ON THE PLANTATION
A Story Of A Georgia Boy's Adventures During The War
By Joel Chandler Harris
Author Of Uncle Remus
With Twenty-Three Illustrations By E. W. Kemble
New York
D. Appleton And Company
1892
JOSEPH ADDISON TURNER
LAWYER, EDITOR, SCHOLAR, PLANTER,
AND PHILANTHROPIST THIS MIXTURE
OF FACT AND FICTION IS INSCRIBED
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
Some of my friends who have read in serial form the chronicles that
follow profess to find in them something more than an autobiographical
touch. Be it so. It would indeed be difficult to invest the commonplace
character and adventures of Joe Maxwell with the vitality that belongs
to fiction. Nevertheless, the lad himself, and the events which are
herein described, seem to have been born of a dream. That which is
fiction pure and simple in these pages bears to me the stamp of truth,
and that which is true reads like a clumsy invention. In this matter
it is not for me to prompt the reader. He must sift the fact from the
fiction and label it to suit himself.
J. C. H.
ON THE PLANTATION.
CHAPTER I--JOE MAXWELL MAKES A START
The post-office in the middle Georgia village of Hillsborough used
to be a queer little place, whatever it is now. It was fitted up in
a cellar; and the postmaster, who was an enterprising gentleman from
Connecticut, had arranged matters so that those who went after their
letters and papers could at the same time get their grocery supplies.
Over against the wall on one side was a faded green sofa. It was not an
inviting seat, for in some places the springs peeped through, and one of
its legs was broken, giving it a suspicious tilt against the wall. But
a certain little boy found one corner of the rickety old sofa a very
comfortable place, and he used to curl up there nearly every day,
reading such stray newspapers as he could lay hands on, and watching the
people come and go.
To the little boy the stock of goods displayed for sale was as curious
in its variety as the people who called day after day for the letters
that came or that failed to come. To some dainty persons the mingled
odor of cheese, cam-phene, and mackerel would have been disagreeable;
but Joe Maxwell--that was the name of the little boy--had a healthy
disposition and a strong stomach, and he thought the queer little
post-office was one of the pleasantest places in the world.
A partition of woodwork and wire netting cut off the post-office and the
little stock of groceries from the public at large, but outside of that
was an area where a good many people could stand and wait for their
letters. In one corner of this area was the rickety green sofa, and
round about were chairs and boxes and barrels on which tired people
could rest themselves.
The Milledgeville papers had a large circulation in the county. They
were printed at the capital of the State, and were thought to be very
important on that account. They had so many readers in the neighborhood
that the postmaster, in order to save time and trouble, used to pile
them up on a long shelf outside the wooden partition, where each
subscriber could help himself. Joe Maxwell took advantage of this
method, and on Tuesdays, when the Milledgeville papers arrived, he could
always be found curled up in the corner of the old green sofa reading
the _Recorder_ and the _Federal Union_. What he found in those papers to
interest him it would be hard to say. They were full of political essays
that were popular in those days, and they had long reports of political
conventions and meetings from all parts of the State. They were papers
for grown people, and Joe Maxwell was only twelve years old, and small
for his age.
There was another place that Joe found it pleasant to visit, and that
was a lawyer's office in one of the rooms of the old tavern that looked
out on the pillared veranda. It was a pleasant place to him, not because
it was a law-office, but because it was the office of a gentleman
who was very friendly to the youngster. The gentleman's name was Mr.
Deometari, and Joe called him Mr. Deo, as did the other people of
Hillsborough. He was fat and short and wore whiskers, which gave him a
peculiar appearance at that time. All the rest of the men that Joe knew
wore either a full beard or a mustache and an imperial. For that reason
Mr. Deometari's whiskers were very queer-looking. He was a Greek, and
there was a rumor among the people about town that he had been compelled
to leave his country on account of his politics. Joe never knew until
long afterward that politics could be a crime. He thought that politics
consisted partly in newspaper articles signed “Old Subscriber” and “Many
Citizens” and “Vox Populi” and “Scrutator,” and partly in arguments
between the men who sat in fine weather on the dry-goods boxes under the
china-trees. But there was a mystery about Mr. Deometari, and it pleased
the lad to imagine all sorts of romantic stories about the fat lawyer.
Although Mr. Deometari was a Greek, there was no foreign twang to his
tongue. Only as close an observer as the boy could have told from his
talk that he was a foreigner. He was a good lawyer and a good speaker,
and all the other lawyers seemed to like him. They enjoyed his company
so well that it was only occasionally that Joe found him in his office
alone.
[Illustration: 0026]
Once Mr. Deometari took from his closet a military uniform and put it
on. Joe Maxwell thought it was the most beautiful uniform he had ever
seen. Gold braid ran down the sides of the trousers, gold cords hung
loosely on the breast of the coat, and a pair of tremendous epaulets
surmounted the shoulders. The hat was something like the hats Joe had
seen in picture-books. It was caught up at the sides with little
gold buttons, and trimmed with a long black feather that shone like a
pigeon's breast. Fat as Mr. Deometari was, the lad thought he looked
very handsome in his fine uniform. This was only one incident. In his
room, which was a large one, Mr. Deometari had boxes packed with books,
and he gave Joe leave to ransack them. Many of the volumes were in
strange tongues, but among them were some quaint old English books,
and these the lad relished beyond measure. After a while Mr. Deometari
closed his office and went away to the war.
It would not be fair to say that Joe was a studious lad. On the
contrary, he was of an adventurous turn of mind, and he was not at all
fond of the books that were in his desk at Hillsborough Academy. He was
full of all sorts of pranks and capers, and there were plenty of people
in the little town ready to declare that he would come to some bad end
if he was not more frequently dosed with what the old folks used to call
hickory oil. Some of Joe Maxwell's pranks were commonplace, but others
were ingenious enough to give him quite a reputation for humor, and
one prank in particular is talked of by the middle-aged people of
Hillsborough to this day.
The teacher of the academy had organized a military company among the
pupils--it was just about the time when rumors and hints of war had
begun to take shape--and a good deal of interest was felt in the
organization, especially by the older boys. Of this company Joe Maxwell
was the fourth corporal, a position which gave him a place at the foot
of the company. The Hillsborough Cadets drilled every school-day, and
sometimes on Saturdays, and they soon grew to be very proud of their
proficiency.
At last, after a good deal of manoeuvring on the playgrounds and in the
public square, the teacher, who was the captain, concluded that the boys
had earned a vacation, and it was decided that the company should go
into camp for a week on the Oconee River, and fish and hunt and have a
good time generally. The boys fairly went wild when the announcement was
made, and some of them wanted to hug the teacher, who had hard work to
explain that an attempt of this sort was not in accord with military
tactics or discipline.
All the arrangements were duly made. Tents were borrowed from the
Hillsborough Rifles, and the drum corps of that company was hired to
make music. A half-dozen wagons carried the camp outfit and the small
boys, while the larger ones marched. It was an entirely new experience
for Joe Maxwell, and he enjoyed it as only a healthy and high-spirited
boy could enjoy it. The formal and solemn way in which the guard was
mounted was very funny to him, and the temptation to make a joke of it
was too strong to be resisted.
The tents were pitched facing each other, with the officers' tent at the
head of the line thus formed. At the other end of the lane and a little
to the rear was the baggage-tent, in which the trunks, boxes, and
commissaries were stored. Outside of all, the four sentinels marched
up and down. The tents were pitched in an old field that was used as
a pasture, and Joe noticed during the afternoon two mules and a horse
browsing around. He noticed, too, that these animals were very much
disturbed, especially when the drums began to beat, and that their
curiosity would not permit them to get very far from the camp, no matter
how frightened they were.
It happened that one of Joe's messmates was to go on guard duty at
twelve o'clock that night. He was a fat, awkward, good-natured fellow,
this messmate, and a heavy sleeper, too, so that, when the corporal
of the guard undertook to arouse him, all the boys in the tent
were awakened. All except Joe quickly went to sleep again, but this
enterprising youngster quietly put on his clothes, and, in the confusion
of changing the guard, slipped out of the lines and hid in a convenient
gully not far from the camp.
It was his intention to worry if not to frighten his messmate, and while
he lay there trying to think out the best plan to pursue, he heard the
horse and mules trampling and snorting not very far off. Their curiosity
was not yet satisfied, and they seemed to be making their way toward the
camp for the purpose of reconnoitering.
Joe's mind was made up in an instant.
He slipped down the gully until the animals were between him and the
camp, and then, seizing a large pine brush that happened to be lying
near, he sprang toward them. The mules and horse were ripe for a
stampede. The camp itself was an object of suspicion, and this attack
from an unexpected quarter was too much for them. Snorting with terror
they rushed in the direction of the tents. The sleepy sentinel, hearing
them coming, fired his gun in the air and ran yelling into the camp,
followed by the horse and one of the mules. The other mule shied to the
right when the gun was fired, and ran into the baggage-tent. There was
a tremendous rattle and clatter of boxes, pots, pans, and crockery ware.
The mule, crazed with fright, made a violent effort to get through the
tent, but it caught him in some way. Finally, the ropes that held it
down gave way, and the mule, with the tent flapping and flopping on his
back, turned and rushed through the camp. To all but Joe Maxwell it was
a horrifying sight. Many of the boys, as the saying is, “took to
the woods,” and some of them were prostrated with fright. These were
consequences that Joe had not counted on, and it was a long time before
he confessed to his share in the night's sport. The results reached
further than the camp. In another part of the plantation the negroes
were holding a revival meeting in the open air, preaching and shouting
and singing. Toward this familiar scene the mule made his way,
squealing, braying, and kicking, the big white tent flopping on his
back. As the terrified animal circled around the place, the negroes
cried out that Satan had come, and the panic that ensued among them is
not easily described. Many thought that the apparition was the ushering
in of the judgment-day, while by far the greater number firmly believed
that the “Old Boy” himself was after them. The uproar they made could
be plainly heard at the camp, more than a mile away--shrieks, screams,
yells, and cries for mercy. After it was all over, and Joe Maxwell had
crept quietly to bed, the thought came to him that it was not such a
fine joke, after all, and he lay awake a long time repenting the night's
work. He heard the next day that nobody had been hurt and that no
serious damage had been done, but it was many weeks before he forgave
himself for his thoughtless prank.
Although Joe was fond of fun, and had a great desire to be a clown in a
circus or to be the driver of a stage-coach--just such a red and yellow
coach, with “U. S. M.” painted on its doors, as used to carry passengers
and the mails between Hillsborough and Rockville--he never permitted
his mind to dwell on these things. He knew very well that the time would
soon come when he would have to support his mother and himself. This
thought used to come to him again and again when he was sitting in the
little post-office, reading the Milledgeville papers.
It so happened that these papers grew very interesting to both old and
young as the days went by. The rumors of war had developed into war
itself. In the course of a few months two companies of volunteers had
gone to Virginia from Hillsborough, and the little town seemed to be
lonelier and more deserted than ever. Joe Maxwell noticed, as he sat in
the post-office, that only a very few old men and ladies came after the
letters and papers, and he missed a great many faces that used to
smile at him as he sat reading, and some of them he never saw again. He
noticed, too, that when there had been a battle or a skirmish the ladies
and young girls came to the post-office more frequently. When the news
was very important, one of the best-known citizens would mount a chair
or a dry-goods box and read the telegrams aloud to the waiting and
anxious group of people, and sometimes the hands and the voice of the
reader trembled.
One day while Joe Maxwell was sitting in the post-office looking
over the Milledgeville papers, his eye fell on an advertisement that
interested him greatly. It seemed to bring the whole world nearer to
him. The advertisement set forth the fact that on next Tuesday the first
number of _The Countryman_, a weekly paper would be published. It
would be modeled after Mr. Addison's little paper, the _Spectator_, Mr.
Goldsmith's little paper, the _Bee_, and Mr. Johnson's little paper, the
_Rambler_. It would be edited by J. A. Turner, and it would be issued
on the plantation of the editor, nine miles from Hillsborough. Joe read
this advertisement over a dozen times, and it was with a great deal of
impatience that he waited for the next Tuesday to come.
But the day did come, and with it came the first issue of _The
Countryman_. Joe read it from beginning to end, advertisements and all,
and he thought it was the most entertaining little paper he had ever
seen. Among the interesting things was an announcement by the editor
that he wanted a boy to learn the printing business. Joe borrowed pen
and ink and some paper from the friendly postmaster, and wrote a letter
to the editor, saying that he would be glad to learn the printing
business. The letter was no doubt an awkward one, but it served its
purpose, for when the editor of _The Countryman_ came to Hillsborough
he hunted Joe up, and told him to get ready to go to the plantation. The
lad, not without some misgivings, put away his tops and marbles, packed
his little belongings in an old-fashioned trunk, kissed his mother and
his grandmother good-by, and set forth on what, turned out to be the
most important journey of his life.
Sitting in the buggy by the side of the editor and publisher of _The
Countryman_, Joe Maxwell felt lonely indeed, and this feeling was
increased as he went through the little town and heard his schoolmates,
who were at their marbles on the public square, bidding him good-by.
He could hardly keep back his tears at this, but, on looking around
after the buggy had gone a little way, he saw his friends had returned
to their marbles, and the thought struck him that he was already
forgotten. Many and many a time after that he thought of his little
companions and how quickly they had returned to their marbles.
The editor of _The Countryman_ must have divined what was passing in
the lad's mind (he was a quick-witted man and a clever one, too), for he
tried to engage in conversation with Joe. But the boy preferred to nurse
his loneliness, and would only talk when he was compelled to answer a
question. Finally, the editor asked him if he would drive, and this Joe
was glad enough to do, for there is some diversion in holding the reins
over a spirited horse. The editor's horse was a large gray, named Ben
Bolt, and he was finer than any of the horses that Joe had seen at the
livery-stable. Feeling a new and an unaccustomed touch on the reins, Ben
Bolt made an effort to give a new meaning to his name by bolting sure
enough. The road was level and hard, and the horse ran rapidly for a
little distance; but Joe Maxwell's arms were tough, and before the horse
had gone a quarter of a mile the lad had him completely under control.
“You did that very well,” said the editor, who was familiar with Ben
Bolt's tricks. “I didn't know that little boys in town could drive
horses.”
“Oh, sometimes they can,” replied Joe. “If he had been scared, I think
I should have been scared myself; but he was only playing. He has been
tied at the rack all day, and he must be hungry.”
“Yes,” said the editor, “he is hungry, and he wants to see his mate, Rob
Roy.”
Then the editor, in a fanciful way, went on to talk about Ben Bolt and
Rob Roy, as if they were persons instead of horses; but it did not seem
fanciful to Joe, who had a strange sympathy with animals of all kinds,
especially horses and dogs. It pleased him greatly to think that he had
ideas in common with a grown man, who knew how to write for the papers;
and if the editor was talking to make Joe forget his loneliness he
succeeded admirably, for the lad thought no more of the boys who had so
quickly returned to their marbles, but only of his mother, whom he had
last seen standing at the little gate smiling at him through her tears.
As they drove along the editor pointed out a little log-cabin near the
road.
“That,” said he, “is where the high sheriff of the county lives. Do you
know Colonel John B. Stith?”
“Yes,” Joe replied; “but I thought he lived in a large, fine house. I
don't see how he can get in at that door yonder.”
“What makes you think he is too big for the door?” asked the editor.
“Why, the way he goes on,” said Joe, with the bluntness of youth. “He is
always in town talking politics, and he talks bigger than anybody.”
[Illustration: 0038]
“Well,” said the editor, laughing, “that is his house. When you get a
little older you'll find people who are more disappointing than the high
sheriff. Boys are sometimes too big for their breeches, I've heard said,
but this is the first time I ever heard that a man could be too big for
his house. That is a good one on the colonel.”
Ben Bolt trotted along steadily and rapidly, but after a while dusk
fell, and then the stars came out. Joe peered ahead, trying to make out
the road.
“Just let the horse have his way,” said the editor. “He knows the road
better than I do”; and it seemed to be so, for, when heavy clouds from
the west came up and hid the stars, and only the darkness was visible,
Ben Bolt trotted along as steadily as ever. He splashed through Crooked
Creek, walked up the long hill, and then started forward more rapidly
than ever.
“It is a level road, now,” the editor remarked, “and Ben Bolt is on the
home-stretch.”
In a little while he stopped before a large gate. It was opened in a
jiffy by some one who seemed to be waiting.
“Is that you, Harbert?” asked the editor.
“Yes, marster.”
“Well, I want you to take Mr. Maxwell here to Mr. Snelson's.”
“Yasser,” responded the negro.
“Snelson is the foreman of the printing-office,” the editor explained to
Joe, “and for the present you are to board with him. I hope he will make
things pleasant for you. Goodnight.”
To the lonely lad it seemed a long journey to Mr. Sneison's--through
wide plantation gates, down narrow lanes, along a bit of public road,
and then a plunge into the depths of a great wood, where presently a
light gleamed through.
“I'll hail 'em,” said Harbert, and he sent before him into the darkness
a musical halloo, whereupon, as promptly as its echo, came a hearty
response from the house, with just the faintest touch of the Irish
brogue in the voice.
“Ah, and it's the young man! Jump right down and come in to the warmth
of the fire. There's something hot on the hearth, where it's waiting
you.”
And so Joe Maxwell entered on a new life--a life as different as
possible from that which he had left behind in Hillsborough.