Phil had finally reached the boys' room after the dance, his head in a
whirl of excitement. Sleep was the last thing he wished. His imagination
was on fire. He had heard of Southern hospitality. He had never dreamed
of such waste of good things, such joy in living, such genuine pleasure
in the meeting of friends and kinfolks. Custis had insisted on every boy
staying all night. A lot of them had stayed. The wide rooms bulged with
them. There were cots and pallets everywhere. He had seen the housemaids
and the menservants carrying them in after the dance. Their own room
contained four beds and as many pallets, and they were all full.
He tried to sleep and couldn't. He dozed an hour, waked at dawn and
began day-dreaming. There was no sense of weariness. His mind was too
alert. The great house, in which he was made to feel as much at home
as in the quiet cottage of his mother in Ohio, fascinated him with its
endless menservants, housemaids, serving boys, cooks, coachmen and
hostlers.
He thought of the contrast with the quiet efficiency and simplicity of
his mother's house. He could see her seated at the little table in the
center of the room, a snow-white cap on her head. The work of the house
had been done without a servant. It had been done so simply and quietly,
he had never been conscious of the fact that it was work at all. It had
seemed a ministry of love for her children. Their help had been given
with equal joy, unconscious of toil, her kitchen floor was always
spotless, with every pot and pan and shining dish in its place as if by
magic.
He wondered how Custis' mother could bear the strain of all these
people. He wondered how she could manage the army of black servants who
hung on her word as the deliverance of an oracle. He could hear the hum
of the life of the place already awake with the rising sun. Down in the
ravine behind the house he caught the ring of a hammer on an anvil and
closer in the sweep of a carpenter's plane over a board. A colt was
calling to his mother at the stables and he could hear the chatter and
cries of the stable boys busy with the morning feed.
He rose, stepped gingerly beside the sleepers on the floor and stood by
an open window. His mind was stirring with a curious desire to see the
ghost that haunted this house, its spacious grounds and fields. He,
too, had read _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, and wondered. The ghost must be here
hiding in some dark corner of cabin or field--the ghost of deathless
longing for freedom--the ghost of cruelty--the ghost of the bloodhound,
the lash and the auction block.
Somehow he couldn't realize that such things could be, now that he was
a guest in a Southern home and saw the bright side of their life. Never
had he seen anything brighter than the smiles of those negro musicians
as they proudly touched their instruments: the violin, the banjo, the
flute, the triangle and castanets, and watched the dancers swing through
each number. There could be no mistake about the ring of joy in Sam's
voice. It throbbed with unction. It pulsed with pride. Its joy was
contagious. He caught himself glancing at his rolling eyes and swaying
body. Once he muttered aloud:
"Just look at that fool nigger!"
But somewhere in this paradise of flowers and song birds, of music and
dance, of rustling silk, of youth and beauty, the Ghost of Slavery
crouched.
In a quiet way he would watch for it to walk. He had to summon all his
pride of Section and training in the catch words of the North to keep
from falling under the charm of the beautiful life he felt enfolding
him.
He no longer wondered why every Northern man who moved South forgot
the philosophy of the Snows and became a child of the Sun. He felt the
subtle charm of it stealing into his heart and threw off the spell with
an effort.
A sparrow chirped under the window. A redbird flashed from a rosebush
and a mocking bird from a huge magnolia began to softly sing his morning
love song to his mate.
He heard a yawn, turned and saw Custis rubbing his eyes.
"For heaven's sake, Phil, why don't you sleep?"
"Tried and can't."
"Don't like your bed?"
"Too much excited."
"One of those girls hooked you?"
"No. I couldn't make up my mind. So many beauties they rattled me."
"All right," Custis said briskly. "Let's get up and look around the old
plantation."
"Good," Phil cried.
Custis called Jeb Stuart in vain. He refused to answer or to budge.
Phil found his shoes at the door neatly blacked and the moment he began
to stir a grinning black boy was at his heels to take his slightest
order.
"I don't want _any_thing!" he said at last to his dusky tormentor.
"Nuttin tall, sah?"
"Nuttin tall!"
Phil smiled at the eager, rolling eyes.
"Get out--you make me laugh--"
The boy ducked.
"Yassah--des call me if ye wants me--I'se right outside de do'."
The two cadets ate breakfast alone. The house was yet asleep--except the
children. Their voices could be heard on the lawn at play. They had been
put to bed early, at eleven o'clock. They were up with the birds
as usual. The sun was an hour high, shining the glory of a perfect
September morning. The boys strolled on the lawn. The children were
everywhere, playing in groups. Little black and white boys mixed
indiscriminately. Robbie Lee was playing rooster fight with Sid, his
boon companion. The little black boy born nearest his birthday was
dedicated to be his friend, companion and body servant for life.
Phil paused to see the rooster fight.
The boys folded their arms and flew at each other sideways, using their
elbows as a rooster uses his spurs.
Robbie was pressing Sid against the fence of the rose garden. Sid's
return blows lacked strength.
Robbie stamped his foot angrily.
"Come on now--no foolin'--fight! There's no fun in a fight, if you don't
fight!"
Sid bucked up and flew at his enemy.
Robbie saw the two older boys watching and gave a star performance. As
Sid lunged at him with uplifted arms, and drew back to strike a stunning
blow, Robbie suddenly stooped, hurled his elbow under Sid's arm, lifted
him clear of the ground and he fell sprawling.
Robbie stood in triumph over the prostrate figure.
Phil laughed.
"You got him that time, Robbie!"
Robbie squared himself, raised his spurs and waited for Sid to rise.
Sid was in no hurry. He had enough. He hadn't cried. But he was close to
it.
"Ye needn't put up dem spurs at me no mo'."
"Come on again!" Robbie challenged.
"Na, sah. I'se done dead. Ye stick dat spur clean froo me. Hit mighty
nigh come out on de odder side!"
"Got enough?"
The game was suddenly ended by a barefoot white boy approaching Robbie.
Johnny Doyle carried a dozen teal ducks, six in each hand. They were so
heavy for his hands that their heads dragged the ground.
Robbie rushed to meet his friend.
"Oh, John, where'd you get the ducks?"
"Me and daddy killed 'em this mornin' at sun-up on the river."
"Why, the duck season isn't on yet, is it?" Custis asked the boy.
"No, sir, but daddy saw a big raft of teal swingin' into the bend of the
river yesterday and we got up before daylight and got a mess."
"You brought 'em to me, John?" Robbie asked eagerly.
"Jes the same, Robbie. Dad sent 'em to Colonel Lee."
"That's fine of your daddy, John," Custis said, placing his hand on the
little bare sunburnt head.
"Yessir, my daddy says Colonel Lee's the greatest man in this county and
he's mighty proud to be his neighbor."
"Tell him my father will thank him personally before we leave and say
for all that he has given us a treat."
Custis handed the ducks to Sid.
"Take them to the kitchen and tell Aunt Hannah to have them for dinner,
sure."
Sid started for the kitchen and Robbie called after him:
"Hurry back, Sid--"
"Yassah--right away, sah!"
Robbie seized John's hand.
"You'll stay all day?"
"I can't."
"We're goin' fishin'--"
"Honest?"
"Sure. Uncle Ben's sick. But after dinner he's promised to take us. He's
not too sick to fish."
"I can't stay," the barefoot boy sighed.
"Come on. There's three bird's nests in the orchard. The second layin'.
It ain't no harm to break up the second nest. Birds've no business
layin' twice in one season. We _ought_ to break 'em up."
"I'm afraid I can't."
His tone grew weaker and Robbie pressed him.
"Come on. We'll get the bird's eggs and chase the calves and colts till
the dinner bell rings, ride the horses home from the fields, and go
fishin' after dinner and stay till dark."
"No--"
"Come on!"
John glanced up the road toward the big gate beyond which his mother was
waiting his return. The temptation was more than his boy's soul could
resist. He shook his head--paused--and grinned.
"Come on, Sid, John's goin' with us," Robbie called to his young
henchman as he approached.
"All right," John consented, finally throwing every scruple to the
winds. "Ma'll whip me shore, but, by granny, it'll be worth it!"
The aristocrat slipped his arm around his chum and led him to the
orchard in triumph.
Custis laughed.
"He'd rather play with that little, poor white rascal than any boy in
the country."
"Don't blame him," Phil replied. "He may be dirty and ragged but he's a
real boy after a real boy's heart. And the handsomest little beggar I
ever saw--who is he?"
"The boy of a poor white family, the Doyles. They live just outside our
gate on a ten-acre farm. His mother's trying to make him go to school.
His father laughs and lets him go hunting and fishing."
They were strolling past the first neat row of houses in the servants'
quarters. Phil thought of them as the slave quarters. Yet he had not
heard the word slave spoken since his arrival. These black people were
"servants" and some of them were the friends and confidants of their
master and his household. Phil paused in front of a cottage. The yard
flamed with autumn flowers. Through the open door and windows came the
hum of spinning wheels and the low, sweet singing of the dark spinners,
spinning wool for the winter clothing of the estate. From the next door
came the click and crash of the looms weaving the warm cloth.
"You make your own cloth?" the Westerner asked in surprise.
"Of course, for the servants. It takes six spinners and three weavers
working steadily all year to keep up with it, too."
"Isn't it expensive?"
"Maybe. We never thought of it. We just make it. Always have in our
family for a hundred years."
They passed the blacksmith's shop and saw him shoeing a blooded colt.
Phil touched the horse's nostrils with a gentle hand and the colt nudged
him.
"It's funny how a horse knows a horseman instinctively--isn't it, Phil?"
"Yes. He knows I'm going to join the cavalry."
They moved down the long row of whitewashed cottages, each with its yard
of flowers and each with a huge pile of wood in the rear--wood enough
to keep a sparkling fire through the winter. Chubby-faced babies were
playing in the sanded walks and smiling young mothers watched them from
the doors.
Phil started to put a question, stammered and was silent.
"What is it?" Custis asked.
"You'll pardon my asking it, old boy, but are these black folks
married?"
The Southern boy laughed heartily.
"I should say so. A negro wedding is one of the joys of a plantation
boy's life."
"But isn't it awful when they're separated?"
"They're not separated."
"Never?"
"Not on this plantation. Nor on any estate whose master and mistress are
our friends. It's not done in our set."
"You keep them when they're old, lazy and worthless?"
"If they're married, yes. It's a luxury we never deny ourselves, this
softening of the rigor of the slave regime. It's not business. But
it's the custom of the country. To separate a husband and wife is an
unheard-of thing among our people."
The thing that impressed the Westerner in those white rows of little
homes was the order and quiet of it all. Every yard was swept clean.
There was nowhere a trace of filth or disease-breeding refuse. And birds
were singing in the bushes beside these slave cottages as sweetly as
they sang for the master and mistress in the pillared mansion on the
hill. They passed the stables and paused to watch a dozen colts playing
in the inclosure. Beyond the stable under the shadows of great oaks
was the dog kennel. A pack of fox hounds rushed to the gate with loud
welcome to their young master. He stooped to stroke each head and call
each dog's name. A wagging tail responded briskly to every greeting. In
another division of the kennel romped a dozen bird-dogs, pointers and
setters. The puppies were nearly grown and eager for the fields. They
climbed over Custis in yelping puppy joy that refused all rebuffs.
Phil looked in vain for the bloodhounds. He was afraid to ask about them
lest he offend his host. Custis had never seen a bloodhound and could
not guess the question back of his schoolmate's silence.
Sam entered the inclosure with breakfast for the dogs.
Phil couldn't keep his eyes off the sunlit, ebony face. His smile was
contagious. His voice was music.
The Westerner couldn't resist the temptation to draw him out.
"You were certainly dressed up last night, Sam!"
"Yer lak dat suit I had on, sah?"
"It was a great combination."
"Yassah, dat's me, sah," the negro laughed. "I'se a great
combination--yassah!"
He paused and threw his head back as if to recall the words. Then in a
voice rich and vibrant with care-free joy he burst into song:
"Yassah!"
"When I goes out ter promenade
I dress so fine and gay
I'm bleeged to take my dog along
Ter keep de gals away."
Again his laughter rang in peals of sonorous fun. They joined in his
laugh.
A stable boy climbed the fence and called:
"Don't ye want yer hosses, Marse Custis?" He was jealous of Sam's
popularity.
Custis glanced at Phil.
"Sure. Let's ride."
"All right, Ned--saddle them."
The boy leaped to the ground and in five minutes led two horses to the
gate. As they galloped past the house for the long stretch of white
roadway that led across the river to the city, Phil smiled as he saw Jeb
Stuart emerge from the rose garden with Mary Lee. Custis ignored the
unimportant incident.