retire for the night, but apparently thought better of it, for he
resumed his coat and vest, and went out into the cool moonlight. He
walked around the public square, and finally perched himself on the
stile that led over the court-house enclosure. He sat there a long time.
Little Compton passed by, escorting Miss Lizzie Fairleigh, the
schoolmistress, home from some social gathering; and finally the lights
in the village went out one by one--all save the one that shone in the
window of the room occupied by Mr. Davies. Watching this window somewhat
closely, Mr. Jack Walthall observed that there was movement in the room.
Shadows played on the white window-curtains--human shadows passing to
and fro. The curtains, quivering in the night wind, distorted these
shadows, and made confusion of them; but the wind died away for a
moment, and, outlined on the curtains, the patient watcher saw a
silhouette of Jake, his body-servant. Mr. Walthall beheld the spectacle
with amazement. It never occurred to him that the picture he saw was
part--the beginning indeed--of a tremendous panorama which would shortly
engage the attention of the civilized world, but he gazed at it with a
feeling of vague uneasiness.
The next morning Little Compton was somewhat surprised at the absence of
the young men who were in the habit of gathering in front of his store.
Even Mr. Jack Walthall, who could be depended on to tilt his chair
against the China tree and sit there for an hour or more after
breakfast, failed to put in an appearance. After putting his store to
rights, and posting up some accounts left over from the day before,
Little Compton came out on the sidewalk, and walked up and down in front
of the door. He was in excellent humor, and as he walked he hummed a
tune. He did not lack for companionship, for his cat, Tommy Tinktums, an
extraordinarily large one, followed him back and forth, rubbing against
him and running between his legs; but somehow he felt lonely. The town
was very quiet. It was quiet at all times, but on this particular
morning it seemed to Little Compton that there was less stir than usual.
There was no sign of life anywhere around the public square save at
Perdue's Corner. Shading his eyes with his hand, Little Compton observed
a group of citizens apparently engaged in a very interesting discussion.
Among them he recognized the tall form of Mr. Jack Walthall and the
somewhat ponderous presence of Major Jimmy Bass. Little Compton watched
the group because he had nothing better to do. He saw Major Jimmy Bass
bring the end of his cane down upon the ground with a tremendous thump,
and gesticulate like a man laboring under strong excitement; but this
was nothing out of the ordinary, for Major Jimmy had been known to get
excited over the most trivial discussion; on one occasion, indeed, he
had even mounted a dry-goods box, and, as the boys expressed it,
"cussed out the town."
Still watching the group, Little Compton saw Mr. Jack Walthall take Buck
Ransome by the arm, and walk across the public square in the direction
of the court-house. They were followed by Mr. Alvin Cozart, Major Jimmy
Bass, and young Rowan Wornum. They went to the court-house stile, and
formed a little group, while Mr. Walthall appeared to be explaining
something, pointing frequently in the direction of the tavern. In a
little while they returned to those they had left at Perdue's Corner,
where they were presently joined by a number of other citizens. Once
Little Compton thought he would lock his door and join them, but by the
time he had made up his mind the group had dispersed.
A little later on, Compton's curiosity was more than satisfied. One of
the young men, Buck Ransome, came into Compton's store, bringing a
queer-looking bundle. Unwrapping it, Mr. Ransome brought to view two
large pillows. Whistling a gay tune, he ran his keen knife into one of
these, and felt of the feathers. His manner was that of an expert. The
examination seemed to satisfy him; for he rolled the pillows into a
bundle again, and deposited them in the back part of the store.
"You'd be a nice housekeeper, Buck, if you did all your pillows that
way," said Compton.
"Why, bless your great big soul, Compy," said Mr. Ransome, striking an
attitude, "I'm the finest in the land."
Just then Mr. Alvin Cozart came in, bearing a small bucket, which he
handled very carefully. Little Compton thought he detected the odor of
tar.
"Stick her in the back room there," said Mr. Ransome; "she'll keep."
Compton was somewhat mystified by these proceedings; but everything was
made clear when, an hour later, the young men of the town, reenforced by
Major Jimmy Bass, marched into his store, bringing with them Mr. Davies,
the Vermont colporteur, who had been flourishing his note-book in the
faces of the inhabitants. Jake, Mr. Walthall's body-servant, was
prominent in the crowd by reason of his color and his frightened
appearance. The colporteur was very pale, but he seemed to be cool. As
the last one filed in, Mr. Walthall stepped to the front door and shut
and locked it.
Compton was too amazed to say anything. The faces before him, always so
full of humor and fun, were serious enough now. As the key turned in the
lock, the colporteur found his voice.
"Gentlemen!" he exclaimed with some show of indignation, "what is the
meaning of this? What would you do?"
"You know mighty well, sir, what we ought to do," cried Major Bass. "We
ought to hang you, you imperdent scounderl! A-comin' down here
a-pesterin' an' a-meddlin' with t'other people's business."
"Why, gentlemen," said Davies, "I'm a peaceable citizen; I trouble
nobody. I am simply traveling through the country selling books to those
who are able to buy, and giving them away to those who are not."
"Mr. Davies," said Mr. Jack Walthall, leaning gracefully against the
counter, "what kind of books are you selling?"
"Religious books, sir."
"Jake!" exclaimed Mr. Walthall somewhat sharply, so sharply, indeed,
that the negro jumped as though he had been shot. "Jake! stand out
there. Hold up your head, sir!--Mr. Davies, how many religious books did
you sell to that nigger there last night?"
"I sold him none, sir; I--"
"How many did you _try_ to sell him?"
"I made no attempt to sell him any books; I knew he couldn't read. I
merely asked him to give me some information."
Major Jimmy Bass scowled dreadfully; but Mr. Jack Walthall smiled
pleasantly, and turned to the negro.
"Jake! do you know this man?"
"I seed 'im, Marse Jack; I des seed 'im; dat's all I know 'bout 'im."
"What were you doing sasshaying around in his room last night?"
Jake scratched his head, dropped his eyes, and shuffled about on the
floor with his feet. All eyes were turned on him. He made so long a
pause that Alvin Cozart remarked in his drawling tone:
"Jack, hadn't we better take this nigger over to the calaboose?"
"Not yet," said Mr. Walthall pleasantly. "If I have to take him over
there I'll not bring him back in a hurry."
"I wuz des up in his room kaze he tole me fer ter come back en see 'im.
Name er God, Marse Jack, w'at ail' you all w'ite folks now?"
"What did he say to you?" asked Mr. Walthall.
"He ax me w'at make de niggers stay in slave'y," said the frightened
negro; "he ax me w'at de reason dey don't git free deyse'f."
"He was warm after information," Mr. Walthall suggested.
"Call it what you please," said the Vermont colporteur. "I asked him
those questions and more." He was pale, but he no longer acted like a
man troubled with fear.
"Oh, we know that, mister," said Buck Ransome. "We know what you come
for, and we know what you're goin' away for. We'll excuse you if you'll
excuse us, and then there'll be no hard feelin's--that is, not many;
none to growl about.--Jake, hand me that bundle there on the barrel, and
fetch that tar-bucket.--You've got the makin' of a mighty fine bird in
you, mister," Ransome went on, addressing the colporteur; "all you
lack's the feathers, and we've got oodles of 'em right here. Now, will
you shuck them duds?"
For the first time the fact dawned on Little Compton's mind that the
young men were about to administer a coat of tar and feathers to the
stranger from Vermont; and he immediately began to protest.
"Why, Jack," said he, "what has the man done?"
"Well," replied Mr. Walthall, "you heard what the nigger said. We can't
afford to have these abolitionists preaching insurrection right in our
back yards. We just can't afford it, that's the long and short of it.
Maybe you don't understand it; maybe you don't feel as we do; but that's
the way the matter stands. We are in a sort of a corner, and we are
compelled to protect ourselves."
"I don't believe in no tar and feathers for this chap," remarked Major
Jimmy Bass, assuming a judicial air. "He'll just go out here to the town
branch and wash 'em off, and then he'll go on through the plantations
raising h---- among the niggers. That'll be the upshot of it--now, you
mark my words. He ought to be hung."
"Now, boys," said Little Compton, still protesting, "what is the use?
This man hasn't done any real harm. He might preach insurrection around
here for a thousand years, and the niggers wouldn't listen to him. Now,
you know that yourselves. Turn the poor devil loose, and let him get out
of town. Why, haven't you got any confidence in the niggers you've
raised yourselves?"
"My dear sir," said Rowan Wornum, in his most insinuating tone, "we've
got all the confidence in the world in the niggers, but we can't afford
to take any risks. Why, my dear sir," he went on, "if we let this chap
go, it won't be six months before the whole country'll be full of this
kind. Look at that Harper's Ferry business."
"Well," said Compton somewhat hotly, "look at it. What harm has been
done? Has there been any nigger insurrection?"
Jack Walthall laughed good-naturedly. "Little Compton is a quick talker,
boys. Let's give the man the benefit of all the arguments."
"Great God! You don't mean to let this d---- rascal go, do you, Jack?"
exclaimed Major Jimmy Bass.
"No, no, sweet uncle; but I've got a nicer dose than tar and feathers."
The result was that the stranger's face and hands were given a coat of
lampblack, his arms were tied to his body, and a large placard was
fastened to his back. The placard bore this inscription:
ABOLITIONIST!
PASS HIM ON, BOYS
Mr. Davies was a pitiful-looking object after the young men had
plastered his face and hands with lampblack and oil, and yet his
appearance bore a certain queer relation to the humorous exhibitions one
sees on the negro minstrel stage. Particularly was this the case when he
smiled at Compton.
"By George, boys!" exclaimed Mr. Buck Ransome, "this chap could play Old
Bob Ridley at the circus."
When everything was arranged to suit them, the young men formed a
procession, and marched the blackened stranger from Little Compton's
door into the public street. Little Compton seemed to be very much
interested in the proceeding. It was remarked afterward that he seemed
to be very much agitated, and that he took a position very near the
placarded abolitionist. The procession, as it moved up the street,
attracted considerable attention. Rumors that an abolitionist was to be
dealt with had apparently been circulated, and a majority of the male
inhabitants of the town were out to view the spectacle. The procession
passed entirely around the public square, of which the court-house was
the centre, and then across the square to the park-like enclosure that
surrounded the temple of justice.
As the young men and their prisoner crossed this open space, Major Jimmy
Bass, fat as he was, grew so hilarious that he straddled his cane as
children do broomsticks, and pretended that he had as much as he could
do to hold his fiery wooden steed. He waddled and pranced out in front
of the abolitionist, and turned and faced him, whereat his steed showed
the most violent symptoms of running away. The young men roared with
laughter, and the spectators roared with them, and even the abolitionist
laughed. All laughed but Little Compton. The procession was marched to
the court-house enclosure, and there the prisoner was made to stand on
the sale-block so that all might have a fair view of him. He was kept
there until the stage was ready to go; and then he was given a seat on
that swaying vehicle, and forwarded to Rockville, where, presumably, the
"boys" placed him on the train and "passed him on" to the "boys" in
other towns.
For months thereafter there was peace in Hillsborough, so far as the
abolitionists were concerned; and then came the secession movement. A
majority of the citizens of the little town were strong Union men; but
the secession movement seemed to take even the oldest off their feet,
and by the time the Republican President was inaugurated, the Union
sentiment that had marked Hillsborough had practically disappeared. In
South Carolina companies of minutemen had been formed, and the entire
white male population was wearing blue cockades. With some
modifications, these symptoms were reproduced in Hillsborough. The
modifications were that a few of the old men still stood up for the
Union, and that some of the young men, though they wore the blue
cockade, did not aline themselves with the minutemen.
Little Compton took no part in these proceedings. He was discreetly
quiet. He tended his store, and smoked his pipe, and watched events. One
morning he was aroused from his slumbers by a tremendous crash--a crash
that rattled the windows of his store and shook its very walls. He lay
quiet a while, thinking that a small earthquake had been turned loose
on the town. Then the crash was repeated; and he knew that Hillsborough
was firing a salute from its little six-pounder, a relic of the
Revolution, that had often served the purpose of celebrating the
nation's birthday in a noisily becoming manner.
Little Compton arose, and dressed himself, and prepared to put his store
in order. Issuing forth into the street, he saw that the town was in
considerable commotion. A citizen who had been in attendance on the
convention at Milledgeville had arrived during the night, bringing the
information that the ordinance of secession had been adopted, and that
Georgia was now a sovereign and independent government. The original
secessionists were in high feather, and their hilarious enthusiasm had
its effect on all save a few of the Union men.
Early as it was, Little Compton saw two flags floating from an
improvised flagstaff on top of the court-house. One was the flag of the
State, with its pillars, its sentinel, and its legend of "Wisdom,
Justice, and Moderation." The design of the other was entirely new to
Little Compton. It was a pine tree on a field of white, with a
rattlesnake coiled at its roots, and the inscription, "DON'T TREAD ON
ME!" A few hours later Uncle Abner Lazenberry made his appearance in
front of Compton's store. He had just hitched his horse to the rack near
the court-house.
"Merciful heavens" he exclaimed, wiping his red face with a red
handkerchief, "is the Ole Boy done gone an' turned hisself loose? I
hearn the racket, an' I sez to the ole woman, sez I: 'I'll fling the
saddle on the gray mar' an' canter to town an' see what in the
dingnation the matter is. An' ef the worl's about to fetch a lurch, I'll
git me another dram an' die happy,' sez I. Whar's Jack Walthall? He can
tell his Uncle Abner all about it."
"Well, sir," said Little Compton, "the State has seceded, and the boys
are celebrating."
"I know'd it," cried the old man angrily. "My min' tole me so." Then he
turned and looked at the flags flying from the top of the court-house.
"Is them rags the things they er gwine to fly out'n the Union with?" he
exclaimed scornfully. "Why, bless your soul an body, hit'll take bigger
wings than them! Well, sir, I'm sick; I am that away. I wuz born in the
Union, an' I'd like mighty well to die thar. Ain't it mine? ain't it
our'n? Jess as shore as you're born, thar's trouble ahead--big trouble.
You're from the North, ain't you?" Uncle Abner asked, looking curiously
at Little Compton.
"Yes, sir, I am," Compton replied; "that is, I am from New Jersey, but
they say New Jersey is out of the Union."
Uncle Abner did not respond to Compton's smile. He continued to gaze at
him significantly.
"Well," the old man remarked somewhat bluntly, "you better go back where
you come from. You ain't got nothin' in the roun' worl' to do with all
this hellabaloo. When the pinch comes, as come it must, I'm jes gwine to
swap a nigger for a sack er flour an' settle down; but you had better go
back where you come from."
Little Compton knew the old man was friendly; but his words, so solemnly
and significantly uttered, made a deep impression. The words recalled
to Compton's mind the spectacle of the man from Vermont who had been
paraded through the streets of Hillsborough, with his face blackened and
a placard on his back. The little Jerseyman also recalled other
incidents, some of them trifling enough, but all of them together going
to show the hot temper of the people around him; and for a day or two he
brooded rather seriously over the situation. He knew that the times were
critical.
For several weeks the excitement in Hillsborough, as elsewhere in the
South, continued to run high. The blood of the people was at fever heat.
The air was full of the portents and premonitions of war. Drums were
beating, flags were flying, and military companies were parading. Jack
Walthall had raised a company, and it had gone into camp in an old field
near the town. The tents shone snowy white in the sun, uniforms of the
men were bright and gay, and the boys thought this was war. But, instead
of that, they were merely enjoying a holiday. The ladies of the town
sent them wagon-loads of provisions every day, and the occasion was a
veritable picnic--a picnic that some of the young men remembered a year
or two later when they were trudging ragged, barefooted, and hungry,
through the snow and slush of a Virginia winter.
But, with all their drilling and parading in the peaceful camp at
Hillsborough, the young men had many idle hours, and they devoted these
to various forms of amusements. On one occasion, after they had
exhausted their ingenuity in search of entertainment, one of them,
Lieutenant Buck Ransome, suggested that it might be interesting to get
up a joke on Little Compton.
"But how?" asked Lieutenant Cozart.
"Why, the easiest in the world," said Lieutenant Ransome. "Write him a
note, and tell him that the time has come for an English-speaking people
to take sides, and fling in a kind of side-wiper about New Jersey."
Captain Jack Walthall, leaning comfortably against a huge box that was
supposed to bear some relation to a camp-chest, blew a cloud of smoke
through his sensitive nostrils and laughed. "Why, stuff, boys!" he
exclaimed somewhat impatiently, "you can't scare Little Compton. He's
got grit, and it's the right kind of grit. Why, I'll tell you what's a
fact--the sand in that man's gizzard would make enough mortar to build a
fort."
"Well, I'll tell you what we'll do," said Lieutenant Ransome. "We'll
sling him a line or two, and if it don't stir him up, all right; but if
it does, we'll have some tall fun."
Whereupon, Lieutenant Ransome fished around in the chest, and drew forth
pen and ink and paper. With some aid from his brother officers he
managed to compose the following:
"LITTLE MR. COMPTON. _Dear Sir_--The time has
arrived when every man should show his colors.
Those who are not for us are against us. Your best
friends, when asked where you stand, do not know
what to say. If you are for the North in this
struggle, your place is at the North. If you are
for the South, your place is with those who are
preparing to defend the rights and liberties of
the South. A word to the wise is sufficient. You
will hear from me again in due time.
NEMESIS."
This was duly sealed and dropped in the Hillsborough post-office, and
Little Compton received it the same afternoon. He smiled as he broke the
seal, but ceased to smile when he read the note. It happened to fit a
certain vague feeling of uneasiness that possessed him. He laid it down
on his desk, walked up and down behind his counter, and then returned
and read it again. The sprawling words seemed to possess a fascination
for him. He read them again and again, and turned them over and over in
his mind. It was characteristic of his simple nature that he never once
attributed the origin of the note to the humor of the young men with
whom he was so familiar. He regarded it seriously. Looking up from the
note, he could see in the corner of his store the brush and pot that had
been used as arguments on the Vermont abolitionist. He vividly recalled
the time when that unfortunate person was brought up before the
self-constituted tribunal that assembled in his store.
Little Compton thought he had gaged accurately the temper of the people
about him; and he had, but his modesty prevented him from accurately
gaging or even thinking about, the impression he had made on them. The
note troubled him a good deal more than he would at first confess to
himself. He seated himself on a low box behind his counter to think it
over, resting his face in his hands. A little boy who wanted to buy a
thrip's worth of candy went slowly out again after trying in vain to
attract the attention of the hitherto prompt and friendly storekeeper.
Tommy Tinktums, the cat, seeing that his master was sitting down, came
forward with the expectation of being told to perform his famous
"bouncing" trick, a feat that was at once the wonder and delight of the
youngsters around Hillsborough. But Tommy Tinktums was not commanded to
bounce; and so he contented himself with washing his face, pausing every
now and then to watch his master with half-closed eyes.
While sitting thus reflecting, it suddenly occurred to Little Compton
that he had had very few customers during the past several days; and it
seemed to him, as he continued to think the matter over, that the
people, especially the young men, had been less cordial lately than they
had ever been before. It never occurred to him that the threatened war,
and the excitement of the period, occupied their entire attention. He
simply remembered that the young men who had made his modest little
store their headquarters met there no more. Little Compton sat behind
his counter a long time, thinking. The sun went down, and the dusk fell,
and the night came on and found him there.
After a while he lit a candle, spread the communication out on his desk,
and read it again. To his mind, there was no mistaking its meaning. It
meant that he must either fight against the Union, or array against
himself all the bitter and aggressive suspicion of the period. He sighed
heavily, closed his store, and went out into the darkness. He made his
way to the residence of Major Jimmy Bass, where Miss Lizzie Fairleigh
boarded. The major himself was sitting on the veranda; and he welcomed
Little Compton with effusive hospitality--a hospitality that possessed
an old-fashioned flavor.
"I'm mighty glad you come--yes, sir, I am. It looks like the whole
world's out at the camps, and it makes me feel sorter lonesome. Yes,
sir; it does that. If I wasn't so plump I'd be out there too. It's a
mighty good place to be about this time of the year. I tell you what,
sir, them boys is got the devil in 'em. Yes, sir; there ain't no two
ways about that. When they turn themselves loose, somebody or something
will git hurt. Now, you mark what I tell you. It's a tough lot--a mighty
tough lot. Lord! wouldn't I hate to be a Yankee, and fall in their
hands! I'd be glad if I had time for to say my prayers. Yes, sir; I
would that."
Thus spoke the cheerful Major Bass; and every word he said seemed to
rime with Little Compton's own thoughts, and to confirm the fears that
had been aroused by the note. After he had listened to the major a
while, Little Compton asked for Miss Fairleigh.
"Oho!" said the major. Then he called to a negro who happened to be
passing through the hall: "Jesse, tell Miss Lizzie that Mr. Compton is
in the parlor." Then he turned to Compton. "I tell you what, sir, that
gal looks mighty puny. She's from the North, and I reckon she's
homesick. And then there's all this talk about war. She knows our
boys'll eat the Yankees plum up, and I don't blame her for being sorter
down-hearted. I wish you'd try to cheer her up. She's a good gal if
there ever was one on the face of the earth."