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[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: "Den I tell him 'bout de man down dar in de gully"
--_Free Joe_]
FREE JOE
AND
OTHER GEORGIAN SKETCHES
BY
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
AUTHOR OF "UNCLE REMUS," ETC., ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK
Copyright 1887 by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
_Free Joe_
CONTENTS
PAGE
FREE JOE 3
LITTLE COMPTON 30
AUNT FOUNTAIN'S PRISONER 98
TROUBLE ON LOST MOUNTAIN 133
AZALIA 183
FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD
THE name of Free Joe strikes humorously upon the ear of memory. It is
impossible to say why, for he was the humblest, the simplest, and the
most serious of all God's living creatures, sadly lacking in all those
elements that suggest the humorous. It is certain, moreover, that in
1850 the sober-minded citizens of the little Georgian village of
Hillsborough were not inclined to take a humorous view of Free Joe, and
neither his name nor his presence provoked a smile. He was a black atom,
drifting hither and thither without an owner, blown about by all the
winds of circumstance, and given over to shiftlessness.
The problems of one generation are the paradoxes of a succeeding one,
particularly if war, or some such incident, intervenes to clarify the
atmosphere and strengthen the understanding. Thus, in 1850, Free Joe
represented not only a problem of large concern, but, in the watchful
eyes of Hillsborough, he was the embodiment of that vague and mysterious
danger that seemed to be forever lurking on the outskirts of slavery,
ready to sound a shrill and ghostly signal in the impenetrable swamps,
and steal forth under the midnight stars to murder, rapine, and
pillage--a danger always threatening, and yet never assuming shape;
intangible, and yet real; impossible, and yet not improbable. Across the
serene and smiling front of safety, the pale outlines of the awful
shadow of insurrection sometimes fell. With this invisible panorama as a
background, it was natural that the figure of Free Joe, simple and
humble as it was, should assume undue proportions. Go where he would, do
what he might, he could not escape the finger of observation and the
kindling eye of suspicion. His lightest words were noted, his slightest
actions marked.
Under all the circumstances it was natural that his peculiar condition
should reflect itself in his habits and manners. The slaves laughed
loudly day by day, but Free Joe rarely laughed. The slaves sang at their
work and danced at their frolics, but no one ever heard Free Joe sing or
saw him dance. There was something painfully plaintive and appealing in
his attitude, something touching in his anxiety to please. He was of the
friendliest nature, and seemed to be delighted when he could amuse the
little children who had made a playground of the public square. At times
he would please them by making his little dog Dan perform all sorts of
curious tricks, or he would tell them quaint stories of the beasts of
the field and birds of the air; and frequently he was coaxed into
relating the story of his own freedom. That story was brief, but
tragical.
In the year of our Lord 1840, when a negro speculator of a sportive turn
of mind reached the little village of Hillsborough on his way to the
Mississippi region, with a caravan of likely negroes of both sexes, he
found much to interest him. In that day and at that time there were a
number of young men in the village who had not bound themselves over to
repentance for the various misdeeds of the flesh. To these young men the
negro speculator (Major Frampton was his name) proceeded to address
himself. He was a Virginian, he declared; and, to prove the statement,
he referred all the festively inclined young men of Hillsborough to a
barrel of peach-brandy in one of his covered wagons. In the minds of
these young men there was less doubt in regard to the age and quality of
the brandy than there was in regard to the negro trader's birthplace.
Major Frampton might or might not have been born in the Old
Dominion--that was a matter for consideration and inquiry--but there
could be no question as to the mellow pungency of the peach-brandy.
In his own estimation, Major Frampton was one of the most accomplished
of men. He had summered at the Virginia Springs; he had been to
Philadelphia, to Washington, to Richmond, to Lynchburg, and to
Charleston, and had accumulated a great deal of experience which he
found useful. Hillsborough was hid in the woods of Middle Georgia, and
its general aspect of innocence impressed him. He looked on the young
men who had shown their readiness to test his peach-brandy as overgrown
country boys who needed to be introduced to some of the arts and
sciences he had at his command. Thereupon the major pitched his tents,
figuratively speaking, and became, for the time being, a part and parcel
of the innocence that characterized Hillsborough. A wiser man would
doubtless have made the same mistake.
The little village possessed advantages that seemed to be providentially
arranged to fit the various enterprises that Major Frampton had in view.
There was the auction block in front of the stuccoed court-house, if he
desired to dispose of a few of his negroes; there was a quarter-track,
laid out to his hand and in excellent order, if he chose to enjoy the
pleasures of horse-racing; there were secluded pine thickets within easy
reach, if he desired to indulge in the exciting pastime of
cock-fighting; and variously lonely and unoccupied rooms in the second
story of the tavern, if he cared to challenge the chances of dice or
cards.
Major Frampton tried them all with varying luck, until he began his
famous game of poker with Judge Alfred Wellington, a stately gentleman
with a flowing white beard and mild blue eyes that gave him the
appearance of a benevolent patriarch. The history of the game in which
Major Frampton and Judge Alfred Wellington took part is something more
than a tradition in Hillsborough, for there are still living three or
four men who sat around the table and watched its progress. It is said
that at various stages of the game Major Frampton would destroy the
cards with which they were playing, and send for a new pack, but the
result was always the same. The mild blue eyes of Judge Wellington, with
few exceptions, continued to overlook "hands" that were invincible--a
habit they had acquired during a long and arduous course of training
from Saratoga to New Orleans. Major Frampton lost his money, his horses,
his wagons, and all his negroes but one, his body-servant. When his
misfortune had reached this limit, the major adjourned the game. The sun
was shining brightly, and all nature was cheerful. It is said that the
major also seemed to be cheerful. However this may be, he visited the
court-house, and executed the papers that gave his body-servant his
freedom. This being done, Major Frampton sauntered into a convenient
pine thicket, and blew out his brains.
The negro thus freed came to be known as Free Joe. Compelled, under the
law, to choose a guardian, he chose Judge Wellington, chiefly because
his wife Lucinda was among the negroes won from Major Frampton. For
several years Free Joe had what may be called a jovial time. His wife
Lucinda was well provided for, and he found it a comparatively easy
matter to provide for himself; so that, taking all the circumstances
into consideration, it is not matter for astonishment that he became
somewhat shiftless.
When Judge Wellington died, Free Joe's troubles began. The judge's
negroes, including Lucinda, went to his half-brother, a man named
Calderwood, who was a hard master and a rough customer generally--a man
of many eccentricities of mind and character. His neighbors had a habit
of alluding to him as "Old Spite"; and the name seemed to fit him so
completely that he was known far and near as "Spite" Calderwood. He
probably enjoyed the distinction the name gave him, at any rate he never
resented it, and it was not often that he missed an opportunity to show
that he deserved it. Calderwood's place was two or three miles from the
village of Hillsborough, and Free Joe visited his wife twice a week,
Wednesday and Saturday nights.
One Sunday he was sitting in front of Lucinda's cabin, when Calderwood
happened to pass that way.
"Howdy, marster?" said Free Joe, taking off his hat.
"Who are you?" exclaimed Calderwood abruptly, halting and staring at the
negro.
"I'm name' Joe, marster. I'm Lucindy's ole man."
"Who do you belong to?"
"Marse John Evans is my gyardeen, marster."
"Big name--gyardeen. Show your pass."
Free Joe produced that document, and Calderwood read it aloud slowly,
as if he found it difficult to get at the meaning:
"_To whom it may concern: This is to certify that the boy Joe Frampton
has my permission to visit his wife Lucinda._"
This was dated at Hillsborough, and signed "_John W. Evans_."
Calderwood read it twice, and then looked at Free Joe, elevating his
eyebrows, and showing his discolored teeth.
"Some mighty big words in that there. Evans owns this place, I reckon.
When's he comin' down to take hold?"
Free Joe fumbled with his hat. He was badly frightened.
"Lucindy say she speck you wouldn't min' my comin', long ez I behave,
marster."
Calderwood tore the pass in pieces and flung it away.
"Don't want no free niggers 'round here," he exclaimed. "There's the big
road. It'll carry you to town. Don't let me catch you here no more. Now,
mind what I tell you."
Free Joe presented a shabby spectacle as he moved off with his little
dog Dan slinking at his heels. It should be said in behalf of Dan,
however, that his bristles were up, and that he looked back and growled.
It may be that the dog had the advantage of insignificance, but it is
difficult to conceive how a dog bold enough to raise his bristles under
Calderwood's very eyes could be as insignificant as Free Joe. But both
the negro and his little dog seemed to give a new and more dismal aspect
to forlornness as they turned into the road and went toward
Hillsborough.
After this incident Free Joe appeared to have clearer ideas concerning
his peculiar condition. He realized the fact that though he was free he
was more helpless than any slave. Having no owner, every man was his
master. He knew that he was the object of suspicion, and therefore all
his slender resources (ah! how pitifully slender they were!) were
devoted to winning, not kindness and appreciation, but toleration; all
his efforts were in the direction of mitigating the circumstances that
tended to make his condition so much worse than that of the negroes
around him--negroes who had friends because they had masters.
So far as his own race was concerned, Free Joe was an exile. If the
slaves secretly envied him his freedom (which is to be doubted,
considering his miserable condition), they openly despised him, and lost
no opportunity to treat him with contumely. Perhaps this was in some
measure the result of the attitude which Free Joe chose to maintain
toward them. No doubt his instinct taught him that to hold himself aloof
from the slaves would be to invite from the whites the toleration which
he coveted, and without which even his miserable condition would be
rendered more miserable still.
His greatest trouble was the fact that he was not allowed to visit his
wife; but he soon found a way out of his difficulty. After he had been
ordered away from the Calderwood place, he was in the habit of wandering
as far in that direction as prudence would permit. Near the Calderwood
place, but not on Calderwood's land, lived an old man named Micajah
Staley and his sister Becky Staley. These people were old and very
poor. Old Micajah had a palsied arm and hand; but, in spite of this, he
managed to earn a precarious living with his turning-lathe.
When he was a slave Free Joe would have scorned these representatives of
a class known as poor white trash, but now he found them sympathetic and
helpful in various ways. From the back door of their cabin he could hear
the Calderwood negroes singing at night, and he sometimes fancied he
could distinguish Lucinda's shrill treble rising above the other voices.
A large poplar grew in the woods some distance from the Staley cabin,
and at the foot of this tree Free Joe would sit for hours with his face
turned toward Calderwood's. His little dog Dan would curl up in the
leaves near by, and the two seemed to be as comfortable as possible.
One Saturday afternoon Free Joe, sitting at the foot of this friendly
poplar, fell asleep. How long he slept, he could not tell; but when he
awoke little Dan was licking his face, the moon was shining brightly,
and Lucinda his wife stood before him laughing. The dog, seeing that
Free Joe was asleep, had grown somewhat impatient, and he concluded to
make an excursion to the Calderwood place on his own account. Lucinda
was inclined to give the incident a twist in the direction of
superstition.
"I 'uz settn' down front er de fireplace," she said, "cookin' me some
meat, w'en all of a sudden I year sumpin at de do'--scratch, scratch. I
tuck'n tu'n de meat over, en make out I ain't year it. Bimeby it come
dar 'gin--scratch, scratch. I up en open de do', I did, en, bless de
Lord! dar wuz little Dan, en it look like ter me dat his ribs done grow
terge'er. I gin 'im some bread, en den, w'en he start out, I tuck'n
foller 'im, kaze, I say ter myse'f, maybe my nigger man mought be
some'rs 'roun'. Dat ar little dog got sense, mon."
Free Joe laughed and dropped his hand lightly on Dan's head. For a long
time after that he had no difficulty in seeing his wife. He had only to
sit by the poplar tree until little Dan could run and fetch her. But
after a while the other negroes discovered that Lucinda was meeting Free
Joe in the woods, and information of the fact soon reached Calderwood's
ears. Calderwood was what is called a man of action. He said nothing;
but one day he put Lucinda in his buggy, and carried her to Macon, sixty
miles away. He carried her to Macon, and came back without her; and
nobody in or around Hillsborough, or in that section, ever saw her
again.
For many a night after that Free Joe sat in the woods and waited. Little
Dan would run merrily off and be gone a long time, but he always came
back without Lucinda. This happened over and over again. The
"willis-whistlers" would call and call, like fantom huntsmen wandering
on a far-off shore; the screech-owl would shake and shiver in the depths
of the woods; the night-hawks, sweeping by on noiseless wings, would
snap their beaks as though they enjoyed the huge joke of which Free Joe
and little Dan were the victims; and the whip-poor-wills would cry to
each other through the gloom. Each night seemed to be lonelier than the
preceding, but Free Joe's patience was proof against loneliness. There
came a time, however, when little Dan refused to go after Lucinda. When
Free Joe motioned him in the direction of the Calderwood place, he would
simply move about uneasily and whine; then he would curl up in the
leaves and make himself comfortable.
One night, instead of going to the poplar tree to wait for Lucinda, Free
Joe went to the Staley cabin, and, in order to make his welcome good, as
he expressed it, he carried with him an armful of fat-pine splinters.
Miss Becky Staley had a great reputation in those parts as a
fortune-teller, and the schoolgirls, as well as older people, often
tested her powers in this direction, some in jest and some in earnest.
Free Joe placed his humble offering of light-wood in the chimney corner,
and then seated himself on the steps, dropping his hat on the ground
outside.
"Miss Becky," he said presently, "whar in de name er gracious you reckon
Lucindy is?"
"Well, the Lord he'p the nigger!" exclaimed Miss Becky, in a tone that
seemed to reproduce, by some curious agreement of sight with sound, her
general aspect of peakedness. "Well, the Lord he'p the nigger! hain't
you been a-seein' her all this blessed time? She's over at old Spite
Calderwood's, if she's anywheres, I reckon."
"No'm, dat I ain't, Miss Becky. I ain't seen Lucindy in now gwine on
mighty nigh a mont'."
"Well, it hain't a-gwine to hurt you," said Miss Becky, somewhat
sharply. "In my day an' time it wuz allers took to be a bad sign when
niggers got to honeyin' 'roun' an' gwine on."
"Yessum," said Free Joe, cheerfully assenting to the
proposition--"yessum, dat's so, but me an' my ole 'oman, we 'uz raise
terge'er, en dey ain't bin many days w'en we 'uz' 'way fum one 'n'er
like we is now."
"Maybe she's up an' took up wi' some un else," said Micajah Staley from
the corner. "You know what the sayin' is: 'New master, new nigger.'"
"Dat's so, dat's de sayin', but tain't wid my ole 'oman like 'tis wid
yuther niggers. Me en her wuz des natally raise up terge'er. Dey's lots
likelier niggers dan w'at I is," said Free Joe, viewing his shabbiness
with a critical eye, "but I knows Lucindy mos' good ez I does little
Dan dar--dat I does."
There was no reply to this, and Free Joe continued:
"Miss Becky, I wish you please, ma'am, take en run yo' kyards en see
sump'n n'er 'bout Lucindy; kaze ef she sick, I'm gwine dar. Dey ken take
en take me up en gimme a stroppin', but I'm gwine dar."
Miss Becky got her cards, but first she picked up a cup, in the bottom
of which were some coffee-grounds. These she whirled slowly round and
round, ending finally by turning the cup upside down on the hearth and
allowing it to remain in that position.
"I'll turn the cup first," said Miss Becky, "and then I'll run the cards
and see what they say."
As she shuffled the cards the fire on the hearth burned low, and in its
fitful light the gray-haired, thin-featured woman seemed to deserve the
weird reputation which rumor and gossip had given her. She shuffled the
cards for some moments, gazing intently in the dying fire; then,
throwing a piece of pine on the coals, she made three divisions of the
pack, disposing them about in her lap. Then she took the first pile, ran
the cards slowly through her fingers, and studied them carefully. To the
first she added the second pile. The study of these was evidently not
satisfactory. She said nothing, but frowned heavily; and the frown
deepened as she added the rest of the cards until the entire fifty-two
had passed in review before her. Though she frowned, she seemed to be
deeply interested. Without changing the relative position of the cards,
she ran them all over again. Then she threw a larger piece of pine on
the fire, shuffled the cards afresh, divided them into three piles, and
subjected them to the same careful and critical examination.
"I can't tell the day when I've seed the cards run this a-way," she said
after a while. "What is an' what ain't, I'll never tell you; but I know
what the cards sez."
"W'at does dey say, Miss Becky?" the negro inquired, in a tone the
solemnity of which was heightened by its eagerness.
"They er runnin' quare. These here that I'm a-lookin' at," said Miss
Becky, "they stan' for the past. Them there, they er the present; and
the t'others, they er the future. Here's a bundle"--tapping the ace of
clubs with her thumb--"an' here's a journey as plain as the nose on a
man's face. Here's Lucinda--"
"Whar she, Miss Becky?"
"Here she is--the queen of spades."
Free Joe grinned. The idea seemed to please him immensely.
"Well, well, well!" he exclaimed. "Ef dat don't beat my time! De queen
er spades! W'en Lucindy year dat hit'll tickle 'er, sho'!"
Miss Becky continued to run the cards back and forth through her
fingers.
"Here's a bundle an' a journey, and here's Lucinda. An' here's ole Spite
Calderwood."
She held the cards toward the negro and touched the king of clubs.
"De Lord he'p my soul!" exclaimed Free Joe with a chuckle. "De faver's
dar. Yesser, dat's him! W'at de matter 'long wid all un um, Miss
Becky?"
The old woman added the second pile of cards to the first, and then the
third, still running them through her fingers slowly and critically. By
this time the piece of pine in the fireplace had wrapped itself in a
mantle of flame, illuminating the cabin and throwing into strange relief
the figure of Miss Becky as she sat studying the cards. She frowned
ominously at the cards and mumbled a few words to herself. Then she
dropped her hands in her lap and gazed once more into the fire. Her
shadow danced and capered on the wall and floor behind her, as if,
looking over her shoulder into the future, it could behold a rare
spectacle. After a while she picked up the cup that had been turned on
the hearth. The coffee-grounds, shaken around, presented what seemed to
be a most intricate map.
"Here's the journey," said Miss Becky, presently; "here's the big road,
here's rivers to cross, here's the bundle to tote." She paused and
sighed. "They hain't no names writ here, an' what it all means I'll
never tell you. Cajy, I wish you'd be so good as to han' me my pipe."
"I hain't no hand wi' the kyards," said Cajy, as he handed the pipe,
"but I reckon I can patch out your misinformation, Becky, bekaze the
other day, whiles I was a-finishin' up Mizzers Perdue's rollin'-pin, I
hearn a rattlin' in the road. I looked out, an' Spite Calderwood was
a-drivin' by in his buggy, an' thar sot Lucinda by him. It'd in-about
drapt out er my min'."
Free Joe sat on the door-sill and fumbled at his hat, flinging it from
one hand to the other.
"You ain't see um gwine back, is you, Mars Cajy?" he asked after a
while.
"Ef they went back by this road," said Mr. Staley, with the air of one
who is accustomed to weigh well his words, "it must 'a' bin endurin' of
the time whiles I was asleep, bekaze I hain't bin no furder from my shop
than to yon bed."
"Well, sir!" exclaimed Free Joe in an awed tone, which Mr. Staley seemed
to regard as a tribute to his extraordinary powers of statement.
"Ef it's my beliefs you want," continued the old man, "I'll pitch 'em at
you fair and free. My beliefs is that Spite Calderwood is gone an' took
Lucindy outen the county. Bless your heart and soul! when Spite
Calderwood meets the Old Boy in the road they'll be a turrible scuffle.
You mark what I tell you."
Free Joe, still fumbling with his hat, rose and leaned against the
door-facing. He seemed to be embarrassed. Presently he said:
"I speck I better be gittin' 'long. Nex' time I see Lucindy, I'm gwine
tell 'er w'at Miss Becky say 'bout de queen er spades--dat I is. Ef dat
don't tickle 'er, dey ain't no nigger 'oman never bin tickle'."
He paused a moment, as though waiting for some remark or comment, some
confirmation of misfortune, or, at the very least, some endorsement of
his suggestion that Lucinda would be greatly pleased to know that she
had figured as the queen of spades; but neither Miss Becky nor her
brother said anything.
"One minnit ridin' in the buggy 'longside er Mars Spite, en de nex'
highfalutin' 'roun' playin' de queen er spades. Mon, deze yer nigger
gals gittin' up in de pictur's; dey sholy is."
With a brief "Good night, Miss Becky, Mars Cajy," Free Joe went out into
the darkness, followed by little Dan. He made his way to the poplar,
where Lucinda had been in the habit of meeting him, and sat down. He sat
there a long time; he sat there until little Dan, growing restless,
trotted off in the direction of the Calderwood place. Dozing against the
poplar, in the gray dawn of the morning, Free Joe heard Spite
Calderwood's fox-hounds in full cry a mile away.
"Shoo!" he exclaimed, scratching his head, and laughing to himself, "dem
ar dogs is des a-warmin' dat old fox up."
But it was Dan the hounds were after, and the little dog came back no
more. Free Joe waited and waited, until he grew tired of waiting. He
went back the next night and waited, and for many nights thereafter. His
waiting was in vain, and yet he never regarded it as in vain. Careless
and shabby as he was, Free Joe was thoughtful enough to have his theory.
He was convinced that little Dan had found Lucinda, and that some night
when the moon was shining brightly through the trees, the dog would
rouse him from his dreams as he sat sleeping at the foot of the poplar
tree, and he would open his eyes and behold Lucinda standing over him,
laughing merrily as of old; and then he thought what fun they would have
about the queen of spades.
How many long nights Free Joe waited at the foot of the poplar tree for
Lucinda and little Dan no one can ever know. He kept no account of them,
and they were not recorded by Micajah Staley nor by Miss Becky. The
season ran into summer and then into fall. One night he went to the
Staley cabin, cut the two old people an armful of wood, and seated
himself on the doorsteps, where he rested. He was always thankful--and
proud, as it seemed--when Miss Becky gave him a cup of coffee, which she
was sometimes thoughtful enough to do. He was especially thankful on
this particular night.
"You er still layin' off for to strike up wi' Lucindy out thar in the
woods, I reckon," said Micajah Staley, smiling grimly. The situation was
not without its humorous aspects.
"Oh, dey er comin', Mars Cajy, dey er comin', sho," Free Joe replied. "I
boun' you dey'll come; en w'en dey does come, I'll des take en fetch um
yer, whar you kin see um wid you own eyes, you en Miss Becky."
"No," said Mr. Staley, with a quick and emphatic gesture of disapproval.
"Don't! don't fetch 'em anywheres. Stay right wi' 'em as long as may
be."
Free Joe chuckled, and slipped away into the night, while the two old
people sat gazing in the fire. Finally Micajah spoke.
"Look at that nigger; look at 'im. He's pine-blank as happy now as a
killdee by a mill-race. You can't faze 'em. I'd in-about give up my
t'other hand ef I could stan' flat-footed, an' grin at trouble like that
there nigger."
"Niggers is niggers," said Miss Becky, smiling grimly, "an' you can't
rub it out; yit I lay I've seed a heap of white people lots meaner'n
Free Joe. He grins--an' that's nigger--but I've ketched his under jaw
a-tremblin' when Lucindy's name uz brung up. An' I tell you," she went
on, bridling up a little, and speaking with almost fierce emphasis, "the
Old Boy's done sharpened his claws for Spite Calderwood. You'll see
it."
"Me, Rebecca?" said Mr. Staley, hugging his palsied arm; "me? I hope
not."
"Well, you'll know it then," said Miss Becky, laughing heartily at her
brother's look of alarm.
The next morning Micajah Staley had occasion to go into the woods after
a piece of timber. He saw Free Joe sitting at the foot of the poplar,
and the sight vexed him somewhat.
"Git up from there," he cried, "an' go an' arn your livin'. A mighty
purty pass it's come to, when great big buck niggers can lie a-snorin'
in the woods all day, when t'other folks is got to be up an' a-gwine.
Git up from there!"
Receiving no response, Mr. Staley went to Free Joe, and shook him by the
shoulder; but the negro made no response. He was dead. His hat was off,
his head was bent, and a smile was on his face. It was as if he had
bowed and smiled when death stood before him, humble to the last. His
clothes were ragged; his hands were rough and callous; his shoes were
literally tied together with strings; he was shabby in the extreme. A
passer-by, glancing at him, could have no idea that such a humble
creature had been summoned as a witness before the Lord God of Hosts.
LITTLE COMPTON
VERY few Southern country towns have been more profitably influenced by
the new order of things than Hillsborough in Middle Georgia. At various
intervals since the war it has had what the local weekly calls "a
business boom." The old tavern has been torn down, and in its place
stands a new three-story brick hotel, managed by a very brisk young man,
who is shrewd enough to advertise in the newspapers of the neighboring
towns that he has "special accommodations and special rates for
commercial travelers." Although Hillsborough is comparatively a small
town, it is the centre of a very productive region, and its trade is
somewhat important. Consequently, the commercial travelers, with
characteristic energy, lose no opportunity of taking advantage of the
hospitable invitation of the landlord of the Hillsborough hotel.
Not many years ago a representative of this class visited the old town.
He was from the North, and, being much interested in what he saw, was
duly inquisitive. Among other things that attracted his attention was a
little one-armed man who seemed to be the life of the place. He was
here, there, and everywhere; and wherever he went the atmosphere seemed
to lighten and brighten. Sometimes he was flying around town in a buggy;
at such times he was driven by a sweet-faced lady, whose smiling air of
proprietorship proclaimed her to be his wife: but more often he was on
foot. His cheerfulness and good humor were infectious. The old men
sitting at Perdue's Corner, where they had been gathering for forty
years and more, looked up and laughed as he passed; the ladies shopping
in the streets paused to chat with him; and even the dry-goods clerks
and lawyers, playing chess or draughts under the China trees that shaded
the sidewalks, were willing to be interrupted long enough to exchange
jokes with him.
"Rather a lively chap that," said the observant commercial traveler.
"Well, I reckon you won't find no livelier in these diggin's," replied
the landlord, to whom the remark was addressed. There was a suggestion
of suppressed local pride in his tones. "He's a little chunk of a man,
but he's monst'us peart."
"A colonel, I guess," said the stranger, smiling.
"Oh, no," the other rejoined. "He ain't no colonel, but he'd 'a' made a
prime one. It's mighty curious to me," he went on, "that them Yankees up
there didn't make him one."
"The Yankees?" inquired the commercial traveler.
"Why, yes," said the landlord. "He's a Yankee; and that lady you seen
drivin' him around, she's a Yankee. He courted her here and he married
her here. Major Jimmy Bass wanted him to marry her in his house, but
Captain Jack Walthall put his foot down and said the weddin' had to be
in _his_ house; and there's where it was, in that big white house over
yander with the hip roof. Yes, sir."
"Oh," said the commercial traveler, with a cynical smile, "he stayed
down here to keep out of the army. He was a lucky fellow."
"Well, I reckon he was lucky not to get killed," said the landlord,
laughing. "He fought with the Yankees, and they do say that Little
Compton was a rattler."
The commercial traveler gave a long, low whistle, expressive of his
profound astonishment. And yet, under all the circumstances, there was
nothing to create astonishment. The lively little man had a history.
Among the genial and popular citizens of Hillsborough, in the days
before the war, none were more genial or more popular than Little
Compton. He was popular with all classes, with old and with young, with
whites and with blacks. He was sober, discreet, sympathetic, and
generous. He was neither handsome nor magnetic. He was awkward and
somewhat bashful, but his manners and his conversation had the rare
merit of spontaneity. His sallow face was unrelieved by either mustache
or whiskers, and his eyes were black and very small, but they glistened
with good-humor and sociability. He was somewhat small in stature, and
for that reason the young men about Hillsborough had given him the name
of Little Compton.
Little Compton's introduction to Hillsborough was not wholly without
suggestive incidents. He made his appearance there in 1850, and opened a
small grocery store. Thereupon the young men of the town, with nothing
better to do than to seek such amusement as they could find in so small
a community, promptly proceeded to make him the victim of their pranks
and practical jokes. Little Compton's forbearance was wonderful. He
laughed heartily when he found his modest signboard hanging over an
adjacent barroom, and smiled good-humoredly when he found the sidewalk
in front of his door barricaded with barrels and dry-goods boxes. An
impatient man would have looked on these things as in the nature of
indignities, but Little Compton was not an impatient man.
This went on at odd intervals, until at last the fun-loving young men
began to appreciate Little Compton's admirable temper; and then for a
season they played their jokes on other citizens, leaving Little Compton
entirely unmolested. These young men were boisterous, but good-natured,
and they had their own ideas of what constituted fair play. They were
ready to fight or to have fun, but in neither case would they willingly
take what they considered a mean advantage of a man.
By degrees they warmed to Little Compton. His gentleness won upon them;
his patient good-humor attracted them. Without taking account of the
matter, the most of them became his friends. This was demonstrated one
day when one of the Pulliam boys from Jasper County made some slurring
remark about "the little Yankee." As Pulliam was somewhat in his cups,
no attention was paid to his remark; whereupon he followed it up with
others of a more seriously abusive character. Little Compton was waiting
on a customer; but Pulliam was standing in front of his door, and he
could not fail to hear the abuse. Young Jack Walthall was sitting in a
chair near the door, whittling a piece of white pine. He put his knife
in his pocket, and, whistling softly, looked at Little Compton
curiously. Then he walked to where Pulliam was standing.
"If I were you, Pulliam," he said, "and wanted to abuse anybody, I'd
pick out a bigger man than that."
"I don't see anybody," said Pulliam.
"Well, d---- you!" exclaimed Walthall, "if you are that blind, I'll open
your eyes for you!"
Whereupon he knocked Pulliam down. At this Little Compton ran out
excitedly, and it was the impression of the spectators that he intended
to attack the man who had been abusing him; but, instead of that, he
knelt over the prostrate bully, wiped the blood from his eyes, and
finally succeeded in getting him to his feet. Then Little Compton
assisted him into the store, placed him in a chair, and proceeded to
bandage his wounded eye. Walthall, looking on with an air of supreme
indifference, uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and sauntered
carelessly away.
Sauntering back an hour or so afterward, he found that Pulliam was still
in Little Compton's store. He would have passed on, but Little Compton
called to him. He went in prepared to be attacked, for he knew Pulliam
to be one of the most dangerous men in that region, and the most
revengeful; but, instead of making an attack, Pulliam offered his hand.
"Let's call it square, Jack. Your mother and my father are blood
cousins, and I don't want any bad feelings to grow out of this racket.
I've apologized to Mr. Compton here, and now I'm ready to apologize to
you."
Walthall looked at Pulliam and at his proffered hand, and then looked at
Little Compton. The latter was smiling pleasantly. This appeared to be
satisfactory, and Walthall seized his kinsman's hand, and exclaimed:
"Well, by George, Miles Pulliam! if you've apologized to Little Compton,
then it's my turn to apologize to you. Maybe I was too quick with my
hands, but that chap there is such a d---- clever little rascal that it
works me up to see anybody pester him."
"Why, Jack," said Compton, his little eyes glistening, "I'm not such a
scrap as you make out. It's just your temper, Jack. Your temper runs
clean away with your judgment."
"My temper! Why, good Lord, man! don't I just sit right down, and let
folks run over me whenever they want to? Would I have done anything if
Miles Pulliam had abused _me_?"
"Why, the gilded Queen of Sheba!" exclaimed Miles Pulliam, laughing
loudly, in spite of his bruises; "only last sale day you mighty nigh
jolted the life out of Bill-Tom Saunders, with the big end of a hickory
stick."
"That's so," said Walthall reflectively; "but did I follow him up to do
it? Wasn't he dogging after me all day, and strutting around bragging
about what he was going to do? Didn't I play the little stray lamb till
he rubbed his fist in my face?"
The others laughed. They knew that Jack Walthall wasn't at all lamblike
in his disposition. He was tall and strong and handsome, with pale
classic features, jet-black curling hair, and beautiful white hands that
never knew what labor was. He was something of a dandy in Hillsborough,
but in a large, manly, generous way. With his perfect manners, stately
and stiff, or genial and engaging, as occasion might demand, Mr.
Walthall was just such a romantic figure as one reads about in books, or
as one expects to see step from behind the wings of the stage with a
guitar or a long dagger. Indeed, he was the veritable original of
Cyrille Brandon, the hero of Miss Amelia Baxter's elegant novel entitled
"The Haunted Manor; or, Souvenirs of the Sunny Southland." If those who
are fortunate enough to possess a copy of this graphic book, which was
printed in Charleston for the author, will turn to the description of
Cyrille Brandon, they will get a much better idea of Mr. Walthall than
they can hope to get in this brief and imperfect chronicle. It is true,
the picture there drawn is somewhat exaggerated to suit the purposes of
fictive art, but it shows perfectly the serious impression Mr. Walthall
made on the ladies who were his contemporaries.
It is only fair to say, however, that the real Mr. Walthall was
altogether different from the ideal Cyrille Brandon of Miss Baxter's
powerfully written book. He was by no means ignorant of the impression
he made on the fair sex, and he was somewhat proud of it; but he had no
romantic ideas of his own. He was, in fact, a very practical young man.
When the Walthall estate, composed of thousands of acres of land and
several hundred healthy, well-fed negroes, was divided up, he chose to
take his portion in money; and this he loaned out at a fair interest to
those who were in need of ready cash. This gave him large leisure; and,
as was the custom among the young men of leisure, he gambled a little
when the humor was on him, having the judgment and the nerve to make the
game of poker exceedingly interesting to those who sat with him at
table.
No one could ever explain why the handsome and gallant Jack Walthall
should go so far as to stand between his own cousin and Little Compton;
indeed, no one tried to explain it. The fact was accepted for what it
was worth, and it was a great deal to Little Compton in a social and
business way. After the row which has just been described, Mr. Walthall
was usually to be found at Compton's store--in the summer sitting in
front of the door under the grateful shade of the China trees, and in
the winter sitting by the comfortable fire that Compton kept burning in
his back room. As Mr. Walthall was the recognized leader of the young
men, Little Compton's store soon became the headquarters for all of
them. They met there, and they made themselves at home there,
introducing their affable host to many queer antics and capers peculiar
to the youth of that day and time, and to the social organism of which
that youth was the outcome.
That Little Compton enjoyed their company is certain; but it is doubtful
if he entered heartily into the plans of their escapades, which they
freely discussed around his hearth. Perhaps it was because he had
outlived the folly of youth. Though his face was smooth and round, and
his eye bright, Little Compton bore the marks of maturity and
experience. He used to laugh, and say that he was born in New Jersey,
and died there when he was young. What significance this statement
possessed no one ever knew; probably no one in Hillsborough cared to
know. The people of that town had their own notions and their own
opinions. They were not unduly inquisitive, save when their
inquisitiveness seemed to take a political shape; and then it was
somewhat aggressive.
There were a great many things in Hillsborough likely to puzzle a
stranger. Little Compton observed that the young men, no matter how
young they might be, were absorbed in politics. They had the political
history of the country at their tongues' ends, and the discussions they
carried on were interminable. This interest extended to all classes: the
planters discussed politics with their overseers; and lawyers,
merchants, tradesmen, and gentlemen of elegant leisure discussed
politics with each other. Schoolboys knew all about the Missouri
Compromise, the fugitive slave law, and States rights. Sometimes the
arguments used were more substantial than mere words, but this was only
when some old feud was back of the discussion. There was one question,
as Little Compton discovered, in regard to which there was no
discussion. That question was slavery. It loomed up everywhere and in
everything, and was the basis of all the arguments, and yet it was not
discussed: there was no room for discussion. There was but one idea, and
that was that slavery must be defended at all hazards, and against all
enemies. That was the temper of the time, and Little Compton was not
long in discovering that of all dangerous issues slavery was the most
dangerous.
The young men, in their free-and-easy way, told him the story of a
wayfarer who once came through that region preaching abolitionism to the
negroes. The negroes themselves betrayed him, and he was promptly taken
in charge. His body was found afterward hanging in the woods, and he was
buried at the expense of the county. Even his name had been forgotten,
and his grave was all but obliterated. All these things made an
impression on Little Compton's mind. The tragedy itself was recalled by
one of the pranks of the young men, that was conceived and carried out
under his eyes. It happened after he had become well used to the ways of
Hillsborough. There came a stranger to the town, whose queer acts
excited the suspicions of a naturally suspicious community. Professedly
he was a colporteur; but, instead of trying to dispose of books and
tracts, of which he had a visible supply, he devoted himself to arguing
with the village politicians under the shade of the trees. It was
observed, also, that he would frequently note down observations in a
memorandum book. Just about that time the controversy between the
slaveholders and the abolitionists was at its height. John Brown had
made his raid on Harper's Ferry, and there was a good deal of excitement
throughout the State. It was rumored that Brown had emissaries traveling
from State to State, preparing the negroes for insurrection; and every
community, even Hillsborough, was on the alert, watching, waiting,
suspecting.
The time assuredly was not auspicious for the stranger with the ready
memorandum book. Sitting in front of Compton's store, he fell into
conversation one day with Uncle Abner Lazenberry, a patriarch who lived
in the country, and who had a habit of coming to Hillsborough at least
once a week "to talk with the boys." Uncle Abner belonged to the poorer
class of planters; that is to say, he had a small farm and not more than
half a dozen negroes. But he was decidedly popular, and his
conversation--somewhat caustic at times--was thoroughly enjoyed by the
younger generation. On this occasion he had been talking to Jack
Walthall, when the stranger drew a chair within hearing distance.
"You take all your men," Uncle Abner was saying--"take all un 'em, but
gimme Hennery Clay. Them abolishioners, they may come an' git all six er
my niggers, if they'll jess but lemme keep the ginnywine ole Whig
docterin'. That's me up an' down--that's wher' your Uncle Abner
Lazenberry stan's, boys." By this time the stranger had taken out his
inevitable note-book, and Uncle Abner went on: "Yes, siree! You may jess
mark me down that away. 'Come,' sez I, 'an' take all my niggers an' the
ole gray mar',' sez I, 'but lemme keep my Whig docterin',' sez I. Lord,
I've seed sights wi' them niggers. They hain't no manner account. They
won't work, an' I'm ablidge to feed 'em, else they'd whirl in an' steal
from the neighbors. Hit's in-about broke me for to maintain 'em in the'r
laziness. Bless your soul, little children! I'm in a turrible fix--a
turrible fix. I'm that bankruptured that when I come to town, ef I fine
a thrip in my britches-pocket for to buy me a dram I'm the happiest
mortal in the county. Yes, siree! hit's got down to that."
Here Uncle Abner Lazenberry paused and eyed the stranger shrewdly, to
whom, presently, he addressed himself in a very insinuating tone:
"What mought be your name, mister?"
"Oh," said the stranger, taken somewhat aback by the suddenness of the
question, "my name might be Jones, but it happens to be Davies."
Uncle Abner Lazenberry stared at Davies a moment as if amazed, and then
exclaimed:
"Jesso! Well, dog my cats ef times hain't a-changin' an' a-changin' tell
bimeby the natchul world an' all the hummysp'eres 'll make the'r
disappearance een'-uppermost. Yit, whiles they er changin' an'
a-disappearin', I hope they'll leave me my ole Whig docterin', an' my
name, which the fust an' last un it is Abner Lazenberry. An' more'n
that," the old man went on, with severe emphasis--"an' more'n that, they
hain't never been a day sence the creation of the world an' the
hummysp'eres when my name mought er'been anything else under the shinin'
sun but Abner Lazenberry; an' ef the time's done come when any mortal
name mought er been anything but what hit reely is, then we jess better
turn the nation an' the federation over to demockeracy an' giner'l
damnation. Now that's me, right pine-plank."
By way of emphasizing his remarks, Uncle Abner brought the end of his
hickory cane down upon the ground with a tremendous thump. The stranger
reddened a little at the unexpected criticism, and was evidently ill at
ease, but he remarked politely:
"This is just a saying I've picked up somewhere in my travels. My name
is Davies, and I am traveling through the country selling a few choice
books, and picking up information as I go."
"I know a mighty heap of Davises," said Uncle Abner, "but I disremember
of anybody named Davies."
"Well, sir," said Mr. Davies, "the name is not uncommon in my part of
the country. I am from Vermont."
"Well, well!" said Uncle Abner, tapping the ground thoughtfully with his
cane. "A mighty fur ways Vermont is, tooby shore. In my day an' time
I've seed as many as three men folks from Vermont, an' one un 'em, he
wuz a wheelwright, an' one wuz a tin-pedler, an' the yuther one wuz a
clock-maker. But that wuz a long time ago. How is the abolishioners
gittin' on up that away, an' when in the name er patience is they
a-comin' arter my niggers? Lord! if them niggers wuz free, I wouldn't
have to slave for 'em."
"Well, sir," said Mr. Davies, "I take little or no interest in those
things. I have to make a humble living, and I leave political questions
to the politicians."
The conversation was carried an at some length, the younger men joining
in occasionally to ask questions; and nothing could have been friendlier
than their attitude toward Mr. Davies. They treated him with the
greatest consideration. His manner and speech were those of an educated
man, and he seemed to make himself thoroughly agreeable. But that night,
as Mr. Jack Walthall was about to go to bed, his body-servant, a negro
named Jake, began to question him about the abolitionists.
"What do you know about abolitionists?" Mr. Walthall asked with some
degree of severity.
"Nothin' 'tall, Marse Jack, 'cep'in' w'at dish yer new w'ite man down
dar at de tavern say."
"And what did he say?" Mr. Walthall inquired.
"I ax 'im, I say, 'Marse Boss, is dese yer bobolitionists got horns en
huffs?' en he 'low, he did, dat dey ain't no bobolitionists, kaze dey er
babolitionists, an' dey ain't got needer horns ner huffs."
"What else did he say?"
Jake laughed. It was a hearty and humorous laugh.
"Well, sir," he replied, "dat man des preached. He sholy did. He ax me
ef de niggers' roun' yer wouldn' all like ter be free, en I tole 'im I
don't speck dey would, kaze all de free niggers w'at I ever seed is de
mos' no-'countes' niggers in de lan'."