The Quintards had not prospered on the barren lands of the pine woods
whither they had emigrated to escape the malaria of the low coast, but
this no longer mattered, for the last of his name and race, old General
Quintard, was dead in the great house his father had built almost a
century before and the thin acres of the Barony, where he had made his
last stand against age and poverty, were to claim him, now that he had
given up the struggle in their midst. The two or three old slaves about
the place, stricken with a sense of the futility of the fight their
master had made, mourned for him and for themselves, but of his own
blood and class none was present.
Shy dwellers from the pine woods, lanky jeans-clad men and sunbonneted
women, who were gathering for the burial of the famous man of their
neighborhood, grouped themselves about the lawn which had long since
sunk to the uses of a pasture lot. Singly or by twos and threes they
stole up the steps and across the wide porch to the open door. On the
right of the long hall another door stood open, and who wished could
enter the drawing-room, with its splendid green and gold paper, and the
wonderful fireplace with the Dutch tiles that graphically depicted the
story of Jonah and the whale.
Here the general lay in state. The slaves had dressed their old master
in the uniform he had worn as a colonel of the continental line, but the
thin shoulders of the wasted figure no longer filled the buff and blue
coat. The high-bred face, once proud and masterful no doubt, as became
the face of a Quintard, spoke of more than age and poverty--it was
infinitely sorrowful. Yet there was something harsh and unforgiving
in the lines death had fixed there, which might have been taken as the
visible impress of that mystery, the bitterness of which had misshaped
the dead man's nature; but the resolute lips had closed for ever on
their secret, and the broken spirit had gone perhaps to learn how poor a
thing its pride had been.
Though he had lived continuously at the Barony for almost a quarter of a
century, there was none among his neighbors who could say he had looked
on that thin, aquiline face in all that time. Yet they had known much
of him, for the gossip of the slaves, who had been his only friends in
those years he had chosen to deny himself to other friends, had gone far
and wide over the county.
That notable man of business, Jonathan Crenshaw--and this superiority
was especially evident when the business chanced to be his own--was
closeted in the library with a stranger to whom rumor fixed the name of
Bladen, supposing him to be the legal representative of certain remote
connections of the old general's.
Crenshaw sat before the flat-topped mahogany desk in the center of the
room with several well-thumbed account-books open before him. Bladen, in
riding dress, stood by the window.
“I suppose you will buy in the property when it comes up for sale?” the
latter was saying.
Mr. Crenshaw had already made it plain that General Quintard's creditors
would have lean pickings at the Barony, intimating that he himself was
the chiefest of these and the one to suffer most grievously in pocket.
Further than this, Mr. Bladen saw that the old house was a ruin,
scarcely habitable, and that the thin acres, though they were many and
a royal grant, were of the slightest value. Crenshaw nodded his
acquiescence to the lawyer's conjecture touching the ultimate fate of
the Barony.
“I reckon, sir, I'll want to protect myself, but if there are any of
his own kin who have a fancy to the place I'll put no obstacle in their
way.”
“Who are the other creditors?” asked Bladen.
“There ain't none, sir; they just got tired waiting on him, and when
they began to sue and get judgment the old general would send me word
to settle with them, and their claims passed into my hands. I was in too
deep to draw out. But for the last ten years his dealings were all with
me; I furnished the supplies for the place here. It didn't amount to
much, as there was only him and the darkies, and the account ran on from
year to year.”
“He lived entirely alone, saw no one, I understand,” said Bladen.
“Alone with his two or three old slaves--yes, sir. He wouldn't even see
me; Joe, his old nigger, would fetch orders for this or that. Once or
twice I rode out to see him, but I wa'n't even allowed inside that door;
the message I got was that he couldn't be disturbed, and the last time
I come he sent me word that if I annoyed him again he would be forced
to terminate our business relations. That was pretty strong talk, wa'n't
it, when you consider that I could have sold the roof from over his
head and the land from under his feet? Oh, well, I just put it down to
childishness.” There was a brief pause, then Crenshaw spoke again.
“I reckon, sir, if you know anything about the old general's private
affairs you don't feel no call to speak on that point?” he observed,
and with evident regret. He had hoped that Bladen would clear up the
mystery, for certainly it must have been some sinister tragedy that had
cost the general his grip on life and for twenty years and more had made
of him a recluse, so that the faces of his friends had become as the
faces of strangers.
“My dear sir, I know nothing of General Quintard's private, history. I
am even unacquainted with my clients, who are distant cousins, but his
nearest kin--they live in South Carolina. I was merely instructed
to represent them in the event of his death and to look after their
interests.”
“That's business,” said Crenshaw, nodding.
“All I know is this: General Quintard was a conspicuous man in these
parts fifty years ago; that was before my time, Mr. Crenshaw, and I take
it, too, it was before yours; he married a Beaufort.”
“So he did,” said Crenshaw, “and there was one child, a daughter; she
married a South Carolinian by the name of Turberville. I remember that,
fo' they were married under the gallery in the hall. Great folks,
those Turbervilles, rolling rich. My father was manager then fo' the
general--that was nearly forty years ago. There was life here then, sir;
the place was alive with niggers and the house full of guests from one
month's end to another.” He drummed on the desktop. “Who'd a thought it
wa'n't to last for ever!”
“And what became of the daughter who married Turberville?”
“Died years ago,” said Crenshaw. “She was here the last time about
thirty years back. It wa'n't so easy to get about in those days, no
roads to speak of and no stages, and besides, the old general wa'n't
much here nohow; her going away had sort of broken up his home, I
reckon. Then the place stood empty fo' a few years, most of the slaves
were sold off, and the fields began to grow up. No one rightly knew, but
the general was supposed to be traveling up yonder in the No'th, sir.
As I say, things ran along this way quite a while, and then one morning
when I went to my store my clerk says, 'There's an old white-headed
nigger been waiting round here fo' a word with you, Mr. Crenshaw.' It
was Joe, the general's body servant, and when I'd shook hands with him I
said, 'When's the master expected back?' You see, I thought Joe had been
sent on ahead to open the house, but he says, 'General Quintard's at the
Barony now,' and then he says, 'The general's compliments, sir, and will
you see that this order is filled?' Well, Mr. Bladen, I and my father
had factored the Barony fo' fifteen years and upward, but that was the
first time the supplies fo' the general's table had ever been toted here
in a meal sack!
“I rode out that very afternoon, but Joe, who was one of your mannerly
niggers, met me at the door and says, 'Mr. Crenshaw, the general
appreciates this courtesy, but regrets that he is unable to see you,
sir.' After that it wa'n't long in getting about that the general was a
changed man. Other folks came here to welcome him back and he refused to
see them, but the reason of it we never learned. Joe, who probably knew,
was one of your close niggers; there was, no getting anything out of
him; you could talk with that darky by the hour, sir, and he left you
feeling emptier than if he'd kept his mouth shut.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Crenshaw, a trifle impatiently, and in response to his
bidding the door opened and a small boy entered the room dragging after
him a long rifle. Suddenly overcome by a speechless shyness, he paused
on the threshold to stare with round, wondering eyes at the two men.
“Well, sonny, what do you want?” asked Mr. Crenshaw indulgently.
The boy opened his mouth, but his courage failed him, and with his
courage went the words he would have spoken.
“Who is this?” asked Bladen.
“I'll tell, you presently,” said Crenshaw. “Come, speak up, sonny, what
do you want?”
“Please, sir, I want this here old spo'tin' rifle,” said: the child.
“Please, sir, I want to keep it,” he added.
“Well, you run along on out of here with your old spo'tin' rifle!” said
Crenshaw good-naturedly.
“Please, sir, am I to keep it?”
“Yes, I reckon you may keep it--least I've no objection.” Crenshaw
glanced at Bladen.
“Oh, by all means,” said the latter. Spasms of delight shook the small
figure, and with a murmur that was meant for thanks he backed from the
room, closing the door. Bladen glanced inquiringly at Crenshaw.
“You want to know about him, sir? Well, that's Hannibal Wayne Hazard.”
“Hannibal Wayne Hazard?” repeated Bladen.
“Yes, sir; the general was the authority on that point, but who Hannibal
Wayne Hazard is and how he happens to be at the Barony is another
mystery--just wait a minute, sir--” and quitting his chair Mr.
Crenshaw hurried from the room to return almost immediately with a tall
countryman. “Mr. Bladen, this is Bob Yancy. Bob, the gentleman, wants to
hear about the woman and the child; that's your story.”
“Howdy, sir,” said Mr. Yancy. He appeared to meditate on the mental
effort that was required of him, then he took a long breath. “It was
this a-ways--” he began with a soft drawl, and then paused. “You give me
the dates, Mr. John, fo' I disremember.”
“It was four year ago come next Christmas,” said Crenshaw.
“Old Christmas,” corrected Mr. Yancy. “Our folks always kept the old
Christmas like it was befo' they done mussed up the calendar. I'm agin
all changes,” added Mr. Yancy.
“He means the fo'teenth of December,” explained Mr. Crenshaw.
“Not wishin' to dispute your word, Mr. John, I mean Christmas,” objected
Yancy.
“Oh, very well, he means Christmas then!” said Crenshaw.
“The evening befo', it was, and I'd gone to Fayetteville to get my
Christmas fixin's; there was right much rain and some snow falling.” Mr.
Yancy's guiding light was clearly accuracy. “Just at sundown I hooked up
that blind mule of mine to the cart and started fo' home. As I got shut
of the town the stage come in and I seen one passenger, a woman. Now
that mule is slow, Mr. John; I'm free to say there are faster mules,
but a set of harness never went acrost the back of a slower critter
than that one of mine.” Yancy, who thus far had addressed himself to
Mr. Crenshaw, now turned to Bladen. “That mule, sir, sees good with his
right eye, but it's got a gait like it was looking fo' the left-hand
side of the road and wondering what in thunderation had got into it
that it was acrost the way; mules are gifted with some sense, but mighty
little judgment.”
“Never mind the mule, Bob,” said Crenshaw.
“If I can't make the gentleman believe in the everlasting slowness of
that mule of mine, my story ain't worth a hill of beans,” said Yancy.
“The extraordinary slowness of the mule is accepted without question,
Mr. Yancy,” said Bladen.
“I'm obliged to you,” rejoined Yancy, and for a brief moment he appeared
to commune with himself, then he continued. “A mile out of town I heard
some one sloshing through the rain after me; it was dark by that time
and I couldn't see who it was, so I pulled up and waited, and then I
made out it was a woman. She spoke when she was alongside the cart and
says, 'Can you drive me on to the Barony?' and it came to me it was the
same woman I'd seen leave the stage. When I got down to help her into
the cart I saw she was toting a child in her arms.”
“What did the woman look like, Bob?” said Crenshaw.
“She wa'n't exactly old and she wa'n't young by no manner of means;
I remember saying to myself, that child ain't yo's, whose ever it is.
Well, sir, I was willing enough to talk, but she wa'n't, she hardly
spoke until we came to the red gate, when she says, 'Stop, if you
please, I'll walk the rest of the way.' Mind you, she'd known without a
word from me we were at the Barony. She give me a dollar, and the last
I seen of her she was hurrying through the rain toting the child in her
arms.”
Mr. Crenshaw took up the narrative.
“The niggers say the old general almost had a fit when he saw her.
Aunt Alsidia let her into the house; I reckon if Joe had been alive she
wouldn't have got inside that door, spite of the night!”
“Well?” said Bladen.
“When morning come she was gone, but the child done stayed behind; we
always reckoned the lady walked back to Fayetteville sometime befo' day
and took the stage. I've heard Aunt Alsidia tell as how the old general
said that morning, pale and shaking like, 'You'll find a boy asleep
in the red room; he's to be fed and cared fo', but keep him out of my
sight. His name is Hannibal Wayne Hazard.' That is all the general ever
said on the matter. He never would see the boy, never asked after him
even, and the boy lived in the back of the house, with the niggers to
look after him. Now, sir, you know as much as we know, which is just
next door to nothing.”
The old general was borne across what had once been the west lawn to his
resting-place in the neglected acre where the dead and gone of his race
lay, and the record of the family was complete, as far as any man knew.
Crenshaw watched the grave take shape with a melancholy for which he
found no words, yet if words could have come from the mist of ideas in
which his mind groped vaguely he would have said that for themselves the
deeds of the Quintards had been given the touch of finality, and that
whether for good or for evil, the consequences, like the ripple which
rises from the surface of placid waters when a stone is dropped, still
survived somewhere in the world.
The curious and the idle drifted back to the great house; then the
memory of their own affairs, not urgent, generally speaking, but still
of some casual interest, took them down the disused carriage-way to the
red gate and so off into the heat of the summer day. Crenshaw's wagon,
driven by Crenshaw's man, vanished in a cloud of gray dust with the
two old slaves, Aunt Alsidia and Uncle Ben, who were being taken to the
Crenshaw place to be cared for pending the settlement of the Quintard
estate. Bladen parted from Crenshaw with expressions of pleasure at
having had the opportunity of making his acquaintance, and further
delivered himself of the civil wish that they might soon meet again.
Then Crenshaw, assisted by Bob Yancy, proceeded to secure the great
house against intrusion.
“I make it a p'int to always stay and see the plumb finish of a thing,”
explained Yancy. “Otherwise you're frequently put out by hearing of what
happened after you left; I can stand anything but disapp'intment of that
kind.”
They passed from room to room securing doors and windows, and at last
stepped out upon the back porch.
“Hullo!” said Yancy, pointing.
There on a bench by the kitchen door was a small figure. It was Hannibal
Wayne Hazard asleep, with his old spo'tin' rifle across his knees. His
very existence had been forgotten.
“Well, I declare to goodness!” said Crenshaw.
“What are you going to do with him, Mr. John?”
This question nettled Crenshaw.
“I don't know as that is any particular affair of mine,” he said. Now,
Mr. Crenshaw, though an excellent man of business, with an unblinking
eye on number one, was kindly, on the whole, but there was a Mrs.
Crenshaw, to whom he rendered a strict account of all his deeds, and
that sacred institution, the home, was only a tolerable haven when
these deeds were nicely calculated to fit with the lady's exactions.
Especially was he aware that Mrs. Crenshaw was averse to children as
being inimical to cleanliness and order, oppressive virtues that drove
Crenshaw himself in his hours of leisure to the woodshed, where he might
spit freely.
“I reckon you'd rather drop a word with yo' missus before you toted him
home?” suggested Yancy, who knew something of the nature of his friend's
domestic thraldom.
“A woman ought to be boss in her own house,” said Crenshaw.
“Feelin' the truth of that, I've never married, Mr. John; I do as I
please and don't have to listen to a passel of opinion. But I was going
to say, what's to hinder me from toting that boy to my home? There are
no calico petticoats hanging up in my closets.”
“And no closets to hang 'em in, I'll be bound!” rejoined Crenshaw. “But
if you'll take the boy, Bob, you shan't lose by it.”
Yancy rested a big knotted hand on the boy's shoulder.
“Come, wake up, sonny! Yo' Uncle Bob is ready fo' to strike out home,”
he said. The child roused with a start and stared into the strange
bearded face that was bent toward him. “It's yo' Uncle Bob,” continued
Yancy in a wheedling tone. “Are you the little nevvy what will help him
to hook up that old blind mule of hisn? Here, give us the spo'tin' rifle
to tote!”
“Please, sir, where is Aunt Alsidia?” asked the child.
Yancy balanced the rifle on his great palm and his eyes assumed a
speculative cast.
“I wonder what's to hinder us from loading this old gun, and firing this
old gun, and hearing this old gun go-bang! Eh?”
The child's blue eyes grew wide.
“Like the guns off in the woods?” he asked, in a breathless whisper.
“Like the guns a body hears off in the woods, only louder--heaps
louder,” said Yancy. “You fetch out his plunder, Mr. John,” he added in
a lower tone.
“Do it now, please,” the child cried, slipping off the bench.
“I was expectin' fo' to hear you name me Uncle Bob, sonny; my little
nevvies get almost anything they want out of me when they call me
that-a-ways.”
“Please, Uncle Bob, make it go bang!”
“You come along, then,” and Mr. Yancy moved off in the direction of his
mule, the child following. “Powder's what we want fo' to make this old
spo'tin' rifle talk up, and I reckon we'll find some in a horn flask
in the bottom of my cart.” His expectations in this particular were
realized, and he loaded the rifle with a small blank charge. “Now,” he
said, shaking the powder into the pan by a succession of smart taps on
the breech, “sometimes these old pieces go off and sometimes they don't;
it depends on the flint, but you stand back of your Uncle Bob, sonny,
and keep yo' fingers out of yo' ears, and when you say--bang!--off she
goes.”
There was a moment of delightful expectancy, and then--
“Bang!” cried the child, and on the instant the rifle cracked. “Do it
again! Please, Uncle Bob!” he cried, wild with delight.
“Now if you was to help yo' Uncle Bob hook up that old mule of hisn and
ride home with him, fo' he's going pretty shortly, you and Uncle Bob
could do right much shootin' with this old rifle.” Mr. Crenshaw had
appeared with a bundle, which he tossed into the cart. Yancy turned to
him. “If you meet any inquiring friends, Mr. John, I reckon you may say
that my nevvy's gone fo' to pay me a visit. Most of his time will be
agreeably spent shootin' with this rifle at a mark, and me holdin' him
so he won't get kicked clean off his feet.”
Thereafter beguiling speech flowed steadily from Mr. Yancy's bearded
lips, in the midst of which relations were established between the mule
and cart, and the boy quitted the Barony for a new world.
“Do you reckon if Uncle Bob was to let you, you could drive, sonny?”
“Can she gallop?” asked the boy.
Mr. Yancy gave him a hurt glance.
“She's too much of a lady to do that,” he said. “No, I 'low this ain't
'so fast as running or walking, but it's a heap quicker than standing
stock-still.” The afternoon sun waned as they went deeper and deeper
into the pine woods, but at last they came to their journey's end, a
widely scattered settlement on a hill above a branch.
“This,” said Mr. Yancy, “are Scratch Hill, sonny. Why Scratch Hill? Some
say it's the fleas; others agin hold it's the eternal bother of making a
living here, but whether fleas or living you scratch fo' both.”