After dinner, Jeb Stuart succeeded in separating Mary from Phil and
began again his adoration. The men adjourned to the library to discuss
the Presidential Campaign and weigh the chances of General Scott against
Franklin Pierce. The comment of Toombs was grim in its sarcasm and early
let him out of the discussion.
"It doesn't matter in the least, gentlemen, who is elected in November,"
he observed. "There's nothing before the country as yet. Not even an
honest-to-God man."
Lee shook his head gravely.
Toombs parried his protest.
"I know, Colonel Lee, you're fond of the old General. You fought with
him in Mexico. But--" he dropped his voice to a friendly whisper--"all
the same, you know that what I say is true."
He took a cigar from the mantel, lighted it and waved to the group.
"I'll take a little stroll and smoke."
Custis took Phil to the cottage of the foreman to see a night school in
session.
"You mean the overseer's place?" Phil asked eagerly, as visions of Simon
Legree flashed through his mind.
"No--I mean Uncle Ike's cottage. He's the foreman of the farm. We have
no white overseer."
Phil was shocked. He had supposed every Southern plantation had a white
overseer as slave driver with a blacksnake whip in his hand. A negro
foreman was incredible. As a matter of fact there were more negro
foremen than white overseers in the South.
In Uncle Ike's cottage by the light of many candles the school for boys
was in session. Custis' brother "Rooney," was the teacher. He had six
pupils besides Sam. Not one of them knew his lesson to-night and Rooney
was furious.
As Phil and Custis entered, he was just finishing a wrathful lecture.
His pupils were standing in a row grinning their apologies.
"I've told you boys for the last three weeks that I won't stand this.
You don't have to go to school to me if you don't want to. But if you
join my school you've got to study. Do you hear me?"
"Yassah!" came the answer in solid chorus.
"Well, you'll do more than hear me to-night. You're going to heed what I
say. I'm going to thrash the whole school."
Sam broke into a loud laugh. And a wail of woe came from every dusky
figure.
"Dar now!"
"Hear dat, folks--?"
"I been a tellin' ye chillun--"
"I lubs my spellin' book--but, oh, dat hickory switch!"
"Oh, Lordy--"
"Gib us anudder chance, Marse Rooney!"
"Not another chance," was the stern answer. "Lay off your coats."
They began to peel their coats. Big, strapping, husky fellows nudging
one another and grinning at their fourteen-year-old schoolmaster. It was
no use to protest.
They knew they deserved it. A whipping was one of the minor misfortunes
of life. Its application was universal. No other method of discipline
had yet been dreamed by the advanced thinkers and rulers of the world.
"Spare the rod and spoil the child" was accepted as the Word of God and
only a fool could doubt it. The rod was the emblem of authority for
child, pupil, apprentice and soldier. The negro slave as a workman got
less of it than any other class. It was the rule of a Southern master
never to use the rod on a slave except for crime if it could be avoided.
To flog one for laziness was the exception, not the rule.
The old Virginia gentleman prided himself particularly on the tenderness
and care with which he guarded the life of his servants. If the weather
was cold and his men exposed, he waited to see that they had dry clothes
and a warm drink before they went to bed. He never failed to remember
that his white skin could endure more than their sunburned dark ones.
The young school-teacher had no scruples on applying the rod. He
selected his switches with care, and tested their strength and
flexibility while he gave the bunch a piece of his mind.
"What do you think I'm coming down here every night for, anyhow?" he
stormed.
"Lordy, Marse Rooney," Sam pleaded, "doan we all pay you fur our
schoolin'?"
"Yes, you do when I can manage to choke it out of you. One dozen eggs a
month or one pullet every two months. And I don't even ask you where you
got the eggs or the pullet."
"Marse Rooney!" protested Sam. "Yer know we gets 'em outen our own yards
er buys 'em from de servants."
"I hope you do. Though my mother says she don't know how we eat so many
chickens and eggs at the house. Anyhow I'm not here because I'm going to
get rich on the tuition you pay me. I'm not here for my health. I'm here
from a sense of duty to you boys--"
"Yassah, we know dat, sah!"
"Give us annuder chance an' we sho' study dem lessons--"
"I gave you another chance the last time. I'll try a little hickory tea
this time."
He began at the end of the line and belabored each one faithfully. They
shouted in mockery and roared with laughter, scampered over the room and
dodged behind chairs and tables.
Phil fairly split his sides laughing.
When the fun was over, they drew close to their teacher and promised
faithfully to have every word of the next lesson. They nudged each other
and whispered their jokes about the beating.
"Must er bin er flea bitin' me!"
"I felt sumfin. Don't 'zactly know what it wuz. Mebbe a chigger!"
"Must er been a flea. Hit bit me, too!"
Sam tried to redeem himself for failing on his lessons in arithmetic.
He had long ago learned to read and write and had asked for a course in
history. The young teacher had given him a copy of _Gulliver's Travels_.
"Look a here, Marse Rooney, I been a readin' dat book yer gimme--"
"Well, that's good."
"Yer say dat book's history?"
"Well, it's what we call fiction, but I think fiction's the very best
history we can read. It may not have happened just that way but it's
true all the same."
"Well, ef hit nebber happened, I dunno 'bout dat," Sam objected. "I been
suspicionin' fer a long time dat some o' dem things that Gulliver say
nebber happen nohow."
"You read it," the teacher ordered.
"Yassah, I sho gwine ter read it, happen er no happen. Glory be ter God.
Just 'cause yer tells me, sah!"