county newspapers that sometimes come under my observation. It was a
very commonplace paragraph; indeed, it was in the nature of an
advertisement--an announcement of the fact that orders for "gilt-edged
butter" from the Jersey farm on the Tomlinson Place should be left at
the drugstore in Rockville, where the first that came would be the first
served. This businesslike notice was signed by Ferris Trunion. The name
was not only peculiar, but new to me; but this was of no importance at
all. The fact that struck me was the bald and bold announcement that the
Tomlinson Place was the site and centre of trading and other commercial
transactions in butter. I can only imagine what effect this announcement
would have had on my grandmother, who died years ago, and on some other
old people I used to know. Certainly they would have been horrified; and
no wonder, for when they were in their prime the Tomlinson Place was the
seat of all that was high, and mighty, and grand, in the social world in
the neighborhood of Rockville. I remember that everybody stood in awe of
the Tomlinsons. Just why this was so, I never could make out. They were
very rich; the Place embraced several thousand acres; but if the
impressions made on me when a child are worth anything, they were
extremely simple in their ways. Though, no doubt, they could be formal
and conventional enough when occasion required.
I have no distinct recollection of Judge Addison Tomlinson, except that
he was a very tall old gentleman, much older than his wife, who went
about the streets of Rockville carrying a tremendous gold-headed cane
carved in a curious manner. In those days I knew more of Mrs. Tomlinson
than I did of the judge, mainly because I heard a great deal more about
her. Some of the women called her Mrs. Judge Tomlinson; but my
grandmother never called her anything else but Harriet Bledsoe, which
was her maiden name. It was a name, too, that seemed to suit her, so
that when you once heard her called Harriet Bledsoe, you never forgot it
afterward. I do not know now, any more than I did when a child, why this
particular name should fit her so exactly; but, as I have been told, a
lack of knowledge does not alter facts.
I think my grandmother used to go to church to see what kind of clothes
Harriet Bledsoe wore; for I have often heard her say, after the sermon
was over, that Harriet's bonnet, or Harriet's dress, was perfectly
charming. Certainly Mrs. Tomlinson was always dressed in the height of
fashion, though it was a very simple fashion when compared with the
flounces and furbelows of her neighbors. I remember this distinctly,
that she seemed to be perfectly cool the hottest Sunday in summer, and
comfortably warm the coldest Sunday in winter; and I am convinced that
this impression, made on the mind of a child, must bear some definite
relation to Mrs. Tomlinson's good taste.
Certainly my grandmother was never tired of telling me that Harriet
Bledsoe was blessed with exceptionally good taste and fine manners; and
I remember that she told me often how she wished I was a girl, so that I
might one day be in a position to take advantage of the opportunities I
had had of profiting by Harriet Bledsoe's example. I think there was
some sort of attachment between my grandmother and Mrs. Tomlinson,
formed when they were at school together, though my grandmother was much
the older of the two. But there was no intimacy. The gulf that money
sometimes makes between those who have it and those who lack it lay
between them. Though I think my grandmother was more sensitive about
crossing this gulf than Mrs. Tomlinson.
I was never in the Tomlinson house but once when a child. Whether it was
because it was two or three miles away from Rockville, or whether it was
because I stood in awe of my grandmother's Harriet Bledsoe, I do not
know. But I have a very vivid recollection of the only time I went there
as a boy. One of my play-mates, a rough-and-tumble little fellow, was
sent by his mother, a poor sick woman, to ask Mrs. Tomlinson for some
preserves. I think this woman and her little boy were in some way
related to the Tomlinsons. The richest and most powerful people, I have
heard it said, are not so rich and powerful but they are pestered by
poor kin, and the Tomlinsons were no exception to the rule.
I went with this little boy I spoke of, and I was afraid afterward that
I was in some way responsible for his boldness. He walked right into the
presence of Mrs. Tomlinson, and, without waiting to return the lady's
salutation, he said in a loud voice:
"Aunt Harriet, ma says send her some of your nicest preserves."
"_Aunt Harriet_, indeed!" she exclaimed, and then she gave him a look
that was cold enough to freeze him, and hard enough to send him through
the floor.
I think she relented a little, for she went to one of the windows,
bigger than any door you see nowadays, and looked out over the blooming
orchard; and then after a while she came back to us, and was very
gracious. She patted me on the head; and I must have shrunk from her
touch, for she laughed and said she never bit nice little boys. Then she
asked me my name; and when I told her, she said my grandmother was the
dearest woman in the world. Moreover, she told my companion that it
would spoil preserves to carry them about in a tin bucket; and then she
fetched a big basket, and had it filled with preserves, and jelly, and
cake. There were some ginger-preserves among the rest, and I remember
that I appreciated them very highly; the more so, since my companion had
a theory of his own that ginger-preserves and fruit-cake were not good
for sick people.
I remember, too, that Mrs. Tomlinson had a little daughter about my own
age. She had long yellow hair and very black eyes. She rode around in
the Tomlinson carriage a great deal, and everybody said she was
remarkably pretty, with a style and a spirit all her own. The negroes
used to say that she was as affectionate as she was wilful, which was
saying a good deal. It was characteristic of Harriet Bledsoe, my
grandmother said, that her little girl should be named Lady.
I heard a great many of the facts I have stated from old Aunt Fountain,
one of the Tomlinson negroes, who, for some reason or other, was
permitted to sell ginger-cakes and persimmon-beer under the
wide-spreading China trees in Rockville on public days and during court
week. There was a theory among certain envious people in
Rockville--there are envious people everywhere--that the Tomlinsons,
notwithstanding the extent of their landed estate and the number of
their negroes, were sometimes short of ready cash; and it was hinted
that they pocketed the proceeds of Aunt Fountain's persimmon-beer and
ginger-cakes. Undoubtedly such stories as these were the outcome of pure
envy. When my grandmother heard such gossip as this, she sighed, and
said that people who would talk about Harriet Bledsoe in that way would
talk about anybody under the sun. My own opinion is, that Aunt Fountain
got the money and kept it; otherwise she would not have been so fond of
her master and mistress, nor so proud of the family and its position. I
spent many an hour near Aunt Fountain's cake and beer stand, for I liked
to hear her talk. Besides, she had a very funny name, and I thought
there was always a probability that she would explain how she got it.
But she never did.
I had forgotten all about the Tomlinsons until the advertisement I have
mentioned was accidentally brought to my notice, whereupon memory
suddenly became wonderfully active. I am keenly alive to the happier
results of the war, and I hope I appreciate at their full value the
emancipation of both whites and blacks from the deadly effects of negro
slavery, and the wonderful development of our material resources that
the war has rendered possible; but I must confess it was with a feeling
of regret that I learned that the Tomlinson Place had been turned into a
dairy farm. Moreover, the name of Ferris Trunion had a foreign and an
unfamiliar sound. His bluntly worded advertisement appeared to come from
the mind of a man who would not hesitate to sweep away both romance and
tradition if they happened to stand in the way of a profitable bargain.
I was therefore much gratified, some time after reading Trunion's
advertisement, to receive a note from a friend who deals in real estate,
telling me that some land near the Tomlinson Place had been placed in
his hands for sale, and asking me to go to Rockville to see if the land
and the situation were all they were described to be. I lost no time in
undertaking this part of the business, for I was anxious to see how the
old place looked in the hands of strangers, and unsympathetic strangers
at that.
It is not far from Atlanta to Rockville--a day and a night--and the
journey is not fatiguing; so that a few hours after receiving my
friend's request I was sitting in the veranda of the Rockville Hotel,
observing, with some degree of wonder, the vast changes that had taken
place--the most of them for the better. There were new faces and new
enterprises all around me, and there was a bustle about the town that
must have caused queer sensations in the minds of the few old citizens
who still gathered at the post-office for the purpose of carrying on
ancient political controversies with each other.
Among the few familiar figures that attracted my attention was that of
Aunt Fountain. The old China tree in the shade of which she used to sit
had been blasted by lightning or fire; but she still had her stand
there, and she was keeping the flies and dust away with the same old
turkey-tail fan. I could see no change. If her hair was grayer, it was
covered and concealed from view by the snow-white handkerchief tied
around her head. From my place I could hear her humming a tune--the tune
I had heard her sing in precisely the same way years ago. I heard her
scolding a little boy. The gesture, the voice, the words, were the same
she had employed in trying to convince me that my room was much better
than my company, especially in the neighborhood of her cake-stand. To
see and hear her thus gave me a peculiar feeling of homesickness. I
approached and saluted her. She bowed with old-fashioned politeness, but
without looking up.
"De biggest uns, dee er ten cent," she said, pointing to her cakes; "en
de littlest, dee er fi' cent. I make um all myse'f, suh. En de beer in
dat jug--dat beer got body, suh."
"I have eaten many a one of your cakes, Aunt Fountain," said I, "and
drank many a glass of your beer; but you have forgotten me."
"My eye weak, suh, but dee ain' weak nuff fer dat." She shaded her eyes
with her fan, and looked at me. Then she rose briskly from her chair.
"De Lord he'p my soul!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "W'y, I know you
w'en you little boy. W'at make I ain' know you w'en you big man? My eye
weak, suh, but dee ain' weak nuff fer dat. Well, suh, you mus' eat some
my ginger-cake. De Lord know you has make way wid um w'en you wuz little
boy."
The invitation was accepted, but somehow the ginger-cakes had lost their
old-time relish; in me the taste and spirit of youth were lacking.
We talked of old times and old friends, and I told Aunt Fountain that I
had come to Rockville for the purpose of visiting in the neighborhood of
the Tomlinson Place.
"Den I gwine wid you, suh," she cried, shaking her head vigorously. "I
gwine wid you." And go she did.
"I been layin' off ter go see my young mistiss dis long time," said Aunt
Fountain, the next day, after we had started. "I glad I gwine deer in
style. De niggers won' know me skacely, ridin' in de buggy dis away."
"Your young mistress?" I inquired.
"Yes, suh. You know Miss Lady w'en she little gal. She grown 'oman now."
"Well, who is this Trunion I have heard of?"
"He monst'ous nice w'ite man, suh. He married my young mistiss. He
monst'ous nice w'ite man."
"But who is he? Where did he come from?"
Aunt Fountain chuckled convulsively as I asked these questions.
"We-all des pick 'im up, suh. Yes, suh; we-all des pick 'im up. Ain' you
year talk 'bout dat, suh? I dunner whar you bin at ef you ain' never is
year talk 'bout dat. He de fus' w'ite man w'at I ever pick up, suh. Yes,
suh; de ve'y fus' one."
"I don't understand you," said I; "tell me about it."
At this Aunt Fountain laughed long and loudly. She evidently enjoyed my
ignorance keenly.
"De Lord know I oughtn' be laughin' like dis. I ain' laugh so hearty
sence I wuz little gal mos', en dat wuz de time w'en Marse Rowan
Tomlinson come 'long en ax me my name. I tell 'im, I did: 'I'm name
Flew Ellen, suh.' Marse Rowan he deaf ez any dead hoss. He 'low: 'Hey?'
I say: 'I'm name Flew Ellen, suh.' Marse Rowan say: 'Fountain! Huh! he
quare name.' I holler en laugh, en w'en de folks ax me w'at I hollerin'
'bout, I tell um dat Marse Rowan say I'm name Fountain. Well, suh, fum
dat day down ter dis, stedder Flew Ellen, I'm bin name Fountain. I laugh
hearty den en my name got change, en I feared ef I laugh now de hoss'll
run away en turn de buggy upperside down right spang on top er me."
"But about this Mr. Trunion?" said I.
"Name er de Lord!" exclaimed Aunt Fountain, "ain' you never is bin year
'bout dat? You bin mighty fur ways, suh, kaze we all bin knowin' 'bout
it fum de jump."
"No doubt. Now tell me about it."
Aunt Fountain shook her head, and her face assumed a serious expression.
"I dunno 'bout dat, suh. I year tell dat niggers ain' got no business
fer go talkin' 'bout fambly doin's. Yit dar wuz yo' gran-mammy. My
mistiss sot lots by her, en you been bornded right yer 'long wid um. I
don't speck it'll be gwine so mighty fur out'n de fambly ef I tell you
'bout it."
I made no attempt to coax Aunt Fountain to tell me about Trunion, for I
knew it would be difficult to bribe her not to talk about him. She
waited a while, evidently to tease my curiosity; but as I betrayed none,
and even made an effort to talk about something else, she began:
"Well, suh, you ax me 'bout Marse Fess Trunion. I know you bleeze ter
like dat man. He ain' b'long ter we-all folks, no furder dan he my young
mistiss ole man, but dee ain' no finer w'ite man dan him. No, suh; dee
ain'. I tell you dat p'intedly. De niggers, dee say he mighty close en
pinchin', but deze is mighty pinchin' times--you know dat yo'se'f, suh.
Ef a man don' fa'rly fling 'way he money, dem Tomlinson niggers, dee'll
say he mighty pinchin'. I hatter be pinchin' myse'f, suh, kaze I know
time I sell my ginger-cakes dat ef I don't grip onter de money, dee won'
be none lef' fer buy flour en 'lasses fer make mo'. It de Lord's trufe,
suh, kaze I done had trouble dat way many's de time. I say dis 'bout
Marse Fess Trunion, ef he ain' got de blood, he got de breedin'. Ef he
ain' good ez de Tomlinsons, he lots better dan some folks w'at I know."
I gathered from all this that Trunion was a foreigner of some kind, but
I found out my mistake later.
"I pick dat man up myse'f, en I knows 'im 'most good ez ef he wuz one er
we-all."
"What do you mean when you say you 'picked him up'?" I asked, unable to
restrain my impatience.
"Well, suh, de fus' time I see Marse Fess Trunion wuz terreckerly atter
de Sherman army come 'long. Dem wuz hot times, suh, col' ez de wedder
wuz. Dee wuz in-about er million un um look like ter me, en dee des
ravage de face er de yeth. Dee tuck all de hosses, en all de cows, en
all de chickens. Yes, suh; dee cert'n'y did. Man come 'long, en 'low:
'Aunty, you free now,' en den he tuck all my ginger-cakes w'at I bin
bakin' 'g'inst Chris'mus; en den I say: 'Ef I wuz free ez you is, suh,
I'd fling you down en take dem ginger-cakes 'way fum you.' Yes, suh. I
tole 'im dat. It make me mad fer see de way dat man walk off wid my
ginger-cakes.
"I got so mad, suh, dat I foller 'long atter him little ways; but dat
ain' do no good, kaze he come ter whar dee wuz some yuther men, en dee
'vide up dem cakes till de wa'n't no cake lef'. Den I struck 'cross de
plan'ation, en walked 'bout in de drizzlin' rain tell I cool off my
madness, suh, kaze de flour dat went in dem cakes cos' me mos 'a hunderd
dollars in good Confederick money. Yes, suh; it did dat. En I work for
dat money mighty hard.
"Well, suh, I ain' walk fur 'fo' it seem like I year some un talkin'. I
stop, I did, en lissen, en still I year um. I ain' see nobody, suh, but
still I year um. I walk fus' dis away en den dat away, en den I walk
'roun' en 'roun', en den it pop in my min' 'bout de big gully. It ain'
dar now, suh, but in dem days we call it de big gully, kaze it wuz wide
en deep. Well, suh, 'fo' I git dar I see hoss-tracks, en dee led right
up ter de brink. I look in, I did, en down dar dee wuz a man en a hoss.
Yes, suh; dee wuz bofe down dar. De man wuz layin' out flat on he back,
en de hoss he wuz layin' sorter up en down de gully en right on top er
one er de man legs, en eve'y time de hoss'd scrample en try fer git up
de man 'ud talk at 'im. I know dat hoss mus' des nat'ally a groun' dat
man legs in de yeth, suh. Yes, suh. It make my flesh crawl w'en I look
at um. Yit de man ain' talk like he mad. No, suh, he ain'; en it make me
feel like somebody done gone en hit me on de funny-bone w'en I year 'im
talkin' dat away. Eve'y time de hoss scuffle, de man he 'low: 'Hol' up,
ole fel, you er mashin' all de shape out'n me.' Dat w'at he say, suh. En
den he 'low: 'Ef you know how you hurtin', ole fel, I des know you'd be
still.' Yes, suh. Dem he ve'y words.
"All dis time de rain wuz a-siftin' down. It fall mighty saft, but 'twuz
monst'ous wet, suh. Bimeby I crope up nigher de aidge, en w'en de man
see me he holler out: 'Hol' on, aunty; don't you fall down yer!'
"I ax 'im, I say: 'Marster, is you hurted much?' Kaze time I look at 'im
I know he ain' de villyun w'at make off wid my ginger-cakes. Den he
'low: 'I speck I hurt purty bad, aunty, en de wuss un it is dat my hoss
keep hurtin' me mo'.'
"Den nex' time de hoss move it errortate me so, suh, dat I holler at 'im
loud ez I ken: 'Wo dar, you scan'lous villyun! Wo!' Well, suh, I speck
dat hoss mus a-bin use'n ter niggers, kaze time I holler at 'im he lay
right still, suh. I slid down dat bank, en I kotch holter dat bridle--I
don't look like I'm mighty strong, does I, suh?" said Aunt Fountain,
pausing suddenly in her narrative to ask the question.
"Well, no," said I, humoring her as much as possible. "You don't seem to
be as strong as some people I've seen."
"Dat's it, suh!" she exclaimed. "Dat w'at worry me. I slid down dat
bank, en I kotch dat hoss by de bridle. De man say: 'Watch out dar,
aunty! don't let he foot hit you. Dee one cripple too much now.' I ain'
pay no 'tention, suh. I des grab de bridle, en I slew dat hoss head
roun', en I fa'rly lif 'im on he foots. Yes, suh, I des lif 'im on he
foots. Den I led 'im down de gully en turnt 'im a-loose, en you ain'
never see no hoss supjued like dat hoss wuz, suh. Den I went back whar
de man layin', en ax 'im ef he feel better, en he 'low dat he feel like
he got a big load lif' offen he min', en den, mos' time he say dat, suh,
he faint dead away. Yes, suh. He des faint dead away. I ain' never is
see no man like dat, w'at kin be jokin' one minnit en den de nex' be
dead, ez you may say. But dat's Marse Fess Trunion, suh. Dat's him up en
down.
"Well, suh, I stan' dar, I did, en I ain' know w'at in de name er de
Lord I gwine do. I wuz des ez wringin' wet ez if I'd a-bin baptize in de
water; en de man he wuz mo' wetter dan w'at I wuz, en goodness knows how
long he bin layin' dar. I run back ter de big 'ouse, suh, mighty nigh a
mile, en I done my level bes' fer fin' some er de niggers en git um fer
go wid me back dar en git de man. But I ain' fin' none un um, suh. Dem
w'at ain' gone wid de Sherman army, dee done hide out. Den I went in de
big 'ouse, suh, en tell Mistiss 'bout de man down dar in de gully, en
how he done hurted so bad he ain' kin walk. Den Mistiss--I speck you
done fergit Mistiss, suh--Mistiss, she draw herse'f up en ax w'at
business dat man er any yuther man got on her plan'ation. I say:
'Yassum, dat so; but he done dar, en ef he stay dar he gwine die dar.'
Yes, suh; dat w'at I say. I des put it at Mistiss right pine-blank.
"Den my young mistiss--dat's Miss Lady, suh--she say dat dough she spize
um all dez bad az she kin, dat man mus' be brung away from dar. Kaze,
she say, she don't keer how yuther folks go on, de Tomlinsons is bleeze
to do like Christian people. Yes, suh; she say dem ve'y words. Den
Mistiss, she 'low dat de man kin be brung up, en put in de corn-crib,
but Miss Lady she say no, he mus' be brung en put right dar in de big
'ouse in one er de upsta'rs rooms, kaze maybe some er dem State er
Georgy boys mought be hurted up dar in de Norf, en want some place fer
stay at. Yes, suh; dat des de way she talk. Den Mistiss, she ain' say
nothin', yit she hol' her head mighty high.
"Well, suh, I went back out in de yard, en den I went 'cross ter de
nigger-quarter, en I ain' gone fur tell I year my ole man prayin' in dar
some'r's. I know 'im by he v'ice, suh, en he wuz prayin' des like it
wuz camp-meetin' time. I hunt 'roun' fer 'im, suh, en bimeby I fin' 'im
squattin' down behime de do'. I grab 'im, I did, en I shuck 'im, en I
'low: 'Git up fum yer, you nasty, stinkin' ole villyun, you!' Yes, suh;
I wuz mad. I say: 'W'at you doin' squattin' down on de flo'? Git up fum
dar en come go 'long wid me!' I hatter laugh, suh, kaze w'en I shuck my
ole man be de shoulder, en holler at 'im, he put up he two han', suh, en
squall out: 'Oh, pray, marster! don't kill me dis time, en I ain' never
gwine do it no mo'!'
"Atter he 'come pacify, suh, den I tell him 'bout de man down dar in de
gully, en yit we ain' know w'at ter do. My ole man done hide out some er
de mules en hosses down in de swamp, en he feard ter go atter um, suh,
kaze he skeerd de Sherman army would come marchin' back en fine um, en
he 'low dat he mos' know dee er comin' back atter dat man down dar. Yes,
suh; he de skeerdest nigger w'at I ever see, if I do say it myse'f. Yit,
bimeby he put out atter one er de hosses, en he brung 'im back; en we
hitch 'im up in de spring-waggin, en atter dat man we went. Yes, suh;
we did dat. En w'en we git dar, dat ar man wuz plum ravin' deestracted.
He wuz laughin' en talkin' wid hese'f, en gwine on, tell it make yo'
blood run col' fer lissen at 'im. Yes, suh.
"Me en my ole man, we pick 'im up des like he wuz baby. I come mighty
nigh droppin' 'im, suh, kaze one time, wiles we kyarn 'im up de bank, I
year de bones in he leg rasp up 'g'inst one er n'er. Yes, suh. It make
me blin' sick, suh. We kyard 'im home en put 'im upst'ars, en dar he
stayed fer many's de long day."
"Where was Judge Tomlinson?" I asked. At this Aunt Fountain grew more
serious than ever--a seriousness that was expressed by an increased
particularity and emphasis in both speech and manner.
"You axin' 'bout Marster? Well, suh, he wuz dar. He wuz cert'n'y dar wid
Mistiss en Miss Lady, suh, but look like he ain' take no intruss in w'at
gwine on. _Some_ folks 'low, suh, dat he ain' right in he head, but dee
ain' know 'im--dee ain't know 'im, suh, like we-all. Endurin' er de war,
suh, he wuz strucken wid de polzy, en den w'en he git well, he ain'
take no intruss in w'at gwine on. Dey'd be long days, suh, w'en he ain'
take no notice er nobody ner nuttin' but Miss Lady. He des had dem
spells; en den, ag'in, he'd set out on de peazzer en sing by hese'f, en
it make me feel so lonesome dat I bleeze ter cry. Yes, suh; it's de
Lord's trufe.
"Well, suh, dat man w'at I fin' out dar in de gully wuz Marse Fess
Trunion. Yes, suh, de ve'y same man. Dee ain' no tellin' w'at dat po'
creetur gone thoo wid. He had fever, he had pneumony, en he had dat
broke leg. En all 'long wid dat dee want skacely no time w'en he want
laughin' en jokin'. Our w'ite folks, dee des spized 'im kaze he bin wid
Sherman army. Dee say he wuz Yankee; but I tell um, suh, dat ef Yankee
look dat away dee wuz cert'n'y mighty like we-all. Mistiss, she ain'
never go 'bout 'im wiles he sick; en Miss Lady, she keep mighty shy, en
she tu'n up her nose eve'y time she year 'im laugh. Oh, yes, suh; dee
cert'n'y spize de Yankees endurin' er dem times. Dee hated um rank, suh.
I tell um, I say: 'You-all des wait. Dee ain' no nicer man dan w'at he
is, en you-all des wait tell you know 'im.' _Shoo!_ I des might ez well
talk ter de win', suh--dee hate de Yankees dat rank.