POOR ANN
“Miss Diddie!” called Dilsey, running into the nursery one morning in a
great state of excitement; then, seeing that Diddie was not there, she
stopped short, and demanded, “Whar Miss Diddie?”
“She’s sayin’ her lessons,” answered Dumps. “What do you want with
her?”
“De specerlaters is come,” said Dilsey; “dey’s right down yon’er on de
crick banks back er de quarters.”
In an instant Dumps and Tot had abandoned their dolls, and Chris and
Riar had thrown aside their quilt-pieces (for Aunt Milly was teaching
them to sew), and they were all just leaving the room when Mammy
entered.
“Whar yer gwine?” asked Mammy.
“Oh, Mammy, de specerlaters is come,” said Dumps, “an’ we’re goin’ down
to the creek to see ’um.”
“No yer ain’t, nuther,” said Mammy. “Yer ain’t er gwine er nyear dem
specerlaters, er cotchin’ uv measles an’ hookin’-coffs an’ sich, fum
dem niggers. Yer ain’t gwine er nyear ’um; an’ yer jes ez well fur ter
tuck off dem bunnits an’ ter set yerse’fs right back on de flo’ an’ go
ter playin’. An’ efn you little niggers don’t tuck up dem quilt-pieces
an’ go ter patchin’ uv ’em, I lay I’ll hu’t yer, mun! Who dat tell deze
chil’en ’bout de specerlaters?”
“Hit uz Dilsey,” answered Chris and Riar in a breath; and Mammy, giving
Dilsey a sharp slap, said,
“Now yer come er prancin’ in hyear ergin wid all kin’ er news, an’ I
bet yer’ll be sorry fur it. Yer know better’n dat. Yer know deze
chil’en ain’t got no bizness ’long o’ specerlaters.”
In the meanwhile Dumps and Tot were crying over their disappointment.
“Yer mean old thing!” sobbed Dumps. “I ain’t goin’ ter min’ yer,
nuther; an’ I sha’n’t nuver go ter sleep no mo’, an’ let you go to
prayer-meetin’s; jes all time botherin’ me, an’ won’t lemme see de
specerlaters, nor nothin’.”
“Jes lis’en how yer talkin’,” said Mammy, “given’ me all dat sass.
You’re de sassies’ chile marster’s got. Nobody can’t nuver larn yer no
manners, allers er sassin ole pussons. Jes keep on, an’ yer’ll see
wat’ll happen ter yer; yer’ll wake up some er deze mornins, an, yer
won’t have no hyear on yer head. I knowed er little gal onct wat sassed
her mudder, an’ de Lord he sent er angel in de night, he did, an’
struck her plum’ bald-headed.”
“You ain’t none o’ my mother,” replied Dumps. “You’re mos’ black ez my
shoes; an’ de Lord ain’t er goin’ ter pull all my hair off jes ’boutn
you.”
“I gwine right down-sta’rs an’ tell yer ma,” said Mammy. “She don’t
’low none o’ you chil’en fur ter sass me, an’ ter call me brack; she
nuver done it herse’f, wan she wuz little. I’se got ter be treated wid
’spec myse’f; ef I don’t, den hit’s time fur me ter quit min’en
chil’en: I gwine tell yer ma.”
And Mammy left the room in high dudgeon, but presently came back, and
said Dumps was to go to her mother at once.
“What is the matter with my little daughter?” asked her father, as she
came slowly downstairs, crying bitterly, and met him in the hall.
“Mammy’s ben er sa-a-as-sin me,” sobbed Dumps; “an’ she sa-aid de Lord
wuz goin’ ter sen’ an angel fur ter git my ha-air, an’ she won’t lem’me
go-o-o ter see de spec-ec-ec-erlaters.”
“Well, come in mamma’s room,” said her father, “and we’ll talk it all
over.”
And the upshot of the matter was that Major Waldron said he would
himself take the children to the speculator’s camp; and accordingly, as
soon as dinner was over, they all started off in high glee—the three
little girls and the three little negroes—leaving Mammy standing at the
top of the stairs, muttering to herself, “Er catchin’ uv de measles an’
de hookin’-coffs.”
The speculator’s camp was situated on the bank of the creek, and a very
bright scene it presented as Major Waldron and his party came up to it.
At a little distance from the main encampment was the speculator’s
tent, and the tents for the negroes were dotted here and there among
the trees. Some of the women were sitting at the creek, others were
cooking, and some were sitting in front of their tents sewing; numbers
of little negroes were playing about, and, altogether, the
“speculator’s camp” was not the horrible thing that one might suppose.
The speculator, who was a jolly-looking man weighing over two hundred
pounds, came forward to meet Major Waldron and show him over the
encampment.
The negroes were well clothed, well fed, and the great majority of them
looked exceedingly happy.
They came across one group of boys and girls dancing and singing. An
old man, in another group, had collected a number of eager listeners
around him, and was recounting some marvellous tale; but occasionally
there would be a sad face and a tearful eye, and Mr. Waldron sighed as
he passed these, knowing that they were probably grieving over the home
and friends they had left.
As they came to one of the tents, the speculator said, “There is a sick
yellow woman in there, that I bought in Maryland. She had to be sold in
the settlement of an estate, and she has fretted herself almost to
death; she is in such bad health now that I doubt if anybody will buy
her, though she has a very likely little boy about two years old.”
Mr. Waldron expressed a wish to see the woman, and they went in.
Lying on a very comfortable bed was a woman nearly white; her eyes were
deep-sunken in her head, and she was painfully thin. Mr. Waldron took
her hand in his and looked into her sad eyes.
“Do you feel much pain?” he asked, tenderly.
“Yes, sir,” answered the woman, “I suffer a great deal; and I am so
unhappy, sir, about my baby; I can’t live long, and what will become of
him? If I only had a home, where I could make friends for him before I
die, where I could beg and entreat the people to be kind to him and
take care of him! ’Tis that keeps me sick, sir.”
By this time Diddie’s eyes were swimming in tears, and Dumps was
sobbing aloud; seeing which, Tot began to cry too, though she hadn’t
the slightest idea what was the matter; and Diddie, going to the side
of the bed, smoothed the woman’s long black hair, and said,
“We’ll take you home with us, an’ we’ll be good to your little boy, me
an’ Dumps an’ Tot, an’ I’ll give ’im some of my marbles.”
“An’ my little painted wagin,” put in Dumps.
“An’ you shall live with us always,” continued Diddie; “an’ Mammy’ll
put yer feet into hot water, an’ rub turkentine on yer ches’, an’ give
yer ‘fermifuge’ ev’y mornin’, an’ you’ll soon be well. Papa, sha’n’t
she go home with us?”
Major Waldron’s own eyes moistened as he answered,
“We will see about it, my daughter;” and, telling the woman whose name
was Ann, that he would see her again, he left the tent, and presently
the camp.
That night, after the little folks were asleep, Major Waldron and his
wife had a long talk about the sick woman and her little boy, and it
was decided between them that Major Waldron should go the next morning
and purchase them both.
The children were delighted when they knew of this decision, and took
an active part in preparing one room of the laundry for Ann’s
reception. Their mother had a plain bedstead moved in, and sent down
from the house a bed and mattress, which she supplied with sheets,
pillows, blankets, and a quilt. Then Uncle Nathan, the carpenter, took
a large wooden box and put shelves in it, and tacked some
bright-colored calico all around it, and made a bureau. Two or three
chairs were spared from the nursery, and Diddie put some of her toys on
the mantel-piece for the baby; and then, when they had brought in a
little square table and covered it with a neat white cloth, and placed
upon it a mug of flowers, and when Uncle Nathan had put up some shelves
in one corner of the roof, and driven some pegs to hang clothes on,
they pronounced the room all ready.
And Ann, who had lived for several months in the camp, was delighted
with her new home and the preparations that her little mistresses had
made for her. The baby, too, laughed and clapped his hands over the
toys the children gave him. His name was Henry, and a very pretty child
he was. He was almost as white as Tot, and his black hair curled in
ringlets all over his head; but, strange to say, neither he nor his
mother gained favor with the negroes on the place.
Mammy said openly that she “nuver had no ’pinion uv white niggers,” and
that “marster sholy had niggers ’nuff fur ter wait on ’im doutn buyen
’em.”
But, for all that, Ann and her little boy were quite happy. She was
still sick, and could never be well, for she had consumption; though
she got much better, and could walk about the yard, and sit in front of
her door with Henry in her lap. Her devotion to her baby was unusual in
a slave; she could not bear to have him out of her sight, and never
seemed happy unless he was playing around her or nestling in her arms.
Mrs. Waldron, of course, never exacted any work of Ann. They had bought
her simply to give her a home and take care of her, and faithfully that
duty was performed. Her meals were carried from the table, and she had
every attention paid to her comfort.
One bright evening, when she was feeling better than usual, she went
out for a walk, and, passing Uncle Snake-bit Bob’s shop, she stopped to
look at his baskets, and to let little Henry pick up some white-oak
splits that he seemed to have set his heart on.
The old man, like all the other negroes, was indignant that his master
should have purchased her; for they all prided themselves on being
inherited, and “didn’t want no bought folks” among them. He had never
seen her, and now would scarcely look at or speak to her.
“You weave these very nicely,” said Ann, examining one of his baskets.
Uncle Bob looked up, and, seeing she was pale and thin, offered her a
seat, which she accepted.
“Is this always your work?” asked Ann, by way of opening a conversation
with the old man.
“In cose ’tis,” he replied; “who dat gwine ter make de baskits les’n
hit’s me? I done make baskits ’fo mistiss wuz born; I usen ter ’long
ter her pa; I ain’t no bort nigger myse’f.”
“You are certainly very fortunate,” answered Ann, “for the slave that
has never been on the block can never know the full bitterness of
slavery.”
“Wy, yer talkin’ same ez white folks,” said Uncle Bob. “Whar yer git
all dem fine talkin’s fum? ain’t you er nigger same ez me?”
“Yes, I am a negress, Uncle Bob; or, rather, my mother was a slave, and
I was born in slavery; but I have had the misfortune to have been
educated.”
“_Kin_ yer read in de book?” asked the old man earnestly.
“Oh yes, as well as anybody.”
“Who showed yer?” asked Uncle Bob.
“My mistress had me taught; but, if it won’t bother you, I’ll just tell
you all about it, for I want to get your interest, Uncle Bob, and gain
your love, if I can—yours, and everybody’s on the place—for I am sick,
and must die, and I want to make friends, so they will be kind to my
baby. Shall I tell you my story?”
The old man nodded his head, and went on with his work, while Ann
related to him the sad history of her life.
“My mother, who was a favorite slave, died when I was born; and my
mistress, who had a young baby only a few days older than myself, took
me to nurse. I slept, during my infancy, in the cradle with my little
mistress, and afterwards in the room with her, and thus we grew up as
playmates and companions until we reached our seventh year, when we
both had scarlet fever. My little mistress, who was the only child of a
widow, died; and her mother, bending over her death-bed, cried, ‘I will
have no little daughter now!’ when the child placed her arms about her
and said, ‘Mamma, let Ann be your daughter; she’ll be your little girl;
I’ll go to her mamma, and she’ll stay with my mamma.’
“And from that time I was no more a slave, but a child in the house. My
mistress brought a governess for me from the North, and I was taught as
white girls are. I was fond of my books, and my life was a very happy
one, though we lived on a lonely plantation, and had but little
company.
“I was almost white, as you see, and my mistress had taught me to call
her mamma. I was devoted to her, and very fond of my governess, and
they both petted me as if I really had been a daughter instead of a
slave. Four years ago the brother of my governess came out from Vermont
to make his sister a visit at our home. He fell in love with me, and I
loved him dearly, and, accompanied by my ‘mamma’ and his sister, we
went into Pennsylvania, and were married. You know we could not be
married in Maryland, for it is a Slave State, and I was a slave. My
mistress had, of course, always intended that I should be free, but
neglected from time to time to draw up the proper papers.
“For two years after my marriage my husband and I lived on the
plantation, he managing the estate until he was called to Washington on
business, and, in returning, the train was thrown down an embankment,
and he was among the killed.
“Soon after that my baby was born, and before he was six months old my
mistress died suddenly, when it was found that the estate was
insolvent, and everything must be sold to pay the debts; and I and my
baby, with the other goods and chattels, were put up for sale. Mr.
Martin, the speculator, bought me, thinking I would bring a fancy
price; but my heart was broken, and I grieved until my health gave way,
so that nobody ever wanted me, until your kind-hearted master bought me
to give me a home to die in. But oh, Uncle Bob,” she continued,
bursting into tears, “to think my boy, my baby, must be a slave! His
father’s relatives are poor. He had only a widowed mother and two
sisters. They are not able to buy my child, and he must be raised in
ignorance, to do another’s bidding all his life, my poor little baby!
His dear father hated slavery, and it seems so hard that his son must
be a slave!”
“Now don’t yer take on like dat, er makin’ uv yerse’f sick,” said Uncle
Bob; “I know wat I gwine do; my min’ hit’s made up; hit’s true, I’m
brack, but den my min’ hit’s made up. Now you go on back ter de house,
outn dis damp a’r, an’ tuck cyar er yerse’f, an’ don’t yer be er
frettin’, nuther, caze my marster, he’s de bes’ man dey is; an’ den,
’sides dat, my min’ hit’s made up. Hyear, honey,” addressing the child,
“take deze hyear white-oak splits an’ go’n make yer er baskit ’long o’
yer ma.”
Ann and her baby returned to the house, but Uncle Snake-bit Rob, long
after the sun went down, still sat on his little bench in front of his
shop, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands; and
when it grew quite dark he rose, and put away his splits and his
baskets, saying to himself,
“Well, I know wat I’m gwine do; my min’ hit’s made up.”