MORE OF THE MYSTERY.
We have seen the perfect harmony which prevailed in the household of Mr.
Tompkins, though his wife and himself were of totally different
temperaments, and, on many subjects, held opposite opinions. He, with
his cool Northern blood, was careful and deliberate, slow in drawing
conclusions or forming a decision; but, once his stand was taken, firm
as a rock. She had all the quick Southern impetuosity, that at times
found rash expression, though her head was as clear and her heart as
warm as her husband's. Her prejudices were stronger than his, and her
reason was more frequently swayed by them.
The great Missouri Compromise was supposed to have settled the question
of slavery forever, and abolition was regarded only as the dream of
visionary fanatics. Though a freeholder by birth and principle,
circumstances had made Mr. Tompkins a slave-holder. He seldom expressed
his sentiments to his Southern neighbors, knowing how repugnant they
were to their feelings; but when his opinions were asked for he always
gave them freely. The movements on the political checker-board belong
rather to history than to a narrative of individual lives, yet because
of their effect on these lives, some of the most important must be
mentioned. While the abolition party was yet in embryo, the Southern
statesmen, or many of them, seeming to read the fate of slavery in the
future, had declared that the Union of States was only a compact or
co-partnership, which could be dissolved at the option of the
contracting parties. This gave rise to the principle of States' rights
and secession, and when the emancipation of the slaves was advocated,
Southern politicians began to talk more and more of dissolution.
Not only in political assemblies was the subject discussed, but even in
family circles, as we have seen. Mrs. Tompkins, of course, differed
from her husband on the subject of "State" rights, as she did on
slavery, and many were their debates on the theme. Their little sons,
observing their parents' interest in these questions, became concerned
themselves, and, as was very natural, took sides. Abner was the Whig and
Oleah his mother's Democrat. Still, love and harmony dwelt in that happy
household, though the prophetic ear might have heard in the distant
future the rattle of musketry on that fair, quiet lawn, and the clash of
brothers' swords in mortal combat beneath the roof which had sheltered
their infancy.
Little did these fond parents dream of the deep root those seeds of
political difference had taken in the breasts of their children, and the
bitter fruit of misery and horror they would bear. Their lives now ran
as quietly as a meadow brook. All the long Summer days they played
without an angry word or thought, or if either was hurt or grieved a
kiss or a tender word would heal the wound.
The tragic fate of his brother's family, and his unavailing efforts to
bring the murderers to justice, directed Mr. Tompkins' thoughts into new
channels. The strange baby grew in strength and beauty every day. Its
mysterious appearance among them continued to puzzle the family, and all
their efforts failed to bring any light on the subject. The servant to
whom was assigned the washing of the clothes the baby had on when found
was charged by her mistress to look closely for marks and letters upon
them. When her work was done, she came to Mrs. Tompkins' room, and that
lady asked:
"Have you found anything, Hannah?"
"Yes, missus; here am a word wif some letters in it," the woman
answered, holding up a little undershirt and pointing to some faint
lines.
Mrs. Tompkins took the garment, which, before being washed, had been so
soiled that even more legible lines than these would have been
undistinguishable; it was of the finest linen, and faintly, yet surely,
was the word "Irene" traced with indelible ink.
"As soon as all the clothes had been washed and dried, bring them to
me," said Mrs. Tompkins, hoping to find some other clew to the child's
parentage.
"Yes, missus," and Hannah went back to her washing.
"Irene," repeated Mrs. Tompkins aloud, as she looked down on the baby,
who was sitting on the rug, making things lively among a heap of toys
Abner and Oleah had placed before her.
The baby looked up and began crowing with delight.
"Oh, bless the darling; it knows its name!" cried Mrs. Tompkins. "Poor
little thing, it has seldom heard it lately. Irene! Irene! Irene!"
The baby, laughing and shouting, reached out its arms to the lady, who
caught it up and pressed it to her heart.
"Oh, mamma!" cried Oleah, running into the room, with his brother at his
heels, "me and Abner have just been talking about what to call the baby.
He wants to call it Tommy, and that's a boy's name, ain't it, mamma?"
"Of course it is--"
"And our baby is a girl, and must have a girl's name, musn't it, mamma?"
"Yes."
"I just said Tommy was a nice name; if our baby was a boy we'd call it
Tommy," explained Abner.
"But the baby has a name--a real pretty name," said the mother.
"A name! a name! What is it?" the brothers cried, capering about, and
setting the baby almost wild with delight.
"Her name is Irene," said Mrs. Tompkins.
"Oh, mamma, where did you get such a pretty name?" asked Abner.
"Who said it was Irene?" put in Oleah.
"I found it written on some of the clothes it wore the morning we found
it," answered the mother.
"Then we will call it Irene," said Abner, decisively.
"Irene! Irene! Little Irene! ain't you awful sweet?" cried the impetuous
Oleah, snatching the baby from his mother's arms and smothering its
screams of delight with kisses. So enthusiastic was the little fellow
that the baby was in peril, and his mother, spite of his protestations,
took it from him. As soon as released, little Irene's feet and hands
began to play, and she responded, with soft cooing and baby laughter, to
all the boys' noisy demonstrations.
A youth, with large sad eyes and pale face, now entered the door.
"Oh, come, Joe, come and see the baby!" cried Oleah. "Isn't it sweet?
Just look at its pretty bright eyes and its cunning little mouth."
Joe had visited the plantation frequently of late, and Mr. Tompkins
having given orders that he should always be kindly treated, had finally
established himself there, and was now considered rather a member of the
household than a guest.
The poor, insane boy came close to Mrs. Tompkins' side and looked
fixedly at the baby for a few moments. An expression of pain passed over
his face, as though some long forgotten sorrow was recalled to his mind.
"I remember it now," he finally said. "It was at the great carnival
feast, and after the gladiators fought, this babe, which was the son of
the man who was slain, was given to the lions to devour, but although it
was cast in the den, the lions would not harm a hair of its head."
"Oh, no, Joe; you are mistaken," said Abner; "it was Daniel who was cast
into the lions' den."
"You are right," said Crazy Joe. "It was Daniel; but I remember this
baby. It was one of the two taken by the cruel uncle and placed in a
trough and put in the river. The river overflowed the banks and left the
babes at the root of a tree, where the wolf found them, and taking
compassion on the children, came every day and furnished them
nourishment from his own breast."
"No, no," interrupted Abner, who, young as he was, knew something of
Roman mythology. "You are talking about Romulus and Remus."
"Ah, yes," sighed the poor youth, striving in vain to gather up his
wandering faculties; "but I have seen this child before. If it was not
the one concealed among the bulrushes, then what can it be?"
"It's our baby," put in Oleah, "and it wasn't in no bulrushes; it was in
the clothes-basket on the porch."
"It was a willow ark," said Joe; "its mother hid it there, for a decree
had gone forth that all male children of the Israelites should be
exterminated--"
"No; it was a willow basket," interrupted Oleah. "Its mother shan't
have it again. It's our little baby. This baby ain't a liverite, and it
shan't be sterminated, shall it, mamma?"
"No, dear; no one shall harm this baby," said Mrs. Tompkins.
"It's our baby, isn't it mamma?"
"Yes, my child, unless some one else comes for it who has a better right
to it."
"Who could that be, mamma?"
"Perhaps its own father or mother might come--"
"They shan't have it if they do," cried Oleah, stamping his little foot
resolutely on the floor.
Joe rose from the low chair on which he had been sitting, and went out,
saying something about his father coming down into Egypt.
"Mamma," said Abner, when Joe had gone out, "what makes him say such
strange things? He says that he is Joseph, and that his brothers sold
him into Egypt, and he calls papa the captain of the guard. He goes out
into the fields and watches the negroes work, and says he is Potiphar's
overseer, and must attend to his household."
"Poor boy, he is insane, my son," answered Mrs. Tompkins; "he is very
unfortunate, and you must not tease him. Let him believe he is Joseph,
for it will make him feel happier to have his delusion carried out by
others."
"The other day, when we were playing in the barn, Joe and Oleah and me,
I saw a great scar and sore place on poor Joe's head, just like some one
had struck him. I asked him what did it, and he said he fell with his
head on a sharp rock when his brothers threw him into the pit."
Oleah now was anxious to go back to his play, and dragged his brother
out of the house to the lawn, leaving Mrs. Tompkins alone with the baby.
Several weeks after the baby and Crazy Joe became inmates of Mr.
Tompkins' house, a man, dressed in trowsers of brown jeans and hunting
shirt of tanned deer skin, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and heavy boots,
came to the mansion. The Autumn day was delightful; it was after the
Fall rains. The Indian Summer haze hung over hill, and mountain, and
valley, and the sun glowed with mellowed splendor. The stranger carried
a rifle, from which a wild turkey was suspended, and wore the usual
bullet-pouch and powder-horn of the hunter slung across his shoulder. He
was tall and wiry, about thirty-five years of age, and, to use his own
expression, as "active as a cat and strong as a lion."
Daniel Martin, or "Uncle Dan," as he was more generally known, was a
typical Virginia mountaineer, whose cabin was on the side of a mountain
fifteen miles from Mr. Tompkins' plantation. He was noted for his
bravery and his bluntness, and for the unerring aim of his rifle.
He was the friend of the rich and poor, and his little cabin frequently
afforded shelter for the tourist or the sportsman. He was called "Uncle
Dan" by all the younger people, simply because he would not allow
himself to be called Mr. Martin.
"No, siree," he would say; "no misterin' fur me. I was never brought up
to it, and I can't tote the load now." He persisted in being called
"Uncle Dan," especially by the children. "It seems more home-like," he
would say.
Why he had not wife and children to make his cabin "home-like" was
frequently a theme for discussion among the gossips, and, as they could
arrive at no other conclusion, they finally decided that he must have
been crossed in love.
Mr. Tompkins, who chanced to be on the veranda, observed the hunter
enter the gate, and met him with an extended hand and smile of welcome,
saying:
"Good morning, Dan. It is so long since you have been here that your
face is almost the face of a stranger."
"Ya-as, it's a'most a coon's age, and an old coon at that, since I been
on these grounds. How's all the folks?" he answered, grasping Mr.
Tompkins' out-stretched hand.
"They are all well, and will be delighted to see you Dan. Come in."
"Ye see I brought a gobbler," said Dan, removing the turkey from his
shoulder. "I thought maybe ye'd be wantin' some wild meat, and I killed
one down on the creek afore I came."
Mr. Tompkins took the turkey, and calling a negro boy, bade him take it
to the cook to be prepared for dinner. Then he conducted his guest to
the veranda. Uncle Dan placed his long rifle and accoutrements in a far
corner, and sat down by Mr. Tompkins.
"Wall, how's times about heah, any how, and how's politicks?" he asked,
as soon as seated.
The mountain air in America, as in Switzerland, seems to inspire those
who breathe it with love of liberty. The dwellers on the mountains of
Virginia, North Carolina and Tennessee were chiefly Abolitionists, who
hated the slave-holder as free men do tyrants, and when the great
struggle came on they remained loyal to the Government. As a rule, they
were poor, but self-respecting, possessing a degree of intelligence far
superior to that of most of the lower class of the South.
The secret of the friendship between the planter and the hunter was that
both were, at heart, opposed to human bondage, and though they seldom
expressed their real sentiments, even when alone, each knew the other's
feelings.
Before Mr. Tompkins could reply to the mountaineer's question, Abner and
Oleah ran up to the veranda with shouts of joy and noisy demonstrations
of welcome. Uncle Dan placed one on each knee, and for some time the
boys claimed all his attention.
"Oh, Uncle Dan, you can't guess what we've got," Oleah cried.
"Why, no; I can't. What is it?" asked Uncle Dan, abandoning attempt to
return to the social chat the boys had interrupted.
"A baby! a baby!" cried Oleah, clapping his hands.
"A baby?" repeated Uncle Dan, in astonishment.
"Yes, sir; a bran new baby, just as sweet as it can be, too."
The puzzled mountaineer, with a suspicious look at Mr. Tompkins, said:
"Thought ye said the folks was all well?"
"They are," answered Mr. Tompkins, with an amused smile.
"Dinah found the baby in a clothes-basket," put in Abner.
"Oh, it's a nigger baby, is it?" asked Uncle Dan.
"No, no, no; it's a white baby--a white baby," both boys quickly
replied.
"What do the children mean?" asked Uncle Dan, bewildered, looking from
the boys to their father.
"They mean just what they say," said Mr. Tompkins. "A baby was left at
our door a short time ago in the clothes-basket by some unknown person."
"Don't you want to see it, Uncle Dan?" Master Oleah eagerly asked.
"To be sure I do. I always liked babies; they are the perfection o'
innocence."
Before he had finished his sentence, Oleah had climbed down from his
knee, and was scampering away toward the nursery. Abner was not more
than two seconds in following him.
"Wall, now, see heah," said the hunter; "while them young rattletraps is
gone, jest tell me what all this means. Hez someone been increasin' yer
family by leavin' babies a layin' around loose, or is it a big doll some
one haz give the boys?"
"It's just as the boys say," Mr. Tompkins answered. "Some one did
actually leave a baby about six months old on this porch, and no one
knows who he was, where he came from, or where he went."
"That's mighty strange. How long ago was it?"
"About six weeks."
"Wall, now, ain't that strange? Have you any suspicion who done it?"
"Not the least."
"Wall, it is strange. Never saw no un sneakin' about the house, like?"
"No one at all."
"Humph! Well, it's dog gone strange."
At this moment the two boys, with Dinah in attendance, came out, bearing
between them little Irene.
"Here it is; here is our baby! Ain't she sweet, though?" cried Oleah, as
they bore their precious burden toward the mountaineer.
"Why it's a spankin' big un, by jingo! Ya-as, an' I be blessed ef I
ain't seen that baby before," cried Uncle Dan.
"Where?" asked Mr. Tompkins, eagerly.
Uncle Dan took the little thing on his lap, and, as it turned its large
dark-gray eyes up to his in wonder, he reflected a few minutes in
silence and then said:
"I saw a baby what looked like this, and I'll bet a good deal it is the
same one, too."
"Where did you see it?" again demanded the planter.
"That's jest what I'm tryin' to think up," said Uncle Dan. "Oh, yes; it
war in the free nigger's cabin, on the side o' the east Twin Mountain.
You know where the old cabin stands, where we used to camp when we war
out huntin'!"
"Yes."
"Wall, I war roamin' by there one day, and found two nigger men and a
woman livin' there. They had this baby with them, and I questioned them
as to where they war gwine, but one nigger, who had a scar slaunch-ways
across his face," here the narrator made an imaginary mark diagonally
across his left cheek to indicate what he meant by "slaunch-ways," "said
they war gwine to live thar. I asked 'em whar they got the baby, and
they said its people war dead, and they war to take it to some of its
relations. I left 'em soon, for I couldn't git much out o' them, but I
detarmined to keep an eye on 'em. The next time I came by that way they
were gone, bag and baggage."
"The free nigger's cabin is at least twenty miles from here," said Mr.
Tompkins. "It is strange why they should bring the baby all that way
here and leave it."
"It do look strange, but I guess they war runaway niggers what had stole
the child out of spite, and when they got heah give out an' left it. I
kinder think these niggers war from the South."
"Have you ever seen or heard of them since?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"Neither har nor hide."
At this moment a stranger to Uncle Dan came sauntering up the lawn, and,
stepping on the porch, addressed them with:
"Can you tell me where my brothers feed their flocks?"
"He's crazy," whispered Abner to the hunter. "He's crazy, and mamma says
pretend as if he was talking sense."
"Oh, they are out thar somewhar on the hills, I reckin'," Uncle Dan
answered.
Joe looked at the mountaineer for a moment, carefully examining the
hunting jacket of tanned skins, the hair of which formed an ornamental
fringe, and then said:
"I know you now. You are my Uncle Esau; but why should you be here in
Egypt? It was you who grew angry with my father because he got your
birthright for a mess of potage. You sought to slay him and he fled.
Have you come to mock his son?"
"Oh, no, youngster; yer pap and me hev made up that little fuss long
ago. I forgive him that little steal, an' now we ar' all squar' agin."
"But why are you in Egypt? You must be very old. My father, who is
younger than you, is old--bowed down--"
"Poor boy," said Mr. Tompkins, with a sigh, "he has been a close
student, and perhaps that was what turned his head."
"Does he ever git rantankerous?" asked Uncle Dan.
"No; he is always mild and harmless."
"Have you seen my father?" Joe now asked. "He has long white hair and
snowy beard."
"No, youngster; I ain't got a sight o' the old man fur some time," said
Uncle Dan.
"Potiphar resembles my father, but my father must be dead," and he sank
into a chair, with a sad look of despair, and, burying his face in his
hands, groaned as if in pain.
"He does that way a dozen times a day," Abner whispered to Uncle Dan.
"It's maughty strange," said Uncle Dan, shaking his head in a puzzled
manner.
The next day, when the mountaineer was about to return to his lonely
cabin, Crazy Joe asked permission to accompany his Uncle Esau. Consent
was given, and he went and stayed several weeks. For years afterward he
stayed alternate on Mr. Tompkins' plantation and at the home of the
mountaineer.