'em to bear to the right."
"Hello, there!" cried Mr. Gossett.
"Hello, yourself!" answered a voice.
"That you, Terrell?"
"Yes, ain't that Gossett?"
"The same. Bear to the right. Where've you been?"
"Been to the lodge at Harmony." The attic of the schoolhouse at
Harmony was used as a Masonic lodge.
"Who's behind you?" Mr. Gossett inquired.
"Denham, Aiken, Griffin, and Gatewood."
There were, in fact, four buggies, Mr. Griffin being on horseback,
and they were all close together. Mr. Gossett had but to seize
Aaron, yell for help, and his neighbors would soon have the runaway
tied hard and fast with the reins in the bottom of the buggy. That
is, if Aaron couldn't call the elements to his aid--but suppose he
could? What then? These thoughts passed through Mr. Gossett's mind,
and he was strongly tempted to try the experiment; but he refrained.
He said good-night, but Mr. Aiken hailed him.
"You know that new school teacher at Abercrombie's?"
"I haven't seen him," said Mr. Gossett.
"Well, he's there. Keep an eye on him. He's a rank abolitionist."
"Is that so?" exclaimed Mr. Gossett in a tone of amazement.
"So I've heard. He'll bear watching."
"Well, well, well!" Mr. Gossett ejaculated.
"What's that?" Aaron asked in a low tone, as they passed the last of
the four buggies.
"What's what?"
"Abolitioner."
"Oh, that's one of these blamed new-fangled parties. You wouldn't
know if I were to tell you."
In a little while they began to draw near Mr. Gossett's home, and he
renewed his efforts to prevail on Aaron to go to the cabin that had
been assigned to him, and to remain as one of the hands. Finally as
they came within hailing distance of the house, Mr. Gossett said:--
"If you've made up your mind to stay, you may take the horse and put
it up. If you won't stay, don't let the other niggers see you. Stop
the horse if you can."
Aaron pressed the whip on the horse's flank, and instantly the buggy
came to a standstill. The runaway jumped from the buggy, placed the
whip in its thimble, and stood a moment as if reflecting. Then he
raised his right arm in the air--a gesture that Mr. Gossett could not
see, however--and said good-night.
"Wait!" exclaimed Mr. Gossett. "Where's my pistol?"
"Inside the buggy seat," replied Aaron, and disappeared in the
darkness.
Mr. Gossett called a negro to take the horse, and it seemed as if one
sprang from the ground to answer the call, with "Yes, Marster!" on
the end of his tongue. It was Chunky Riley.
"How long have you been standing here?" asked Mr. Gossett
suspiciously.
"No time, Marster. Des come a-runnin' when I hear de buggy wheels
scrunchin' on de gravel. I hear you talkin' to de hoss whiles I
comin' froo de big gate down yander by de barn."
"You're a mighty swift runner, then," remarked Mr. Gossett
doubtfully.
"Yasser, I'm a right peart nigger. I'm short, but soon." Thereupon
Chunky Riley pretended to laugh. Then he made a discovery, and became
very serious. "Marster, dey ain't no sign er no bridle on dish yer
hoss. An' whar de lines? Is anybody ever see de beat er dat? Marster,
how in de name er goodness kin you drive dish yer hoss widout bridle
er lines?"
"It's easy enough when you know how," replied Mr. Gossett
complacently. He was flattered and soothed by the idea that Chunky
Riley would believe him to be a greater man than ever. "Give the
horse a good feed," commanded Mr. Gossett. "He has traveled far
to-night, and he and I have seen some queer sights."
"Well, suh!" exclaimed Chunky Riley, with well-affected amazement. He
caught the horse by the forelock and led it carefully through the
gate into the lot, thence to the buggy-shelter, where he proceeded to
take off the harness.
He shook his head and muttered to himself all the while, for he
was wrestling with the most mysterious problem that had ever been
presented to his mind. He had seen Aaron in the buggy with his
master; he had heard his master begging Aaron not to stay in the
woods; he had seen and heard these things with his own eyes and ears,
and they were too mysterious for his simple mind to explain. Didn't
Aaron belong to Chunky Riley's master? Wasn't he a runaway? Didn't
his master try to catch him? Didn't he have the Simmons nigger-dogs
after him that very day? Well, then, why didn't his master keep Aaron
while he had him in the buggy? Why did he sit still and allow the
runaway to go back to the woods?
This was much more mysterious to Chunky Riley than anything he had
ever heard of. He could make neither head nor tail of it. He knew
that Aaron had some mysterious influence over the animals, both wild
and tame. That could be accounted for on grounds that were entirely
plausible and satisfactory to the suggestions of Chunky Riley's
superstition. But did Aaron have the same power over his own master?
It certainly seemed so, for he rode in the buggy with him, and went
off into the woods again right before Mr. Gossett's eyes.
But wait a minute! If Aaron really had any influence over his own
master, why didn't he stay at home instead of going into the woods?
This was a problem too complicated for Chunky Riley to work out. But
it worried him so that he whispered it among the other negroes on the
place, and so it spread through all that region.
A fortnight afterwards it was nothing uncommon for negroes to come at
night from plantations miles away so that they might hear from Chunky
Riley's own lips what he had seen.
The tale that Chunky Riley told was beyond belief, but it was all
the more impressive on that account. And it was very fortunate for
Aaron, too, in one respect. After the story that Chunky Riley told
became bruited about, there was not a negro to be found who could be
bribed or frightened into spying on Aaron's movements, or who could
be induced to say that he had seen him.
It was observed, too, by all the negroes, as well as by many of
the white people, that Mr. Gossett seemed to lose interest in his
fugitive slave. He made no more efforts to capture Aaron, and, when
twitted about it by some of his near neighbors, his invariable
remark was, "Oh, the nigger'll come home soon enough when cold
weather sets in. A nigger can stand everything except cold weather."
Yet Mr. Gossett's neighbors all knew that nothing was easier than
for a runaway to make a fire in the woods and keep himself fairly
comfortable. They wondered, therefore, why the well-known energy of
Mr. Gossett in capturing his runaway negroes--and he had a remarkable
experience in the matter of runaways--should suddenly cool down with
respect to Aaron.
But it must not be supposed that this made any real difference. On
the contrary, as soon as George Gossett found that his father was
willing to allow matters to take their course as far as Aaron was
concerned, he took upon himself the task of capturing the fugitive,
and in this business he was able to enlist the interest of the young
men of the neighborhood, who, without asking anybody's advice,
constituted themselves the patrol. George Gossett's explanation to
his companions, in engaging their assistance, was, "Pap is getting
old, and he ain't got time to be setting up late at night and
galloping about all day trying to catch a runaway nigger."
These young fellows were quite willing to pledge themselves to George
Gossett's plans. They had arrived at the age when the vigor of youth
seeks an outlet, and it was merely in the nature of a frolic for
them to ride half the night patrolling, and sit out the other half
watching for Aaron.
But there was one peculiarity about the vigils that were kept on
account of Aaron. They were carried on, for the most part, within
tasting distance of the stillhouse run by Mr. Fullalove, which was on
a small watercourse not far from the Abercrombie place. Mr. Fullalove
was employed simply to superintend the distilling of peach and apple
brandy and corn whiskey; and although it was his duty to taste of the
low wines as they trickled from the spout of the "worm," he could
truthfully boast, as he frequently did, that not a drop of liquor
had gone down his throat for "forty year." Being a temperance man,
and feeling himself responsible for the "stuff" at the still, he was
inclined to resent the freedom with which the young men conducted
themselves. Sometimes they paid for what they drank, but more often
they didn't, and at such times Mr. Fullalove would limp about
attending to his business (he had what he called a "game leg") with
tight-shut lips, refusing to respond to the most civil question.
But usually the young men were very good company, and, occasionally,
when Mr. Fullalove was suffering from pains in his "game leg," they
would keep up his fires for him. And that was no light task, for the
still was of large capacity. Take it all in all, however, one night
with another, Mr. Fullalove was perfectly willing to dispense with
both the services and the presence of the roystering young men.
But one night when they came the old man had something interesting to
tell them.
"You fellers ought to 'a' been here awhile ago," he said. "I reckon
you'd 'a' seed somethin' that'd 'a' made you open your eyes. I was
settin' in my cheer over thar, some'rs betwixt a nod an' a dream,
when it seems like I heard a dog a-whinin' in the bushes. Then I
heard a stick crack, an' when I opened my eyes who should I see but
the biggest, strappin'est buck nigger that ever trod shoe leather. I
say 'Nigger,'" Mr. Fullalove explained, "bekaze I dunner what else to
say, but ef that man's a nigger I'm mighty much mistaken. He's dark
enough for to be a nigger, but he ain't got the right color, an' he
ain't got the right countenance, an' he ain't got the right kind of
ha'r, an' he ain't got the right king of twang to his tongue."
Mr. Fullalove paused a moment to see what effect this would have on
the young men. Then he went on:--
"I heard a dog whinin' out thar in the bushes, but I didn't pay no
attention to it. Then I stoops down for to git a splinter for to
light my pipe, an' when I look up thar was this big, tall--well, you
can call him 'nigger' ef you want to. I come mighty nigh jumpin'
out'n my skin. I drapt splinter, pipe, hat, an' eve'ything else you
can think of, an' ef the man hadn't 'a' retched down an' picked
'em up I dunno as I'd 'a' found 'em by now. I ain't had sech a
turn,--well, not sence that night when the 'worm' got chugged up an'
the cap of the still blow'd off.
"'Hello,' says I, 'when did you git in? You might 'a' knocked at the
door,' says I. I tried for to make out I wern't skeer'd, but 't
wa'n't no go. The man--nigger or ha'nt, whichsomever it might 'a'
been--know'd e'en about as well as I did that he'd skeered me. Says
he, 'Will you please, sir, give me as much as a spoonful of low-wines
for to rub on my legs?' says he. 'I've been on my feet so long that
my limbs are sore,' says he.
"'Why, tooby shore I will,' says I, 'ef you'll make affydavy that
you'll not creep up on me an' skeer me out'n two years' growth,'
says I. You may not believe me," Mr. Fullalove continued solemnly,
"but that man stood up thar an' never cracked a smile. I got one of
them half-pint ticklers an' let the low-wines run in it hot from the
worm. He taken it an' set right on that log thar an' poured it in his
han' an' rubbed it on his legs. Now, ef that'd 'a' been one of you
boys, you'd 'a' swaller'd the low-wines an' rubbed your legs wi' the
bottle."
George Gossett knew that the man Mr. Fullalove had seen was no other
than Aaron, the runaway.
"Which way did he go, Uncle Jake?" George inquired.
"Make inquirements of the wind, child! The wind knows lot more about
it than me. The man bowed, raised his right han' in the a'r, taken
a couple of steps, an'--_fwiff_--he was gone! Whether he floated or
flew, I'll never tell you, but he done uther one er t' other, maybe
both."
"I'd give a twenty-dollar bill if I could have been here!" exclaimed
George Gossett.
"On what bank, Gossett?" asked one of his companions.
"On a sandbank," remarked Mr. Fullalove sarcastically.
"And I'll give a five-dollar bill to know which way he went," said
young Gossett, paying no attention to gibe or sarcasm.
"Plank down your money!" exclaimed Mr. Fullalove.
The young man pulled a bill from his pocket, unrolled it, and held it
in his hand.
"He went the way the wind blow'd! Gi' me the money," said Mr.
Fullalove solemnly.
Whereat the young men laughed loudly, but not louder than Mr.
Fullalove.
"Some of your low-wines must have slipped down your goozle," remarked
George Gossett somewhat resentfully.
Later, when the young men were patrolling the plantations in a vain
search for Aaron, their leader remarked:--
"The nigger that old Fullalove saw was pap's runaway."
"But," said one, "the old man says he wasn't a nigger."
"Shucks! Fallalove's so old he couldn't tell a mulatto from a white
man at night. You needn't tell me; that nigger hangs around the
Abercrombie place, and if we'll hang around there we'll catch him."
So they agreed then and there to lay siege, at it were, to the
Abercrombie place every night, until they succeeded either in
capturing Aaron or in finding out something definite about his
movements. This siege was to go on in all sorts of weather and under
all sorts of conditions.
XI.
THE PROBLEM THAT TIMOLEON PRESENTED.
When Mr. Abercrombie heard of the capers of the Black Stallion, he
determined to place the horse in quarters that were more secure. But
where? There was but one building on the place that could be regarded
as perfectly secure--the crib in the five-acre lot. This crib was
built of logs hewn square and mortised together at the ends. It had
been built to hold corn and other grain, and logs were used instead
of planks because the nearest sawmill was some distance away, and the
logs were cheaper and handier. Moreover, as they were hewn from the
hearts of the pines they would last longer than sawn lumber.
This building was therefore selected as the Black Stallion's stable,
and it was made ready. A trough was fitted up and the edges trimmed
with hoop iron to prevent the horse from gnawing it to pieces. The
floor was taken away and a new door made, a thick, heavy affair. To
guard against all accidents a hole, which could be opened or closed
from the outside, was cut through the logs over the trough, so that
when the Black Stallion was in one of his tantrums he could be fed
and watered without risk to life or limb.
When everything was ready, the question arose, how was the horse
to be removed to his new quarters? Mr. Abercrombie considered the
matter an entire afternoon, and then decided to postpone it until
the next day. He said something about it at supper, and this caused
Mrs. Abercrombie to remark that she hoped he would get rid of such a
savage creature. She said she should never feel safe while the horse
remained on the place. But Mr. Abercrombie laughed at this excess of
fear, and so did Little Crotchet, who made bold to say that if his
father would permit him, he would have Timoleon put in his stable
that very night, and it would be done so quietly that nobody on the
place would know how or when it happened.
Mr. Abercrombie regarded his son with tender and smiling eyes.
"And what wonderful person will do this for you, my boy?"
"A friend of mine," replied Little Crotchet seriously.
"Well, you have so many friends that I'll never guess the name,"
remarked his father.
"Oh, but this is one of the most particular, particularest of my
friends," the lad explained.
"I suppose you know he is getting up a great reputation among the
servants," said Mrs. Abercrombie to her husband, half in jest and
half in earnest.
"I know they are all very fond of him, my dear."
"Of course they are--how can they help themselves?" the lad's mother
cried. "But this is 'a most particular, particularest' reputation."
She quizzically quoted Little Crotchet's phrase, and he laughed when
he heard it fall from her lips. "It is something quite wonderful.
Since the time that he issued orders for no one to bother him after
nine o'clock at night, the servants say that he talks with 'ha'nts.'
They say he has become so familiar with bogies and such things that
he can be heard talking with them at all hours of the night."
"Your mother has been counting the candles on you, my boy" remarked
Mr. Abercrombie jokingly.
"Why, father! how can you put such an idea in the child's mind?"
protested Mrs. Abercrombie.
"He's only teasing you, mama," said Little Crotchet.
"I heard him talking to a bogie the other night," remarked Mr.
Hudspeth, the Teacher.
"Oh, I don't think you're a bogie," cried Little Crotchet. "You would
have been one, though, if you had kept me in those awful books."
The Teacher had mischievously thrown out this hint about Aaron
to see what effect it would have. He was amazed at the lad's
self-possession, and at the deft manner in which he had turned the
hint aside.
"Oh, have you been admitted to the sanctum?" inquired the lad's
mother, laughing.
"I paused at the door to say good-night and remained until I learned
a lesson I never shall forget," said Mr. Hudspeth.
"Ah, you're finding our boy out, eh?" exclaimed Mr. Abercrombie with
a show of pride.
"He possesses already the highest culture the mind of man is capable
of," Mr. Hudspeth declared. His tone was so solemn and his manner
so earnest that Little Crotchet blushed. "He is cultured in the
humanities. That is apart from scholarship," the Teacher explained,
"but without it all knowledge is cold and dark and unfruitful."
"I know he is very humane," suggested Mr. Abercrombie.
"Oh, it is more than that," said Mr. Hudspeth; "far more than that.
All sensitive people are tender-hearted. One may read a book and
yet not catch the message it conveys. But this lad"--He paused and
suddenly changed the subject. "He said he could have Timoleon carried
to the new stable, and you are inclined to be doubtful. But he can
do more than that: he can have the horse removed without bridle or
halter."
"Then you know our boy better than we do!" Mrs. Abercrombie's tone
was almost reproachful.
"I found him out quite by accident," replied Mr. Hudspeth.
Little Crotchet in his quaint way called attention to the fact that
he was blushing again. "You've made me blush twice," he said, "and I
can't stay after that."
At a sign, Jemimy, the house girl, who was waiting on the table--the
same Jemimy who afterward had a daughter named Drusilla--turned the
lad's chair about. He balanced himself on his crutches, and without
touching his feet to the floor walked across the room to the hall,
and so up the stairway. On the landing he paused.
"Shall I have Timoleon put in the new stable to-night?" he asked.
"By all means, my boy--if you can," answered Mr. Abercrombie. "If you
succeed I'll give you a handsome present."
Little Crotchet always paused on the stair landing to say something,
but never to say good-night. After a while his mother would go up and
sit with him a few minutes, by way of kissing him good-night, and,
later, his father would make the same little journey for the same
purpose.
On this particular night, those whom Little Crotchet had left at
the table remained conversing longer than usual. Mr. Hudspeth had
something more to say about humanity-culture; and although he
employed "the Concord dialect," as Mr. Abercrombie called it, his
discourse was both interesting and stimulating. In the midst of it
Jemimy dropped a plate and broke it. The crash of the piece of china
put a temporary end to the conversation, and the silence that ensued
had its humorous side. Jemimy's eyes, big as saucers and as white,
were turned toward a door that led to the sitting-room. The door
softly opened, and a portly negro woman, with a bunch of keys hanging
at her waist, came into the dining-room. This was Mammy Lucy, the
housekeeper. She never once glanced toward her master and mistress.
"White er blue?" she inquired in a low voice.
"Blue," replied Jemimy.
"Dat counts fer two," Mammy Lucy remarked. "You've done broke five.
One mo', en you'll go whar you b'long. I done say mo' dan once you
ain't got no business in dis house. De fiel' 's whar you b'long at."
Jemimy couldn't help that. She couldn't help anything. She knew how
the Little Master would have the Black Stallion moved from one stable
to the other. She knew, and she never would tell. They might send
her to the field, they might drown her or strangle her, they might
cut off her ears or gouge her eyes out, they might send her to town
to the calaboose, they might do anything they pleased, but she never
would tell. Not while her name was Jemimy, and she'd be named that
until after she was put under the ground and covered up; and even
then she wouldn't tell.
Later when Mr. Abercrombie went upstairs to say good-night to Little
Crotchet, the lad asked if he might have Timoleon trained. He had
heard his father talking of getting a trainer from Mobile, and so he
made the suggestion that, instead of going to that expense, it might
be well to have the horse trained by his "friend," as he called Aaron.
Mr. Abercrombie guessed who Little Crotchet's friend was, but, to
please the lad, feigned ignorance. He told his son that the training
of such a horse as Timoleon was a very delicate piece of business,
and should be undertaken by no one but an expert. Now, if Little
Crotchet's "friend" was an expert, which was not likely, well and
good; if not, he might ruin a good horse. Still, if Little Crotchet
was sure that everything would be all right, why, there would be no
objection. At any rate, the horse was now old enough to be broken to
the saddle, and Little Crotchet's "friend" could do that if no more.
So it was settled, and the lad was very happy. He made his signal
for Aaron early and often, but, somehow, the Son of Ben Ali was
long in coming that night. The reason was plain enough when he did
come, but Little Crotchet was very impatient. The moon was shining,
and as George Gossett and his companions had refused to raise the
siege a single night since Mr. Fullalove had seen the runaway at
the stillhouse, Aaron found it difficult to respond promptly when
the Little Master signaled him to come. It is not an easy matter
to pass a picket line of patrollers when the moon is shining as it
shines in Georgia at the beginning of autumn, and as it shone on the
Abercrombie place the night that Little Crotchet was so anxious to
see Aaron.
Rambler was very busy that night trying to find a place where Aaron
might pass the patrollers without attracting attention, but he had
to give it up for a time. At last, however, three of them, George
Gossett among the number, concluded to pay another visit to Mr.
Fullalove, and this left the way clear. Aaron was prompt to take
advantage of it. Going half bent, he kept in the shadow of the fence,
slipped through the small jungle of black-jacks, ran swiftly across
an open space to the negro cabins, flitted to the garden fence, and
in the shadow of that fled to the front yard, and so up the friendly
oak.
Oh, but Little Crotchet was impatient! He was almost ready to frown
when Aaron made his appearance; but when the runaway told him of
the big moon and the patrollers, he grew uneasy; and after telling
Aaron about the Black Stallion, how the horse must be removed to the
new stable, and how he must be broken to saddle and bridle, Little
Crotchet declared that he was sorry he had signaled to Aaron.
"They'll catch you to-night, sure," he said.
But Aaron shook his head. "No, Little Master, not to-night. Not while
I'm with the grandson of Abdallah."
"Oh, I see!" laughed Little Crotchet; "you'll stay in his stable.
Good! I'll bring you your breakfast in the morning."
Aaron smiled, shaking his head and looking at the basket of victuals
that Little Crotchet always had ready for him when he came.
"No, Little Master! This will do. I'll not take the basket to-night.
I'll put the victuals in my wallet." This was a bag suspended from
his shoulder by a strap, being made after the manner of the satchels
in which the children used to carry their books to school.