and it’s my place to make it grow. I wouldn’t fool with the mills if I could make as much as fifteen dollars a week in them. I’m staying on the land till my time comes to die.”
“Have it your own way, Jeeter, but you’d better think it over and go to work in the cotton mills. That’s what nearly everybody else around Fuller has done. Some of them is in Augusta and some of them is in Horsecreek Valley, but they’re all working in the cotton mills just the same. You and your wife together could make twenty or twenty-five dollars a week doing that. You ain’t making nothing by staying here. You’ll both have to go and live at the county poor-farm pretty soon if you stay here and try to raise cotton.”
“Then it will be the rich who put us there,” Jeeter had said. “If we has to go to the poor-farm and live, it will be because the rich has got all the money that ought to be spread out among us all and won’t turn it loose and give me some credit to get seed-cotton and guano with.”
“You ain’t got a bit of sense, Jeeter. You ought to know by now that you can’t farm. It takes a rich man to run a farm these days. The poor has got to work in the mills.”
“Maybe I ain’t got much sense, but I know it ain’t intended for me to work in the mills. The land was where I was put at the start, and it’s where I’m going to be at the end.”
“Why, even your children has got more sense than you, Jeeter. They didn’t stay here to starve. They went to work in the mills. Now, there’s Lizzie Belle up there in —
“Maybe some of them did, but that ain’t saying it was right. Dude, he didn’t go, noway. He’s still here. He’s going to farm the land some day, just like all of us ought to be doing.”
“Dude hasn’t got the sense to leave. If he had the sense your other children had, he wouldn’t stay here. He would be able to see how foolish it is to try to farm like things is now. The rich ain’t aiming to turn loose their money for credit. They’re going to hold on to it all the time to run the mills with.”
Jeeter remembered all that had been said, as he sat on his heels by the chimney, leaning against