AUN' JINKEY'S POLICY
Allan Scoville, for such was the Union soldier's name, fully realized
that he was in the enemy's country as he watched through a cranny in
the cabin the shadowy forms of the Confederates file past. Every bone
in his body ached as if it had been broken, and more than once he moved
his arms and legs to assure himself that they were whole. "Breath was
just knocked right out of me," he muttered. "I hope that's the worst,
for this place may soon become too hot for me. My good horse is not
only lost, but I may be lost also through him. That queer-looking
darky, Chunk, is my best hope now unless it is Miss Lou. Droll, wasn't
it, that I should take her for an angel? What queer thoughts a fellow
has when within half an inch of the seamy side of life! Hanged if I
deserve such an awakening as I thought was blessing my eyes on the
other side. From the way I ache, the other side mayn't be far off yet.
Like enough hours will pass before Chunk comes back, and I must try to
propitiate his grandam."
He crawled painfully to the trap-door and, finding a chink in the
boards, looked down into the apartment below. Aun' Jinkey was smoking
as composedly it might seem as if a terrible Yankee, never seen before,
was not over her head, and a band of Confederates who would have made
him a prisoner and punished her were only a few rods away. A close
observer, however, might have noticed that she was not enjoying languid
whiffs, as had been the case in the afternoon. The old woman had put
guile into her pipe as well as tobacco, and she hoped its smoke would
blind suspicious eyes if any were hunting for a stray Yankee. Chunk's
pone and bacon had been put near the fire to keep warm, and Scoville
looked at the viands longingly.
At last he ventured to whisper, "Aun' Jinkey, I am as hungry as a wolf."
"Hesh!" said the old woman softly. Then she rose, knocked the ashes
from her pipe with great deliberation, and taking a bucket started for
the spring. In going and coming she looked very sharply in all
directions, thus satisfying herself that no one was watching the cabin.
Re-entering, she whispered, "Kin you lif de trap-do'?"
Scoville opened it, and was about to descend. "No, you kyant do dat,"
interposed Aun' Jinkey, quickly. "Lie down up dar, en I han' you
Chunk's supper. He gits his'n at de big house. You's got ter play
possum right smart, mars'r, or you git cotched. Den we cotch it, too.
You 'speck I doan know de resk Chunk en me tookin?"
"Forgive me, Aunt Jinkey. But your troubles will soon be over and you
be as free as I am."
"I doesn't want no sech freedom ez you got, mars'r, hid'n en scrugin'
fum tarin' en rarin' red-hot gallopers ez Mad Whately en his men. Dey'd
des bun de ole cabin en me in't ef dey knowed you's dar. Bettah stop
yo' mouf wid yo' supper."
This Scoville was well contented to do for a time, while Aun' Jinkey
smoked and listened with all her ears. Faint sounds came from the house
and the negro quarters, but all was still about the cabin. Suddenly she
took her pipe from her mouth and muttered, "Dar goes a squinch-owl
tootin'. Dat doan mean no good."
"Aunt Jinkey," said Scoville, who was watching her, "that screech-owl
worries you, doesn't it?"
"Dere's mo' kin's ob squinch-owls dan you 'lows on, mars'r. Some toots
fer de sake ob tootin' en some toots in warnin'."
"That one tooted in warning. Don't be surprised if you hear another
very near." He crawled to the cranny under the eaves and Aun' Jinkey
fairly jumped out of her chair as she heard an owl apparently hooting
on the roof with a vigor and truth to nature that utterly deceived her
senses. Scoville repeated the signal, and then crept back to the chink
in the floor. The old woman was trembling and looking round in dismayed
uncertainty. "There," he said, with a low laugh, "that squinch-owl was
I, and the first you heard was one of my men. Now, like a good soul,
make pones and fry bacon for five men, and you'll have friends who will
take good care of you and Chunk."
"De Lawd he'p me! w'at comin' nex'? Miss Lou wuz a wishin' sump'n ud
hap'n--w'at ain' gwinter hap'n?"
"Nothing will happen to harm you if you do as I say. Our men may soon
be marching this way, and we'll remember our friends when we come."
"I des hope dere'll be sump'n lef ob me ter reckermember," said Aun'
Jinkey, but she rose to comply with the soldier's requirement, feeling
that her only course was to fall in with the wishes of whoever happened
to be uppermost in the troublous times now foreseen. She was in a
terribly divided state of mind. The questions she had smoked and
thought over so long now pressed with bewildering rapidity and urgency.
An old family slave, she had a strong feeling of loyalty to her master
and mistress. But they had been partially alienating Miss Lou, for whom
she would open her veins, while her grandson was hot for freedom and
looked upon Northern soldiers as his deliverers. Aun' Jinkey was not
sure she wished to be delivered. That was one of the points she was not
through "projeckin'" about. Alas! events would not wait for her
conclusions, although more time had been given her than to many others
forced to contemplate vast changes. With a shrewd simplicity she
decided that it would be wise to keep on friendly terms with all the
contending powers, and do what in her judgment was best for each.
"Hit des took all de 'visions we got," she remarked, disconsolately.
"You'll soon have visions of more to eat and wear than ever blessed
your eyes," said Scoville, encouragingly.
"Hi! granny," said Chunk, peeping in at the door.
"How you start me!" ejaculated the old woman, sinking into her chair.
"That you, Chunk?" asked Scoville. "Is the coast clear?"
"I reck'n. Keep shy yet a while, mars'r." A few words explained the
situation, and Chunk added: "You des feed dem Yankees big, granny. I'se
pervide mo'. I mus' go now sud'n. Made Aun' Suke b'lebe dat I knowed ob
chickens w'at roos' in trees, en dey tinks I'se lookin' fer um. High
ole times up ter de house," and he disappeared in the darkness.
In nervous haste Aun' Jinkey prepared the ample supper. Scoville hooted
again, a shadowy form stole to the cabin for the food, and disappeared
again toward the run. Then Aun' Jinkey prepared to compose her nerves
by another smoke.
"Hand me up a coal for my pipe, also," said Scoville, "and then we'll
have a sociable time."
"I des feared onsosh'ble times dis eb'nin'," remarked Aun' Jinkey.
"If you knew how my bones ached, you'd help me pass the time."
"Reck'n mine ache, too, 'fo' I troo wid dis bus'ness."
"No, Aunt Jinkey, you won't be punished for doing a good deed. Your
young mistress is on your side, anyway. Who is she?"
"Young mistis ain' got no po'r ef dey fin's out. She nuff ter do ter
hol' 'er own."
"How comes it she's friendly to 'we uns,' as you say down here?"
"She ain' friendly. You drap at her feet ez ef you wuz dead, en she hab
a lil gyurlish, soft heart, dat's all. Didn't she tole you dat she ain'
on yo' side?"
"Well, bless her heart, then."
"I circumscribe ter dat ar."
"Aren't you on our side?"
"I'se des 'twix en 'tween all de sides."
"You're all right, Aunt Jinkey. I'd trust you with my life."
"Reck'n you hab ter dis eb'nin'."
"Well, about Miss Lou--you say she has trouble to hold her own. How's
that?"
"Dem's fambly matters."
"And so none of my business, unless she tells me herself."
"How she gwine ter tol' you tings?"
"Ah, Aunt Jinkey, you've vegetated a great while in these slow parts. I
feel it in my bones, sore as they are, that some day I'll give you a
new dress that will make you look like a spike of red hollyhocks.
You'll see changes you don't dream of."
"My haid whirlin' now, mars'r. Hope ter grashus I kin do my wuk
ter-morrer in peace and quietness."
There was neither peace nor quietness at the mansion. Whately, with a
soldier's instincts to make the most of passing opportunities, added to
the hasty tendencies of his own nature, was not only enjoying the
abundant supper, but feasting his eyes meantime on the charms developed
by his cousin in his absence. He knew of his uncle's wish to unite the
two plantations, and had given his assent to the means, for it had
always been his delight to tease, frighten, and pet his little cousin,
whose promise of beauty had been all that he could desire. Now she
evoked a sudden flame of passion, and his mind, which leaped to
conclusions, was already engaged in plans for consummating their union
at once. He sought to break down her reserve by paying her extravagant
compliments, and to excite her admiration by accounts of battles in
which he would not have posed as hero so plainly had he not been
flushed with wine. There was an ominous fire in her eyes scarcely in
accord with her cool demeanor. Unused to the world, and distrusting her
own powers, she made little effort to reply, taking refuge in
comparative silence. This course encouraged him and her uncle. The
former liked her manifestation of spirit as long as he believed it to
be within control. To his impetuous, imperious nature the idea of a
tame, insipid bride was not agreeable; while Mr. Baron, still under the
illusion that she was yet but a submissive child, thought that her bad
mood was passing and would be gone in the morning. He little dreamed
how swiftly her mind was awakening and developing under the spur of
events. She did not yet know that her cousin was meditating such a
speedy consummation of his purpose, but was aware that he and all her
relatives looked upon her as his predestined wife. Now, as never
before, she shrank from the relation, and in the instinct of
self-preservation resolved never to enter into it.
Her long, rebellious reveries in solitude had prepared her for this
hour, and her proud, excited spirit surprised her by the intensity of
its passionate revolt. Not as a timid, shrinking maiden did she look at
her cousin and his men feasting on the piazza. She glanced at him, then
through the open windows at their burly forms, as one might face a
menace which brought no thought of yielding.
The family resemblance between Whately and herself was strong. He had
her blue eyes, but they were smaller than hers, and his expression was
bold, verging toward recklessness. Her look was steady and her lips
compressed into accord with the firm little chin.
Mrs. Baron's ideas of decorum soon brought temporary relief. She also
saw that her nephew was becoming too excited to make a good impression,
so she said, "Louise, you may now retire, and I trust that you will
waken tomorrow to the truth that your natural guardians can best direct
your thoughts and actions."
Whately was about to rise in order to bid an affectionate good-night,
but the girl almost fled from the room. In the hall she met Chunk, who
whispered, "Linkum man gittin' peart, Miss Lou."
"She'll be over her tantrum by morning," said Mr. Baron in an
apologetic tone. "Perhaps we'll have to humor her more in little
things."
"That's just where the trouble lies, uncle. You and aunt have tried to
make her feel and act as if as old as yourselves. She's no longer a
child; neither is she exactly a woman. All young creatures at her age
are skittish. Bless you, she wouldn't be a Baron if she hadn't lots of
red, warm blood. So much the better. When I've married her she'll
settle down like other Southern girls."
"I think we had better discuss these matters more privately, nephew,"
said Mrs. Baron.
"Beg pardon, I reckon we had, aunt. My advice, however, is that we act
first and discuss afterward."
"We'll talk it over to-morrow, nephew," said Mr. Baron. "Of course as
guardian I must adopt the best and safest plan."
Chunk's ears were long if he was short, and in waiting on a soldier
near the window he caught the purport of this conversation.