THE WITCH’S TREE
“Mother! Can’t Lily wear those old clothes of Francis’s?” Berry asked
one March day, when Lily had returned from a scramble up the ridge,
with the old dress of Mrs. Arnold’s, that she had worn since coming to
the cabin, so badly torn by the thorns and underbrush that it was no
longer fit to wear.
“She can’t climb trees, or run as fast as I do, or anything in that
long skirt,” complained Berry, and added quickly, “And she would like
to wear things like mine.”
“Yas’m!” Lily agreed hopefully, looking admiringly at her little
mistress.
“Why did I not think of it before!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, who had
been puzzled to know how to obtain clothing for the negro girl. With
Northern armies advancing into Tennessee, and with General Johnston
at the head of the Southern forces at Nashville, the family in the
mountain cabin would have no opportunity to procure clothing. Mrs.
Arnold realized that it might be months before it would be safe to
venture to any of the neighboring towns, and that they must take every
possible care of their supplies; therefore Berry’s suggestion that
Lily should wear the outgrown garments of Francis seemed to solve a
difficult problem, and Mrs. Arnold, closely followed by Berry and
Lily, hastened to open the old trunk in the small chamber where Lily
slept, where Francis’s part-worn clothing was packed.
“Here are some very good shoes,” said Mrs. Arnold, as she took out
a pair of stout leather shoes. “Try them on, Lily.” The negro girl
promptly obeyed, and they proved a fairly good fit.
Then Mrs. Arnold drew forth the brown corduroy knickerbockers, and the
patched flannel blouse which her boy, who was now so far away with the
Army of the Potomac in Virginia, had worn in the early days of their
stay in the mountain cabin.
Lily was soon dressed in these comfortable garments, and Berry jumped
about in delight as she exclaimed: “Now, Lily, we’ll see who can run
the faster, and if I win you can’t say it is because you wear long
skirts.”
“Dat’s de truf, Missie Berry. But I reckons yo’ll win anyways,”
responded Lily, her solemn eyes fixed admiringly on Berry.
That afternoon Berry raked the leaves from her garden bed, and began
to make plans for the border of wild flowers that she would transplant
from the slopes of the ravine, or from sheltered places in the wood.
On the previous day she and Lily had discovered the butterwort in
bloom near the wide brook, where she had encountered the threatening
stranger, its pale yellow flowers nodding from their slender stems
above its flat rosette of curious leaves. It was one of the earliest
blooms of the year in that part of Tennessee, and Berry was eager to
bring home enough of the plants to brighten her garden border, as she
knew the butterwort would continue to blossom through March; and early
in the afternoon, with Lily as her companion, she started off toward
the brook. Lily carried the large basket in which they planned to
bring the plants home.
There were many hints that spring was close at hand. Robins and
cardinals flitted about among the tree-tops, squirrels scolded
and chattered, and little wood-mice now and then scampered out
from shelter. As the girls came out from the forest Berry stopped
suddenly and looked about in delight. “The red-bud is in blossom!”
she exclaimed, for the tall, slender “Judas-Trees” growing along
the borders of the forest, and standing in small clumps in the open
clearing, had put forth their crimson buds and blossoms, brightening
the leafless branches, and making the woods glow with color.
“I knows dat tree; it’s de witch tree!” Lily declared solemnly. “Dat
tree grow all ’bout in Alabamy. An’ all de niggers uster tell dat,
’long ’bout midnight, witches comes ter dese trees an’ meets up wid
one anudder, an’ makes der plans!” and Lily shook her head, as if
feeling it was hardly safe to speak of such dangerous subjects.
“Do you really believe it is a witch’s tree?” asked Berry.
“It shu’ be, Missie. Dat’s de reason it bust out, widout a leaf
a-showin’, in Feb’ry! Sum ob dose Alabamy niggers knows a sight ob
t’ings ‘bout witches. Ole mammy, what uster bang me right smart all
de time I wus a-growin’ up, she uster say dat if yo’ could only be
near one ob dese meetin’s ob witches at dese trees yo’d h’ar strange
t’ings!” replied Lily, rolling her eyes solemnly. “It’s ’long ’bout
dis time ob de year, w’en de blossoms show dat dey meets up an’ makes
der plans,” she added.
“I wish I could see them,” said Berry thoughtfully; “and, if they were
good witches, perhaps they would tell me where Mollie Bragg is, and
when she is coming home.”
“Dar ain’ no sich thing as a ‘good’ witch, Missie!” said Lily. “I
reckons dey might tell yo’ w’ot yo’ wants ter know if yo’ wus ter mak’
’em promises,” she added thoughtfully.
Berry was now eager to know all that Lily could tell her, and,
forgetting all about the butterwort, the two girls seated themselves
on a moss-covered log near the “red-bud” trees, and Lily began the
story she had so often heard on the Alabama plantation, of the proper
way to secure the friendly assistance of a witch.
“’Course, Missie, yo’ knows jes’ w’ot a witch is. Dey’s a kind ob
black woman, wid wings. An’ sometimes dey ain’ no bigger dan a spider,
an’ ag’in, dey’s big as a house! I knows all ’bout ’em!” declared
Lily. “I wus bro’t up ’mongst niggers w’ot had seen ’em! Yas, ’deed
dey did!” and Lily nodded her woolly head so solemnly that Berry was
convinced that her companion could tell her exactly the right manner
to win the friendship of these powerful creatures who met at midnight
beneath the blossoming Judas-tree.
“Yo’ has ter take a sight ob trubble, Missie, ter meet up wid a witch,
an’ I dunno as I orter tell yo’,” and Lily cast a troubled glance at
her young mistress.
“Of course you must tell me, Lily!” Berry insisted eagerly. “Just
telling me what people do to get a promise from a witch can’t do me
any harm. And sometime it might be a great help,” she urged.
“Dat’s so, Missie,” Lily agreed thoughtfully, and, with a cautious
look toward the flaming red-buds, as if even in daylight some careless
witch might forget herself and appear at the chosen meeting-place of
her kind, the negro girl drew a long breath and, leaning nearer to
Berry, began, in almost a whisper, to tell the proper way to gain the
favor of witches.
“Fus’ t’ing ter do, Missie, is ter chuse de right time o’ de moon. If
dar be a moon showin’ clar at midnight ’tain’ no use! De berry bes’
time am de dark ob de moon. An’ yo’ mus’ be mighty near de tree, so’s
if de witches be de small kind yo’ kin see ’em. But yo’ mus’n’ let ’em
see yo’! ’Deed yo’ mus’n’, Missie!”
Berry nodded solemnly, and leaned a little nearer to her companion.
“_An’_ yo’ mus’ fetch t’ings de witches likes. Dey is special fond ob
fine honey,” continued Lily. “Fac’ is, dey likes sweet t’ings mighty
well. Dat ole mammy I tells yo’ ’bout, who banged me ’bout so, she
uster mak’ ’er fine cake long ’bout time de witch-tree blossom, an’
put it near de trees com’ dark, and dey witches allers kerry it off
’fore mornin’; dey shu did. I kinder ’magines dat ole mammy wus a
relation to dem witches,” said Lily thoughtfully.
“And what else, Lily? What else?” demanded Berry eagerly.
“Wal, Missie, I reckon dat am ’bout all: ter put de sweet t’ings
near de tree, an’ ter hide up clost so’s dey won’ see yo’, an’ den,
w’en de hour of midnight come, an’ dar ain’ no moon ter be seen, and
eberyt’ing am all black, den w’en de witches, each one ob dem carryin’
a lille shinin’ light on der heads, w’en dey begins to gather ’roun’
de tree, den speak sof’ an’ remin’s ’em ob de t’ings yo’ set out
fer ’em, an’ ask ’em w’ot yo’ wants ter know,” replied Lily, adding
quickly, “’Course dey mek yo’ promise ter do w’otever dey wants yo’
ter promise, an’ I’se heard tell dat if yo’ don’ promise quick dey
binds yo’ up ter de tree an’ leabs yo’.”
Berry drew a long breath as Lily finished. The little girl was quite
ready to believe that this negro girl really was sure in regard to the
witches and their power.
“If I can find out about Mollie, and perhaps send her a message,
it will be splendid,” thought Berry; and then made the decision to
try and win the favor of the witches who made the Judas-tree their
meeting-place. But she said nothing to Lily of this resolve, and,
as the negro girl took up the basket and they made their way to the
borders of the stream where the butterwort was in blossom, neither
of the girls even imagined that, close to the log where they sat, a
man had been hiding behind the underbrush; a tall man, whose face was
nearly covered by a brown beard; he wore a round, close-fitting cap of
coonskin, a leather jacket, stout corduroy breeches, and high boots. A
hunter’s belt held a revolver and a hunting-knife, and if Berry could
have had even a glimpse of this skulking figure she would have at once
recognized him as the threatening stranger whom she had encountered
near this very spot nearly two months earlier.
The man chuckled to himself as he watched the girls go down the little
slope to the stream. “Berry has a nigger boy with him nowadays, eh!”
he reflected. “That witch-story may be a help later on, for that white
boy means to find out more about witches. Well, I’ll send him over the
road to Corinth at a good pace, or know why, when the time comes,”
he concluded, and slunk away in the forest. The man was a spy in the
employ of the Confederate army, and was now traveling back along
their line of defense, carrying messages from General Breckinridge,
commander of the Confederate reserves, who, only a little more than a
year earlier, had been Vice-President of the United States, to General
Beauregard, whose plan to concentrate the Confederate army of the
Mississippi at Corinth was to bring about one of the greatest battles
of the Civil War, the Battle of Shiloh.
The name of this man was Orson. He realized that the time was
close at hand when a swift-footed messenger might be of the utmost
importance, and in “Berry Nees,” he believed he had discovered such
a messenger. Orson was still sure Berry was a lad from some remote
cabin, and meant very soon to make Berry prove the boast of being a
fleet runner.