which, taken by itself, was sufficient evidence that the lad had
grown fond of Mr. Hudspeth. Little Crotchet was very cunning about
it, too. He invited the Teacher to come to his room after tea, and
when Mr. Hudspeth came the lad, lying upon his bed, put the question
plumply:--
"Do you want to see my runaway?"
"Your runaway? I don't understand you."
"Don't you know what a runaway is? Why, of course you do. A runaway
negro."
"Ah! a fugitive slave. Yes; I have seen a few."
"But you've never seen my runaway at all. He isn't a negro. He's an
Arab. I'll let you see him if you promise never to tell. It's a great
secret. I'm so small, and--and so crippled, you know, nobody would
ever think I had a runaway?"
"Never fear me. Do you keep him in a box and permit only your best
friends to peep at him occasionally?"
"Oh, no," said Little Crotchet, laughing at the idea. "He's a
sure-enough runaway. He's been advertised in the newspapers. And they
had the funniest picture of him you ever saw. They made him look
like all the rest of the runaways that have their pictures in the
Milledgeville papers,--a little bit of a man, bare-headed and stooped
over, carrying a cane on his shoulder with a bundle hanging on the
end of it. Sister cut it out for me. I'll show it to you to-morrow."
Mr. Hudspeth was very much interested in the runaway, and said he
would be glad to see him.
"Well, you must do as I tell you. If I could jump up and jump about I
wouldn't ask you, you know. Take the candle in your hand, go out on
the stair landing, close the door after you, and stand there until
you hear me call."
Mr. Hudspeth couldn't understand what all this meant, but he
concluded to humor the joke. So he did as he was bid. He carried the
candle from the room, closed the door, and stood on the landing until
he heard Little Crotchet calling. When he re├źntered the room he held
the candle above his head and looked about him. He evidently expected
to see the runaway.
"This is equal to joining a secret society," he said. "Where is your
runaway? Has he escaped?"
"I just wanted to make the window dark a moment and then bright
again. That is my signal. If he sees it, he'll come. Don't you think
it's cunning?"
"I shall certainly think so if the runaway comes," replied Mr.
Hudspeth somewhat doubtfully.
"He has never failed yet," said Little Crotchet. "If he fails now, it
will be because Jim Simmons's hounds have caught him, or else he is
too tired to come out on the hill and watch for the signal."
"Were the bloodhounds after him?" inquired Mr. Hudspeth, with a frown.
"Bloodhounds!" exclaimed Little Crotchet. "I never saw a bloodhound,
and I never heard of one around here. If my runaway is caught, the
dog that did it could be put in the pocket of that big overcoat you
had strapped on your trunk."
The lad paused and held up his finger. His ear had caught the sound
of Aaron's feet on the shingles. There was a faint grating sound, as
the window sash was softly raised and lowered, and then the Son of
Ben Ali stepped from behind the curtain. He stood still as a statue
when his eye fell on the stranger, and his attitude was one of simple
dignity when he turned to the Little Master. He saw the lad laughing
and he smiled in sympathy.
"He's one of us," said Little Crotchet, "and I wanted him to see you.
He's my teacher. Mr. Hudspeth, this is Aaron."
Mr. Hudspeth grasped Aaron's hand and shook it warmly, and they
talked for some time, the Son of Ben Ali sitting on the side of
Little Crotchet's bed, holding the lad's hand in one of his. Aaron
told of his day's experiences, and his description of the affair in
the Swamp was so vivid and realistic that Mr. Hudspeth exclaimed:--
"If that were put in print, the world would declare it to be pure
fiction."
"Fiction," said Little Crotchet to Aaron, with an air of great
solemnity, "fiction is a story put in a book. A story is sometimes
called a fib, but when it is printed it is called fiction."
Mr. Hudspeth laughed and so did Aaron, but Aaron's laugh had a good
deal of pride in it.
"He's crippled here," remarked Aaron, touching Little Crotchet's
legs, "but not here,"--touching the boy's head.
"But all this is not what I called you for," said Little Crotchet
after a while. "Timoleon tore his stable door down to-day and came
near killing one of the hands. He is out now. Father will be angry
when he comes home and hears about it. Can't you put him in his
stable?"
"Me? I can lead the grandson of Abdallah all around the plantation
by a yarn string," Aaron declared.
[Illustration: HE STOOD AS STILL AS A STATUE]
"Well, if you had been here to-day you'd have found out different.
You don't know that horse," Little Crotchet insisted.
"He is certainly as vicious a creature as I ever saw," remarked the
Teacher, who had been an amazed witness of the horse's performances.
"I'll show you," Aaron declared.
"Oh, no!" protested Little Crotchet. "Don't try any tricks on that
horse. He's too mean and cruel. If you can get him in his stable, and
fasten him in, I'll be glad. But don't go near him; he'll bite your
head off."
Aaron laughed and then he seemed to be considering something. "I
wish"--He paused and looked at Little Crotchet.
"You wish what?" asked the lad.
"I wish you might go with me. But it is dark. The moon is a day moon.
I could tote you to the fence."
"And then what?" asked Little Crotchet.
"You could see a tame horse--the grandson of Abdallah."
"I'll go to the fence if you'll carry me," said Little Crotchet.
"The air is not cold--no wind is blowing."
"Shall I go too?" asked Mr. Hudspeth.
"I'd be glad," said Aaron.
So, although the night was not cold, Aaron took a shawl from the bed
and wrapped it about Little Crotchet, lifted the lad in his arms, and
went softly down the stairway, Mr. Hudspeth following. The night was
not so dark after all. Once away from the light, various familiar
objects began to materialize. The oaks ceased to be huge shadows.
There was a thin, milk-white haze in the sky that seemed to shed a
reflection of light on the earth below.
A negro passed along the beaten way leading to the cabins, whistling
a tune. It was Randall. He heard the others and paused.
"It's your turn to tote," said Aaron.
"Who?" exclaimed Randall.
"The Little Master," replied Aaron.
Randall laughed. Who talked of turns where the Little Master was
concerned? When it came to carrying that kind of burden, Randall
was the man to do it, and it was "Don't le' me hurt you, honey. Ef
I squeeze too tight, des say de word;" and then, "Whar we gwine,
honey? A'on gwine in dar en put dat ar hoss up? Well, 'fo' he go in
dar less all shake han's wid 'im, kaze when we nex' lay eyes on 'im
he won't hear us, not ef we stoop down and holler good-by in his
year."
But following Aaron, they went toward the lot where the Black
Stallion had shown his savage temper during the day.
VIII.
THE HAPPENINGS OF A NIGHT.
When Aaron and those who were with him reached the lot fence, which
had been made high and strong to keep old Jule, the jumping mule,
within bounds, not a sound was heard on the other side.
"You er takin' yo' life in yo' han', mon," said Randall in a warning
tone, as Aaron placed one foot on the third rail and vaulted over.
The warning would have come too late in any event, for by the time
the words were off Randall's tongue Aaron was over the fence.
Those who were left behind waited in breathless suspense for some
sound--some movement--from Timoleon, or some word from the Arab,
to guide them. But for a little while (and it seemed to be a long,
long while to Little Crotchet) nothing could be heard. Then suddenly
there fell on their strained ears the noise that is made by a rushing
horse, followed by a sharp exclamation from Aaron.
"What a pity if he is hurt!" exclaimed the Teacher.
Before anything else could be said, there came a whinnying sound from
Timoleon, such as horses make when they greet those they are fond of,
or when they are hungry and see some one bringing their food. But
Timoleon's whinnying was more prolonged, and in the midst of it they
could hear Aaron talking.
"Ef horses could talk," remarked Randall, "I'd up 'n' say dey wuz
ca'n on a big confab in dar."
Little Crotchet said nothing. He had often heard Aaron say that he
knew the language of animals, but the matter had never been pressed
on the lad's attention as it was years afterwards on the attention of
Buster John and Sweetest Susan.
Finally Aaron came to the fence, closely followed by the Black
Stallion.
"Man, what you think?" said the Son of Ben Ali to Randall; "no water,
no corn, no fodder since night before last."
"De Lord 'a' mercy!" exclaimed Randall. "Is anybody ever hear de beat
er dat? No wonder he kotch dat ar nigger an' bit 'im! When de rascal
git well I'm gwine ter ax Marster ter le' me take 'im out an' gi' 'im
a paddlin'--an' I'll do it right, mon."
Mr. Hudspeth made a mental note of this speech, and resolved to find
out if Randall meant what he said, or was merely joking.
"Man, give me the Little Master," said Aaron from the top of the
fence, "and run and fetch two buckets of water from the spring."
"Dey's water in de lot dar," Randall explained.
"It is dirty," replied Aaron. "The grandson of Abdallah would die
before he would drink it."
He leaned down and took Little Crotchet in his arms. The muzzle of
Timoleon was so near that the lad could feel the hot breath from his
nostrils. Involuntarily the Little Master shuddered and shrank closer
to Aaron.
"He'll not hurt you," said Aaron. He made a queer sound with his
lips, and the horse whinnied. "Now you may put your hand on him--so."
The Arab took the Little Master's hand and placed it gently on the
smooth, sensitive muzzle of the horse. The lad could feel the
nervous working of Timoleon's strong upper lip. Then he stroked the
horse's head and rubbed the velvety ears, and in less time than it
takes to write it down he felt very much at home with the Black
Stallion, and had no fear of him then or afterwards.
Randall soon returned with cool, fresh water from the spring. The
Black Stallion drank all that was brought and wanted more, but Aaron
said no. He had placed the Little Master on Randall's shoulder, and
Timoleon, when he finished drinking, was taken to his stable and fed,
and the broken door propped in such a manner that it could not be
forced open from the inside. This done, Aaron returned to the others,
relieved Randall of Little Crotchet, though the frail body was not
much of a burden, and the three started back to the big house.
"You are still anxious to punish the poor man who was hurt by the
horse?" asked the Teacher, as Randall bade them good-night.
"I is dat, suh. I'm des ez sho ter raise welks on his hide ez de sun
is ter shine--leas'ways ef breff stay in his body. Ef I'd 'a' been
dat ar hoss an' he'd done me dat away, I'd 'a' trompled de gizzard
out 'n 'im. Ef dey's anything dat I do 'spise, suh, it's a low-down,
triflin', good-fer-nothin' nigger."
Mr. Hudspeth knew enough about human nature to be able to catch
the tone of downright sincerity in the negro's voice, and the fact
not only amazed him at the time, but worried him no little when he
recalled it afterward; for his memory seized upon it and made it more
important than it really was. And he saw and noted other things on
that plantation that puzzled him no little, and destroyed in his own
mind the efficiency of some of his strongest anti-slavery arguments;
but it did not, for it could not, reach the essence of the matter
as he had conceived it, that human slavery, let it be national or
sectional, or paternal and patriarchal, was an infliction on the
master as well as an injustice to the negro.
So far so good. But Mr. Hudspeth could not see then what he saw and
acknowledged when American slavery was happily a thing of the past,
namely: That in the beginning, the slaves who were brought here were
redeemed from a slavery in their own country worse than the bondage
of death; that though they came here as savages, they were brought
in close and stimulating contact with Christian civilization, and so
lifted up that in two centuries they were able to bear the promotion
to citizenship which awaited them; and that, although this end was
reached in the midst of confusion and doubt, tumult and bloodshed, it
was given to human intelligence to perceive in slavery, as well as in
the freedom of the slaves, the hand of an All-wise Providence, and to
behold in their bondage here the scheme of a vast university in which
they were prepared to enjoy the full benefits of all the blessings
which have been conferred on them, and which, though they seem to
have been long delayed, have come to them earlier than to any other
branch of the human race.
The Teacher who played his little part in the adventures of Aaron
played a large part in national affairs at a later day. He saw
slavery pass away, and he lived long enough after that event to put
on record this declaration: "Looking back on the history of the
human race, let us hasten to acknowledge, while the acknowledgment
may be worth making, that two hundred and odd years of slavery,
as it existed in the American republic, is a small price to pay
for participation in the inestimable blessings and benefits of
American freedom and American citizenship." And as he spoke, the
great audience he was addressing seemed to fade before his eyes, and
he found himself wandering again on the old plantation with Little
Crotchet, or walking under the starlit skies talking to Aaron. And he
heard again the genial voice of the gentleman whose guest he was, and
lived again through the pleasures and perils of that wonderful year
on the Abercrombie place.
But all this was twenty-five years in the future, and Mr. Hudspeth
had not even a dream of what that future was to bring forth. Indeed,
as he followed Aaron and Little Crotchet from the horse lot to the
house he was less interested in what the years might hold for him
than he was in one incident that occurred while Aaron was preparing
to take the Black Stallion back to his stall. He was puzzled and
wanted information. How did Aaron know that the horse had gone
without water and food? He observed that neither Little Crotchet nor
Randall questioned the statement when it was made, but treated it
as a declaration beyond dispute. And yet the runaway had been in the
woods, and a part of the time was pursued by hounds. He had no means
of knowing whether or not the Black Stallion had been attended to.
The matter weighed on the Teacher's mind to such an extent that when
he and his companions were safe in Little Crotchet's room he put a
question to Aaron.
"By what means did you know that the horse had been left without food
and water?"
Aaron glanced at Little Crotchet and smiled. "Well, sir, to tell you
would be not to tell you. You wouldn't believe me."
"Oh, you go too far,--indeed you do. Why should I doubt your word?"
"It don't fit in with things you know."
"Try me."
"The grandson of Abdallah told me," replied Aaron simply.
The Teacher looked from Aaron to Little Crotchet. "You must be
joking," he remarked.
"Oh, no, he isn't," protested Little Crotchet. "I know he can talk
with the animals. He has promised to teach me, but I always forget
it when I go to the Swamp; there are so many other things to think
about."
"Would you teach me?" Mr. Hudspeth asked. His face was solemn, and
yet there was doubt in the tone of his voice.
Aaron shook his head. "Too old," he explained. "Too old, and know too
much."
"It's another case of having a child's faith," suggested the Teacher.
"Most, but not quite," answered Aaron. "It is like this: The why must
be very big, or you must be touched."
The Teacher pondered over this reply for some moments, and then said:
"There must be some real reason why I should desire to learn the
language of animals. Is that it?"
"Most, but not quite," Aaron responded. "You must have the
sure-enough feeling."
"I see. But what is it to be touched? What does that mean?"
"You must be touched by the people who live next door to the world."
The Teacher shook his head slowly and stroked his beard thoughtfully.
He tried to treat the whole matter with due solemnity, so as to keep
his footing, and he succeeded.
"Where is this country that is next door to the world?" he asked,
turning to Little Crotchet.
"Under the spring," the lad replied promptly.
"Have you ever visited that country?" the Teacher asked. His tone was
serious enough now.
"No," replied Little Crotchet, with a wistful sigh. "I'm crippled,
you know, and walk only on my crutches. It is far to go, and I can't
take my pony. But Aaron has told me about it, and I have seen Little
Mr. Thimblefinger--once--and he told me about Mrs. Meadows and the
rest and brought me a message from old Mr. Rabbit. They all live in
the country next door to the world."
For several minutes the Teacher sat and gazed into the pale flame of
the candle. The wax or tallow had run down on one side, and formed a
figure in the semblance of a wee man hanging to the brass mouth of
the candlestick with both hands. Glazing thus, queer thoughts came
to the Teacher's mind. He tugged at his beard to see whether he was
awake or dreaming. Could it be that by some noiseless shifting of
the scenery he was even now in the country next door to the world?
He rose suddenly, shook hands with Aaron, and, swayed by some sudden
impulse, stooped and pressed his lips to the pale brow of the patient
lad. Then he went to his room, threw open the window, and sat for an
hour, wondering what influence his strange experiences would have on
his life.
And his reflections were not amiss, for years afterwards his
experiences of this night were responsible for his intimacy with the
greatest American of our time,--Abraham Lincoln. It was in the early
part of the war that Mr. Hudspeth, one of a group of congressmen in
consultation with the President, let fall some chance remarks about
the country next door to the world. Mr. Lincoln had been telling a
humorous story, and was on the point of telling another, when Mr.
Hudspeth's chance remark struck his ear.
"Whereabouts is that country?" he asked.
"Not far from Georgia," replied Mr. Hudspeth.
"Who lives there?"
"Little Crotchet, Aaron the Arab, Little Mr. Thimblefinger, Mrs.
Meadows, and old Mr. Rabbit." Mr. Hudspeth counted them off on his
fingers in a humorous manner.
Mr. Lincoln, who had been laughing before, suddenly grew
serious--melancholy, indeed. He talked with the congressmen awhile
longer, but they knew by his manner that they were dismissed. As they
were leaving, the President remarked:--
"Wait till your hurry's over, Hudspeth; I want to talk to you."
And sitting before the fire in his private office, Mr. Lincoln
recalled Mr. Hudspeth's chance remark, and questioned him with great
particularity about Aaron and Little Crotchet and all the rest.
"Of course you believed in the country next door to the world?" Mr.
Lincoln suggested.
"To tell you the truth, Mr. President, I felt queerly that night. It
seemed as real to me as anything I ever heard of and never saw."
"Get the feeling back, Hudspeth; get it back. I can believe
everything you told me about it."
And after that, when Mr. Hudspeth called on the President, and found
him in a mood between extreme mirth and downright melancholy, he
would say: "I was with Aaron last night," or "I'm just from the
country next door to the world," or "I hope Sherman won't get lost in
the country that is next door to the world."
But all this was in the future, and, as we all know, Mr. Hudspeth,
sitting at his window and gazing at the stars that hung sparkling
over the Abercrombie place, could not read the future. If it was too
late for him to learn the language of the animals, how could he hope
to interpret the prophecies of the constellations?
Aaron sat with Little Crotchet until there was no danger that the red
goblin, Pain, would put in an appearance, and then he slipped through
the window, and was soon at the foot of the oak, where Rambler was
taking a nap. He gave the dog some of the food that Little Crotchet
had put by for him, ate heartily himself, and then went toward the
Swamp.
On the hill he turned and looked back in the direction of Little
Crotchet's window. As he paused he heard a voice cry "Hello!" Aaron
was not startled, for the sound came from a distance, and fell but
faintly on his ears. He listened and heard it again:--
[Illustration: IT WAS THE WHITE-HAIRED MASTER]
"Hello! Hello!"
It seemed to come from the road, half a mile away, and Aaron knew
that there was no house in that direction for a traveler or a
passer-by to hail. There was something in the tone that suggested
distress.
Without waiting to listen again, the Arab started for the road in a
rapid trot. He thought he heard it again as he ran, and this caused
him to run the faster. He climbed the fence that marked the line of
the road, and sat there a moment; but all was silence, save the soft
clamor of insects and frogs that is a feature of the first half of
the night.
Aaron had now come to a point from which he could reach the Swamp
more conveniently by following the road for half a mile, though he
would have another hill to climb. As he jumped from the fence into
the road the cry came to his ears again, and this time with startling
distinctness:
"Hello! Hello! Oh, isn't there some one to hear me?"
It was so plainly the call of some one in distress that Aaron shouted
an answer of encouragement, and ran as fast as he could in the
direction from which the sound came. The situation was so new to
Rambler that, instead of making ahead to investigate and report, he
stuck to Aaron, whining uneasily. As the Son of Ben Ali ran he saw
dimly outlined at the foot of the hill a short distance beyond him
a huge something that refused to take a recognizable shape until he
stood beside it, and even then it was startling enough. It was the
Gray Mare, Timoleon's sister, lying at full length by the side of the
road, and underneath her the Son of Ben Ali knew he would find the
White-Haired Master. But it was not as bad as it might have been.
"Hurt much, Master?" said Aaron, leaning over Mr. Abercrombie and
touching him on the shoulder.
"Not seriously," replied the White-Haired Master. "But the leg that
is under the mare is numb."
The Gray Mare, after falling, had done nothing more than whinny. If
she had struggled to rise, the White-Haired Master's leg would have
needed a doctor: and if she had risen to her feet and started home
the doctor would have been unnecessary, for the imprisoned foot was
caught in the stirrup.
Well for Mr. Abercrombie that Aaron knew the Gray Mare, and that the
Gray Mare knew Aaron. She whinnied when the runaway spoke to her.
She raised her head and gathered her forefeet under her, and then
suddenly, at a word from Aaron, lifted her weight from the leg, while
the foot was taken from the stirrup. Again the word was given and the
Gray Mare rose easily to her feet and shook herself.
"Can you walk, Master?" Aaron asked.
"I think so--certainly."
Yet it was not an easy thing to do. Though the limb was not broken,
owing to the fact that the ground was damp and soft where the Gray
Mare fell, yet it had been imprisoned for some time, and it was
both numb and bruised. The numbness was in evidence now, as the
White-Haired Master rose to his feet and tried to walk; the bruises
would speak for themselves to-morrow.
"What is your name?" Mr. Abercrombie asked.
"I am called Aaron, Master."
"I thought so, and I'm glad of it. Some day I'll thank you; but
now--pins and needles!" The blood was beginning to circulate in the
numb leg, and this was not by any means a pleasant experience. Aaron
shortened it somewhat by rubbing the limb vigorously.
"Are you still in the woods, Aaron?"
"Yes, Master."
"Well, I'm sorry. I wish you belonged to me."
"I'm wishing harder than you, Master."
"What a pity--what a pity!"
"Don't get too sorry, Master."
"No; it would do no good."
"And don't blame the Gray Mare for stumbling, Master. The saddle too
high on her shoulders, the belly-band too tight, and her shoes nailed
on in the dark."
Aaron helped Mr. Abercrombie to mount. "Good-night, Master!"
"Good-night, Aaron!"