the tiny porch that Benjamin had built onto the front of his cabin. He had softened the strips again and rolled them into slender, milky cords, then coiled them carefully to store away in a clean rag.
When he saw Ben coming through the twilight he went into the cabin and came out carrying the rag full of strings in one hand and the mostly finished banjo in the other. Alma set a chair for Ben, one of the two that they had in the cabin. There was just room for the two men on the little lean-to porch. Alma settled on a chunk of stone outside the rail and bent her head to a pair of britches she was mending.
As he stepped up, Ben took five pegs from his bib pocket and rattled them in his hand. With a smile Sap pointed to the empty chair and handed him the banjo. Ben had made it mostly himself, but all to Zebulon’s directions; it was the only instrument he had ever made. He set the drum of it on his knee and held the walnut neck up vertical. He’d made the headstock into a horse’s head, improving on the abstract form of fiddleheads he had seen. Little chips of white cow bone were wedged in for the eyes.
The banjo drum was a cedar hoop, with half a big gourd for a resonator. Ben had put all the parts together, impressed how Zebulon knew just how to tell him what to do. The only part Zeb had done himself was stretching the hide parchment over the hoop, soaking it soft and letting it temper up as it dried. He’d needed to get Forrest to give him a pass so he could go a dozen miles south towhere there was a white man crazy enough to be raising sheep in the suffocating Mississippi heat.
Ben lowered the banjo head to the floor and, with the horse-headstock resting against his knee, began to set the cedar pegs in the holes already bored for them. Each peg was flattened at the top to accommodate the ball of a thumb. Two of the four he had to whittle a little more to get them settled right. Satisfied they’d turn and hold, he raised the banjo to his lap and pushed the fifth peg into place on the side of the neck. He tapped the skin head once, for a soft belling tone, then handed the banjo back to Zebulon.
No other note had yet been sounded, but little children began to turn up, to watch Zeb knotting on the strings. Little Hattie hung by both hands from the rail, peering in underneath it. Beside her, just tall enough to see over the rail, was Eli, Ben and Nancy’s next oldest child. A few more children of the quarters were trickling over, drawn by the attention of the first two, and more came quickly, once Zeb thumbed a string and twisted the first peg to a true note.
He looked across at Benjamin as he tuned. “What you aim to do?”
“Do bout what?” Ben had taken another, bigger piece of cedar from his pocket and was whittling; you couldn’t yet tell what it meant to be.
“Mist’ Forrest goen to war tomorrow, what them say.”
Ben looked away along the alley of the quarters, where Nancy was coming along barefoot toward Zeb’s cabin, between the rows of other cabins Ben had built.
“I spec to go with him,” he said.
Zeb shook his head and tuned up three more notes. With hammer strokes he sounded each against the fretless fingerboard.
“Boy, are you outen yo mind?” he said.
“What you mean to do yoself?” Ben asked him. He was watching Nancy as she sat down beside Alma on the chunk of the stone; Alma shifted over to make room for her. Nancy glanced up once at the men on the porch, then looked over the way, where a file of speckled chickens were flapping up to roost in a hackberry tree. Ben turned his piece of wood under the knife blade in his hand; the red cedar smell sprang up as he worked.
“Plant cotton. Chop cotton. Pick cotton. Pluck on the banjo evenensand Sundays …” Zeb rolled an arpeggio on the four lower strings. “Live till I die.”
He began tuning up the short fifth string, wincing a little as the note climbed higher. There was only one lone extra string, till he might get his hands on
When he saw Ben coming through the twilight he went into the cabin and came out carrying the rag full of strings in one hand and the mostly finished banjo in the other. Alma set a chair for Ben, one of the two that they had in the cabin. There was just room for the two men on the little lean-to porch. Alma settled on a chunk of stone outside the rail and bent her head to a pair of britches she was mending.
As he stepped up, Ben took five pegs from his bib pocket and rattled them in his hand. With a smile Sap pointed to the empty chair and handed him the banjo. Ben had made it mostly himself, but all to Zebulon’s directions; it was the only instrument he had ever made. He set the drum of it on his knee and held the walnut neck up vertical. He’d made the headstock into a horse’s head, improving on the abstract form of fiddleheads he had seen. Little chips of white cow bone were wedged in for the eyes.
The banjo drum was a cedar hoop, with half a big gourd for a resonator. Ben had put all the parts together, impressed how Zebulon knew just how to tell him what to do. The only part Zeb had done himself was stretching the hide parchment over the hoop, soaking it soft and letting it temper up as it dried. He’d needed to get Forrest to give him a pass so he could go a dozen miles south towhere there was a white man crazy enough to be raising sheep in the suffocating Mississippi heat.
Ben lowered the banjo head to the floor and, with the horse-headstock resting against his knee, began to set the cedar pegs in the holes already bored for them. Each peg was flattened at the top to accommodate the ball of a thumb. Two of the four he had to whittle a little more to get them settled right. Satisfied they’d turn and hold, he raised the banjo to his lap and pushed the fifth peg into place on the side of the neck. He tapped the skin head once, for a soft belling tone, then handed the banjo back to Zebulon.
No other note had yet been sounded, but little children began to turn up, to watch Zeb knotting on the strings. Little Hattie hung by both hands from the rail, peering in underneath it. Beside her, just tall enough to see over the rail, was Eli, Ben and Nancy’s next oldest child. A few more children of the quarters were trickling over, drawn by the attention of the first two, and more came quickly, once Zeb thumbed a string and twisted the first peg to a true note.
He looked across at Benjamin as he tuned. “What you aim to do?”
“Do bout what?” Ben had taken another, bigger piece of cedar from his pocket and was whittling; you couldn’t yet tell what it meant to be.
“Mist’ Forrest goen to war tomorrow, what them say.”
Ben looked away along the alley of the quarters, where Nancy was coming along barefoot toward Zeb’s cabin, between the rows of other cabins Ben had built.
“I spec to go with him,” he said.
Zeb shook his head and tuned up three more notes. With hammer strokes he sounded each against the fretless fingerboard.
“Boy, are you outen yo mind?” he said.
“What you mean to do yoself?” Ben asked him. He was watching Nancy as she sat down beside Alma on the chunk of the stone; Alma shifted over to make room for her. Nancy glanced up once at the men on the porch, then looked over the way, where a file of speckled chickens were flapping up to roost in a hackberry tree. Ben turned his piece of wood under the knife blade in his hand; the red cedar smell sprang up as he worked.
“Plant cotton. Chop cotton. Pick cotton. Pluck on the banjo evenensand Sundays …” Zeb rolled an arpeggio on the four lower strings. “Live till I die.”
He began tuning up the short fifth string, wincing a little as the note climbed higher. There was only one lone extra string, till he might get his hands on
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