RED WING.
Situated on the sandy, undulating chain of low, wooded hills
which separated the waters of two tributaries of the Roanoke, at
the point where the "big road" from the West crossed the country
road which ran northward along the crest of the ridge, as if in
search of dry footing between the rich valleys on either hand, was
the place known as Red Wing. The "big road" had been a thoroughfare
from the West in the old days before steam diverted the ways of
traffic from the trails which the wild beasts had pursued. It led
through the mountain gaps, by devious ways but by easy grades,
along the banks of the water-courses and across the shallowest
fords down to the rich lowlands of the East. It was said that the
buffalo, in forgotten ages, had marked out this way to the ever-verdant
reed-pastures of the then unwooded East; that afterward the Indians
had followed his lead, and, as the season served, had fished upon
the waters of Currituck or hunted amid the romantic ruggedness
of the Blue Appalachians. It was known that the earlier settlers
along the Smoky Range and on the Piedmont foot-hills had used this
thoroughfare to take the stock and produce of their farms down to
the great plantations of the East, where cotton was king, and to
the turpentine orchards of the South Atlantic shore line.
At the crossing of these roads was situated a single house, which
had been known for generations, far and near, as the Red Wing
Ordinary. In the old colonial days it had no doubt been a house
of entertainment for man and beast. Tradition, very well based and
universally accepted, declared that along these roads had marched
and countermarched the hostile forces of the Revolutionary period.
Greene and Cornwallis had dragged their weary columns over the
tenacious clay of this region, past the very door of the low-eaved
house, built up of heavy logs at first and covered afterward with
fat-pine siding, which had itself grown brown and dark with age.
It was said that the British regulars had stacked their arms around
the trunk of the monster white-oak that stretched its great arms
out over the low dark house, which seemed to be creeping nearer
and nearer to its mighty trunk for protection, until of late years
the spreading branches had dropped their store of glossy acorns and
embossed cups even on the farther slope of its mossy roof, a good
twenty yards away from the scarred and rugged bole. "Two decks
and a passage"--two moderate-sized rooms with a wide open pass-way
between, and a low dark porch running along the front--constituted
all that was left of a once well-known place of public refreshment.
At each end a stone chimney, yellowish gray and of a massiveness
now wonderful to behold, rose above the gable like a shattered tower
above the salient of some old fortress. The windows still retained
the little square panes and curious glazing of a century ago. Below
it, fifty yards away to the eastward, a bold spring burst out of
the granite rock, spread deep and still and cool over its white
sandy bottom, in the stone-walled inclosure where it was confined
(over half of which stood the ample milk-house), and then gurgling
along the stony outlet ran away over the ripple-marked sands of
its worn channel, to join the waters of the creek a mile away.
It was said that in the olden time there had been sheds and out-buildings,
and perhaps some tributary houses for the use of lodgers, all of
which belonged to and constituted a part of the Ordinary. Two things
had deprived it of its former glory. The mart-way had changed even
before the iron horse charged across the old routes, scorning their
pretty curves and dashing in an almost direct line from mountain
to sea. Increasing population had opened new routes, which diverted
the traffic and were preferred to the old way by travelers. Besides
this, there had been a feud between the owner of the Ordinary and
the rich proprietor whose outspread acres encircled on every side
the few thin roods which were attached to the hostel, and when the
owner thereof died and the property, in the course of administration,
was put upon the market, the rich neighbor bought it, despoiled
it of all its accessories, and left only the one building of two
rooms below and two above, a kitchen and a log stable, with crib
attached, upon the site of the Ordinary which had vexed him so
long. The others were all cleared away, and even the little opening
around the Ordinary was turned out to grow up in pines and black-jacks,
all but an acre or two of garden-plot behind the house. The sign
was removed, and the overseer of Colonel Walter Greer, the new
owner, was installed in the house, which thenceforth lost entirely
its character as an inn.
In the old days, before the use of artificial heat in the curing
of tobacco, the heavy, coarse fibre which grew upon rich, loamy
bottom lands or on dark clayey hillsides was chiefly prized by the
grower and purchaser of that staple. The light sandy uplands, thin
and gray, bearing only stunted pines or a light growth of chestnut
and clustering chinquapins, interspersed with sour-wood, while
here and there a dogwood or a white-coated, white-hearted hickory
grew, stubborn and lone, were not at all valued as tobacco lands.
The light silky variety of that staple was entirely unknown, and
even after its discovery was for a longtime unprized, and its habitat
and peculiar characteristics little understood. It is only since
the war of Rebellion that its excellence has been fully appreciated
and its superiority established. The timber on this land was of no
value except as wood and for house-logs. Of the standard timber
tree of the region, the oak, there was barely enough to fence it,
should that ever be thought desirable. Corn, the great staple of
the region next to tobacco, could hardly be "hired" to grow upon
the "droughty" soil of the ridge, and its yield of the smaller
grains, though much better, was not sufficient to tempt the owner
of the rich lands adjacent to undertake its cultivation. This land
itself, he thought, was only good "to hold the world together" or
make a "wet-weather road" between the rich tracts on either hand.
Indeed, it was a common saying in that region that it was "too poor
even to raise a disturbance upon."
To the westward of the road running north and south there had once
been an open field of some thirty or forty acres, where the wagoners
were wont to camp and the drovers to picket their stock in the
halcyon days of the old hostelry. It had been the muster-ground
of the militia too, and there were men yet alive, at the time of
which we write, whose fathers had mustered with the county forces
on that ground. When it was "turned out," however, and the Ordinary
ceased to be a place of entertainment, the pines shot up, almost
as thick as grass-blades in a meadow, over its whole expanse. It
is strange how they came there. Only black-jacks and the lighter
decidua which cover such sandy ridges had grown there before, but
after these were cleared away by the hand of man and the plow for
a few years had tickled the thin soil, when nature again resumed
her sway, she sent a countless army of evergreens, of mysterious
origin, to take and hold this desecrated portion of her domain. They
sprang up between the corn-rows before the stalks had disappeared
from sight; they shot through the charred embers of the deserted
camp-fire; everywhere, under the shade of each deciduous bush,
protected by the shadow of the rank weeds which sprang up where
the stock had fed, the young pines grew, and protected others, and
shot slimly up, until their dense growth shut out the sunlight and
choked the lately protecting shrubbery. Then they grew larger, and
the weaker ones were overtopped by the stronger and shut out from
the sunlight and starved to death, and their mouldering fragments
mingled with the carpet of cones and needles which became thicker
and thicker under their shade, until at the beginning of the war a
solid, dark mass of pines fit for house-logs, and many even larger,
stood upon the old muster-field, and constituted the chief value
of the tract of two hundred acres which lay along the west side
of the plantation of which it formed a part. It was this tract
that Nimbus selected as the most advantageous location for himself
and his friend which he could find in that region. He rightly
judged that the general estimate of its poverty would incline the
owner to part with a considerable tract at a very moderate price,
especially if he were in need of ready money, as Colonel Desmit
was then reputed to be, on account of the losses he had sustained
by the results of the war. His own idea of its value differed
materially from this, and he was thoroughly convinced that, in the
near future, it would be justified. He was cautious about stating
the grounds of this belief even to Eliab, having the natural fear
of one unaccustomed to business that some other person would get
wind of his idea and step into his Bethesda while he, himself,
waited for the troubling of the waters.
He felt himself quite incompetent to conduct the purchase, even
with Eliab's assistance, and in casting about for some white man
whom they could trust to act as their agent, they could think of
no one but Hesden Le Moyne. It was agreed, therefore, that Eliab
should broach the matter to him, but he was expressly cautioned
by Nimbus to give him no hint of the particular reasons which led
them to prefer this particular tract or of their means of payment,
until he had thoroughly sounded him in regard to the plan itself.
This Eliab did, and that gentleman, while approving the plan of
buying a plantation, if they were able, utterly condemned the idea
of purchasing a tract so notoriously worthless, and refused to have
anything to do with so wild a scheme. Eliab, greatly discouraged,
reported this fact to his friend and urged the abandonment of the
plan. Nimbus, however, was stubborn and declared that "if Marse
Hesden would not act for him he would go to Louisburg and buy it
of Marse Desmit himself."
"Dar ain't no use o' talkin', 'Liab," said he. "You an' Marse
Hesden knows a heap more'n I does 'bout most things; dar ain't no
doubt 'bout dat 'an nobody knows it better'n I does. But what Nimbus
knows, he _knows_, an' dat's de eend on't. Nobody don't know
it any better. Now, I don't know nuffin' 'bout books an' de scripter
an' sech-like, only what I gits second-hand--no more'n you does
'bout sojerin', fer instance. But I tell ye what, 'Liab, I does
know 'bout terbacker, an' I knows _all_ about it, too. I kin
jes' gib you an' Marse Hesden, an' aheap mo' jes like you uns,
odds on dat, an' beat ye all holler ebbery time. What I don't know
'bout dat ar' crap dar ain't no sort ob use a tryin' to tell me.
I got what I knows de reg'lar ole-fashioned way, like small-pox,
jes by 'sposure, an' I tell yer 'Liab, hit beats any sort ob
'noculation all ter rags. Now, I tell _you_, 'Liab Hill, dat
ar' trac' ob lan' 'bout dat ole Or'nery is jes' de berry place we
wants, an' I'm boun' ter hev it, ef it takes a leg. Now you heah
dat, don't yer?"
Eliab saw that it was useless for him to combat this determination.
He knew the ruggedness of his friend's character and had long ago
learned, that he could only be turned from a course, once fixed
upon in his own mind, by presenting some view of the matter which
had not occurred to him before. He had great confidence in Mr.
Le Moyne's judgment--almost as much as in Nimbus', despite his
admiration for his herculean comrade--so he induced his friend to
promise that nothing more should be done about the matter until he
could have an opportunity to examine the premises, with which he
was not as familiar as he would like to be, before it was altogether
decided. To this Nimbus readily consented, and soon afterwards
he borrowed a wagon and took Eliab, one pleasant day in the early
fall, to spy out their new Canaan. When they had driven around
and seen as much of it as they could well examine from the vehicle,
Nimbus drove to a point on the east-and-west road just opposite
the western part of the pine growth, where a sandy hill sloped
gradually to the northward and a little spring burst out of it and
trickled across the road.
"Dar," he said, waving his hand toward the slope; "dar is whar
I wants my house, right 'longside ob dat ar spring, wid a good
terbacker barn up on de hill dar."
"Why, what do yer want ter lib dar fer?" asked the other in
surprise, as he peered over the side of the wagon, in which he sat
upon a thick bed of fodder which Nimbus had spread over the bottom
for his comfort.
"Kase dat ar side-hill am twenty-five acres ob de best terbacker
groun' in Ho'sford County."
"Yer don't say so, Nimbus?"
"Dat's jes what I do say, 'Liab, an' dat's de main reason what's
made me so stubborn 'bout buyin' dis berry track of lan'. Pears ter
me it's jes made fer us. It's all good terbacker lan', most on't
de berry best. It's easy clar'd off an' easy wukked. De 'backer
growed on dis yer lan' an' cured wid coal made outen dem ar pines
will be jes es yaller ez gold an' as fine ez silk, 'Liab. I knows;
I'se been a watchin' right smart, an' long ago, when I used ter
pass by here, when dey fust begun ter vally de yaller terbacker, I
used ter wonder dat some pore white man like Marse War', dat knowed
how ter raise an' cure terbacker, didn't buy de ole place an' wuk
for demselves, 'stead ob overseein' fer somebody else. It's quar
dey nebber t'ought on't. It allers seemed ter me dat I wouldn't ax
fer nothin' better."
"But what yer gwine ter do wid de ole house?" asked Eliab.
"Wal, Bre'er Liab," said Nimbus with a queer grimace, "I kinder
'llowed dat I'd ler you hab dat ar ter do wid jes 'bout ez yer
like."
"Oh, Bre'er Nimbus, yer don't mean dat now?"
"Don't I? wal, you jes see ef I don't. I'se gwine ter lib right
h'yer, an' ef yer don't occupy dat ole Red Wing Or'nery I'm durned
ef it don't rot down. Yer heah dat man? Dar don't nobody else lib
in it, shuah."
Eliab was very thoughtful and silent, listening to Nimbus' comments
and plans until finally, as they sat on the porch of the old house
eating their "snack," he said,
"Nimbus, dar's a heap ob cullud folks libbin' jes one way an'
anudder from dis yer Red Wing cross-roads."
"Co'se dey is, an' dat's de berry reason I'se sot my heart on yer
habbin' a shop right h'yer. Yer shore ter git de wuk ob de whole
country roun', an' der's mo' cullud folks right up an' down de
creek an' de ribber h'yer dan ennywhar hereabouts dat I knows on."
"But, Nimbus--" said he, hesitatingly.
"Yis, 'Liab, I hears ye."
"Couldn't we hab a church here?"
"Now yer's _talkin'_," exclaimed Nimbus. "Swar ter God, it's
quare I nebber tink ob dat, now. An' you de minister? Now yer
_is_ talkin', shuah! Why de debble I nebber tink ob dat afo'?
Yer see dem big pines dar, straight ez a arrer an' nigh 'bout
de same size from top ter bottom? What yer s'pose dem fer, 'Liab?
Dunno? I should tink not. House logs fer de church, 'Liab. Make
it jes ez big ez yer wants. Dar 'tis. Only gib me some few shingles
an' a flo', an' dar yer hev jes ez good a church ez de 'postles
ebber hed ter preach in."
"An' de school, Nimbus?" timidly.
"Shuah 'nough. Why I nebber tink ob dat afo'? An' you de teacher!
Now you is talkin', 'Liab, _certain_ shuah! Dat's jes de
ting, jes what we wants an' hez got ter hev. Plenty o' scholars
h'yer-abouts, an' de church fer a school-house an' Bre'er 'Liab
fer de teacher! 'Clar fer it, Bre'er'Liab, you hez got ahead-piece,
dat's a fac'. Now I nebber tink of all dat togedder. Mout hev
come bimeby, little to a time, but not all to wonst like, as 'tis
wid you. Lord, how plain I sees it all now! De church an' school-house
up dar on de knoll; Nimbus' house jes about a hundred yards furder
on, 'cross de road; an' on de side ob de hill de 'backer-barn; you
a teachin' an' a preachin' an' Nimbus makin' terbacker, an' Gena
a-takin' comfort on de porch, an' de young uns gittin' larnin'!
Wh-o-o-p! Bre'er 'Liab, yer's a great man, shuah!"
Nimbus caught him in his strong arms and whirled him about in a
frenzy of joy. When he sat him down Eliab said quietly:
"We must get somebody else to teach for a while. 'Liab don't know
'nough ter do dat ar. I'll go to school wid de chillen an' learn
'nough ter do it bimeby. P'raps dis what dey call de 'Bureau' mout
start a school here ef you should ax 'em, Nimbus. Yer know dey'd
be mighty willin' ter 'blige a soldier, who'd been a fightin' fer
'em, ez you hev."
"I don't a know about dat ar, Bre'er'Liab, but leastaways we can't
do no more'n make de trial, anyhow."
After this visit, Eliab withdrew all opposition, not without doubt,
but hoping for the best, and trusting, prayerfully, that his friend's
sanguine expectations might be justified by the result. So it was
determined that Nimbus should make the purchase, if possible, and
that the old Ordinary, which had been abandoned as a hostel on
the highway to the Eastern market, be made a New Inn upon the road
which the Freedman must now take, and which should lead to liberty
and light.