LILY
Although Mrs. Arnold had told Mollie there was no need to fear the
fugitive negroes who now and then made their way across the mountains,
hoping to find freedom from slavery in the Northern States, the
little girl’s words made Mrs. Arnold thoughtful. Supposing a fleeing
Tennessee slave appealed to her for a hiding-place, or for assistance
to escape into Kentucky, which remained loyal to the Union, while
Tennessee was a Confederate state, what could she do? Mr. and Mrs.
Arnold both realized that, even on that remote mountain ridge, the
fact that they were from the North, that their son was a soldier in
the Northern army, would naturally prejudice Southerners against them,
and if any member of the little household was discovered befriending a
fleeing negro—who in those days was regarded as a piece of property
by his master, and could be dragged back into slavery—it would place
them in a dangerous position.
She spoke of it to her husband, but Mr. Arnold saw no cause for
uneasiness.
“Of course, if any human being came to our door in need we would
have to do what we could for him. Especially if it were a black man
or woman; for they have never had a fair chance in this country, and
we are bound to help them. I do not think there are half a dozen
people beside the Braggs who know anything about us; and they are our
friends,” he concluded.
“Mr. Bragg declares he doesn’t care which side wins,” responded Mrs.
Arnold. “He says he is ‘neutral,’ and that is why he is so angry at
Len’s running away to join the Confederate army. But I don’t quite
trust Steve Bragg.”
While Mr. and Mrs. Arnold discussed the questions that were then
causing so much trouble, Berry and Mollie had reached the brook and
were saying good-bye.
Berry had carefully explained just how Mollie’s doll had been made. “I
spread out a piece of white cloth, doubled, and marked a doll out with
a piece of charcoal, and then cut it out and stitched the two pieces
together, just leaving a place open on top of the head, and then
filled her with sawdust, sewed up the open place and covered her head
with raveled yarn,” said Berry.
“P’raps I can make one!” Mollie suggested hopefully.
“Of course you could,” Berry agreed promptly.
“I’ll make a black nigger doll, so’s ‘Mrs. Arnold’ can have it for a
slave,” said Mollie.
“Oh! Mollie, you can’t! That’s what this war is about; to make white
people stop making slaves of black people; it isn’t fair!” declared
Berry, and quickly added, “Mollie, why don’t you give your doll an
easier name?”
“I don’t know any names. I loves your Ma, an’ I loves this doll; so I
calls the doll ‘Mrs. Arnold,’” Mollie responded soberly, “an’ I don’
see no harm in makin’ a nigger doll.”
“Well, Mollie, my mother’s name is Ellen; why don’t you call the doll
that?” Berry suggested.
“Oh! Yes! Ellen is lovely. ‘Mrs. Arnold,’ your name is ‘Ellen,’”
Mollie promptly informed her doll, holding it out at arm’s length that
she might better admire it.
“I’ll start back now,” said Berry. “School is going to be fine, isn’t
it, Mollie?”
Mollie vigorously nodded her shawl-covered head. “It’s grand!” she
declared; and then, coming very close to Berry, she whispered, “I’ve
got a secret! Maybe I can tell it to you to-morrow!” and before Berry
had time to question her, Mollie had taken the basket that held the
precious birthday cake and started to cross the brook, making her way
carefully from stone to stone. She did not leap from the broad stone
to the opposite bank, as Berry delighted in doing, but followed the
stepping-stones until the stream was safely crossed. Then she turned
and called to Berry, who had stood waiting to be sure that Mollie
crossed the stream in safety.
“I’m all right, Berry,” she called. “I think it’s fine to be eleven.”
“What’s the secret, Mollie?” Berry called back; but Mollie had turned
and was hurrying off toward home. Berry looked after the little figure
in the trailing shawl until it vanished in the forest path, and then
turned and ran lightly up the ridge. A cold wind crept among the
branches of the tall oaks as Berry ran; a rabbit leaped out from the
underbrush and sped along before her for a short distance, and then
vanished. Squirrels scolded noisily from the oak trees, and from the
deep woods Berry could hear the distant call of some winter-loving
bird. But the little girl hardly noticed these familiar sounds of the
forest.
“I wonder what Mollie’s secret can be?” she thought, and resolved to
start out and meet Mollie the next morning. “Then she can tell me
before lesson-time,” she decided.
Berry had just reached this conclusion when her quick eye caught the
movement of a dark object behind the underbrush that bordered the
path. “A fox, maybe!” she thought, stopping to look more closely at
the dark form. As she looked the figure raised itself from behind the
underbrush and Berry gave a startled exclamation; for it was not a fox
or any woodland animal that confronted her, but a young negro girl,
evidently more frightened than Berry, and it was Berry who spoke first.
“What are you hiding there for?” Berry demanded. “Come out in the path
where I can see you.”
There were few negroes near Shiloh, and since coming to live in the
mountain cabin the little Yankee girl had seldom encountered them. But
she knew that Tennessee was a state where negroes were considered
as the property of white masters; that negroes possessed no rights
in regard to protection from cruelty and injustice. If they were
fortunate in belonging to a kind master, and there were many such
throughout the slaveholding states, they were well treated; but if
owned by cruel, ignorant men, the negroes were abused; and it was
from such unfair treatment that they frequently endeavored to escape
by fleeing North. But, unless they could reach Canada, there was no
safety for them in the Northern States, as the law of the Union, then,
gave their masters the right to pursue them and force them to return.
To end this injustice was one of the chief reasons for the Civil War.
As Berry looked at the frightened black face that peered at her above
the underbrush she instantly realized that this was a runaway slave,
and she again called:
“Come out in the path where I can see you,” and now the negro girl
crept out from her hiding-place and stood facing Berry.
“Oh, young Massa, don’ mek me go back,” she faltered. “I’se hongry an’
col’, an’ I dunno ’zackly whar I be; but I reckons, if yo’ jes’ go on,
young Massa, I kin git off so’s I won’t be kotched,” and she fixed
her big eyes pleadingly on Berry’s face, her thin form, clad in a
ragged garment made of coarse bagging material, shivering in the cold.
“I’m a girl,” Berry announced. “You can’t hide out in the woods; it’s
too cold. You’ll freeze,” she added quickly. “And you need not be
afraid of me. I’ll help you.”
The negro girl stared at Berry as if even more frightened than before.
“Wot yo’ dressed up dis way for?” she asked.
“Never mind about me,” Berry replied, “but do as I say. If you will
come with me you can have something warm to eat and drink, anyway.
Then if you want to keep on running away you can.”
For a moment the little white girl, rosy, well clad, and unafraid,
and the gaunt, half-clothed, frightened black girl faced each other.
Then a softer expression crept over the face of the negro girl,
and she took a step toward Berry. “I’se gwine ter trus’ yo’, young
Mass—Missie,” she said softly.
Berry nodded. “Nobody shall hurt you,” she promised soberly. “And
let’s run, or Father will be coming to find me.”
But the negro girl shook her head dolefully. “I cyan’t run, young
Mass—Missie; my feetes is hurt,” and now for the first time Berry
noticed that the girl’s legs were bare, and that her feet were
protected from the rough, frozen ground only by worn pieces of cloth,
tied about with string. And at this Berry exclaimed pityingly:
“Your poor feet! Well, we’ll go easy,” and she clasped the girl’s thin
arm, and started forward.
The negro girl did not speak again until they came in sight of the
cabin, then she stopped suddenly. “Yo’ ain’ gwine ter let nobuddy sen’
me back ter Alabamy?” she asked fearfully.
Berry’s clasp on the girl’s arm tightened. “I am going to help you,
I am going to be your friend!” she promised earnestly. And the slave
girl, meeting the pitying, friendly glance of Berry’s brown eyes, was
convinced that the impossible had happened; that a runaway slave girl
had really found a friend. From that moment she had full confidence in
Berry; whatever Berry told her to do she did instantly, sure that no
harm could befall her as long as Berry was near.
“What is your name?” Berry asked, as they reached the porch.
“My name’s Lily.”
Berry pushed open the door into the kitchen, still clasping her
companion’s arm. “Mother, here is Lily!” she announced.