Ferginny in a waggin w'en I wuz des 'bout big nuff fer ter hol' a plow
straight in de' furrer, but 'tain't look like ter me dat 'twuz sech a
fur ways. All day en all night long fer mighty nigh a week I year dem
kyar-wheels go clickity-clock, clickity-clock, en dem ingines go
choo-choo-choo, choo-choo-choo, en it look like we ain't never gwine git
dar. Yit, git dar we did, en 'tain't take me long fer ter fin' de place
whar my young marster is. I laid off ter fetch 'im home; well, ma'am,
w'en I look at 'im he skeer'd me. Yassum, you may b'lieve me er not
b'lieve me, but he skeer'd me. Stiddier de boy w'at I wuz a-huntin'
fer, dar he wuz, a great big grow'd-up man, en bless yo' soul, he wuz
a-trompin' roun' dar wid great big boots on, en, mon, dey had spurrers
on um.
"Ef I hadn't er year 'im laugh, I nev'd a-know'd 'im in de roun' worl'.
I say ter myse'f, s' I, I'll des wait en see ef he know who I is. But
shoo! my young marster know me time he lays eyes on me, en no sooner is
he see me dan he fetched a whoop en rushed at me. He 'low: 'Hello,
Daddy! whar de name er goodness you rise fum?' He allers call me Daddy
sence he been a baby. De minute he say dat, it come over me 'bout how
lonesome de folks wuz at home, en I des grabbed 'im, en 'low: 'Honey,
you better come go back wid Daddy.'
"He sorter hug me back, he did, en den he laugh, but I tell you dey
wa'n't no laugh in me, kaze I done see w'iles I gwine long w'at kinder
'sturbance de white folks wuz a-gettin' up, en I know'd dey wuz a-gwine
ter be trouble pile 'pon trouble. Yit dar he wuz a-laughin' en
a-projickin', en 'mongs' all dem yuther mens dey wa'n't none un um
good-lookin' like my young marster. I don't keer w'at kinder cloze he
put on, dey fit 'im, en I don't keer w'at crowd he git in, dey ain't
none un um look like 'im. En 'tain't on'y me say dat; I done year lots
er yuther folks say dem ve'y words.
"I ups en sez, s'I: 'Honey, you go 'long en git yo' things, en come go
home 'long wid Daddy. Dey er waitin' fer you down dar'--des so! Den he
look at me cute like he us'ter w'en he wuz a baby, en he 'low, he did:
"'I'm mighty glad you come, Daddy, en I hope you brung yo' good cloze,
kaze you des come in time fer ter go in 'ten'ance on my weddin'.' Den I
'low: 'You oughtn' be a-talkin' dat away, honey. W'at in de name er
goodness is chilluns like you got ter do wid marryin'?' Wid dat, he up
'n' laugh, but 'twa'n't no laughin' matter wid me. Yit 'twuz des like he
tell me, en 'twa'n't many hours 'fo' we wuz gallopin' cross de country
to'ds Marse Randolph Herndon' place; en dar whar he married. En you may
b'lieve me er not, ma'am, des ez you please, but dat couple wuz two er
de purtiest chilluns you ever laid eyes on, en dar Miss Hallie in dar
now fer ter show you I'm a-tellin' de true word. 'Mos' 'fo' de weddin'
wuz over, news com dat my young marster en de folks wid 'im mus' go back
ter camps, en back we went.
"Well, ma'am, dar we wuz--a mighty far ways fum home, Miss Hallie
a-cryin', en de war gwine on des same ez ef 'twuz right out dar in de
yard. My young marster 'low dat I des come in time, kaze he mighty nigh
pe'sh'd fer sumpin' 'n'er good ter eat. I whirled in, I did, en I cook
'im some er de right kinder vittles; but all de time I cookin', I say
ter myse'f, I did, dat I mought er come too soon, er I mought er come
too late, but I be bless' ef I come des in time.
"Hit went on dis away scan'lous. We marched en we stopped, en we stopped
en we marched, en 'twuz de Lord's blessin' dat we rid hosses, kaze ef my
young marster had 'a' bin 'blige' ter tromp thoo de mud like some er dem
white mens, I speck I'd 'a' had ter tote 'im, dough he uz mighty spry en
tough. Sometimes dem ar bung-shells 'u'd drap right in 'mongs' whar
we-all wuz, en dem wuz de times w'en I feel like I better go off
some'r's en hide, not dat I wuz anyways skeery, kaze I wa'n't; but ef
one er dem ur bung-shells had er strucken me, I dunner who my young
marster would 'a' got ter do he's cookin' en he's washin'.
"Hit went on dis away, twel bimeby one night, way in de night, my young
marster come whar I wuz layin', en shuck me by de shoulder. I wuz des
wide 'wake ez w'at he wuz, yit I ain't make no motion. He shuck me
ag'in, en 'low: 'Daddy! Oh, Daddy! I'm gwine on de skirmish line. I
speck we gwine ter have some fun out dar.'
"I 'low, I did: 'Honey, you make 'aste back ter break'us, kaze I got
some sossige meat en some gennywine coffee.'
"He ain't say nothin', but w'en he git little ways off, he tu'n 'roun'
en come back, he did, en 'low: 'Good night, Daddy.' I lay dar, en I year
un w'en dey start off. I year der hosses a-snort-in', en der spurrers
a-jinglin'. Ef dey yever wuz a restless creetur hit uz me dat night. I
des lay dar wid my eyes right wide open, en dey stayed open, kaze, atter
w'ile, yer come daylight, en den I rousted out, I did, en built me a
fire, en 'twa'n't long 'fo' I had break'us a-fryin' en de coffee
a'b'ilin', kaze I spected my young marster eve'y minute; en he uz one er
dese yer kinder folks w'at want he's coffee hot, en all de yuther
vittles on de jump.
"I wait en I wait, en still he ain't come. Hit cert'n'y look like a
mighty long time w'at he stay 'way; en bimeby I tuck myse'f off ter make
some inquirements, kaze mighty nigh all he's comp'ny done gone wid 'im.
I notice dat de white mens look at me mighty kuse w'en I ax um 'bout my
young marster; en bimeby one un um up en 'low: 'Ole man, whar yo' hat?'
des dat away. I feel on my haid, en, bless goodness! my hat done gone;
but I 'spon' back, I did: ''Tain't no time fer no nigger man fer ter be
bodder'n' 'bout he's hat,' des so. Well, ma'am, bimeby I struck up wid
some er my young marster' comp'ny, en dey up 'n' tell me dat dey had a
racket out dar en de skirmish line, en dey hatter run in, en dey speck
my young marster be 'long terreckerly. Den I year some un say dat day
speck de Yankees tuck some pris'ners out dar, en den I know dat ain't
gwine do fer me. I des runn'd back ter whar we been campin', en I mount
de hoss w'at my young marster gun me, en I rid right straight out ter
whar dey been fightin'. My min' tol' me dey wuz sumpin' 'n'er wrong out
dar, en I let you know, ma'am, I rid mighty fas'; I sholy made dat ole
hoss git up fum dar. De white mens dey holler at me w'en I pass, but
eve'y time dey holler I make dat creetur men' he's gait. Some un um call
me a country-ban', en say I runnin' 'way, en ef de pickets hadn't all
been runnin' in, I speck dey'd 'a' fetched de ole nigger up wid de guns.
But dat never cross my min' dat day.
"Well, ma'am, I haid my hoss de way de pickets comin' fum; en ef dey
hadn't er been so much underbresh en so many sassyfac saplin's, I speck
I'd 'a' run dat creetur ter def: but I got ter whar I hatter go slow, en
I des pick my way right straight forrerd de bes' I kin. I ain't hatter
go so mighty fur, nudder, 'fo' I come 'cross de place whar dey had de
skirmish; en fum dat day ter dis I ain't never see no lonesome place
like dat. Dey wuz a cap yer, a hat yander, en de groun' look like it
wuz des strowed wid um. I stop en listen. Den I rid on a little ways, en
den I stop en listen. Bimeby I year hoss whicker, en den de creetur w'at
I'm a-ridin', he whicker back, en do des like he wanter go whar de t'er
hoss is. I des gin 'im de rein; en de fus news I know, he trot right up
ter de big black hoss w'at my young marster rid.
"I look little furder, I did, en I see folks lyin' on de groun'. Some
wuz double' up, en some wuz layin' out straight. De win' blow de grass
back'ards en forrerds, but dem sojer-men dey never move; en den I know
dey wuz dead. I look closer; en dar 'pon de groun', 'mos' right at me,
wuz my young marster layin' right by de side er one er dem Yankee mens.
I jumped down, I did, en run ter whar he wuz; but he wuz done gone. My
heart jump, my knees shuck, en my han' trimble; but I know I got ter git
away fum dar. Hit look like at fus' dat him en dat Yankee man been
fightin'; but bimeby I see whar my young marster bin crawl thoo de weeds
en grass ter whar de Yankee man wuz layin'; en he had one arm un' de
man' haid, en de ter han' wuz gripped on he's canteen. I fix it in my
min', ma'am, dat my young marster year dat Yankee man holler fer water;
en he des make out fer ter crawl whar he is, en dar I foun' um bofe.
"Dey wuz layin' close by a little farm road, en not so mighty fur off I
year a chicken crowin'. I say ter myse'f dat sholy folks must be livin'
whar dey chickens crowin'; en I tuck'n' mount my young marster's hoss,
en right 'roun' de side er de hill I come 'cross a house. De folks wuz
all gone; but dey wuz a two-hoss waggin in de lot en some gear in de
barn, en I des loped back atter de yuther hoss, en 'mos' 'fo' you know
it, I had dem creeturs hitch up: en I went en got my young marster en de
Yankee man w'at wuz wid 'im, en I kyard um back ter de camps. I got um
des in time, too, kase I ain't mo'n fairly start 'fo' I year big gun,
_be-bang!_ en den I know'd de Yankees mus' be a-comin' back. Den de
bung-shells 'gun ter bus'; en I ax myse'f w'at dey shootin' at me fer,
en I ain't never fin' out w'at make dey do it.
"Well, ma'am, w'en I git back ter camps, dar wuz Cunnel Tip Herndon,
w'ich he wuz own br'er ter Miss Hallie. Maybe you been year tell er
Marse Tip, ma'am; he cert'ny wuz a mighty fine man. Marse Tip, he 'uz
dar, en 'twa'n't long 'fo' Miss Hallie wuz dar, kaze she ain't live so
mighty fur; en Miss Hallie say dat my young marster en de Yankee man
mus' be brung home terge'er. So dey brung um."
Uncle Prince paused. His story was at an end. He stooped to stir the
fire; and when he rose, his eyes were full of tears. Humble as he was,
he could pay this tribute to the memory of the boy soldier whom he had
nursed in sickness and in health. It was a stirring recital. Perhaps it
is not so stirring when transferred to paper. The earnestness, the
simplicity, the awkward fervor, the dramatic gestures, the unique
individuality of Uncle Prince, can not be reproduced; but these things
had a profound effect on Miss Eustis and her aunt.
VII
THROUGHOUT the narrative the piano had been going, keeping, as it
seemed, a weird accompaniment to a tragic story. This also had its
effect; for, so perfectly did the rhythm and sweep of the music accord
with the heart-rending conclusion, that Helen, if her mind had been less
preoccupied with sympathy, would probably have traced the effect of it
all to a long series of rehearsals: in fact, such a suggestion did occur
to her, but the thought perished instantly in the presence of the
unaffected simplicity and the childlike earnestness which animated the
words of the old negro.
The long silence which ensued--for the piano ceased, and Hallie nestled
at Helen's side once more--was broken by General Garwood.
"We were never able to identify the Union soldier. He had in his
possession a part of a letter, and a photograph of himself. These were
in an inner pocket. I judge that he knew he was to be sent on a
dangerous mission, and had left his papers and whatever valuables he
may have possessed behind him. The little skirmish in which he fell was
a surprise to both sides. A scouting party of perhaps a dozen Federal
cavalrymen rode suddenly upon as many Confederate cavalrymen who had
been detailed for special picket duty. There was a short, sharp fight,
and then both sides scampered away. The next day the Federal army
occupied the ground."
"It is a pity," said Helen, "that his identity should be so utterly
lost."
"Hallie, my dear," said Mrs. Garwood, "would it trouble you too much to
get the photograph of the Union soldier? If it is any trouble, my
child--"
Hallie went swiftly out of the room, and returned almost immediately
with the photograph, and handed it to Helen, who examined it as well as
she could by the dim firelight.
"The face is an interesting one, as well as I can make out," said Helen,
"and it has a strangely familiar look. He was very young."
She handed the picture to her aunt. Her face was very pale.
"I can't see by this light," said Miss Tewksbury. But Uncle Prince had
already brought a lamp which he had been lighting. "Why, my dear," said
Miss Tewksbury, in a tone of voice that suggested both awe and
consternation--"why, my dear, this is your brother Wendell!"
"Oh, Aunt Harriet! I thought so--I was afraid so--but are you sure?"
"As sure as that I am sitting here."
Helen burst into tears. "Oh, why didn't I recognize him? How could I
fail to know my darling brother?" she cried.
Hallie rose from her low stool, and stood gazing at Helen. Her face was
pale as death, but in her eyes gleamed the fire of long-suppressed grief
and passion. She seemed like one transformed. She flung her white arms
above her head, and exclaimed:
"I knew it! I knew it! I knew that some poor heart would find its
long-lost treasure here. I have felt it--I have dreamed it! Oh, I am so
glad you have found your brother!"
"Oh, but I should have known his picture," said Helen.
"But, my dear child," said Miss Tewksbury, in a matter-of-fact way,
"there is every reason why you should not have known it. This picture
was taken in Washington, and he never sent a copy of it home. If he did,
your father put it away among his papers. You were not more than twelve
years old when Wendell went away."
"Perhaps if Hallie will get the fragment of letter," said General
Garwood to Miss Tewksbury, "it will confirm your impression."
"Oh, it is no impression," replied Miss Tewksbury. "I could not possibly
be mistaken."
The fragment of letter, when produced, proved to be in the handwriting
of Charles Osborne Eustis; and there was one sentence in it that was
peculiarly characteristic. "Remember, dear Wendell," it said, "that the
war is not urged against men; it is against an institution which the
whole country, both North and South, will be glad to rid itself of."
It would be difficult, under all the circumstances, to describe Helen's
thoughts. She was gratified--she was more than gratified--at the
unexpected discovery, and she was grateful to those who had cared for
her brother's grave with such scrupulous care. She felt more at home
than ever. The last barrier of sectional reserve (if it may be so
termed) was broken down, so far as she was concerned; and during the
remainder of her stay, her true character--her womanliness, her
tenderness, her humor--revealed itself to these watchful and sensitive
Southerners. Even Miss Tewksbury, who had the excuse of age and long
habit for her prejudices, showed the qualities that made her friends
love her. In the language of the little rector, who made a sermon out of
the matter, "all things became homogeneous through the medium of
sympathy and the knowledge of mutual suffering."
In fact, everything was so agreeable during the visit of Helen and her
aunt to Waverly--a visit that was prolonged many days beyond the limit
they had set--that Uncle Prince remarked on it one night to his wife.
"I'm a nigger man, 'Mandy Jane," said he, "but I got two eyes, en dey er
good ones. W'at I sees I knows, en I tell you right now, Marse Peyton
is done got strucken."
"Done got strucken 'bout what?" inquired 'Mandy Jane.
"'Bout dat young lady w'at stayin' yer. Oh, you neenter holler," said
Uncle Prince in response to a contemptuous laugh from 'Mandy Jane. "I
ain't nothin' but a nigger man, but I knows w'at I sees."
"Yes, you is a nigger man," said 'Mandy Jane triumphantly. "Ef you wuz a
nigger 'oman you'd have lots mo' sense dan w'at you got. W'y, dat lady
up dar ain't our folks. She mighty nice, I speck, but she ain't our
folks. She ain't talk like our folks yit."
"No matter 'bout dat," said Uncle Prince. "I ain't seed no nicer 'oman
dan w'at she is, en I boun' you she kin talk mighty sweet w'en she take
a notion. W'en my two eyes tell me de news I knows it, en Marse Peyton
done got strucken long wid dat white 'oman."
"En now you gwine tell me," said 'Mandy Jane with a fine assumption of
scorn, "dat Marse Peyton gwine marry wid dat w'ite 'oman en trapse off
dar ter der Norf? _Shoo!_ Nigger man, you go ter bed 'fo' you run
yo'se'f 'stracted."
"I dunno whar Marse Peyton gwine, 'Mandy Jane, but I done see 'im
talkin' 'long wid dat white lady, en lookin' at her wid he's eyes. Huh!
don' tell me! En dat ain't all, 'Mandy Jane," Uncle Prince went on: "dat
Bud Stucky, he's f'rever'n etarnally sneakin' 'roun' de house up dar.
One day he want sumpin' ter eat, en nex' day he want Miss Hallie fer ter
play en de peanner, but all de time I see 'im a-watchin' dat ar white
lady fum de Norf."
"Hush!" exclaimed 'Mandy Jane.
"Des like I tell you!" said Uncle Prince.
"Well, de nasty, stinkin', oudacious villyun!" commented 'Mandy Jane. "I
lay ef I go up dar en set de dogs on 'im, he'll stop sneakin' 'roun' dis
place."
"Let 'im 'lone, 'Mandy Jane, let 'im 'lone," said Uncle Prince solemnly.
"Dat ar Bud Stucky, he got a mammy, en my min' tell me dat he's mammy
kin run de kyards en trick you. Now you watch out, 'Mandy Jane. You go
on en do de washin', like you bin doin', en den ole Miss Stucky won't
git atter you wid de kyards en cunjur you. Dat ole 'oman got er mighty
bad eye, mon."
VIII
UNCLE PRINCE, it appears, was a keen observer, especially where General
Garwood was concerned. He had discovered a fact in regard to "Marse
Peyton," as he called him, that had only barely suggested itself to that
gentleman's own mind--the fact that his interest in Miss Eustis had
assumed a phase altogether new and unexpected. Its manifestations were
pronounced enough to pester Miss Tewksbury, but, strange to say, neither
General Garwood nor Miss Eustis appeared to be troubled by them. As a
matter of fact, these two were merely new characters in a very old
story, the details of which need not be described or dwelt on in this
hasty chronicle. It was not by any means a case of love at first sight.
It was better than that: it was a case of love based on a firmer
foundation than whim, or passion, or sentimentality. At any rate, Helen
and her stalwart lover were as happy, apparently, as if they had just
begun to enjoy life and the delights thereof. There was no love-making,
so far as Miss Tewksbury could see; but there was no attempt on the part
of either to conceal the fact that they heartily enjoyed each other's
companionship.
Bud Stucky continued his daily visits for several weeks; but one day he
failed to make his appearance, and after a while news came that he was
ill of a fever. The ladies at Waverly sent his mother a plentiful supply
of provisions, together with such delicacies as seemed to them
necessary; but Bud Stucky continued to waste away. One day Helen, in
spite of the protests of her aunt, set out to visit the sick man,
carrying a small basket in which Hallie had placed some broiled chicken
and a small bottle of homemade wine. Approaching the Stucky cabin, she
was alarmed at the silence that reigned within. She knocked, but there
was no response; whereupon she pushed the door open and entered. The
sight that met her eyes, and the scene that followed, are still fresh in
her memory.
Poor Bud Stucky, the shadow of his former self, was lying on the bed.
His thin hands were crossed on his breast, and the pallor of death was
on his emaciated face. His mother sat by the bed with her eyes fixed on
his. She made no sign when Helen entered, but continued to gaze on her
son.
The young woman, bent on a mission of mercy, paused on the threshold,
and regarded the two unfortunates with a sympathy akin to awe. Bud
Stucky moved his head uneasily, and essayed to speak, but the sound died
away in his throat. He made another effort. His lips moved feebly; his
voice had an unearthly, a far-away sound.
"Miss," he said, regarding her with a piteous expression in his sunken
eyes, "I wish you'd please, ma'am, make maw let me go." He seemed to
gather strength as he went on. "I'm all ready, an' a-waitin'; I wish
you'd please, ma'am, make 'er let me go."
"Oh, what can I do?" cried Helen, seized with a new sense of the pathos
that is a part of the humblest human life.
"Please, ma'am, make 'er let me go. I been a-layin' here ready two whole
days an' three long nights, but maw keeps on a-watchin' of me; she won't
let me go. She's got 'er eyes nailed on me constant."
Helen looked at the mother. Her form was wasted by long vigils, but she
sat bolt upright in her chair, and in her eyes burned the fires of an
indomitable will. She kept them fixed on her son.
"Won't you please, ma'am, tell maw to let me go? I'm so tired er
waitin'."
The plaintive voice seemed to be an echo from the valley of the shadow
of death. Helen, watching narrowly and with agonized curiosity, thought
she saw the mother's lips move; but no sound issued therefrom. The dying
man made another appeal:
"Oh, I'm so tired! I'm all ready, an' she won't let me go. A long time
ago when I us' ter ax 'er, she'd let me do 'most anything, an' now she
won't let me go. Oh, Lordy! I'm so tired er waitin'! Please, ma'am, ax
'er to let me go."
Mrs. Stucky rose from her chair, raised her clasped hands above her
head, and turned her face away. As she did so, something like a sigh of
relief escaped from her son. He closed his eyes, and over his wan face
spread the repose and perfect peace of death.
Turning again toward the bed, Mrs. Stucky saw Helen weeping gently. She
gazed at her a moment. "Whatter you cryin' fer now?" she asked with
unmistakable bitterness. "You wouldn't a-wiped your feet on 'im. Ef you
wuz gwine ter cry, whyn't you let 'im see you do it 'fore he died? What
good do it do 'im now? He wa'n't made out'n i'on like me."
Helen made no reply.
She placed her basket on the floor, went out into the sunlight, and made
her way swiftly back to Waverly. Her day's experience made a profound
impression on her, so much so that when the time came for her to go
home, she insisted on going alone to bid Mrs. Stucky good-by.
She found the lonely old woman sitting on her door-sill. She appeared to
be gazing on the ground, but her sun-bonnet hid her face. Helen
approached, and spoke to her. She gave a quick upward glance, and fell
to trembling. She was no longer made of iron. Sorrow had dimmed the fire
of her eyes. Helen explained her visit, shook hands with her, and was
going away, when the old woman, in a broken voice, called her to stop.
Near the pine-pole gate was a little contrivance of boards that looked
like a bird-trap. Mrs. Stucky went to this, and lifted it.
"Come yer, honey," she cried, "yer's somepin' I wanter show you."
Looking closely, Helen saw molded in the soil the semblance of a
footprint. "Look at it, honey, look at it," said Mrs. Stucky; "that's
his darlin' precious track."
Helen turned, and went away weeping. The sight of that strange memorial,
which the poor mother had made her shrine, leavened the girl's whole
after-life.
When Helen and her aunt came to take their leave of Azalia, their going
away was not by any means in the nature of a merry-making. They went
away sorrowfully, and left many sorrowful friends behind them. Even
William, the bell-ringer and purveyor of hot batter-cakes at Mrs.
Haley's hotel, walked to the railroad station to see them safely off.
General Garwood accompanied them to Atlanta; and though the passenger
depot in that pushing city is perhaps the most unromantic spot to be
found in the wide world--it is known as the "Car-shed" in Atlantese--it
was there that he found courage to inform Miss Eustis that he purposed
to visit Boston during the summer in search not only of health, but of
happiness; and Miss Eustis admitted, with a reserve both natural and
proper, that she would be very happy to see him.
It is not the purpose of this chronicle to follow General Garwood to
Boston. The files of the Boston papers will show that he went there, and
that, in a quiet way, he was the object of considerable social
attention. But it is in the files of the "Brookline Reporter" that the
longest and most graphic account of the marriage of Miss Eustis to
General Garwood is to be found. It is an open secret in the literary
circles of Boston that the notice in the "Reporter" was from the pen of
Henry P. Bassett, the novelist. It was headed "Practical
Reconstruction"; and it was conceded on all sides that, even if the
article had gone no farther than the head-line, it would have been a
very happy description of the happiest of events.
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Page 1, Table of Contents, "137" changed to "133"
Page 65, "read" changed to "red" (red face with)
Page 111, opening quotation mark added (exclaimed Aunt Fountain, "ain')
Page 127, apostrophe changed to a comma. (man, you)
Page 129, apostrophe removed from before "agreeable" (say she agreeable)
Page 156, opening quotation mark added (continued. "I'll bet)
Page 179, opening quotation mark added (heavenward, "than to see)
Page 205, "it" changed to "in" (wanted to put in)
Page 216, closing quotation mark added (my conscience.")
Page 223, "libery" changed to "liberty" (felt at liberty to)
Page 224, "thay" changed to "they" (appreciate what they pay)
Page 273, "Hayley" changed to "Haley" (so," said Mrs. Haley, with)