published in the “Southern Literary Messenger,” worked great reforms in
the navy and secured a naval academy.
He first directed the observations of the flow of the Mississippi. He
proposed a system which would enable the observers to give information by
telegraph, as to the state of the river and its tributaries. He suggested
to Congress efficacious plans for the disposition of the drowned lands
on the Mississippi. He brought forward and successfully advocated a
warehousing system. In 1842 he was appointed superintendent of the depot
of charts and instruments at Washington. He added to his labors of
astronomer the task of unraveling the winds and currents of the ocean.
He instituted the system of deep sea sounding, leading directly to the
establishment of telegraphic communication between the continents by
cable.
The “Physical Geography of the Sea,” translated into various languages,
is an enduring monument to the genius and usefulness of its author. The
powers of Europe recognized the value of his services to mankind. France,
Austria, Russia, Prussia, Denmark, Belgium, Portugal, Sweden, Sardinia,
Holland, Bremen and the Papal States bestowed orders of knighthood and
other honors.
The academies of science of Paris, Berlin, Brussels, St. Petersburg and
Mexico conferred the honors of membership.
He left the Federal navy to aid his own State, when Virginia seceded,
declining from a sense of duty highly honorable positions from Russia and
France.
There have been few greater scientists in the world. Humboldt pronounced
him “the greatest the world had ever known.”
The University of Cambridge conferred on him the degree of L.L. D., and
Emperor of France invited him to the superintendency of the Imperial
Observatory, at Paris. He patriotically preferred to accept the chair of
physics at the Virginia Military Institute.
While here he prepared his latest work, “The Physical Survey of Virginia.”
His remains rest beneath a modest monument of native James River granite,
in Hollywood, Virginia’s beautiful city of the dead.
When he died the Commander of Virginia Military Institute thought it
but just and proper that every power in the world should be informed,
and telegrams were sent. All were responded to in the most appropriate
manner, except one—that of the United States. Not one word from our then
President U. S. Grant!
As his body lay in state at Lexington it was literally covered from
throat to waist with decorations, some of them the richest and most
valuable jewels, the gifts of the crowned heads of the earth.
Then to the man who first gave a complete description of the Gulf stream,
who first marked out the specific routes to be followed in crossing the
Atlantic, who first instituted the system of deep sea sounding, who first
suggested the establishment of a telegraphic communication between the
continents by cable, on the bed of the ocean, and who indicated the line
along which the existing cable was laid, who caused the erection of our
naval academy—to this great man the D. A. R. of America are striving to
induce Congress to build a suitable monument. And what place could be
more appropriate than Hampton Roads, and what time better than to have it
ready before the greatest naval display the world has ever seen, which is
arranged to come off during the Jamestown exhibition in 1907.
Isn’t it a great mistake that America does not see fit to honor her great
ones, and if she does not, why cannot Virginia and Tennessee join hands
and do honor to whom honor is due?
* * * * *
_The voice which lives is the one which moulds the souls of men._
Tom’s Last “Furage”
BY JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE
Manager’s Note—There has not been a week since we commenced to
publish Trotwood’s Monthly that we have not received one or
more letters asking us to reproduce “Tom’s Last Furage,” it
never having been published in any of Mr. Moore’s books; hence
is not in permanent form. In compliance with these requests, we
reproduce the story together with a note by the author as it
appeared in the Olympian Magazine, in October, 1903. Since that
publication, the old Judge after serving a quarter of a century
as Judge of the Black Belt Circuit, died in harness, while
holding court in Greensboro, Alabama, April 27, 1904. It is
said that no judge ever lived in Alabama, who held so generally
the love and affection of all the people, white and black, as
did Judge Moore. It seems almost incredible to relate that the
last time he was re-elected to office, in a general election,
in which all parties were represented and all classes of men
voted, out of 9,500 votes cast, Judge Moore received all of
them but one.
Speaking of his death the Birmingham News said: “In his death,
the last link of the old leaders of just after the war, passed
away, honored, loved, lamented sorely; not only by his home and
district, but by the South. As his pastor said at the funeral,
‘let us pray God’s guidance to fill his place; not only as a
jurist, but in the hearts of his people.’”
A few years ago William Jennings Bryan related the story of
“Tom’s Last Furage,” in an after dinner speech, and said it
expressed more clearly the relationship existing between the
old Southern gentleman and his slaves than any story ever
written.
Peace to the ashes of so noble a man. The old Judge has passed
into the beyond. May he meet and know all whom he loved here,
even old Tom.
E. E. SWEETLAND,
Business Manager.
* * * * *
Author’s Note.—This story was first published in the Horse
Review of Chicago, December, 1897, but in December, 1899, it
was plagiarized by some writer whose name, I am glad to say,
I have forgotten, and published in Munsey’s Magazine under
the title of “Jim’s Defense.” Mrs. Frances Herrick Fowler,
the gifted California writer, called Mr. Frank A. Munsey’s
attention to the plagiarism and he very promptly wrote me a
letter of apology. Since then, so many public readers and even
negro minstrel companies have used the story, giving credit
to the plagiarized form, that, at the earnest request of the
editor of The Olympian, I am permitting it to appear again in
its true form.
A coincident so amusing in the plagiarism occurred that I shall
mention it. Much of the story is an incident in the life of my
father, Judge John Moore, still Judge of the Black Belt circuit
of Alabama, and Tom’s home coming, bringing my father’s saddle,
clothes, and sidearms, is the first distinct memory of my life.
In plagiarizing it the author in Munsey did little less than
to change the names, and in doing so he changed “Miss Mary” to
“Miss Emily,” and thus unintentionally gave all the characters
their true names.
J. T. M.
Columbia, Tenn., October, 1903.
Tom was a sly, rollicking rascal of a darkey, with a catfish smile
and a jaybird eye. He was ever ready for a laugh, a joke, a drunk, or
a profession of religion. He would spend his nights as quickly in a
bar-room as at a prayer-meeting, and by day he was equally as ready
to battle for politics as for religion. But his strong card was his
wonderful experience “endurin’ de wah,” whither he went as a body servant
to “Marse John,” and his “hairbreadth ’scapes in the imminent deadly
breach” would have put a flush of envy in the dusky cheek of Othello
himself. But Tom’s fighting was now mostly under his tongue, and, like
many who are yet wearing the blue and gray a full generation after all
hostilities have ceased and all animosities should long ago have ceased
with them, Tom’s war spirit increased as the square of the distance from
the crack of the last cannon. From his own statements there could be no
doubt that, besides actually participating in every battle of the civil
war, the Confederate forces were maintained in the field as long as they
were, entirely on account of his own skill and genius as a “furager.”
His other weakness was his habit of disputing upon questions theologic.
In this he was peculiarly strong; for, if the discussion waxed hot,
and he found he could not convince his hearer with words, he did not
hesitate to smite the centurion’s ear, or bite off his nose; and as
his war record among the darkies was already Achillean and his fistic
abilities unquestionable, there were few who were willing to “’spute de
p’int wid ’im.” His great argument was the efficacy of faith over work,
and he was so scrupulously religious in his belief that he finally ceased
to work altogether, while it required but the spirit of a July sun and a
weedy garden to set him to arguing with renewed zeal.
Now, a man is what his beliefs make him; and so the effect of Tom’s
belief developed one virtue truly apostolic; he took no thought for the
morrow, what he should eat or drink; he carried no scrip in his purse,
and, at the beginning of this story, he had not even a change of raiment.
But his staunch friend was “Marse John,” the old Judge, who had long been
Judge of a Circuit Court in Alabama—so long “the memory of man runneth
not to the contrary,” as the law books have it. The old Judge was a good
man and a good Judge—so just that the poorest and the blackest negro,
when jerked up before his bar, never failed, equally with the richest
and the whitest man in the district, to get that justice to which he
was entitled. Nay, more; for in the dignified old gentleman who looked
down upon him, pitying him in his environments of ignorance and poverty,
and scrutinizing the evidence brought out by the wily lawyers with an
alertness that reminded one of an eagle on his eerie watching the sly
maneuverings of a congregation of foxes below, the poor wretch often
unexpectedly found a strong and stubborn friend. And if the evidence
contained but the germ of a doubt in the prisoner’s favor, he promptly
got the benefit of it, though often, to get it, the old Judge had to
bring to bear in the case the guns of his own learned and analytical
mind. As he grew older, he continued to fight for truth with a zeal that
seemed to increase with the silver of his locks, and he would acquit
innocence though the hangman’s rope was already around her neck.
The old Judge’s influence in the district was wonderful, as is always
the influence of truth and strength. Though unpretentious and often
silent, not all the preachers of the circuit could have spun the moral
woof that was in the warp of his work.
Tom had belonged to the old Judge “befo’ de wah,” and had gone through
that fiery ordeal with his master. There is a peculiarly strong bond
existing, in the South, between the master and the servant who have thus
faced death together. The world cannot show a similar instance where the
tie of servitude was forged in the white heat of its destiny.
And so the old Judge now stood up for Tom through thick and thin, and
while he openly lamented Tom’s worthlessness, secretly he never failed
to come to his assistance when in trouble or supply him and his family
with food when hungry. If Tom got in jail, he “saunt for Marse John,” who
quickly bailed him out. If, in a religious scrimmage with another darkey,
he adopted the warlike methods of Peter, and was fined for assault and
battery, he “saunt for Marse John,” who, after listening to his tale,
paid his fine before the Mayor; and turned him loose, to the terror and
dismay of all the other darkies who differed from him religiously. If
he even concluded that marriage was a failure (and the Chancery Court
records will show that he did so conclude at least several times during
the first thirty years after the war), he “saunt for Marse John,” who,
after listening to his tale, must have concluded that the poor woman
was entitled to a divorce, whether Tom was or not, as he never failed
to go Tom’s security for the costs and the $15 lawyer’s fee—all that is
required in the black belt of Alabama to enable two yoked-up darkies to
separate, and then proceed to make themselves miserable again in another
effort to solve the problem. This last act raised the old Judge among
the gods in Tom’s estimation; there was nothing, he thought, Marse John
couldn’t do. The man who could thus sunder bonds that God had joined
together, possessed, in Tom’s opinion, a few Olympian attributes himself.
Therefore, Tom went on, in spite of the old Judge’s talks, admonitions,
and even threats, until one day something happened. The grand jury
returned a true bill against Tom for hog stealing. Now, the old Judge
would do anything in the world for Tom outside of his own court, but when
Tom got into that temple of justice, he found himself among the laws of
the Medes and Persians—and he knew it. If that true bill, properly drawn
up by the solicitor and signed by the foreman of the grand jury, had
indicted the old Judge’s own son, he would have tried him as calmly as
Brutus did his boys of old.
But if Tom was in great danger, he never troubled himself about it in the
least. Throughout the trial he sat with the air of one who considered he
was being highly honored to be tried by “Marse John,” and in the depths
of his face was a secret exultation that foreshadowed a complete, a
startling, and even a sensational exoneration.
He had stolen the shoat from “the major,” the old Judge’s neighbor, and
the major made out a plain, dead-shot case against Tom. In fact, several
colored witnesses, led by the centurion’s servant, as aforesaid, and
others who differed from Tom religiously, had even waylaid and watched
the defendant and seen him take the shoat and carry it to his own cabin.
In his own behalf, Tom said nothing, but sat with a broad and knowing
grin on his face, and in his eyes the look of one who, besides having a
straight flush in his hand, held a royal one up his sleeve. His lawyer
made a feeble effort at defense, and, after submitting a charge or two to
the old Judge, who promptly overruled them, the jury was duly charged,
retired, and quickly brought in a verdict sentencing Tom to five years
in the penitentiary. This made Tom chuckle outright; he almost split his
sides in quiet laughter, to the disgust of the court and the astonishment
of his own lawyer.
“Stand up, sir!” gruffly thundered the old Judge. Tom arose with his
broadest grin and most waggish air.
“Have you anything to say why this sentence should not be passed upon
you?” said the Judge, looking sternly at the prisoner.
And then came a rich scene.
“Look erheer, Marse John—he! he! he!—I sutn’y am s’prised at you—he!
he! he!—to sot up dar on dat bench, an’ heah dis jury scan’lize my
rippertashun lak dat, an’ den you turn roun’ dar, so sassy-lak, in dat
cheer, an’ ax me whut I got ter say erbout it—he! he! he! Marse John,
whut you mean by doin’ dis way? Jes’ tell me.”
The old Judge turned red with anger.
“Mr. Sheriff,” he thundered, “take this prisoner to jail!”
For a moment Tom was thunderstruck. Could it be possible Marse John
really meant it? Was Marse John, the only white friend he had, about to
desert him? Quick as a shot he changed his tactics. He had tried his
straight flush and had failed. Now for his royal flush.
“Hol’ on, Marse John! hol’ on!” Tom cried, dropping his funny ways and
assuming a look of intense earnestness and desperate seriousness. “You
dun ax me now, an’ if nuffin’ else gwi’ do you, I hafter tell you whut
I do kno’ erbout it. An you’ll ’skuze me, Marse John, ef I happens not
to be mealy-mouf ’bout tellin’ it, nurther; fur you makin’ me do it,
whuther-no. But I want you, gemmen ob de jury, an’ de shearf dar, an’
dese lawyers heah, an’ all ob you, to b’ar witness to de fac’, dat Marse
John don’ fotch all dis row down on hisse’f, befo’ all dese heah folks
heah, er-tryin’ to scan’lize my rippertashun. ’Stid ob sayin’ to you
all at the berry fus’, befo’ dis row was urver started: ‘Gem’men, dese
seedlings am squash, an’ dis ole nigger kin go!’ he sot up dar on dat
bench an’ kerry dis thing on, an’ kerry it on, an’ aig you all on, an’
aig you on, er s’archin’ an’ er s’archin’ an’ er axin’ questions, an’ er
nosin’ round in my privut bus’ness twell you all, gemmen, jes’ bleegter
go out an’ fotch in dis heah vurdick—an’ I don’t blame you all ’tall,
gem’men; I don’t think hard of you ’tall. But I sut’n’y was ’sprised at
Marse John, when he turn roun’ so sassy-lak in dat cheer, much es ter
say: ‘You ole rascal, I’ve got you now! Whut you gotter say erbout it?’
“Erhuh! Erhuh!” said Tom, chuckling and scratching his head in deep
thought. “Wall, suh, heah’s whut I gotter say erbout it: In korse I
tuck de majuh’s little bitter old po’ shoat! But I jes’ swap fur ’im,
an’ de majuh kno’ as well es I do I was gwi’ gib ’im ernudder one back
dis fawl, soon es my ole sower hed pigs—an’ er heap better shoat den I
got fum ’im, too; fur, es you all kno’, my old sower is three-quarters
Burksheer, an’ ’fo’ Gord, gem’men, es I stan’ heah on my oaf, ’kordin’
to de supervisement of Marse John, to tell you all whut I kno’ ’bout dis
thing, dat wus de little bitteres’, no-countes’ pig I urver swap fur in
all my life! Gem’men, he didn’t make me one good meal fur de old ’oman
an’ de ten older chilluns, let ’lone de two twins—de majuh an’ de jedge.
We had ter put dese ter bed befo’ supper, by tellin’ ’em we gwi’ have de
pig fur bre’kfus’, an’ ter make ’aste an’ go ter sleep so ester wake up
soon in de mohnin’ an’ git dey sheer. Arter dey went to sleep, we greased
de majuh’s an’ de jedge’s mouf wid sum cracklin’ skin, an’ put er plate
ob rib-bones an’ scraps by de baid, an’ de naixt mohnin’ when dey wake
up, we tell ’em dey dun eat dair part whilst dey sleep, an’ dey b’leeve
it to dis day! Now, ain’t dat er hog fur ter be kickin’ up sech er dust
erbout? Ef it ain’t so, gem’men, an’ dat wa’nt de littles’ razzerback I
eber swap fur, den I ain’t nurver stole horgs in Georgy!
“Erhuh! Erhuh!” said Tom, reminiscently again. “Nurver stole horgs in
Georgy? Hi-yi-ee! An’ now I’m gettin’ dar, is I? But b’ar in min’,
gem’men, Marse John dun fotch all dis down on hisse’f. I’d nurver tole
on ’im—no! not eben at de jedgment mohn—don’t keer how hard old Gabri’l
keep tootin’ his horn, an’ er lookin’ at me so s’archin’ lak wid his fiah
eyes, an’ er sayin’: ‘Tom, whut you kno’ ’bout horg stealin’ in Georgy?’
An’ I jes’ say: ‘Nuffin,’ Marse Gabri’l, nuffin, ’tall, suh, Gord bless
you, Marse Gabri’l: nurver was in Georgy in my life, suh, Gord bless
you!’ But I can’t say dat now no more, gem’men, ’kase Marse John hisse’f
dun ax me to tell whut I kno’ ’bout it!
“Gem’men, when I fus’ went to de wah wid Marse John, fur ter wait on
’im, I was es hones’ es de noonday sun; but I didn’t bin in de wah six
weeks befo’ I’d steal ennything frum er saddle blanket to de hoss dat wus
under it; ennything frum er hen-aig to de guv’ment steer! An’ why? ’Kase
Marse John dar had ter hab sumpin’ n’ur ter eat. You think I gwi’ see my
young Marster starve ter def’ fightin’ day an’ night, wid no chance to
git nuffin’ to eat, an’ libin’ on parch cohn an’ Georgy branch water,
an’ hit smellin’ ob de week’s washin’ ob de po’ Georgy white trash up
de creek, allers washin’ dey clothes in it? Ruther walk five miles to
wash dey clothes in er branch den ter hab som-body wash ’em fur ’em in
er silver-lined wash-tub. You think I gwi’ see ’im starve, I say, jes’
on ’count ob er littl ’lig’us skooples? Menny an’ menny a mohnin’, suh,
Marse John ’ud git up from camp so hongry an’ weak he couldn’t hardly
walk, an’ say: ‘Tom, you sly raskil! did you furage enny las’ night?’
(He call it furagin’ den, gem’men!) An’ I’d laf an’ say: ‘Marse John,
you kno’ you ain’t nurver gin me no money fur to get ennything!’ An’ den
he’d laf an’ say: ‘G’long, you sly raskil, an’ fotch in my bre’kfus’!—jes
lak he wus orderin’ it from er resterrant. An’ den I’d laf an’ fotch ’im
out de sof’-b’iled aigs, an’ de br’iled chicken, an’ de home-made Georgy
kwored ham, an’ de biskits. An’, fo’ Gord, gem’men, in all dat campange
I nurver knowed ’im to challenge de rigularity ob his empanelmen’ nur
ter s’arch too close into de wharfore ob de fotchness. Nur did I eber
kno’ ’im ter go out an’ hab er jury ob twelve men fotch roun’ to de tent
to hol’ enny inques’ ober de remains ob dat fellerny, wid er leetle ole
s’archin’ lawyer fur to ax quextunes, an’ keep hintin’ ’bout stealin’,
an’ de pen’tenshury, an’ all dat! No, suh, gem’men; ’stid ob all dis
hooraw an’ red-tape, he’d jes’ smile all ober an’ fall to an’ say: ‘Gord
bless you, Tom; you am er jewel, an’ no mistake!’
“Now, whar’d dem aigs cum frum, Marse John, an’ dem chickens? Whar’d I
laf an’ tell you dey cum from? Ax de Georgy hen-roosts frum Ringgold to
Dalton. An’ whar’d dem home-kwored hams cum frum? Ax de smoke-houses ob
de widders in de mountings frum Chat’nooger to Atlanter! Erhuh! ’Twas
furagin’ den, wus it; an’ it won’ no harm fur to eat de po’ widders’ las’
ham or slorter de chickens ob de innercents, long es you didn’t pull ’em
yo’se’f? Erhuh? An’ I ax you right now, gem’men, ef he didn’t read outen
a book dis mohnin’ mos’ Solomonly, an’ ’splain to you all mos’ capisly,
dat de ’sessery to de crime mus de same es de ’sessor? Erhuh! ’Scuse me,
Marse John, fur recognizin’ dis thing so p’intedly, but you kno’ yo’se’f
you tell me most p’intedly ter tell whut I kno’ er-bout it, an’ I’m
bleegter do it!
“Ole Gabri’l hisse’f c’u’dn’t made me do whut you kin!
“An’ dar’s de majuh, er settin’ an’ er smilin’ an’ er aigin’ dis thing
on. Mebbe he’d lakter kno’ whut I gotter say erbout it! Lemme ax you,
majuh, ef you disremembers de week befo’ de battle ob Resaker, an’ dat
mohnin’ you cum ober to me an’ Marse John’s tent an’ say: ‘Tom, you
theevin’ son ob darkness, me an’ yo’ Marse John wanter hab little Jo, an’
General Cheatem, an’ Pat Claybu’n, ober in de tent fur supper ter-morrow,
fur we’re all hongry an’ want sumpin’ fit ter eat. We can’t fight fureber
on er empty stummic. Now, you jes’ git on my hoss, ter-day, an git er
huff on you, you black scamp, an’ go up in dese hills an’ hollers, an’
steal ennything fit ter eat in hair, hide or feathers—jes’ make dese
Georgy hen-roosts howl! Git us sumpin’ fit fur de men dat’s gwinter eat
it, Tom, fur yo’ rippertashun es er furager is sho’ at stake!’
“Erhuh! Erhuh! You ain’t furgot dat, is you, majuh, nur de supper I
got up fur you all? Er hole b’iled ham—I stole dat frum er widder’s
smokehouse whilst I wus pricin’ aigs wid her, an’ watchin’ de lay ob
de hen-house, waitin’ fur de moon to go down. Er tucky gobbler which I
mistuck an’ shot fur er wild one, meanderin’ round in er meader in front
ob er orphin ’sylum. Biskits frum flour I got outer er mill dat seem
ter kinder run itse’f, an’ two gallins ob mountain dew I stole outen er
hard-shell preacher’s cellar. An’ when all de ginerels dun sot round de
pine boards I fix up fur er table, an’ I fotch all dem things in, smokin’
hot an’ smellin’ lak er supper in heaben, didn’t all the ginerels’ eyes
sparkle lak di’mon’s; an’ little Jo up an’ say: ‘Why, majuh, you ax us
ter supper, an’ sot us down to er banquet! Whar in de wurl you git all
dis?”
“An’ den you wink yo’ eye at Marse John, an’ say: ‘Gineral Johnson, ef
you’d jes’ p’int dat nigger Tom, dar, Cheef ob de Commissary Departmen’
ob de Army ob Tennessee, we’d nurver go hongry enny mo’, an’ we’d whip
Gineral Sherman in two weeks!’
“An’ den you all laf, an’ went to furagin’.
“Erhuh! Ain’t dat so? An’ lemme ax you, majah, whut’s de difference in
furagin’ in wah an’ in peace? An’ s’pose sum thirty years arter de wah me
an’ my fambly ’bout to starve, an’ I heah de chillun cryin’ fur sumpin’
ter eat, an’ I goes by yo’ lot sum dark night er kinder dreamin’ all de
time an’ sorter libin’ lak er ole man will, in de past, an’ I ’gin ter
think I’m in dat bloody wah erg’in, an’ out furagin’ fur you an’ Marse
John, an’ I happen ter knock over one ob yo’ little ole razzer-back
shoats, ter take back ter camp ergin—is dat ennything fur ter raise sech
er hooraw erbout? Ain’t I gwi’ gi’ you er nudder one back dis fawl? Jes’
tell me!