Transcriber’s Note: This book contains outdated racial stereotypes and
words that are now considered highly offensive.
THE CHRONICLES OF AUNT MINERVY ANN
[Illustration: “I ain’t fergot dat ar ’possum.”]
THE CHRONICLES OF
AUNT MINERVY ANN
BY
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
ILLUSTRATED BY
A. B. FROST
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
NEW YORK 1899
COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. An Evening with the Ku-Klux 1
II. “When Jess went a-fiddlin’” 34
III. How Aunt Minervy Ann Ran Away and Ran Back Again 70
IV. How She Joined the Georgia Legislature 97
V. How She Went Into Business 119
VI. How She and Major Perdue Frailed Out the Gossett Boys 139
VII. Major Perdue’s Bargain 157
VIII. The Case of Mary Ellen 182
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“I ain’t fergot dat ar ’possum” _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
“Well, he can’t lead _me_” 6
He wore a blue army overcoat and a stove-pipe hat 8
“Sholy you-all ain’t gwine put dat in de paper, is you?” 10
Inquired what day the paper came out 14
“I was on the lookout,” the Major explained 18
In the third he placed only powder 26
We administered to his hurts the best we could 30
“I’d a heap rather you’d pull your shot-gun on me than your pen” 32
The Committee of Public Comfort 72
Buying cotton on his own account 76
“Miss Vallie!” 78
“I saw him fling his hand to his shoulder and hold it there” 80
“Dat ar grape jelly on de right han’ side” 82
“‘Conant!’ here and ‘Conant’ dar” 84
“Drapt down on de groun’ dar an’ holler an’ cry” 90
“Oh, my shoulder!” 122
“Marse Tumlin never did pass a nigger on de road” 124
“We made twelve pies ef we made one” 126
“I gi’ Miss Vallie de money” 128
“Ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann wid pies!” 130
“You see dat nigger ’oman?” 132
“An’ he sot dar, suh, wid his haid ’twix’ his han’s fer I dunner
how long” 134
“You’ll settle dis wid me” 136
“Dat money ain’t gwine ter las’ when you buy dat kin’ er doin’s” 160
Trimmin’ up de Ol’ Mules 162
“She wuz cryin’—settin’ dar cryin’” 164
“Here come a nigger boy leadin’ a bob-tail hoss” 166
“He been axin’ me lots ’bout Miss Vallie” 172
“Marse Tumlin ’low he’ll take anything what he can chaw, sop,
er drink” 176
“I hatter stop an’ pass de time er day” 178
“Hunt up an’ down fer dat ar Tom Perryman” 180
THE CHRONICLES OF AUNT MINERVY ANN
I
AN EVENING WITH THE KU-KLUX
The happiest, the most vivid, and certainly the most critical period of
a man’s life is combined in the years that stretch between sixteen and
twenty-two. His responsibilities do not sit heavily on him, he has hardly
begun to realize them, and yet he has begun to see and feel, to observe
and absorb; he is for once and for the last time an interested, and yet
an irresponsible, spectator of the passing show.
This period I had passed very pleasantly, if not profitably, at
Halcyondale in Middle Georgia, directly after the great war, and the town
and the people there had a place apart, in my mind. When, therefore, some
ten years after leaving there, I received a cordial invitation to attend
the county fair, which had been organized by some of the enterprising
spirits of the town and county, among whom were Paul Conant and his
father-in-law, Major Tumlin Perdue, it was natural that the fact should
revive old memories.
The most persistent of these memories were those which clustered around
Major Perdue, his daughter Vallie, and his brother-in-law, Colonel
Bolivar Blasengame, and Aunt Minervy Ann Perdue. Curiously enough, my
recollection of this negro woman was the most persistent of all. Her
individuality seemed to stand out more vitally than the rest. She was
what is called “a character,” and something more besides. The truth is,
I should have missed a good deal if I had never known Aunt Minervy Ann
Perdue, who, as she described herself, was “Affikin fum ’way back yander
’fo’ de flood, an’ fum de word go”—a fact which seriously interferes with
the somewhat complacent theory that Ham, son of Noah, was the original
negro.
It is a fact that Aunt Minervy Ann’s great-grandmother, who lived to be
a hundred and twenty years old, had an eagle tattooed on her breast, the
mark of royalty. The brother of this princess, Qua, who died in Augusta
at the age of one hundred years, had two eagles tattooed on his breast.
This, taken in connection with his name, which means The Eagle, shows
that he was either the ruler of his tribe or the heir apparent. The
prince and princess were very small, compared with the average African,
but the records kept by a member of the Clopton family show that during
the Revolution Qua performed some wonderful feats, and went through some
strange adventures in behalf of liberty. He was in his element when war
was at its hottest—and it has never been hotter in any age or time, or
in any part of the world, savage or civilized, than it was then in the
section of Georgia now comprised in the counties of Burke, Columbia,
Richmond, and Elbert.
However, that has nothing to do with Aunt Minervy Ann Perdue; but her
relationship to Qua and to the royal family of his tribe, remote though
it was, accounted for the most prominent traits of her character,
and many contradictory elements of her strong and sharply defined
individuality. She had a bad temper, and was both fierce and fearless
when it was aroused; but it was accompanied by a heart as tender and
a devotion as unselfish as any mortal ever possessed or displayed.
Her temper was more widely advertised than her tenderness, and her
independence more clearly in evidence than her unselfish devotion, except
to those who knew her well or intimately.
And so it happened that Aunt Minervy Ann, after freedom gave her the
privilege of showing her extraordinary qualities of self-sacrifice,
walked about in the midst of the suspicion and distrust of her own race,
and was followed by the misapprehensions and misconceptions of many of
the whites. She knew the situation and laughed at it, and if she wasn’t
proud of it her attitude belied her.
It was at the moment of transition from the old conditions to the new
that I had known Aunt Minervy Ann and the persons in whom she was so
profoundly interested, and she and they, as I have said, had a place
apart in my memory and experience. I also remembered Hamp, Aunt Minervy
Ann’s husband, and the queer contrast between the two. It was mainly
on account of Hamp, perhaps, that Aunt Minervy Ann was led to take
such a friendly interest in the somewhat lonely youth who was editor,
compositor, and pressman of Halcyondale’s ambitious weekly newspaper in
the days following the collapse of the confederacy.
When a slave, Hamp had belonged to an estate which was in the hands of
the Court of Ordinary (or, as it was then called, the Inferior Court), to
be administered in the interest of minor heirs. This was not a fortunate
thing for the negroes, of which there were above one hundred and fifty.
Men, women, and children were hired out, some far and some near. They
came back home at Christmastime, enjoyed a week’s frolic, and were
then hired out again, perhaps to new employers. But whether to new or
old, it is certain that hired hands in those days did not receive the
consideration that men gave to their own negroes.
This experience told heavily on Hamp’s mind. It made him reserved,
suspicious, and antagonistic. He had few pleasant memories to fall back
on, and these were of the days of his early youth, when he used to trot
around holding to his old master’s coat-tails—the kind old master who had
finally been sent to the insane asylum. Hamp never got over the idea (he
had heard some of the older negroes talking about it) that his old master
had been judged to be crazy simply because he was unusually kind to his
negroes, especially the little ones. Hamp’s after-experience seemed to
prove this, for he received small share of kindness, as well as scrimped
rations, from the majority of those who hired him.
It was a very good thing for Hamp that he married Aunt Minervy Ann,
otherwise he would have become a wanderer and a vagabond when freedom
came. It was a fate he didn’t miss a hair’s breadth; he “broke loose,”
as he described it, and went off, but finally came back and tried in vain
to persuade Aunt Minervy Ann to leave Major Perdue. He finally settled
down, but acquired no very friendly feelings toward the white race.
He joined the secret political societies, strangely called “Union
Leagues,” and aided in disseminating the belief that the whites were
only awaiting a favorable opportunity to re-enslave his race. He was
only repeating what the carpet-baggers had told him. Perhaps he believed
the statement, perhaps not. At any rate, he repeated it fervently and
frequently, and soon came to be the recognized leader of the negroes in
the county of which Halcyondale was the capital. That is to say, the
leader of all except one. At church one Sunday night some of the brethren
congratulated Aunt Minervy Ann on the fact that Hamp was now the leader
of the colored people in that region.
“What colored people?” snapped Aunt Minervy Ann.
“We-all,” responded a deacon, emphatically.
“Well, he can’t lead _me_, I’ll tell you dat right now!” exclaimed Aunt
Minervy Ann.
[Illustration: “Well, he can’t lead _me_.”]
Anyhow, when the time came to elect members of the Legislature (the
constitutional convention had already been held), Hamp was chosen to be
the candidate of the negro Republicans. A white man wanted to run, but
the negroes said they preferred their own color, and they had their way.
They had their way at the polls, too, for, as nearly all the whites who
would have voted had served in the Confederate army, they were at that
time disfranchised.
So Hamp was elected overwhelmingly, “worl’ widout een’,” as he put it,
and the effect it had on him was a perfect illustration of one aspect of
human nature. Before and during the election (which lasted three days)
Hamp had been going around puffed up with importance. He wore a blue army
overcoat and a stove-pipe hat, and went about smoking a big cigar. When
the election was over, and he was declared the choice of the county, he
collapsed. His dignity all disappeared. His air of self-importance and
confidence deserted him. His responsibilities seemed to weigh him down.
He had once “rolled” in the little printing-office where the machinery
consisted of a No. 2 Washington hand-press, a wooden imposing-stone,
three stands for the cases, a rickety table for “wetting down” the paper,
and a tub in which to wash the forms. This office chanced to be my
headquarters, and the day after the election I was somewhat surprised
to see Hamp saunter in. So was Major Tumlin Perdue, who was reading the
exchanges.
“He’s come to demand a retraction,” remarked the Major, “and you’ll have
to set him right. He’s no longer plain Hamp; he’s the Hon. Hamp—what’s
your other name?” turning to the negro.
“Hamp Tumlin my fergiven name, suh. I thought ’Nervy Ann tol’ you dat.”
“Why, who named you after me?” inquired the Major, somewhat angrily.
“Me an’ ’Nervy Ann fix it up, suh. She say it’s about de purtiest name in
town.”
The Major melted a little, but his bristles rose again, as it were.
“Look here, Hamp!” he exclaimed in a tone that nobody ever forgot or
misinterpreted; “don’t you go and stick Perdue onto it. I won’t stand
that!”
“No, suh!” responded Hamp. “I started ter do it, but ’Nervy Ann say
she ain’t gwine ter have de Perdue name bandied about up dar whar de
Legislature’s at.”
[Illustration: He wore a blue army overcoat and a stove-pipe hat.]
Again the Major thawed, and though he looked long at Hamp it was with
friendly eyes. He seemed to be studying the negro—“sizing him up,” as
the saying is. For a newly elected member of the Legislature, Hamp
seemed to take a great deal of interest in the old duties he once
performed about the office. He went first to the box in which the
“roller” was kept, and felt of its surface carefully.
“You’ll hatter have a bran new roller ’fo’ de mont’s out,” he said, “an’
I won’t be here to he’p you make it.”
Then he went to the roller-frame, turned the handle, and looked at the
wooden cylinders. “Dey don’t look atter it like I use ter, suh; an’ dish
yer frame monst’us shackly.”
From there he passed to the forms where the advertisements remained
standing. He passed his thumb over the type and looked at it critically.
“Dey er mighty skeer’d dey’ll git all de ink off,” was his comment. Do
what he would, Hamp couldn’t hide his embarrassment.
Meanwhile, Major Perdue scratched off a few lines in pencil. “I wish
you’d get this in Tuesday’s paper,” he said. Then he read: “The Hon.
Hampton Tumlin, recently elected a member of the Legislature, paid us a
pop-call last Saturday. We are always pleased to meet our distinguished
fellow-townsman and representative. We trust Hon. Hampton Tumlin will
call again when the Ku-Klux are in.”
“Why, certainly,” said I, humoring the joke.
“Sholy you-all ain’t gwine put dat in de paper, is you?” inquired Hamp,
in amazement.
“Of course,” replied the Major; “why not?”
“Kaze, ef you does, I’m a ruint nigger. Ef ’Nervy Ann hear talk ’bout
my name an’ entitlements bein’ in de paper, she’ll quit me sho. Uh-uh!
I’m gwine ’way fum here!” With that Hamp bowed and disappeared. The
Major chuckled over his little joke, but soon returned to his newspaper.
For a quarter of an hour there was absolute quiet in the room, and, as
it seemed, in the entire building, which was a brick structure of two
stories, the stairway being in the centre. The hallway was, perhaps,
seventy-five feet long, and on each side, at regular intervals, there
were four rooms, making eight in all, and, with one exception, variously
occupied as lawyers’ offices or sleeping apartments, the exception being
the printing-office in which Major Perdue and I were sitting. This was at
the extreme rear of the hallway.
[Illustration: “Sholy you-all ain’t gwine put dat in de paper, is you?”]
I had frequently been struck by the acoustic properties of this hallway.
A conversation carried on in ordinary tones in the printing-office could
hardly be heard in the adjoining room. Transferred to the front rooms,
however, or even to the sidewalk facing the entrance to the stairway,
the lightest tone was magnified in volume. A German professor of music,
who for a time occupied the apartment opposite the printing-office,
was so harassed by the thunderous sounds of laughter and conversation
rolling back upon him that he tried to remedy the matter by nailing two
thicknesses of bagging along the floor from the stairway to the rear
window. This was, indeed, something of a help, but when the German left,
being of an economical turn of mind, he took his bagging away with him,
and once more the hallway was torn and rent, as you may say, with the
lightest whisper.
Thus it happened that, while the Major and I were sitting enjoying an
extraordinary season of calm, suddenly there came a thundering sound
from the stairway. A troop of horse could hardly have made a greater
uproar, and yet I knew that fewer than half a dozen people were ascending
the steps. Some one stumbled and caught himself, and the multiplied
and magnified reverberations were as loud as if the roof had caved in,
carrying the better part of the structure with it. Some one laughed at
the misstep, and the sound came to our ears with the deafening effect
of an explosion. The party filed with a dull roar into one of the front
rooms, the office of a harum-scarum young lawyer who had more empty
bottles behind his door than he had ever had briefs on his desk.
“Well, the great Gemini!” exclaimed Major Perdue, “how do you manage to
stand that sort of thing?”
I shrugged my shoulders and laughed, and was about to begin anew a very
old tirade against caves and halls of thunder, when the Major raised a
warning hand. Some one was saying——
“He hangs out right on ol’ Major Perdue’s lot. He’s got a wife there.”
“By jing!” exclaimed another voice; “is that so? Well, I don’t wanter git
mixed up wi’ the Major. He may be wobbly on his legs, but I don’t wanter
be the one to run up ag’in ’im.”
The Major pursed up his lips and looked at the ceiling, his attitude
being one of rapt attention.
“Shucks!” cried another; “by the time the ol’ cock gits his bellyful of
dram, thunder wouldn’t roust ’im.”
A shrewd, foxy, almost sinister expression came over the Major’s rosy
face as he glanced at me. His left hand went to his goatee, an invariable
signal of deep feeling, such as anger, grief, or serious trouble. Another
voice broke in here, a voice that we both knew to be that of Larry
Pulliam, a big Kentuckian who had refugeed to Halcyondale during the war.
“Blast it all!” exclaimed Larry Pulliam, “I hope the Major will come out.
Me an’ him hain’t never butted heads yit, an’ it’s gittin’ high time. Ef
he comes out, you fellers jest go ahead with your rat-killin’. _I_’ll
’ten’ to him.”
“Why, you’d make two of him, Pulliam,” said the young lawyer.
“Oh, I’ll not hurt ’im; that is, not _much_—jest enough to let ’im know
I’m livin’ in the same village,” replied Mr. Pulliam. The voice of the
town bull could not have had a more terrifying sound.
Glancing at the Major, I saw that he had entirely recovered his
equanimity. More than that, a smile of sweet satisfaction and contentment
settled on his rosy face, and stayed there.
“I wouldn’t take a hundred dollars for that last remark,” whispered the
Major. “That chap’s been a-raisin’ his hackle at me ever since he’s
been here, and every time I try to get him to make a flutter he’s off
and gone. Of course it wouldn’t do for me to push a row on him just dry
so. But now——” The Major laughed softly, rubbed his hands together, and
seemed to be as happy as a child with a new toy.
“My son,” said he after awhile, “ain’t there some way of finding
out who the other fellows are? Ain’t you got some word you want Seab
Griffin”—this was the young lawyer—“to spell for you?”
Spelling was the Major’s weakness. He was a well-educated man, and could
write vigorous English, but only a few days before he had asked me how
many _f_’s there are in _graphic_.
“Let’s see,” he went on, rubbing the top of his head. “Do you spell
_Byzantium_ with two _y_’s, or with two _i_’s, or with one _y_ and one
_i_? It’ll make Seab feel right good to be asked that before company, and
he certainly needs to feel good if he’s going with that crowd.”
So, with a manuscript copy in my hand, I went hurriedly down the hall and
put the important question. Mr. Griffin was all politeness, but not quite
sure of the facts in the case. But he searched in his books of reference,
including the Geographical Gazette, until finally he was able to give me
the information I was supposed to stand in need of.
While he was searching, Mr. Pulliam turned to me and inquired what day
the paper came out. When told that the date was Tuesday, he smiled and
nodded his head mysteriously.
“That’s good,” he declared; “you’ll be in time to ketch the news.”
[Illustration: Inquired what day the paper came out.]
“What news?” I inquired.
“Well, ef you don’t hear about it before to-morrer night, jest inquire of
Major Perdue. He’ll tell you all about it.”
Mr. Pulliam’s tone was so supercilious that I was afraid the Major would
lose his temper and come raging down the hallway. But he did nothing
of the kind. When I returned he was fairly beaming, and seemed to be
perfectly happy. The Major took down the names in his note-book—I have
forgotten all except those of Buck Sanford and Larry Pulliam; they were
all from the country except Larry Pulliam and the young lawyer.
After my visit to the room, the men spoke in lower tones, but every word
came back to us as distinctly as before.
“The feed of the horses won’t cost us a cent,” remarked young Sanford.
“Tom Gresham said he’d ’ten’ to that. They’re in the stable right now.
And we’re to have supper in Tom’s back room, have a little game of ante,
and along about twelve or one we’ll sa’nter down and yank that darned
nigger from betwixt his blankets, ef he’s got any, and leave him to cool
off at the cross-roads. Won’t you go ’long, Seab, and see it well done?”
“I’ll go and see if the supper’s well done, and I’ll take a shy at your
ante,” replied Mr. Griffin. “But when it comes to the balance of the
programme—well, I’m a lawyer, you know, and you couldn’t expect me to
witness the affair. I might have to take your cases and prove an alibi,
you know, and I couldn’t conscientiously do that if I was on hand at the
time.”
“The Ku-Klux don’t have to have alibis,” suggested Larry Pulliam.
“Perhaps not, still—” Apparently Mr. Griffin disposed of the matter with
a gesture.
When all the details of their plan had been carefully arranged, the
amateur Ku-Klux went filing out, the noise they made dying away like the
echoes of a storm.
Major Perdue leaned his head against the back of his chair, closed his
eyes, and sat there so quietly that I thought he was asleep. But this was
a mistake. Suddenly he began to laugh, and he laughed until the tears ran
down his face. It was laughter that was contagious, and presently I found
myself joining in without knowing why. This started the Major afresh, and
we both laughed until exhaustion came to our aid.
“O Lord!” cried the Major, panting, “I haven’t had as much fun since the
war, and a long time before. That blamed Pulliam is going to walk into a
trap of his own setting. Now you jest watch how he goes out ag’in.”
“But I’ll not be there,” I suggested.
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the Major, “you can’t afford to miss it. It’ll be
the finest piece of news your paper ever had. You’ll go to supper with
me—” He paused. “No, I’ll go home, send Valentine to her Aunt Emmy’s, get
Blasengame to come around, and we’ll have supper about nine. That’ll fix
it. Some of them chaps might have an eye on my house, and I don’t want
’em to see anybody but me go in there. Now, if you don’t come at nine,
I’ll send Blasengame after you.”
“I shall be glad to come, Major. I was simply fishing for an invitation.”
“_That_ fish is always on your hook, and you know it,” the Major insisted.
As it was arranged, so it fell out. At nine, I lifted and dropped the
knocker on the Major’s front door. It opened so promptly that I was
somewhat taken by surprise, but in a moment the hand of my host was on my
arm, and he pulled me inside unceremoniously.
“I was on the lookout,” the Major explained. “Minervy Ann has fixed to
have waffles, and she’s crazy about havin’ ’em just right. If she waits
too long to make ’em, the batter’ll spoil; and if she puts ’em on before
everybody’s ready, they won’t be good. That’s what she says. Here he is,
you old Hessian!” the Major cried, as Minervy Ann peeped in from the
dining-room. “Now slap that supper together and let’s get at it.”
“I’m mighty glad you come, suh,” said Aunt Minervy Ann, with a courtesy
and a smile, and then she disappeared. In an incredibly short time
supper was announced, and though Aunt Minervy has since informed me
confidentially that the Perdues were having a hard time of it at that
period, I’ll do her the justice to say that the supper she furnished
forth was as good as any to be had in that town—waffles, beat biscuit,
fried chicken, buttermilk, and coffee that could not be surpassed.
“How about the biscuit, Minervy Ann?” inquired Colonel Blasengame, who
was the Major’s brother-in-law, and therefore one of the family.
“I turned de dough on de block twelve times, an’ hit it a hundred an
forty-sev’m licks,” replied Aunt Minervy Ann.
“I’m afeard you hit it one lick too many,” said Colonel Blasengame,
winking at me.
[Illustration: “I was on the lookout,” the Major explained.]
“Well, suh, I been hittin’ dat away a mighty long time,” Aunt Minervy
Ann explained, “and I ain’t never hear no complaints.”
“Oh, I’m not complainin’, Minervy Ann.” Colonel Blasengame waved his
hand. “I’m mighty glad you did hit the dough a lick too many. If you
hadn’t, the biscuit would ’a’ melted in my mouth, and I believe I’d
rather chew on ’em to get the taste.”
“He des runnin’ on, suh,” said Aunt Minervy Ann to me. “Marse Bolivar
know mighty well dat he got ter go ’way fum de Nunited State fer ter git
any better biscuits dan what I kin bake.”
Then there was a long pause, which was broken by an attempt on the part
of Major Perdue to give Aunt Minervy Ann an inkling of the events likely
to happen during the night. She seemed to be both hard of hearing and
dull of understanding when the subject was broached; or she may have
suspected the Major was joking or trying to “run a rig” on her. Her
questions and comments, however, were very characteristic.
“I dunner what dey want wid Hamp,” she said. “Ef dey know’d how no-count
he is, dey’d let ’im ’lone. What dey want wid ’im?”
“Well, two or three of the country boys and maybe some of the town chaps
are going to call on him between midnight and day. They want to take him
out to the cross-roads. Hadn’t you better fix ’em up a little snack? Hamp
won’t want anything, but the boys will feel a little hungry after the job
is over.”
“Nobody ain’t never tell me dat de Legislatur’ wuz like de Free Masons,
whar dey have ter ride a billy goat an’ go down in a dry well wid de
chains a-clankin’. I done tol’ Hamp dat he better not fool wid white
folks’ doin’s.”
“Only the colored members have to be initiated,” explained the Major,
solemnly.
“What does dey do wid um?” inquired Aunt Minervy Ann.
“Well,” replied the Major, “they take ’em out to the nearest cross-roads,
put ropes around their necks, run the ropes over limbs, and pull away as
if they were drawing water from a well.”
“What dey do dat fer?” asked Aunt Minervy Ann, apparently still oblivious
to the meaning of it all.
“They want to see which’ll break first, the ropes or the necks,” the
Major explained.
“Ef dey takes Hamp out,” remarked Aunt Minervy Ann, tentatively—feeling
her way, as it were—“what time will he come back?”
“You’ve heard about the Resurrection Morn, haven’t you, Minervy Ann?”
There was a pious twang in the Major’s voice as he pronounced the words.
“I hear de preacher say sump’n ’bout it,” replied Aunt Minervy Ann.
“Well,” said the Major, “along about that time Hamp will return. I hope
his record is good enough to give him wings.”
“Shuh! Marse Tumlin! you-all des fool’in’ me. I don’t keer—Hamp ain’t
gwine wid um. I tell you dat right now.”
“Oh, he may not want to go,” persisted the Major, “but he’ll go all the
same if they get their hands on him.”
“My life er me!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, bristling up, “does you-all
’speck I’m gwine ter let um take Hamp out dat away? De fus’ man come ter
my door, less’n it’s one er you-all, I’m gwine ter fling a pan er hot
embers in his face ef de Lord’ll gi’ me de strenk. An’ ef dat don’t do no
good, I’ll scald um wid b’ilin’ water. You hear dat, don’t you?”
“Minervy Ann,” said the Major, sweetly, “have you ever heard of the
Ku-Klux?”
“Yasser, I is!” she exclaimed with startling emphasis. She stopped
still and gazed hard at the Major. In response, he merely shrugged his
shoulders and raised his right hand with a swift gesture that told the
whole story.
“Name er God! Marse Tumlin, is you an’ Marse Bolivar and dish yer young
genterman gwine ter set down here flat-footed and let dem Kukluckers
scarify Hamp?”
“Why should _we_ do anything? You’ve got everything arranged. You’re
going to singe ’em with hot embers, and you’re going to take their hides
off with scalding water. What more do you want?” The Major spoke with an
air of benign resignation.
Aunt Minervy Ann shook her head vigorously. “Ef dey er de Kukluckers,
fire won’t do um no harm. Dey totes der haids in der han’s.”
“Their heads in their hands?” cried Colonel Blasengame, excitedly.
“Dat what dey say, suh,” replied Aunt Minervy Ann.
Colonel Blasengame looked at his watch. “Tumlin, I’ll have to ask you
to excuse me to-night,” he said. “I—well, the fact is, I have a mighty
important engagement up town. I’m obliged to fill it.” He turned to Aunt
Minervy Ann: “Did I understand you to say the Ku-Klux carry their heads
in their hands?”
“Dat what folks tell me. I hear my own color sesso,” replied Aunt Minervy
Ann.
“I’d be glad to stay with you, Tumlin,” the Colonel declared; “but—well,
under the circumstances, I think I’d better fill that engagement. Justice
to my family demands it.”
“Well,” responded Major Perdue, “if you are going, I reckon we’d just as
well go, too.”
“Huh!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, “ef gwine’s de word, dey can’t nobody
beat me gittin’ way fum here. Dey may beat me comin’ back, I ain’t
’sputin’ dat; but dey can’t beat me gwine ’way. I’m ol’, but I got mighty
nigh ez much go in me ez a quarter-hoss.”
Colonel Blasengame leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. “It
seems to me, Tumlin, we might compromise on this. Suppose we get Hamp to
come in here. Minervy Ann can stay out there in the kitchen and throw a
rock against the back door when the Ku-Klux come.”
Aunt Minervy Ann fairly gasped. “_Who? Me?_ I’ll die fust. I’ll t’ar dat
do’ down; I’ll holler twel ev’ybody in de neighborhood come a-runnin’. Ef
you don’t b’lieve me, you des try me. I’ll paw up dat back-yard.”
Major Perdue went to the back door and called Hamp, but there was no
answer. He called him a second time, with the same result.
“Well,” said the Major, “they’ve stolen a march on us. They’ve come and
carried him off while we were talking.”
“No, suh, dey ain’t, needer. I know right whar he is, an’ I’m gwine
atter ’im. He’s right ’cross de street dar, colloguin’ wid dat ol’ Ceely
Ensign. Dat’s right whar he is.”
“Old! Why, Celia is young,” remarked the Major. “They say she’s the best
cook in town.”
Aunt Minervy Ann whipped out of the room and was gone some little time.
When she returned, she had Hamp with her, and I noticed that both were
laboring under excitement which they strove in vain to suppress.
“Here I is, suh,” said Hamp. “’Nervy Ann say you call me.”
“How is Celia to-night?” Colonel Blasengame inquired, suavely.
This inquiry, so suddenly and unexpectedly put, seemed to disconcert
Hamp. He shuffled his feet and put his hand to his face. I noticed a
blue welt over his eye, which was not there when he visited me in the
afternoon.
“Well, suh, I ’speck she’s tolerbul.”
“_Is she? Is she? Ah-h-h!_” cried Aunt Minervy Ann.
“She must be pretty well,” said the Major. “I see she’s hit you a clip
over the left eye.”
“Dat’s some er ’Nervy Ann’s doin’s, suh,” replied Hamp, somewhat
disconsolately.
“Den what you git in de way fer?” snapped Aunt Minervy Ann.
“Marse Tumlin, dat ar ’oman ain’t done nothin’ in de roun’ worl’. She say
she want me to buy some hime books fer de church when I went to Atlanty,
an’ I went over dar atter de money.”
“_I himed ’er an’ I churched ’er!_” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann.
“Here de money right here,” said Hamp, pulling a small roll of
shinplasters out of his pocket; “an’ whiles we settin’ dar countin’ de
money, ’Nervy Ann come in dar an’ frail dat ’oman out.”
“Ain’t you hear dat nigger holler, Marse Tumlin?” inquired Minervy Ann.
She was in high good-humor now. “Look like ter me dey could a-heerd ’er
blate in de nex’ county ef dey’d been a-lis’nin’. ’Twuz same ez a picnic,
suh, an’ I’m gwine ’cross dar ’fo’ long an’ pay my party call.”
Then she began to laugh, and pretty soon went through the whole episode
for our edification, dwelling with unction on that part where the
unfortunate victim of her jealousy had called her “Miss ’Nervy.” The more
she laughed the more serious Hamp became.
At the proper time he was told of the visitation that was to be made by
the Ku-Klux, and this information seemed to perplex and worry him no
little. But his face lit up with genuine thankfulness when the programme
for the occasion was announced to him. He and Minervy Ann were to remain
in the house and not show their heads until the Major or the Colonel or
their guest came to the back door and drummed on it lightly with the
fingers.
[Illustration: In the third he placed only powder.]
Then the arms—three shot-guns—were brought out, and I noticed with some
degree of surprise, that as the Major and the Colonel began to handle
these, their spirits rose perceptibly. The Major hummed a tune and the
Colonel whistled softly as they oiled the locks and tried the triggers.
The Major, in coming home, had purchased four pounds of mustard-seed
shot, and with this he proceeded to load two of the guns. In the third
he placed only powder. This harmless weapon was intended for me, while
the others were to be handled by Major Perdue and Colonel Blasengame. I
learned afterward that the arrangement was made solely for my benefit.
The Major and the Colonel were afraid that a young hand might become
excited and fire too high at close range, in which event mustard-seed
shot would be as dangerous as the larger variety.
At twelve o’clock I noticed that both Hamp and Aunt Minervy were growing
restless.
“You hear dat clock, don’t you, Marse Tumlin?” said Minervy as the chimes
died away. “Ef you don’t min’, de Kukluckers’ll be a-stickin’ der haids
in de back do’.”
But the Major and the Colonel were playing a rubber of seven-up (or
high-low-Jack) and paid no attention. It was a quarter after twelve when
the game was concluded and the players pushed their chairs back from the
table.
“Ef you don’t fin’ um in de yard waitin’ fer you, I’ll be fooled
might’ly,” remarked Aunt Minervy Ann.
“Go and see if they’re out there,” said the Major.
“_Me_, Marse Tumlin? _Me?_ I wouldn’t go out dat do’ not for ham.”
The Major took out his watch. “They’ll eat and drink until twelve or a
little after, and then they’ll get ready to start. Then they’ll have
another drink all ’round, and finally they’ll take another. It’ll be a
quarter to one or after when they get in the grove in the far end of the
lot. But we’ll go out now and see how the land lays. By the time they get
here, our eyes will be used to the darkness.”
The light was carried to a front room, and we groped our way out at the
back door the best we could. The night was dark, but the stars were
shining. I noticed that the belt and sword of Orion had drifted above
the tree-tops in the east, following the Pleiades. In a little while the
darkness seemed to grow less dense, and I could make out the outlines of
trees twenty feet away.
Behind one of these trees, near the outhouse in which Hamp and Aunt
Minervy lived, I was to take my stand, while the Major and the Colonel
were to go farther into the wood-lot so as to greet the would-be Ku-Klux
as they made their retreat, of which Major Perdue had not the slightest
doubt.
“You stand here,” said the Major in a whisper. “We’ll go to the far-end
of the lot where they’re likely to come in. They’ll pass us all right
enough, but as soon as you see one of ’em, up with the gun an’ lam
aloose, an’ before they can get away give ’em the other barrel. Then
you’ll hear from us.”
Major Perdue and Colonel Blasengame disappeared in the darkness, leaving
me, as it were, on the inner picket line. I found the situation somewhat
ticklish, as the saying is. There was not the slightest danger, and I
knew it, but if you ever have occasion to stand out in the dark, waiting
for something to happen, you’ll find there’s a certain degree of suspense
attached to it. And the loneliness and silence of the night will take a
shape almost tangible. The stirring of the half-dead leaves, the chirping
of a belated cricket, simply emphasized the loneliness and made the
silence more profound. At intervals, all nature seemed to heave a deep
sigh, and address itself to slumber again.
In the house I heard the muffled sound of the clock chime one, but
whether it was striking the half-hour or the hour I could not tell.
Then I heard the stealthy tread of feet. Someone stumbled over a stick
of timber, and the noise was followed by a smothered exclamation and a
confused murmur of voices. As the story-writers say, I knew that the
hour had come. I could hear whisperings, and then I saw a tall shadow
steal from behind Aunt Minervy’s house, and heard it rap gently on the
door. I raised the gun, pulled the hammer back, and let drive. A stream
of fire shot from the gun, accompanied by a report that tore the silence
to atoms. I heard a sharp exclamation of surprise, then the noise of
running feet, and off went the other barrel. In a moment the Major and
the Colonel opened on the fugitives. I heard a loud cry of pain from one,
and, in the midst of it all, the mustard-seed shot rattled on the plank
fence like hominy-snow on a tin roof.
The next instant I heard someone running back in my direction, as if
for dear life. He knew the place apparently, for he tried to go through
the orchard, but just before he reached the orchard fence, he uttered a
half-strangled cry of terror, and then I heard him fall as heavily as if
he had dropped from the top of the house.
It was impossible to imagine what had happened, and it was not until we
had investigated the matter that the cause of the trouble was discovered.
A wire clothes-line, stretched across the yard, had caught the would-be
Ku-Klux under the chin, his legs flew from under him, and he had a fall,
from the effects of which he was long in recovering. He was a young man
about town, very well connected, who had gone into the affair in a spirit
of mischief. We carried him into the house, and administered to his hurts
the best we could; Aunt Minervy Ann, be it said to her credit, being more
active in this direction than any of us.
[Illustration: We administered to his hurts the best we could.]
On the Tuesday following, the county paper contained the news in a form
that remains to this day unique. It is hardly necessary to say that it
was from the pen of Major Tumlin Perdue.
“Last Saturday afternoon our local editor was informed by a prominent
citizen that if he would apply to Major Perdue he would be put in
possession of a very interesting piece of news. Acting upon this hint,
ye local yesterday went to Major Perdue, who, being in high good-humor,
wrote out the following with his own hand:
“‘Late Saturday night, while engaged with a party of friends in searching
for a stray dog on my premises, I was surprised to see four or five
men climb over my back fence and proceed toward my residence. As my
most intimate friends do not visit me by climbing over my back fence, I
immediately deployed my party in such a manner as to make the best of
a threatening situation. The skirmish opened at my kitchen-door, with
two rounds from a howitzer. This demoralized the enemy, who promptly
retreated the way they came. One of them, the leader of the attacking
party, carried away with him two loads of mustard-seed shot, delivered in
the general neighborhood and region of the coat-tails, which, being on
a level with the horizon, afforded as fair a target as could be had in
the dark. I understand on good authority that Mr. Larry Pulliam, one of
our leading and deservedly popular citizens, has had as much as a quart
of mustard-seed shot picked from his carcass. Though hit in a vulnerable
spot, the wound is not mortal.—T. PERDUE.’”
I did my best to have Mr. Pulliam’s name suppressed, but the Major would
not have it so.
“No, sir,” he insisted; “the man has insulted me behind my back, and he’s
got to cut wood or put down the axe.”
Naturally this free and easy card created quite a sensation in
Halcyondale and the country round about. People knew what it would mean
if Major Perdue’s name had been used in such an off-hand manner by Mr.
Pulliam, and they naturally supposed that a fracas would be the outcome.
Public expectation was on tiptoe, and yet the whole town seemed to take
the Major’s card humorously. Some of the older citizens laughed until
they could hardly sit up, and even Mr. Pulliam’s friends caught the
infection. Indeed, it is said that Mr. Pulliam, himself, after the first
shock of surprise was over, paid the Major’s audacious humor the tribute
of a hearty laugh. When Mr. Pulliam appeared in public, among the first
men he saw was Major Perdue. This was natural, for the Major made it a
point to be on hand. He was not a ruffler, but he thought it was his duty
to give Mr. Pulliam a fair opportunity to wreak vengeance on him. If the
boys about town imagined that a row was to be the result of this first
meeting, they were mistaken. Mr. Pulliam looked at the Major and then
began to laugh.
[Illustration: “I’d a heap rather you’d pull your shot-gun on me than
your pen.”]
“Major Perdue,” he said, “I’d a heap rather you’d pull your shot-gun on
me than your pen.”
And that ended the matter.
II
“WHEN JESS WENT A-FIDDLIN’”
The foregoing recital is unquestionably a long and tame preface to the
statement that, after thinking the matter over I concluded to accept the
official invitation to the fair—“The Middle Georgia Exposition” it was
called—if nothing occurred to prevent. With this conclusion I dismissed
the matter from my mind for the time being, and would probably have
thought of it no more until the moment arrived to make a final decision,
if the matter had not been called somewhat sharply to my attention.
Sitting on the veranda one day, ruminating over other people’s troubles,
I heard an unfamiliar voice calling, “You-all got any bitin’ dogs here?”
The voice failed to match the serenity of the suburban scene. Its tone
was pitched a trifle too high for the surroundings.
But before I could make any reply the gate was flung open, and the
new-comer, who was no other than Aunt Minervy Ann, flirted in and began
to climb the terraces. My recognition of her was not immediate, partly
because it had been long since I saw her and partly because she wore her
Sunday toggery, in which, following the oriental tastes of her race, the
reds and yellows were emphasized with startling effect. She began to talk
by the time she was half-way between the house and gate, and it was owing
to this special and particular volubility that I was able to recognize
her.
“Huh!” she exclaimed, “hit’s des like clim’in’ up sta’rs. Folks what
live here bleeze ter b’long ter de Sons er Tempunce.” There was a
relish about this reference to the difficulties of three terraces that
at once identified Aunt Minervy Ann. More than that, one of the most
conspicuous features of the country town where she lived was a large
brick building, covering half a block, across the top of which stretched
a sign—“Temperance Hall”—in letters that could be read half a mile away.
Aunt Minervy Ann received a greeting that seemed to please her, whereupon
she explained that an excursion had come to Atlanta from her town, and
she had seized the opportunity to pay me a visit. “I tol’ um,” said she,
“dat dey could stay up in town dar an’ hang ’roun’ de kyar-shed ef dey
wanter, but here’s what wuz gwine ter come out an’ see whar you live at,
an’ fin’ out fer Marse Tumlin ef you comin’ down ter de fa’r.”
She was informed that, though she was welcome, she would get small
pleasure from her visit. The cook had failed to make her appearance,
and the lady of the house was at that moment in the kitchen and in a
very fretful state of mind, not because she had to cook, but because she
had about reached the point where she could place no dependence in the
sisterhood of colored cooks.
“Is she in de kitchen now?” Aunt Minervy’s tone was a curious mixture of
amusement and indignation. “I started not ter come, but I had a call, I
sho’ did; sump’n tol’ me dat you mought need me out here.” With that, she
went into the house, slamming the screen-door after her, and untying her
bonnet as she went.
Now, the lady of the house had heard of Aunt Minervy Ann, but had never
met her, and I was afraid that the characteristics of my old-time friend
would be misunderstood and misinterpreted. The lady in question knew
nothing of the negro race until long after emancipation, and she had
not been able to form a very favorable opinion of its representatives.
Therefore, I hastened after Aunt Minervy Ann, hoping to tone down by
explanation whatever bad impression she might create. She paused at the
screen-door that barred the entrance to the kitchen, and, for an instant,
surveyed the scene within. Then she cried out:
“You des ez well ter come out’n dat kitchen! You ain’t got no mo’ bizness
in dar dan a new-born baby.”
Aunt Minervy Ann’s voice was so loud and absolute that the lady gazed at
her in mute astonishment. “You des es well ter come out!” she insisted.
“Are you crazy?” the lady asked, in all seriousness.
“I’m des ez crazy now ez I ever been; an’ I tell you you des ez well ter
come out’n dar.”
“Who are you anyhow?”
“I’m Minervy Ann Perdue, at home an’ abroad, an’ in dish yer great town
whar you can’t git niggers ter cook fer you.”
“Well, if you want me to come out of the kitchen, you will have to come
in and do the cooking.”
“Dat ’zackly what I’m gwine ter do!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann. She went
into the kitchen, demanded an apron, and took entire charge. “I’m mighty
glad I come ’fo’ you got started,” she said, “’kaze you got ’nuff fier
in dis stove fer ter barbecue a hoss; an’ you got it so hot in here dat
it’s a wonder you ain’t bust a blood-vessel.”
She removed all the vessels from the range, and opened the door of the
furnace so that the fire might die down. And when it was nearly out—as
I was told afterward—she replaced the vessels and proceeded to cook a
dinner which, in all its characteristics, marked a red letter day in the
household.
“She’s the best cook in the country,” said the lady, “and she’s not very
polite.”
“Not very hypocritical, you mean; well if she was a hypocrite, she
wouldn’t be Aunt Minervy Ann.”
The cook failed to come in the afternoon, and so Aunt Minervy Ann felt
it her duty to remain over night. “Hamp’ll vow I done run away wid
somebody,” she said, laughing, “but I don’t keer what he think.”
After supper, which was as good as the dinner had been, Aunt Minervy Ann
came out on the veranda and sat on the steps. After some conversation,
she placed the lady of the house on the witness-stand.
“Mistiss, wharbouts in Georgy wuz you born at?”
“I wasn’t born in Georgia; I was born in Lansingburgh, New York.”
“I know’d it!” Aunt Minervy turned to me and nodded her head with energy.
“I know’d it right pine blank!”
“You knew what?” the presiding genius of the household inquired with some
curiosity.
“I know’d ’m dat you wuz a Northron lady.”
“I don’t see how you knew it,” I remarked.
“Well, suh, she talk like we-all do, an’ she got mighty much de same
ways. But when I went out dar dis mornin’ an’ holler at ’er in de
kitchen, I know’d by de way she turn ’roun’ on me dat she ain’t been
brung up wid niggers. Ef she’d ’a’ been a Southron lady, she’d ’a’
laughed an’ said, ‘Come in here an’ cook dis dinner yo’se’f, you ole
vilyun,’ er she’d ’a’ come out an’ crackt me over de head with dat i’on
spoon what she had in her han’.”
I could perceive a vast amount of acuteness in the observation, but I
said nothing, and, after a considerable pause, Aunt Minervy Ann remarked:
“Dey er lots er mighty good folks up dar”—indicating the North—“some
I’ve seed wid my own eyes an’ de yuthers I’ve heern talk un. Mighty fine
folks, an’ dey say dey mighty sorry fer de niggers. But I’ll tell um
all anywhar, any day, dat I’d lots druther dey’d be good ter me dan ter
be sorry fer me. You know dat ar white lady what Marse Tom Chippendale
married? Her pa come down here ter he’p de niggers, an’ he done it de
best he kin, but Marse Tom’s wife can’t b’ar de sight un um. She won’t
let um go in her kitchen, she won’t let um go in her house, an’ she don’t
want um nowhars ’roun’. She’s mighty sorry fer ’m, but she don’t like um.
I don’t blame ’er much myse’f, bekaze it look like dat de niggers what
been growin’ up sence freedom is des tryin’ der han’ fer ter see how no
’count dey kin be. Dey’ll git better—dey er bleeze ter git better, ’kaze
dey can’t git no wuss.”
Here came another pause, which continued until Aunt Minervy Ann, turning
her head toward me, asked if I knew the lady that Jesse Towers married;
and before I had time to reply with certainty, she went on:
“No, suh, you des can’t know ’er. She ain’t come dar twel sev’mty, an’
I mos’ know you ain’t see ’er dat time you went down home de las’ time,
’kaze she wa’n’t gwine out dat year. Well, she wuz a Northron lady. I
come mighty nigh tellin’ you ’bout ’er when you wuz livin’ dar, but fus’
one thing an’ den anudder jumped in de way; er maybe ’Twuz too new ter be
goshup’d ’roun’ right den. But de way she come ter be dar an’ de way it
all turn out beats any er dem tales what de ol’ folks use ter tell we
childun. I may not know all de ins an’ outs, but what I does know I knows
mighty well, ’kaze de young ’oman tol’ me herse’f right out ’er own mouf.