the United States Senate, I traveled in their company several days. The
children had their colored mammy to care for them. She had been raised
in the Deslonde family, a trusted servant. I was struck with the system
and care with which she managed her little charges from Mathilde, a girl
in her teens, down to baby Johnny. She lived with them during those
troublous times in Washington, she accompanied the family to Paris, and
I presume died there. Always dressed in a neat calico gown, a fichu and
_tignon_, even in Paris she did not alter her dress nor wear another
headgear than her own bandana. There’s a mammy to immortalize!
Then let us raise a monument to the mammies of the days that were.
Quickly, too, before the last one of us who were crowned with such a
blessing shall have passed away “’mid the shadows that flee in the
night.”
XXIX
MARY ANN AND MARTHA ANN
The story of Mary Ann and Martha Ann and the red bonnet has been so
often retold to my children and grandchildren that every detail has been
retained, and in its completeness as I give it here, it is a bit of
authentic family history “dressed up” as its hearers love it.
“What kin we do, Ma’y Ann? I dun hear Miss Liza talkin’ ’bout it agin,
and ’lowin’ it got to be found.” The two little negroes sat under a
wide-spreading pecan tree that scattered its shade and its late autumn
nuts over the grassy lawn of a spacious Southern mansion. They crouched
closely together, heads touching, voices whispering and faces turned to
the river road, their scanty linsey skirts drawn tightly over little
black legs, so that no searching eye from the broad veranda could spy
them. Mary Ann looked anxiously around, and, drawing her knotty, kinky
head closer still to Martha’s softer locks, whispered: “Marm Charlotte
gwine to clean out de L, and you know she’ll go in dat room fust thing.”
Marthy sprang back with dilated eyes.
“Ma’y Ann, it carnt stay dar; it’s gotten to cum outen dar, oh Lordy!
What did you put it dar in the fust place fur?”
“I didn’t put it dar.” Ma’y Ann’s eyes flashed. “You fotch it dar your
own self, unner your apern; you sed it was yourn and Miss Ellen giv it to
you.”
Marthy sprang to her feet. “Miss Ellen never giv me nothin’ in her whole
life.” She shook her clenched fist in Ma’y Ann’s face, then burst into
tears. The stolen conference, like many another that had preceded it,
was opened in a spirit of mutual conciliation, but as the interview
progressed and interest waxed, the poor little negroes became fierce in
their alarm, fast losing sight of the turpitude of the deed committed
in common in the over-mastering anxiety of each one to shift the entire
blame on the other.
“Hush, gal, set down; I hear Marm Charlotte dis bery minit; she mustn’t
kotch me under dis here pecon tree agin. I was down here yisterday,
tryin’ to dig a hole where we’s settin’ now! I want ter berry de rotten
thing. Marm Charlotte kotch’d me here, and she ax’d what I doin’ and I
’low’d I was gitten pecons fur de turkeys, and she ’sponded she low’d ter
tell me when to feed de turkeys.”
Marthy Ann slowly resumed her seat, taking care to get well behind the
pecan tree. She was nervously sobbing, “She’s kept me—a—lookin’ fur
it—till I feared to go in—our—room—feared to find it—a settin’ on de
baid—Oh, Ma’y Ann, what made you take hit?”
Ma’y Ann’s eyes flashed fire. She was of the heroic sort, and by no wise
melted by Marthy’s lamentations and tears.
“I didn’t take hit; you tuck hit, and you know you did; you’s de biggest
rascal on de place. You does a thing, den you goes whinin’ and cryin’
’bout hit. I does a thing, I jist ’sponds fur hit and sticks hit out.”
Marthy wiped her eyes on the linsey skirt and tried to imbibe some of her
companion’s courage.
“Well, Ma’y Ann, you put it whar tis and ghostes cum out ev’ry night and
ties me wid de long, red strings.”
“No ghostes cum arter me,” said Ma’y Ann, bridling up. “Dat shows you put
it dar your own self.”
“We ain’t got no time ter talk and fuss; we got ter find a place to put
hit now. God knows it cums atter me ev’y night, and las’ night de debbel
had it on, Ma’y Ann. I seed him; he jist strutted all around de room wid
it on his haid and de ribbons was tied to his horns.”
“Oh, Lordy, Marthy, is he got hit now?” The terrified child sprang to her
feet and gazed distractedly up the tree. “Marthy, we kin fling hit up in
dis tree; won’t de debbil let hit stay in de crotch?”
The strained eyes eagerly searched for a sheltering limb that would
catch and conceal the thing, the ghost of which would not lay, day or
night. Marm Charlotte had never relaxed in her search, in bureaus,
and armchairs, behind hanging dresses, in the big cedar chest, among
the blankets, upon top shelves, in old bandboxes, in trunks, over bed
testers, downstairs in china closets, among plates and dishes, under
parlor sofas and over library bookcases. Ma’y Ann and Marthy Ann had no
rest. They made believe to search the garden, after the house had been
pulled to pieces, going down among the artichoke bushes and the cherokee
rose hedge that smothered the orchard fence, wishing and praying somebody
might find it in one of those impossible places all torn by squirrels or
made into nests by birds.
* * * * *
Christmas, with its turkeys and capons fattened on pecan nuts, its
dances and flirtations in the wide halls of the big house, its weddings
and breakdowns in the negro quarters, had come and gone. The whirr of
the ponderous mill had ceased; the towering chimney of the sugar house
no longer waved its plume of smoke by day nor scattered its showers of
sparks by night. Busy spiders spun nets over big, dusty kettles, and
hung filmy veils from the tall rafters. Keen-eyed mice scampered over
the floors and scuffled in the walls of the deserted building whence the
last hogshead of sugar and barrel of molasses had been removed, and the
key turned in the great door of the sugar house. Tiny spears of cane
were sprouting up all over the newly plowed fields. Drain and ditches
were bubbling over, and young crawfish darting back and forth in their
sparkling waters. The balmy air of early summer, freighted with odors
of honeysuckle and cape jessamine, and melodious with the whistle and
trill of mocking birds, floated into the open windows and doors of the
plantation dwelling. The shadowy crepe myrtle tree scattered crimpy pink
blossoms over the lawn. Lady Banks rose vines festooned the trellises and
scrambled in wild confusion over the roof of the well house, waving its
golden radiance in the soft, sunny air. Cherokee and Chickasaw hedges,
with prodigal luxuriance, covered the rough wooden fences, holding
multitudes of pink and white blossoms in thorny embrace, and sheltering
the secret nests of roaming turkey hens and their wild-eyed broods.
“Well, Levi, you’se dun your job, and it wus a big one, too.”
“Yes, William, I whitewashed as much as ten miles o’ fencing, and all de
trees in de stable lot, besides de cabins and de chicken houses.”
“Ten miles o’ fencing,” replied William doubtfully. “I didn’t ’low dere
wuz dat much on de whole plantation. Why, dey call hit ten miles from
here to Manchac, and ’bout ten from here to Cohite.”
“I mean ten miles in and out; about five miles one side de fence and five
miles de odder.”
“Oh! that-a-way,” said William dubiously. “Charlotte, give Mr. Stucker
another dodger.”
The speakers were two negro men, one in the shirt sleeves and long apron
that betokened the household cook, the other in the shiny, shabby “store
clothes” of the town darky. They sat at the kitchen table, in front
of a window commanding a view of newly whitewashed fences and trees.
Etiquette required that William should play the rôle of host, on this,
the last morning of the whitewasher’s stay. Charlotte had laid the cloth
and placed the plates and knives for two, and served the fried bacon and
hot corn dodgers to Mr. Levi Stucker, a free man, who had a house of his
own and a wife to wait on him and in view of this dignity and state was
deemed entitled to unusual consideration.
“Lemme ask you, Charlotte,” said Stucker, carefully splitting his dodger,
and sopping the hot crumbs in the bacon gravy, “is you missed ary thing
outen de yard on dese premises? Caze I heard dem two little gals havin’
a big talk in dat room next to me last night; you knows dat’s a mighty
weaky boardin’ ’tween dose rooms and a pusson don’t have to listen to
hear. I bin hearin’ ’em movin’ ’bout and a whisperin’ most ginerally
every night when dey ought most likely to be asleep. Las’ night a old owl
was a squinchin’ on dat mulberry tree by de winder, and de shutter hit
slammed. Dat woke dem gals up; it was atter midnight; dey was skeert, one
on ’em begin to blubber and sed de debbil was dar to kotch ’em. From de
way dey talked—(but it was mystifyin’, I tell you)—I ’lowed in my mind
dem gals had stole somethin’, I couldn’t gather what, fur dey didn’t name
no specials, but sure’s you born dey’s up to somethin’, and skeered to
death ’bout its bein’ foun’ out.”
Charlotte stopped on her way to the frying pan with widening eyes and
uplifted fork, and listened attentively, with an occasional jerk of the
head toward William.
“Jist tell me,” pursued Levi, “if you ’low dose gals to have de run of
de quarters, caze dey gits mischief in dere heads if dey run wid quarter
niggers.”
“No, sir,” responded the woman emphatically, “dey never goes down dar;
I’m keerful ’bout dat—onreason’ble keerful; no, sir, if I was to let ’em
have the run o’ dat quarter lot dere would never be a cold biskit nor a
cup o’ clabber in dis house de minit atter you put ’em outen your hands.
No, sir, Mr. Stucker, if old Hannah, or ary of de sick niggers down dar
wants anything from dis house dey got to send one of their own little
niggers wid de cup or de pan, and I pintedly gives ’em what’s needed;
dere’s nuff work for Ma’y Ann and Marthy Ann ’bout dis house ’dout dey
visitin’ at de quarters and waitin’ on quarter niggers. I bet, dough,
dey’s bin in some mischief I ain’t had time to ferret out.”
After a pause she continued, “And you say you think dey done stole
somethin’?”
“Yes,” answered Stucker, pushing back his chair and rising from the
table; “yes, I understand somethin’ of dat natur’, if you has missed ary
thing.”
“We did miss dat currycomb what William comb his har wid; it was a bran
new, kinder stiff one, and he missed it last Sunday,” replied Charlotte.
“Dat jist fallen outen de winder, it warn’t lost,” interrupted
William, who had been watching for a favorable opportunity to join the
conversation.
“Yes, dem spawns foun’ hit outdoors, when I tole ’em I’d skin ’em if
it wasn’t perjuced,” said Charlotte, turning to William, who thereupon
relapsed into acquiescent silence.
“It warn’t no currycomb dey was talkin’ ’bout last night,” said Stucker,
jerking first one leg then the other to free his shaggy breeches of
dodger crumbs.
“Jist hold on a minit,” said Charlotte, stepping to the kitchen door and
shouting, “Ma’y Ann and Marthy Ann, whar’s you?”
“Here I is, ma’am, I’s comin’, yes ’em,” was responded from an upper
porch, and the two little darkies scuffled down the back stairs.
“Jist you two run down to de orchard whar I kin see you all de time,
hear me? All de time, and look fur dat Dominiker hen’s nest. I hear her
cacklin’ down dar, and don’t neither of you dar’ cum back till you find
it. If you cum back ’fore I call you, I’ll pickle you well. Run!”
Two little guinea blue cotton skirts whisked through a gap in the rose
hedge and emerged in the deep grass of the orchard, before Charlotte
turned back into the kitchen, satisfied they were at a distance,
and still under her observation. Levi Stucker meanwhile, having
carefully tied his two weeks’ earnings in the corner of his red cotton
handkerchief, and shared his last “chaw” of tobacco with William, swung
his bundle from the end of his long whitewash pole and departed, with the
shambling, shuffling gait of the typical Southern negro.
“I’m gwine upstairs, William, and I’ll ramshackle dat room till I find
out what’s dar,” said the woman. She slowly mounted the stairs, down
which the two culprits had so lately descended with flying feet, and
turned into a small room on the servants’ gallery. She glanced around
the bare apartment the two little negroes called their own. There was a
battered trunk against the wall with a damaged cover and no fastening of
any kind, a rickety chair and a bed. Charlotte tore the linsey dresses,
homespun petticoats and check aprons from nails behind the door, shaking
and critically examining each article. In the trunk she found remnants of
rag dolls and broken toys and bits of quilt pieces that had been their
playthings for time out of mind. There were no pockets to examine, no
locks to pry open. “Dey don’t need no pockets to carry dere money in,
and no locked up trunks fur dere jewelry,” Charlotte always said. It was
her habit to go in and out their room freely, to see that it was kept in
some kind of order and the bed regularly made up. The door of the room
was always open, and no means afforded for securing it on the inside.
Notwithstanding these precautions of Charlotte, who practically accepted
the doctrine of infant depravity, there was a mystery concealed in that
room that at intervals almost throttled the two little negroes, and,
strange to say, with all the woman’s vigilance, had slumbered months
within sound of her voice. She rapidly threw the clothes on the window
sill, turned the trunk inside out and pushed its battered frame into the
middle of the floor.
Nothing now remained to be searched but the plain unpainted bed. It was
neatly made up, the coarse brown blankets securely tucked in all around.
Charlotte whisked that off and dragged after it the cotton mattress which
rested on a “sack bottom,” secured by interlacing cords to the bed frame.
There was revealed the hidden secret! Crushed quite flat and sticking to
the sacking, long under pressure of the cotton mattress and the tossing
and tumbling children, what trick of dainty beauty lay before her? It was
so crumpled and smothered, torn and ragged, soiled with fleeces of cotton
lint that had sifted through the bed seams, and covered with dust and
grime that but for glimpses of its original form and color here and there
it would never have been recognized. Charlotte snatched it out and fled
to the porch to see if Ma’y Ann and Marthy Ann were still down in the
orchard. There they lay, prone in the soft grass, happy as only children,
and black ones at that, can be. Four little ebony legs kicked up in the
air, and the sound of merry shouts reached Charlotte’s ear.
“You’ll fly dem laigs to sum purpose yit, fur I lay I’ll git Marse Jim to
giv you a breakdown dat’ll make dem laigs tired,” she said to herself.
“You jist lay dar,” she muttered, as she descended the steps. “You
needn’t waste your time (it’s a awful short one) lookin’ for aigs dat de
ole Dominiker ain’t never laid yit.”
* * * * *
The deep window of the library was wide open, the sash thrown up and
an easy lounging chair drawn to the veranda, on which reposed the
towering form of the planter, lazily smoking a cigar, and looking off
upon the broad, swift river at a passing steamboat, floating so high on
its swelling waves that its deck was almost on a line with the top of
the grass-covered levee. Its passengers, thronging the “guards” in the
fragrance of a fine morning, seemed almost near enough to the spectator
on shore to respond to a friendly nod of the head. The delicate lady of
the mansion sat silently within, also watching the passing boat.
“I see some one waving a paper from the _Belle Creole_. I believe that’s
Green. Yes, he has tied a handkerchief to his crutch, and is waving that.”
The planter rose as he spoke and stood for a moment for a better view.
“Here, give me something, quick, to wave back at him.”
At this critical moment Charlotte appeared on the scene. “This will do,”
he exclaimed, catching the velvet wreck from the astonished woman’s grasp
and tossing it aloft, holding it by the long strings.
“Lord! jist see Marse Jim wid dat bonnet I dun foun’, dat you lost ’fore
grinding time, Miss Liza, and whar you spec it was? Right onder Ma’y
Ann’s bed.”
“My bonnet! for pity’s sake, only look at it. Look!”
“It don’t look much like a bonnet. It’s more like a red rag to make
the turkeys gobble,” replied the master, disdainfully, throwing it to
Charlotte.
“My bonnet I paid Olympe twenty dollars for, and never wore it but once;
see the satin strings! And just look at the cape at the back! And the
feather poppies!”
Charlotte straightened herself up, holding the crumpled bonnet and
turning it around to show its proportions. It was of the “skyscraper”
shape, made on stiff millinette, that is more easily broken than bent.
Mashed sideways, it showed in its flattened state as much of the satin
lining as of velvet cover.
“Levi Stucker ain’t no fool. He tole me and William he heard Ma’y Ann
and Marthy Ann whisperin’ and plannin’ in dere room nights till he was
sure dey was a hatchin’ mischief, ef dey hadn’t already hatched more
snakes dan dey could kiver, so I ’low’d I’d go and ramshackle dat room
o’ theirn, and onder de baid, Marse Jim, ’twixt de sackin’ and de cotton
baid, way onder de very middle, I found dis bonnet what I bin lookin’ fur
ever since grindin’ time. Now, Marse Jim, dere ain’t no use in talkin’ to
dem gals; dere ain’t no use in readin’ no caterkism to ’em, nor in Miss
Liza telling no more tales to ’em ’bout dat liar Anifera, or sum sich
name. No use in whippin’ ’em, nudder. If I’se whipped dem two niggers
once fur not lookin’ fur dis bonnet when I sont ’em to, I’se whipped ’em
forty times. Dat didn’t make ’em find what they hid demselves, and it
ain’t going to do ’em no good now. Marse Jim, you jist got to skeer de
very life outen ’em, and send ’em to de canefields. Dey is rascals and
rogues.”
“Well, Charlotte,” he responded, “put the bonnet on this side, out of
sight, and bring those children here. I’ll see what I can do.”
As Charlotte left he turned to his tender-hearted wife and told her, “It
is important those little negroes should have a lesson that would be of
some use. Charlotte is right on the subject of moral suasion as far as
those little imps are concerned, so don’t let your kindness and sympathy
interfere with my conduct of the case. Keep in the background, and I will
give them a lesson they will not soon forget.”
“I can’t imagine what could have induced those children to make way with
that bonnet,” said Miss Liza, meditatively, as she looked at the crumpled
wreck on the floor.
“Perhaps mischief, perhaps accident. The thing is to make them
acknowledge the theft. Entrenched as they are behind a whole barricade
of lies and deceit, the thing is to make them capitulate,” replied the
husband.
“Cum right in; don’t be modest now. Marse Jim sont fur you,” was heard in
Charlotte’s bantering tone, as she appeared in the doorway, half-leading,
half-dragging the reluctant culprits, who already began to sniff a coming
battle. With some difficulty she marshaled them before the master and
stood close at hand ready to offer moral support if the court of inquiry
gave any signs of weakening, or to cut off retreat on the part of the
little darkies if they became too alarmed to “stand fire.”
“Well, Mary and Martha, where have you been?” inquired Marse Jim, in his
blandest and most conciliatory tone.
“Down in de orchard lookin’ for aigs fur Marm Charlotte.” “And we was
findin’ some when she hollowed fur us to cum to de house.” “De Dominicker
hen got nest in de haige.” “She’s settin’, too.”
“Hold on, hold on, don’t both of you talk at once. I didn’t ask about the
hen’s nest. Have you been all over the orchard in the hot sun?”
“Yes, sir.” “Yes, sir, we goes anywhar fur Marm Charlotte.” “She sont
us.” “Yes, sir, she sont us fur aigs.” “An’ we was findin’ sum too.” “Dat
Dominicker hen——”
With uplifted restraining hand he said: “Hush, don’t both talk at once.
Let me talk some. Did you go away down there without your bonnet?”
“We ain’t got no bonnet.” “Me and Ma’y Ann don’t wear bonnets, Marse Jim.”
“Yes, you have a bonnet. Isn’t this your bonnet?” the master said, in
his quiet, inquiring tone, holding up before their bulging eyes the
dilapidated wreck that they had not dared look at in all the months they
had buried it out of sight. Ma’y Ann steadfastly turned her face away
from the ghost. She bit her lips, but uttered not a word.
“No, Marse Jim—I—I—er, Marse Jim, I feel sick, sick,” stammered Marthy,
as she trembled so she almost fell.
“Sick! Give me your hand.” She quickly recovered, and clasped the tawny
paws behind her back. “Give me your hand; let me feel your pulse.”
Reluctantly she proffered the hand. “There, now,” he said, letting the
limp little hand fall to her side. “You feel chilly, don’t you? Go sit
down on that step.” Marthy sidled slowly away, tears welling her eyes and
her whole frame shaken with suppressed sobs.
“Stop dat cryin’; nobody ain’t doin’ nuthin’ to you; stop dat foolishness
and listen to what Marse Jim is a sayin’ to you two onreasonable
rapscallions,” said Charlotte, in a severe tone. She held Mary Ann (who
was making ready to fly at the first opportunity) by the back of her
neckband.
“Let Martha alone, Charlotte, she is weakening; we’ll talk about the
bonnet to Mary Ann, she knows.”
“No, Marse Jim, I ’clar I never see dat bonnet in all my life; I ’clar I
never did. I ’clar——”
“Hush,” said the master in a stern voice, “let me ask a question or two,
and only answer what I ask.”
“Tell de truth, too,” ejaculated Charlotte, “onless you want de debbil to
kotch you.”
“Give me your hand.” The child clutched at her cotton skirt with both
hands. He reached out, quietly and forcibly took one skinny little black
paw in his firm grasp. Drawing the shrinking, reluctant child toward him,
he fixed his eyes upon her averted face. “Now look me right in the eye;
everybody does that to people who are talking to them; look me in the
eye. What made you hide that bonnet? Look at me when I am talking to you.”
“I didn’t neber see dat bonnet b’fore. I ’clar——”
“Stop, look at me; don’t look at Martha, she’s better.” The child’s eyes
dropped. “Don’t look at the floor, look me in the eye.”
“Marse Jim, slap her; make her look at you.”
“Be quiet, Charlotte; she’s going to tell, I want to help her,” replied
the imperturbable inquisitor in his blandest tones. Still holding the
reluctant hand and drawing the figure more closely to him, he said, “You
say you never saw this bonnet? How came it in your bed?”
There was a long pause. The little negro at last gathered herself up,
and, with a gleam of inspiration, exclaimed: “Marse Jim, de rats put it
dar—de rats runs all over dat floor nights. Me and Marthy Ann jist hears
’em jist toting things all around. Rats put it dar, Marse Jim, big rats.”
“Dat’s a lie,” said Charlotte, positively. “Nary rat on dat floor. Marse
Jim, you jist foolin’ way your time on dese niggers.”
The baffled master turned toward the crouching figure on the steps. She
was still trembling, her face buried in her hands. He saw she was ready
to confess, but he was determined Mary Ann should acknowledge also.
“Have you a mammy, Mary Ann?” he inquired.
“No, Marse Jim; I ain’t got no mammy; I ain’t never had no mammy, and my
daddy, he’s daid, and I ain’t——”
“Hush, I didn’t ask all that. If you haven’t a mammy there’s no one to
care if you die. I am sure I don’t want little girls round the house that
steal and lie. Nobody else would have you; nobody would buy you, and I
can’t keep you here. It’s come to a pretty pass when a lady can’t lay her
bonnet on the bed without you two little imps taking it and hiding it for
months, and lying about it right straight along. You have no mammy to cry
for you, and I don’t want you, and Miss Liza don’t want you. What can be
done with you?”
Martha sobbed, on the veranda step, and Mary looked defiant, but no
response came to that repeated inquiry. After a pause, Mary Ann bridled
up; the matter in question seemed to be taking a broader range; the
bonnet seemed to be merging in generalities, and might in time sink into
the other question of what can be done with them. Martha’s courage also
revived, so she could respond to the inquiry of her parentage.
“I ain’t neber had no daddy, and my mammy she’s married to long Phil now.”
The planter shifted his legs, looked abroad in a meditative way, then
turned to the charge.