A Loss of Tone

Abstract

A Loss of Tone B. D'J Pancake (bio) Guest Editor's Note: "A Loss of Tone" appears in the U.Va. papers. Under the title in the typescript are the words "By: B. D'J Pancake." This signature and the style of the story suggest a composition date in the mid to late 1970s. The contextual content appears to come straight out of one of Breece's favorite pastimes as a youngster in Milton: sitting on the Old Bank steps listening to the old-timers tell stories. As I walk to our shop, I think what a fine town Rock Camp really is and how well the early light strikes the bricks on Front Street and mingles again with the haze that spreads up at night from the Mud River. It is an old town, but its history is very calm. There were no Indian Wars here, only a grist-mill to draw the settler into rich corn and cane lands, and in the years to follow, the Civil War was only a popping far off in the hills. I think of my great-grandfather selling dry goods and notions from his wagon right here on Front Street, then building the shop to be handed down. I turn the corner at the Old Bank and see Willy Foutz sitting on the steps, sunning in the pink morning haze. He retired from the C&O Railroad when I was just a boy, but he still wears his fireman's clothes, brags about the accuracy of his watch. I take to the step beside him, lean back to soak in the warmth. Willy is no fool, it's good to sit this way a few minutes every morning before going on with your business. "Know what I seen yesterday?" he says. "A high-yellow, but a nigger just the same. Lives in that new bunch of houses other side of the river." "Well, it won't hurt anything. There have never been any Negroes in Rock Camp that I remember." "Was too. Raymond what's-his-name who cooked at the Justice Inn was black as your hat. Damn good cook, too, but he was awful bad to drink. Drank... [End Page 36] "Willy, the Justice Inn closed thirty years before I was born." "Drank real sweet wine for breakfast. Used to tell Mrs. Justice he was cooking with the stuff. Ain't that something?" "What became of Raymond?" "Militia ran him out because he—they claimed—got to chasing after white girls. Too bad, too. The Inn went to hell in a handcar after that." "I always thought there were no Negroes here because there was no slavery in this part of West Virginia." "Aw, hell, there was too. I recollect one nig Paw said they hung back before the war. Hung him off the trestle over Mud River—where the Teays River Pike is now—called Tin-Bridge." "Why'd they hang him?" "Don't know for sure. Paw was just a boy back then, and I'm not sure he got his facts straight, but he claimed the nig was a slave who killed his master—chopped him up with a caneknife. The master was supposed to be Mr. Gregs, and Paw said he was give to fits and beating on his slave. Looks to me like a fellow wouldn't give to beating on the only slave he had, but from what Paw said, Mr. Gregs lit into him pretty regular. Yes sir, he even said Mr. Gregs poured salt on the welts, but I don't think he got that right. "Anyhow, it was after Mr. Gregs had whipped him for something—I don't recollect what—he was out in the field working cane and his master come upon him and commenced to yelling at him. Well, the nigger'd took about all he wanted, so he just turned that cane-knife on his master. Must of come as a shock to both of them, but the nig did have the good sense to hide in the canebreaks till after dark. What he didn't have no sense about was how to clear out of...