All was peace on the plantation, but war has long arms, and it dropped
its gifts of poverty and privation in many a humble home with which Joe
Maxwell was familiar. War has its bill of fare, too, and much of it was
not to Joe's taste. For coffee there were various substitutes: sweet
potatoes, chipped and dried, parched meal, parched rye, parched
okra-seeds, and sassafras tea. Joe's beverage was water sweetened with
sorghum-sirup, and he found it a very refreshing and wholesome drink.
Some of the dishes that were popular in the old colonial days were
revived. There was persimmon bread; what could be more toothsome than
that? Yet a little of it went a long way, as Mr. Wall used to say. And
there was potato pone--sweet potatoes boiled, kneaded, cut into pones,
and baked. And then there was callalou--a mixture of collards, poke
salad, and turnip greens boiled for dinner and fried over for supper.
This was the invention of Jimsy, an old negro brought over from the West
Indies, whose real name was Zimzi, and who always ran away when anybody
scolded him.
[Illustration: 0144]
The old-fashioned loom and spinning-wheel were kept going, and the women
made their own dyes. The girls made their hats of rye and wheat straw,
and some very pretty bonnets were made of the fibrous substance that
grows in the vegetable known as the bonnet squash.
It was agreed on all sides that times were very hard, and yet they
seemed very pleasant and comfortable to Joe Maxwell. He had never seen
money more plentiful. Everybody seemed to have some, and yet nobody had
enough. It was all in Confederate bills, and they were all new and fresh
and crisp. Joe had some of it himself, and he thought he was growing
rich. But the more plentiful the money became, the higher went the price
of everything.
After a while Joe noticed that the older men became more serious. There
were complaints in the newspapers of speculators and extortioners--of
men who imposed on and mistreated the widows and wives of the soldiers.
And then there was a law passed preventing the farmers from planting
only so many acres of land in cotton, in order that more food might be
raised for the army. After this came the impressment law, which gave
the Confederate officials the right to seize private property, horses,
mules, and provisions. And then came the conscription law.
There was discontent among the men who were at home, but they were not
left to make any serious complaints. One by one the conscript officers
seized all except those who were exempt and hurried them off to
the front. Those who thought it a disgrace to be conscripted either
volunteered or hired themselves as substitutes.
This is the summing up of the first three years of the war, so far as
it affected Joe Maxwell. The impression made upon him was of slow and
gradual growth. He only knew that trouble and confusion were abroad in
the land. He could see afterward what a lonely and desperate period it
must have been to those who had kinsmen in the war; but, at that
time, all these things were as remote from him as a dream that is half
remembered. He set up the editor's articles, criticising Governor
Joe Brown for some attacks he had made on the Confederate Government,
without understanding them fully; and he left Mr. Wall, the hatter, who
was a violent secessionist, to discuss the situation with Mr. Bonner,
the overseer, who was a Whig, and something of a Union man.
Late one afternoon, after listening to a heated dispute between Mr. Wall
and Mr. Bonner, Joe concluded that he would take a run in the fields
with the harriers. So he called and whistled for them, but they failed
to come. Harbert thought they had followed some of the plantation hands,
but, as this rarely happened, Joe was of the opinion that they had gone
hunting on their own account. They were very busy and restless little
dogs, and it was not uncommon for them to go rabbit-hunting for
themselves. Going toward Mr. Snelson's, Joe thought he could hear them
running a rabbit on the farther side of the plantation. He went in that
direction, but found, after a while, that they were running in the Jack
Adams place, and as he went nearer they seemed to get farther away.
Finally, when he did come up with the dogs, he found that they were not
the harriers at all, but a lot of curs and “fices.” And then--how it
happened he was never able to explain--Joe suddenly discovered that he
was lost.
Perhaps if the idea had never occurred to him he would never have been
lost, but the thought flashed in his mind and stayed there. He stood
still in his tracks and looked all around, but the idea that he was
really lost confused him. He was not frightened--he was not even uneasy.
But he knew he was lost. Everything was strange and confusing. Even
the sun, which was preparing to go to bed, was in the wrong place. Joe
laughed at himself. Certainly he could return the way he came, so he
faced about, as he thought, and started home.
Walking and running he went forward rapidly, and he had need to, for the
sun had gone behind a cloud, and the cloud, black and threatening, was
rising and filling the sky. How long he had been going Joe did not know,
but suddenly he found himself near an old cabin. It was built of logs,
and the chimney, which had been made of sticks and red clay, had nearly
fallen down. The lad knew that this cabin was neither on the Turner
plantation nor on the Jack Adams place. He had never heard any of the
negroes allude to it, and he realized the fact that he had been running
away from home.
Near the deserted house were the remnants of an orchard. A pear-tree,
jagged and unshapely, grew not far from the door, while an apple-tree,
with a part of its trunk rotted away, stood near a corner of the cabin.
A growth of pines and scrub-oak showed that the place had been deserted
for many a long year. A quarter of a mile away, through the gathering
darkness, Joe could see a white fringe gleaming against the horizon. He
knew that this was a fog, and that it rose from the river. Following
the line of the fog, he could see that the cabin was in a bend of the
river--the Horseshoe, as he had heard it called--and he knew that he was
at least four miles from home. By this time the cloud had covered all
the heavens. Away off in the woods he could hear the storm coming,
sounding like a long-drawn sigh at first, and then falling with a
sweeping rush and roar. Joe had no choice but to seek shelter in the old
house. He was a stout-hearted youngster, and yet he could not resist
the feeling of uneasiness and dread that came over him at the thought of
spending the night in that lonely place. But there was no help for it.
He could never find his way home in the darkness, and so he made the
best of what seemed to him a very bad matter. The cabin was almost a
wreck, but it served to keep off the rain.
Joe went in and explored the inside as carefully as he could in the
darkness. A wood-rat or flying-squirrel rattled along the rafters as he
entered, and the loose puncheons of which the floor was made bumped up
and down as he walked across them. In one corner, as he went groping
about, he found a pile of shucks--corn-husks--and straw, and he judged
that the old cabin had sometimes been used as a temporary barn. After
satisfying himself that no other person or creature had taken shelter
there, Joe tried to close the door. He found this to be a difficult
matter. The sill of the house had settled so that the door was on the
floor. He pushed it as far as it would go, and then groped his way back
to the shucks and quickly made a bed of them. He was fagged out, and the
shucks and straw made a comfortable pallet--so comfortable, indeed, that
by the time he had made up his mind that it was a pleasant thing to lie
there and listen to the rain rushing down on the weather-beaten roof, he
was fast asleep.
How long he slept he did not know, but suddenly he awoke to discover
that he was not the only person who had sought shelter in the cabin. The
rain was still falling on the roof, but he could hear some one talking
in a low tone. He lay quite still and listened with all his ears. He
soon discovered that the new-comers were negroes, whether two or three
he could not tell. Presently he could distinguish what they said. The
storm had ceased so that it no longer drowned their voices.
“I tell you what, mon,” said one, “ole Injun Bill kin run ef he is
chunky.”
“Lor'! I had ter run ef I gwine fer keep up wid old Mink.” said the
other.
“Bless you!” responded the first voice, “I kin run when I git de
invertation, else ole Bill Locke an' his nigger dogs would a done cotch
me long ago.”
“Dey ain't been atter me,” said the second voice, “but I'm a spectin'
un um eve'y day, an' when dey does--gentermen! I'm a-gwine ter scratch
gravel! You hear what I tell you!”
“I come so fas',” remarked the first voice, “dat all dem ar buckeyes
what I had done bounce outer my pocket.”
“What you gwine fer do wid so many buckeyes?” asked the second voice.
“Who? Me! Oh, I wuz des savin' um up fer dat ar white boy what stay 'long
wid de printin' machine,” said the first voice. “He holp me 'long one
time. Harbert, he say dat white boy is des ez good ter niggers ez ef
dey all b'long ter im, an' he say he got a head on 'im. Dat what Harbert
say.”
“I bin see 'im,” said the second voice. “I don't like white folks myse'f,
but I speck dat boy got good in 'im. He come fum town.”
Joe Maxwell knew at once that one of the voices belonged to Mink, the
runaway, and he judged that the other belonged to Injun Bill, whose
reputation was very bad. He knew also that the two negroes were talking
about him, and he was not only gratified at the compliments paid him,
but felt safer than if he had been alone in the cabin. In a spirit of
mischief he called out in a sepulchral tone of voice:
“Where's Mink? I want Mink!”
He tried to imitate the tone that he had heard mothers sometimes employ
when they are trying to frighten crying children into silence with the
bogie man. There was no reply from Mink, but Joe could hear the two
negroes breathing hard. Then, imitating the voice of a woman, he cried
out:
“Where's Injun Bill? I want Injun Bill!”
[Illustration: 0153]
Imagining how horrified the negroes were, and how they looked as they
sat on the floor quaking with terror, Joe could not restrain himself.
He fell into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that caused him to scatter
the shucks all over the floor. This proceeding, wholly unaccountable,
added to the terror of the negroes. Injun Bill, as it afterward
appeared, made a wild leap for the door, but his foot caught in a crack
in the floor and he fell headlong. On top of him fell Mink, and each
thought he had been caught by the thing that had frightened him. They
had a terrific scuffle on the floor, writhing over and under each other
in their efforts to escape. Finally, Mink, who was the more powerful of
the two, pinned Injun Bill to the floor.
“Who dis?” he cried, breathing hard with fear and excitement.
“Me! Dat who 'tis!” said Injun Bill, angrily. “What you doin' 'pon top
er me?”
This complication caused Joe Maxwell to laugh until he could scarcely
catch his breath. But at last he managed to control his voice.
“What in the name of goodness are you two trying to do?”
“Name er de Lord!” exclaimed Mink, “who is you, anyhow?”
“Dat what I like ter know,” said Injun Bill, in a surly tone.
“Why, you've just been talking about me,” replied Joe. “I lay there on
the shucks and heard you give me a great name.”
“Is dat you, little marster?” cried Mink. “Well, suh! Ef dat don't beat
my time! How come you sech a fur ways fum yo' surroundin's?”
Joe explained as briefly as possible that he was lost.
“Well, well, well!” said Mink, by way of comment. “You sholy gimme a
turn dat time. Little mo' an' I'd a thought de ole boy had me. Ef I'd a
bin by myse'f when I hear dat callin' I lay I'd'a to' down de whole side
er de house. Dish yer nigger 'long wid me, little marster, he name Injun
Bill. He say--”
“'Sh--sh!” said Injun Bill, softly. Then in a whisper--“watch out!”
Joe was about to say something, but suddenly he heard the sound of
approaching footsteps. The negroes by a noiseless movement stepped close
against the wall. Joe lay still. The new-comers entered the door without
hesitation. They had evidently been there before.
“I'll take an' put my gun in the corner here,” said one. “Now, don't go
blunderin' aroun' an' knock it over; it might go off.”
“All right,” said the other. “Where is it? I'll put mine by it.”
Then they seemed to be unfastening their belts.
“Hain't you got a match?” said one. “I'm as wet as a drownded rat.
I've got some kindlin' somewheres about my cloze. My will, ef I had it
fried,” he went on, “would be to be set down in front of a great big
fireplace adryin' myse'f, an' a knowin' all the time that a great big
tray of hot biscuit an' 'leven pounds of butter was a waitin' for me in
the kitchen.”
“Thunderation!” exclaimed the other, “don't talk that way. You make me
so nervous I can't find the matches.”
“Oh, well,” said the first, “I was jist a think-in' about eatin'. I wish
Mink'ud come on ef he's a-comin'.”
“I done come, Mars John,” said Mink.
“Confound your black hide!” exclaimed the man; “if I had my gun I'd
shoot a hole spang throo you! Whadder you want to skeer me outn a year's
growth for? If you're here, whyn't you sesso befo' you spoke?”
“Kaze I got comp'ny,” said Mink.
The man gave a long whistle, denoting surprise. “Who've you got?” he
asked, almost savagely.
“Injun Bill.”
“Who else?”
“A white boy.”
“Well, the great snakes! What sort of game is you up to? Who is the
white boy?”
“He stay on the Turner plantation at de printin'-office,” explained
Mink.
“You hear that, don't you?” said the man to his companion. “And now
it'll all be in the paper.”
“Bosh!” exclaimed Joe. “I don't know you from a side of sole-leather. I
got lost while rabbit-hunting, and came in here out of the rain.”
“He's a peart-talkin' chap,” said the man who wanted to eat a trayful of
hot biscuits and eleven pounds of butter.
“He came fum town,” said Mink, by way of explaining Joe's “peartness.”
“How long since?” asked one of the men.
“Two years ago,” said Joe.
After a little, one of the men succeeded in finding a match, and making
a light with the pine kindlings that one of the two had brought. In a
corner Mink found some pieces of dry wood and the small company soon had
a fire burning. The weather was not cold, but the fire must have been
very agreeable to the white men, who, as one of them expressed it, was
“wringin, wet.” These men took advantage of the first opportunity to
examine Joe Maxwell very closely. They had evidently expected to find a
much more formidable-looking person than he appeared to be, for one of
them remarked to the other:
“Why, he hain't bigger'n a pound er soap arter a hard day's washin'.”
“Naw!” said the other. “I've saw 'im be-fo'. He's that little rooster
that useter be runnin' roun' town gittin' in all sorts er devilment. I
reckon he's sorter out er his element here in the country.”
“I've seen you, too,” said Joe. “I've seen both of you. I used to see
you drilling in the Hillsborough Rifles. I was at the depot when the
company went off to the war.”
The two men looked at each other in a peculiar way, and busied
themselves trying to dry their clothes by the fire, standing close to
the flickering flames. They were not handsome men, and yet they were
not ill looking. One was short and stout, with black hair. He had a
scar under one of his eyes that did not improve his appearance. But the
expression of his face was pleasant in spite of this defect. The other
was thin, tall, and stoop-shouldered. His beard was scanty and red, and
his upper teeth protruded to such an extent that when his face was in
repose they were exposed to view. But there was a humorous twinkle in
his eyes that found an echo in his talk. Both men were growing gray. The
dark man was Jim Wimberly, the other John Pruitt, and both had evidently
seen hard times. Soldier-fashion, they made seats for themselves by
sticking the ends of loose boards through the cracks, and allowing the
other ends to rest on the floor. Thus they could sit or lie at full
length as they chose. Joe fixed a seat for himself in the same
way, while Mink and Injun Bill sat on the floor on each side of the
fireplace.
“What do you call those here fellers,” asked Mr. Pruitt, lighting his
pipe with a splinter, and turning to Joe--“these here fellers what
jines inter the army an' then comes home arter awhile without lief or
license?”
“Deserters,” replied Joe, simply.
“So fur, so good.” said Mr. Pruitt. “Now, then, what do you call the
fellers what jines inter the army arter they'er been told that their
families'll be took keer of an' provided fer by the rich folks at home;
an' then, arter they'er been in a right smart whet, they gits word
that their wives an' children is a lookin' starvation in the face, an'
stedder gittin' better it gets wuss, an' bimeby they breaks loose
an' comes home? Now what sort er fellers do you call them? Hold on!”
exclaimed Mr. Pruitt, as Joe was about to reply. “Wait! They hain't got
no money an' no niggers; they hain't got nothin' but a little piece er
lan'. They goes off expectin' their wives'll be took keer of, an' they
comes home an' fines 'em in the last stages. What sorter fellers do you
call them?”
“Well,” Joe replied, “I've never heard of such a thing before.”
“No,” said Mr. Pruitt, “an' I'm mighty sorry you've heard about it now.
It ain't a purty tale.”
“Who are the men?” Joe asked.
“Yours, respectfully, John Pruitt an' Jeems Wimberly, Ashbank deestrict,
Hillsborough Post-Office, State of Georgia,” said Mr. Pruitt, solemnly.
Joe had heard it hinted and rumored that in some cases, especially
where they lived remote from the relief committees, the families of the
soldiers were not so well provided for as they had a right to expect.
He had even set up some editorials in _The Countryman_ which hinted that
there was suffering among the soldiers' wives and children; but he
never dreamed that it was serious enough to create discontent among the
soldiers. The story that Mr. Pruitt and his companion told amazed Joe
Maxwell, but it need not be repeated here in detail. It amounted
to this, that the two soldiers had deserted because their wives and
children were suffering for food and clothing, and now they were
fugitives.