It was fortunate for Mrs. Frost that she was so soon called upon to
think for others. It gave her less time to grieve over her husband's
absence, which was naturally a severe trial to her. As for Frank, though
the harvest was gathered in, there were plenty of small jobs to occupy
his attention. He divided with Jacob the care of the cows, and was up
betimes in the morning to do his share of the milking. Then the pigs and
chickens must be fed every day, and this Frank took entirely into his
own charge. Wood, also, must be prepared for the daily wants of the
house, and this labor he shared with Jacob.
In the afternoon, however, Frank usually had two or three hours at his
own disposal, and this, in accordance with a previous determination, he
resolved to devote to keeping up his studies. He did not expect to
make the same progress that he would have done if he had been able
to continue at school, but it was something to feel that he was not
remaining stationary.
Frank resolved to say nothing to his classmates about his private
studies. They would think he was falling far behind, and at some future
time he would surprise them.
Still, there were times when he felt the need of a teacher. He would
occasionally encounter difficulties which he found himself unable to
surmount without assistance. At such times he thought of Mr Rathburn's
kind offer. But his old teacher lived nearly a mile distant, and he felt
averse to troubling him, knowing that his duties in school were arduous.
Occasionally he met some of his schoolmates. As nearly all of them were
friendly and well-disposed to him, this gave him pleasure, and brought
back sometimes the wish that he was as free as they. But this wish was
almost instantly checked by the thought that he had made a sacrifice for
his country's sake.
A few days after the incident narrated in the last chapter, Frank was
out in the woods not far from Chloe's cottage, collecting brushwood,
to be afterward carried home, when his attention was called to an
altercation, one of the parties in which he readily recognized as little
Pomp. To explain how it came about, we shall have to go back a little.
Pomp was returning from Mrs. Frost's, swinging a tin kettle containing
provisions for his mother and himself, when all at once he met John
Haynes, who was coming from the opposite direction.
Now, John was something of a bully, and liked to exercise authority over
the boys who were small enough to render the attempt a safe one. On the
present occasion he felt in a hectoring mood.
“I'll have some fun out of the little nigger,” he said to himself, as he
espied Pomp.
Pomp approached, swinging his pail as before, and whistling a plantation
melody.
“What have you got there, Pomp?” asked John.
“I'se got a pail,” said Pomp independently. “Don't yer know a pail when
you see him?”
“I know an impudent little nigger when I see him,” retorted John, not
overpleased with the answer. “Come here directly, and let me see what
you've got in your pail.”
“I ain't got noffin for you,” said Pomp defiantly.
“We'll see about that,” said John. “Now, do you mean to come here or
not? I'm going to count three, and I'll give you that time to decide.
One--two--three!”
Pomp apparently had no intention of complying with John's request.
He had halted about three rods from him, and stood swinging his pail,
meanwhile watching John warily.
“I see you want me to come after you,” said John angrily.
He ran toward Pomp, but the little contraband dodged him adroitly, and
got on the other side of a tree.
Opposition only stimulated John to new efforts. He had become excited in
the pursuit, and had made up his mind to capture Pomp, who dodged in
and out among the trees with such quickness and dexterity that John
was foiled for a considerable time. The ardor of his pursuit and its
unexpected difficulty excited his anger. He lost sight of the fact that
Pomp was under no obligation to comply with his demand. But this is
generally the way with tyrants, who are seldom careful to keep within
the bounds of justice and reason.
“Just let me catch you, you little rascal, and I will give you the worst
licking you ever had,” John exclaimed, with passion.
“Wait till you catch me,” returned Pomp, slipping, eel-like, from his
grasp.
But Pomp, in dodging, had now come to an open space, where he was at
a disadvantage. John was close upon him, when suddenly he stood
stock-still, bending his back so as to obtain a firm footing. The
consequence was that his too ardent pursuer tumbled over him, and
stretched his length upon the ground.
Unfortunately for Pomp, John grasped his leg in falling, and held it
by so firm a grip that he was unable to get free. In the moment of his
downfall John attained his object.
“Now I've got you,” he said, white with passion, “and I'm going to teach
you a lesson.”
Clinging to Pomp with one hand, he drew a stout string from his
pocket with the other, and secured the hands of the little contraband,
notwithstanding his efforts to escape.
“Le' me go, you debble,” he said, using a word which had grown familiar
to him on the plantation.
There was a cruel light in John's eyes which augured little good to poor
Pomp. Suddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, he loosened the cord,
and taking the boy carried him, in spite of his kicking and screaming,
to a small tree, around which he clasped his hands, which he again
confined with cords.
He then sought out a stout stick, and divested it of twigs.
Pomp watched his preparations with terror. Too well he knew what they
meant. More than once he had seen those of his own color whipped on the
plantation. Unconsciously, he glided into the language which he would
have used there.
“Don't whip me, Massa John,” he whimpered in terror. “For the lub of
Heaven, lef me be. I ain't done noffin' to you.”
“You'd better have thought of that before,” said John, his eyes blazing
anew with vengeful light. “If I whip you, you little black rascal, it's
only because you richly deserve it.”
“I'll nebber do so again,” pleaded Pomp, rolling his eyes in terror.
Though what it was he promised not to do the poor little fellow would
have found it hard to tell.
It would have been as easy to soften the heart of a nether millstone as
that of John Haynes.
By the time he had completed his preparations, and whirled his stick in
the air preparatory to bringing it down with full force on Pomp's back,
rapid steps were heard, and a voice asked, “What are you doing there,
John Haynes?”
John looked round, and saw standing near him Frank Frost, whose
attention had been excited by what he had heard of Pomp's cries.
“Save me, save me, Mass' Frank,” pleaded poor little Pomp.
“What has he tied you up there for, Pomp?”
“It's none of your business, Frank Frost,” said John passionately.
“I think it's some of my business,” said Frank coolly, “when I find you
playing the part of a Southern overseer. You are not in Richmond, John
Haynes, and you'll get into trouble if you undertake to act as if you
were.”
“If you say much more, I'll flog you too!” screamed John, beside himself
with excitement and rage.
Frank had not a particle of cowardice in his composition. He was not
fond of fighting, but he felt that circumstances made it necessary for
him to do so now. He did not easily lose his temper, and this at present
gave him the advantage over John.
“You are too excited to know what you are talking about,” he said
coolly. “Pomp, why has he tied you up?”
Pomp explained that John had tried to get his pail from him. He closed
by imploring “Mass' Frank” to prevent John from whipping him.
“He shall not whip you, Pomp,” said Frank quietly. As he spoke he
stepped to the tree and faced John intrepidly.
John, in a moment of less passion, would not have ventured to attack a
boy so near his own size. Like all bullies, he was essentially a coward,
but now his rage got the better of his prudence.
“I'll flog you both!” he exclaimed hoarsely, and sprang forward with
upraised stick.
Frank was about half a head shorter than John, and was more than a year
younger, but he was stout and compactly built; besides, he was cool and
collected, and this is always an advantage.
Before John realized what had happened, his stick had flown from his
hand, and he was forcibly pushed back, so that he narrowly escaped
falling to the ground.
“Gib it to him, Mass' Frank!” shouted little Pomp. “Gib it to him!”
This increased John's exasperation. By this time he was almost foaming
at the mouth.
“I'll kill you, Frank Frost,” he exclaimed, this time rushing at him
without a stick.
Frank had been in the habit of wrestling for sport with the boys of his
own size. In this way he had acquired a certain amount of dexterity in
“tripping up.” John, on the contrary, was unpractised. His quick temper
was so easily roused that other boys had declined engaging in friendly
contests with him, knowing that in most cases they would degenerate into
a fight.
John rushed forward, and attempted to throw Frank by the strength of his
arms alone. Frank eluded his grasp, and, getting one of his legs around
John's, with a quick movement tripped him up. He fell heavily upon his
back.
“This is all foolish, John,” said Frank, bending over his fallen foe.
“What are you fighting for? The privilege of savagely whipping a poor
little fellow less than half your age?”
“I care more about whipping you, a cursed sight!” said John, taking
advantage of Frank's withdrawing his pressure to spring to his feet.
“You first, and him afterward!”
Again he threw himself upon Frank; but again coolness and practice
prevailed against blind fury and untaught strength, and again he lay
prostrate.
By this time Pomp had freed himself from the string that fettered his
wrists, and danced in glee round John Haynes, in whose discomfiture he
felt great delight.
“You'd better pick up your pail and run home,” said Frank. He was
generously desirous of saving John from further humiliation. “Will you
go away quietly if I will let you up, John?” he asked.
“No, d---- you!” returned John, writhing, his face almost livid with
passion.
“I am sorry,” said Frank, “for in that case I must continue to hold you
down.”
“What is the trouble, boys?” came from an unexpected quarter.
It was Mr. Maynard, who, chancing to pass along the road, had been
attracted by the noise of the struggle.
Frank explained in a few words.
“Let him up, Frank,” said the old man. “I'll see that he does no further
harm.”
John rose to his feet, and looked scowlingly from one to the other, as
if undecided whether he had not better attack both.
“You've disgraced yourself, John Haynes,” said the old farmer
scornfully. “So you would turn negro-whipper, would you? Your talents
are misapplied here at the North. Brutality isn't respectable here, my
lad. You'd better find your way within the rebel lines, and then perhaps
you can gratify your propensity for whipping the helpless.”
“Some day I'll be revenged on you for this,” said John, turning
wrathfully upon Frank. “Perhaps you think I don't mean it, but the day
will come when you'll remember what I say.”
“I wish you no harm, John,” said Frank composedly, “but I sha'n't stand
by and see you beat a boy like Pomp.”
“No,” said the farmer sternly; “and if ever I hear of your doing it,
I'll horsewhip you till you beg for mercy. Now go home, and carry your
disgrace with you.”
Mr. Maynard spoke contemptuously, but with decision, and pointed up the
road.
With smothered wrath John obeyed his order, because he saw that it would
not be safe to refuse.
“I'll come up with him yet,” he muttered to himself, as he walked
quietly toward home. “If he doesn't rue this day, my name isn't John
Haynes.”
John did not see fit to make known the circumstances of his quarrel with
Frank, feeling, justly, that neither his design nor the result would
reflect any credit upon himself. But his wrath was none the less deep
because he brooded over it in secret. He would have renewed his attempt
upon Pomp, but there was something in Mr. Maynard's eye which assured
him that his threat would be carried out. Frank, solicitous for the
little fellow's safety, kept vigilant watch over him for some days, but
no violence was attempted. He hoped John had forgotten his threats.