up again before them the battered brim and crushed poppies and long,
dingy ribbons. Martha buried her face again, and Mary was suddenly
interested in the gambols of a squirrel in the pecan tree. Neither
culprit would look at the evidence of their guilt. “What will become of
you? I can’t keep you and nobody will buy a rogue; nobody wants you.”
“My mammy wants me, Marse Jim,” whimpered the scared Martha.
“No, your mother is Nancy, isn’t she? She’s a good woman and don’t want
a rogue and a liar tied to her all her days.” Another long pause. “Come
here, Martha, both of you stand by Charlotte and hold her hands. I will
give you one more chance. Which—one—of—you—stole—that bonnet? Did both of
you do it together? Who hid it? What made you do it?” There was a pause
between the questions, not one word of response. Martha’s tears dropped
on her little naked foot, while Mary Ann looked vacantly at the nimble
squirrel in apparent indifference, not a muscle of her face giving any
evidence of emotion.
“Marse Jim,” said Charlotte, whose impatience increased as she saw signs
of action on the part of the inquisitor. “Marse Jim, what you gwine to
do? It’s no use er whippin’ dese gals; dere hides is like cowhide and
whippin’ ain’t no good noways fur liars. Killin’ is good for such.”
The planter rose from his chair, straightened his tired limbs and kicked
the bonnet out of his way. “Bring them along, Charlotte. I’ll see what I
can do.”
Charlotte, with a firm grasp of each child, followed the tall leader,
who, as he turned into the hall, tossed a nod and a significant wink to
his wife. She obediently rose and followed. In all the interview the
mistress had remained a passive but interested spectator, feeling sure
that at a critical moment a signal from her husband would afford her an
opportunity to intervene. The master led his followers straight to the
well-house, under whose vine-clad arbor reposed the dripping bucket,
attached by a windlass to an endless chain.
“I think it best to drown them,” he quietly remarked. The little group
filled the arbor. William and Billy, the gardener; Delia, the laundress;
Lucy, the maid; Sawny, the “woodpile boy” and Oliver, who “went wid de
buggy,” attracted by the spectacle, gathered around the outskirts. The
story of the finding of the long lost bonnet had spread over the yard
and premises; fragments had even wafted to “the quarters,” with the
mysterious rapidity and certainty that always attended a household event
in the old plantation days.
“Mary Ann first,” said the master, as catching her suddenly and firmly by
the neckband of her dress and imprisoning her struggling legs by wrapping
her skirts tightly around them, he held her over the well-hole, head a
little down. The struggles and writhings of the child were of no avail in
the grasp of the strong man. “I want you to tell the truth and promise
never to tell another lie before I drop you down this well.” The child
squirmed and screamed in the relentless clutch, swearing entire ignorance
of the whole matter. Charlotte felt she must pile on the agony, so she
saw “de debbil down dar wid his pitchfork, ready to ketch her.” That
vision was too much for the now thoroughly alarmed little darky.
“I tuck it, Marse Jim, I tuck it,” she screamed.
“Will you ever steal again?” still holding her over the well, where in
her own little reflection in the placid water she was convinced to her
dying day she had seen “de debbil.”
“Neber, neber, ’fore God, neber agin.”
“Never tell another lie if I let you off?”
“Neber, Marse Jim; neber’s long as I lib. Please the Lord and Miss Liza,
I’ll be a good little nigger; neber lie agin if you’ll lemme off dis
time.”
While that harrowing scene was being enacted with the most determined and
refractory of the little witches, and the spectators on the outskirts
were convulsed with laughter—every one of them had at one time or another
been suspected of the theft—Martha, the tearful, was on her knees,
holding despairingly to Miss Liza’s skirts and imploring her “Jist to
save me dis time, I’ll be good, I’ll neber tell anoder lie. I’se got a
mammy dat will cry fur me, and I don’t want ter die. Oh! save me frum
de debbil,” she screamed, when Charlotte’s voice proclaimed him at the
bottom of the well. “Don’t let de debbil have your good little nigger.”
Confessions and promises being obtained, Mary Ann was placed upon
her feet. Four little black legs flew down the backyard; two little
guinea-blue skirts flipped over the cowyard fence and two little dusky
spots vanished in the distance. William called after them to “clip it
’fore de debbil gits outen dat well.” Charlotte held her sides with
outbursts of laughter that had been held in painful restraint.
“De debbil done skeer ’em more en Marse Jim,” Sawny remarked, as he
shambled back to the woodpile.
“I think, my dear,” said the planter, linking his arm into that of his
wife and returning to the library with her, “I think those children had a
lesson that may last them all their lives. They had to be scared into a
confession.”
“I hated to see them badgered,” she replied. “I dropped a few tears over
Martha myself—perhaps,” with a smile, “she thought I was scared too.”
Charlotte came in and picked up the wreck. “Miss Liza, I’se goin’ to take
dis bonnet, jist as it is, all tousled up and mashed and I’m gwine to
make Ma’y Ann war it one day and Marthy Ann de next clean till dey gits
sick o’ bonnets; dey shall war it till de chillen come home Sat-day. I
’spose dere’ll be sum laffin’ done when de chillen sees Ma’y Ann wid dat
bonnet tied on her haid.”
Another winter had come and gone, and June was again filling the old
plantation with its intoxicating odors and delicious melody. The little
room on the back porch was darkened by a heavy curtain at the only
window. A table drawn up by the rough wooden bed, made gay by a patchwork
quilt, held a few medicine bottles, a cup and spoon; also a tumbler
of pink and white roses. The quiet mistress moved about noiselessly,
occasionally putting her cool hand upon the brow of the little sick
negro, or gently stroking the thin, black fingers that lay listlessly
upon the bright coverlet.
“Miss Liza, whar Ma’y Ann?” The lady turned her face from the questioner.
After a moment’s hesitation she replied, cheerfully: “She’s all right,
Martha.”
“Miss Liza, whar is she? Whar Ma’y Ann?”
“She’s down by the quarters now,” was the unsatisfactory response. The
weary patient closed her eyes for a few moments, but it was evident that
with the first consciousness, following a severe illness, the child’s
thoughts turned to her old companion.
“She ain’t bin here sence I was tuk sick.” After a pause, “I want ter
talk to Ma’y Ann ’bout sumthin’.”
“Tell me,” said the mistress, soothingly, “what it was you wanted to see
Mary for.”
Both the little negroes had been ill of scarlet fever. The children of
the household had not been allowed for weeks to come home for their
Saturday holidays. Martha fell ill first, and Mary was removed into the
room formerly occupied by Levi Stucker, where she soon fell a victim to
the disease. The mistress and Charlotte only were allowed to minister to
the invalids. Mary, the robust one of the two, the more mischievous, the
one apparently better equipped for a struggle with disease, succumbed,
after a few days of delirium. The busy hands were stilled, the flying
feet arrested, the voluble tongue silenced, at the touch of the Angel
of Death. The little body was carried past the “quarters” and beyond,
to the negroes’ “burying ground,” where it lay in peaceful shadows of
the trees the romping children loved so well. Martha lingered long on
the mysterious border, fitfully fighting an apparently hopeless battle,
the more tenderly and faithfully nursed by Mammy Charlotte, as the
warm-hearted, childless woman realized the frail tenure of life held by
the little negro whom she had ruled in varying moods of sternness and
tenderness, untempered with judgment. With the fretful peevishness of
convalescence, the sick child whined repeated desires to know “Whar Ma’y
Ann?”
“What is it you want to tell Mary Ann to-day, when she is not here? Can’t
you tell me?” said the patient watcher.
“I jist want ter see her; I’se gwine ter tell you ’bout dat bonnet, Miss
Liza, and she ain’t here, and I mout die; sometimes folkses dies of broke
laigs, and my laigs is broke. I want Ma’y Ann ter know I ain’t goin’
outen dis world wid dat bonnet on my soul.”
The mistress drew closer to the bedside, stroked and patted the
attenuated hand in a soothing way to quiet and compose the restless
invalid.
“Maybe it’s jist as good Ma’y Ann ain’t here, Miss Liza. I kin tell de
tale better’n when she is here to jine in.” After a pause, apparently to
marshal her thoughts more clearly, the child proceeded: “Dat time Miss
Ellen cum here, she tuk outen her trunk a red bonnet, and she sed she
had two on ’em jist alike, dat her chillen had wore out, and she fotched
’em fur me and Ma’y Ann. I was in dar and seed de bonnet, and you tuk
hit, don’t you ’member, Miss Liza? You tuk hit and sed no, Ma’y Ann and
me had no use fur bonnets, and you know’d two pore little white gals
at your church dat didn’t have none, and you was goin’ ter give ’em to
dem. I went out and tole Ma’y Ann all ’bout hit, and she ’low’d if we
had bonnets we cud go to church too. Well, we talked tergedder ’bout dose
bonnets, and we plan we’d take ’em ennyhow, fust time we seed ’em. Well,
one night Ma’y Ann runned right in here, in dat very door. I was in here
den. I shet de door and stood against it, and onder her apern she had de
bonnet. She didn’t find only one, but she grabbed dat. I tole her dat was
the bery one Miss Ellen took outen her trunk, and me and Ma’y Ann, we
tried it on our haids, ’fore dat bery piece o’ lookin’ glass stickin’ on
de wall dere, and we ’greed ter watch till we kotch de udder one, so we
hid it in dat trunk dar, behind you, Miss Liza, and ev’ry day we tried
hit on. I want ter tell you all ’bout hit ’fore Ma’y Ann gits back frum
de quarters. I dun know how long we kep’ hit in dat trunk, ontil one day
dere was a awful fuss, eberybody skeered up, lookin’ fur your bonnet,
dat was missin’. Me and Ma’y Ann was glad. We couldn’t find one of our
bonnets now your’n wuz gone, too.”
“Didn’t you know you had taken my bonnet?” said the mistress, who was at
last seeing through the mystery.
“Jist let me tell you de whole thing, Miss Liza. I bin layin’ here long
time thinkin’ de straight uv hit, so Ma’y Ann can’t bodder me when I
telled it to you. Ma’y Ann is dat sondacious she most make you b’lieve
anythin’. No, Miss Liza, we never thought dat till one day I hear Miss
Ellen say how nice dem red bonnets she brung did look on de Quiggins gals
at church. Den Marm Charlotte, she begun agin ’bout your bonnet bein’
missed and she searchin’ fur hit all de time, and I hear her tell Sawny
it wuz red and had black flowers on hit. Me and Ma’y Ann took de bonnet
outen de trunk dat night and dere wuz de black flowers, jist like she
sed, den we know’d you had give Miss Ellen’s bonnets to the Quigginses,
and Ma’y Ann had stole your’n. We hefted dis baid and put de bonnet under
hit, and, please Gord, Miss Liza, I neber seed dat bonnet agin till Marse
Jim shuck hit at us dat day.”
“Why didn’t you come tell me what you had done, and why you had done it,
when you first found it out?”
“Miss Liza, we was afeerd. Marm Charlotte kep’ sayin’ whoever had dat
bonnet wud be hung, and de odder negroes talked back. Thank de Lord, dey
never seed hit, so Ma’y Ann and me didn’t dar let on.”
“Didn’t you expect it would be found out some day?”
“Yes’em, I ’spec we did.”
XXX
WHEN LEXINGTON WON THE RACE
Every Kentucky woman loves a horse, and when Lexington was entered in the
great State stake in 1854 a crowd of the _crême de la crême_ of the Blue
Grass country clamored to be present at the race. The St. Charles Hotel,
then in the hands of those genial hosts, Messrs. Hall and Hildreth,
was crowded for the event, beyond its capacity, for when that Kentucky
contingent of women, unheralded and unexpected, swarmed into its broad
parlor and halls, even the servants’ quarters, so near the roof that the
only light admitted was skylight, were put into requisition. There was
enough Blue Grass blood in my family to compel a rush to the city, and we
had a “sky parlor,” right next to the one occupied by Gen. John H. Morgan
(simply “John” then. He won his spurs and title a decade or so later) and
his Kentucky wife. It took us “forever and a day” to mount the stairs to
our roosts, and we were so tired when we arrived that we actually found
the quarters acceptable.
All the Breckinridges, Wards, Flournoys, Johnsons and Hunts in Kentucky
were more or less financially interested in the superb racer. Those who
did not own one drop of Lexington’s blood, nor one hair of his tail,
“put their money” on the horse, and therewith a financial interest was
created. Every man, it seemed, in the place, that could spare the time,
wanted to see the great race. “Lee Count,” as a good many Kentuckians
call Le Comte, was the most prominent rival of their boasted and
beloved Lexington, and he showed mettle that astonished even those
blind partisans, and added zest to the wagers. Ladies had never been in
evidence at a horse race in Louisiana. The bare idea was a shock to the
Creole mind, that dominated and controlled all the fashionable, indeed,
all the respectable, minds in New Orleans at that day. But the Kentucky
belles had minds of their own. Every mortal one of them felt a personal
interest, and a personal pride, and a personal ambition in that Kentucky
horse, though probably not ten out of the scores who rushed to see him
race had ever seen him before, and when he did appear on the paddock he
had to be pointed out to those enthusiastic admirers.
What a host of dashing, high-bred, blue-blooded Kentucky women swarmed
the parlors, halls, rotunda of that, the finest hotel in all the land!
How they talked, in the soft, Southern accent, so peculiarly their own!
How they laughed! How they moved about, seemingly knowing everybody they
met. How they bet! Gloves, fans, money, too, on their horse, when they
found any one in all the crowd that was not a “Lexington horse” man.
Those bright women dominated everything in their enthusiasm. I recall a
host of them.
There was a lamentable scarcity of conveyances. Those Kentucky people who
had never felt the lack of vehicles and horses, had apparently made small
provision for travel to the course, so at the moment of departure, when
a large party was almost driven to despair, Messrs. Hall and Hildreth
ordered out the hotel stage, which was one of the “nine-passenger” type.
A nine-passenger coach, one of the kind that was in vogue in the days of
Pickwick, afforded seats inside for nine persons, and could accommodate
as many outside as chose to pile on. The celerity with which those
Kentucky women filled that coach and the Kentucky men covered the top
was a sight worth seeing. No doubt when that stage rattled and bumped
over the cobblestones, en route to Metaire, many a cautious Creole mamma
made her innocent mam’zelles repair to the backyard while she hastily
closed the shutters. It was like a circus van, though no circus had ever
paraded those decorous streets.
Richard Tenbroeck (also a Kentuckian), who was associated in the
management of the course, was on hand to receive the merry crowd from
his own State, furnish it with grandstand seats and make it welcome in
every way. According to my recollection the Kentucky women were the only
females present, so very unfashionable it was for ladies to go to races
in the extreme South. There may have been some _demi-mondaines_ scattered
here and there, in inconspicuous places.
The race, the only one I had ever witnessed, was tremendously exciting,
and as the gallant horses swept round the last lap, Lexington, ever
so little, in the lead, the uproar became quite deafening. One of the
Johnson women, beautiful and enthusiastic, sprang upon the bench and
said to her equally excited escort, “Hold me while I holler.” He threw
his strong arms about her and steadied her feet. “Now, holler”—and never
did I hear the full compass of the female voice before, nor since. Such
excitement, as we all know, is contagious, and it continued for days
after the great achievement that put dear old Lexington in the front
rank, and filled the pocketbooks of his owners, abettors and admirers.
Of course, this race was practically an all-day venture, and, equally
of course, people got hungry; and throats, most particularly Kentucky
throats, awfully dry. Mr. Tenbroeck provided liberally for such a
contingency, so a luncheon was served al fresco, with lots of champagne,
which latter did not dampen the ardor of those terribly dry throats.
We assembled in little groups around the viands, and there were jokes
and puns and stories that varied the monotony of horse talk, that had
dominated every other topic for days. In all the circles there was fun
and frolic. Kentuckians can be very hilarious. The unique vehicle that
carried our party back to the hotel rocked and tumbled tipsily along.
The sprightly crowd that departed in a somewhat steady condition in the
forenoon were sleepily tired when they gained their sky parlors later in
the day. A brief rest must have revived them, for as we passed through
the hall to a rather late breakfast the following morning, trays of empty
glasses and bottles, flanked by freshly blacked boots and shoes, afforded
evidence that more refreshments had been absorbed later, and the parties
had returned to the Land of Nod.
XXXI
LOUISIANA STATE FAIR FIFTY YEARS AGO
It was in 1859 or 1860—I cannot fix the exact dates of many events
immediately prior to the war, for the rush of an overwhelming waste
carried dates, as everything else, away, but it was before the war that
several enterprising and advanced citizens of Louisiana planned and
organized and “resolved” themselves into a committee to stimulate the
indolent agricultural population to a more active life, by inaugurating
a series of State agricultural and mechanical exhibitions, patterned
as near as might be on the annual State and county fairs of Kentucky,
Missouri and other enterprising agricultural States. Mr. John A.
Dougherty, Major Sam Hart, George W. Ward, John Perkins, my husband, Mr.
James McHatton and his brother Charles, Wm. A. Pike and others whose
names escape me now, secured from the United States government, through
the joint efforts of Hon. John Slidell and J. P. Benjamin, United States
Senators from Louisiana, and Thomas Green Davidson, Representative of
the Sixth District, temporary use of the then practically abandoned
Barracks in Baton Rouge, as being the most available site in the State
for the purpose of an experimental fair. Only a corporal’s guard had been
stationed there, to furl and unfurl the flag and to fire the evening
gun, as evidence that the grounds were United States property. In those
precincts and under those auspices, were held the first and the last and
only “Louisiana State Agricultural and Mechanical Fair.”
There came from New Orleans many exhibitors of farming implements and
products; from plantations, whose owners happened to be “wide awake,”
cattle, horses, sugar, molasses, and all such; from the small farmer who
occasionally read the papers, and thereby kept in touch with the march
of events, pigs and poultry; and from the homes of enterprising women,
all sorts of fancy work and domestic articles. There were quite handsome
prizes of silver, worth competing for, offered by the managers. The
parade ground was ample to “show off” harness horses. An area was fenced
off for cattle, and side-show places assigned for pigs and poultry. The
Barrack buildings, two stories in height, surrounding the enclosure,
offered abundant room for the exhibit of farming utensils, harness, etc.
Rooms were appropriated for the luncheons and lounging places of friends
and guests.
The first two days were rather disappointing, so few people understood
just what was being attempted, but the number of the exhibitors increased
day by day, so that, before the final day, the managers had reason to be
enthusiastic at the success and consequent promise for future State fairs.
Old Mr. Kleinpeter, of the high lands, entered a sow with a litter of
nine pigs, whereupon Granville Pierce “went one better” with a sow and
fourteen pigs. To be sure, the pigs varied in size, and people made merry
over the pig exhibit! From the “Cottage” plantation (Cottage, by the way,
was a tremendous big house) came a hogshead of prize open kettle brown
sugar. Immediately “Whitehall” plantation saw it could beat that—and next
day a hogshead of the “Whitehall” brand was entered. It was thus the
project expanded to creditable dimensions. An enterprising lady who had
won a silver spoon prize at a similar fair in the West, entered a dressy
bonnet, made entirely of fine corn shucks; bows, flowers, feathers and
all! Whereupon, a smart miss from Grosse Tête sent three home-made sun
bonnets. The domestic exhibit thus resolved itself into a competitive
show. A Jew in town had met with indifferent success in a sewing machine
venture (sewing machines were in their immaturity then, and not coveted
by women who had domestics to order), till the happy thought of a chance
at the fair. Soon there was a sewing machine on exhibition—a “Finkle and
Lyon”—I don’t forget the make, now happily out of existence, for in an
evil moment, moved by the Jew’s persuasive eloquence, I invested in a
“Finkle and Lyon” which I quickly found could only be made to “run” by
copious drenchings of olive oil, aided by the warm rays of the sun!
All the citizens of Baton Rouge entertained guests for the fair week, the
Harney House and other small hostelries being totally inadequate. Several
New Orleans merchants showed great interest in the venture. Cuthbert
Slocomb entered a fine exhibit of plows, hoes and other farming tools,
that were in his line of trade. So, also, did the firm of Slark, Day and
Stauffer; Henderson & Gaines sent of their stock, as also did many others
whose business brought them in contact with the agricultural world. The
cattle display was quite surprisingly good, as were also the harness
horses. The inexperienced judges of such stock were often criticised
for their decisions, but the people were amiable and in a mood to enjoy
everything.
Such an outpouring from the “Cajin” settlements on the river, and
on Bayou Tête and Bayou Fordoche, and such other communities of
small pretensions, and still smaller achievements, never, I am sure,
had invaded Baton Rouge before. It was as “good as a play” to watch
their interest and enthusiasm, to see the greetings of families and
friends, who lived beyond the reach of a ramshackle _voiture_ and a
worn-out horse. I do not recall the season of the year that immortal
fair occurred, but it must have been in late winter, for I remember
a small dish of radishes on my lunch table, such a rarity that Col.
Sparks ate every one. How one does recall, after a lapse of years,
such insignificant things! Some of the _bon vivants_, like Dr. French,
Mr. Bonnecage, and Dr. Harney, regretted that the enterprise was not
postponed till artichokes and river shrimp were in season.
It seems almost immediately after that I accompanied my delegate husband
to that ill-starred Democratic convention in Charleston, and almost the
next day that the Hon. J. P. Benjamin made his soul-stirring speech
in Congress, that magnificent burst of impassioned oratory, whose
prediction was never verified; almost the next day that Hon. John Slidell
returned to Louisiana a sad, despondent man, and old Tom Green Davidson
hobbled back to Baton Rouge on his crutches, so full of bitterness and
hate—almost the next day that the flag that waved so gloriously over
the parade ground where the hopes and aspirations of those enterprising
citizens took flight, was hauled down.——
And after that—the Deluge!
XXXII
THE LAST CHRISTMAS