The crowd gathered about now more closely than ever, more
horror-stricken than gleeful at their own work. None apparently had
either the courage or the charity to gainsay what was being done.
With a kind of mechanical deftness now the negro was rudely lifted
and like a sack of wheat thrown into the wagon. Father and son now
mounted in front to drive and the crowd took to their horses, content
to clatter, a silent cavalcade, behind. As Davies afterwards concluded,
they were not so much hardened lynchers perhaps as curious spectators,
the majority of them, eager for any variation--any excuse for one--to
the dreary commonplaces of their existences. The task to most--all
indeed--was entirely new. Wide-eyed and nerve-racked, Davies ran for
his own horse and mounting followed. He was so excited he scarcely knew
what he was doing.
Slowly the silent company now took its way up the Sand River pike
whence it had come. The moon was still high, pouring down a wash of
silvery light. As Davies rode he wondered how he was to complete his
telegram, but decided that he could not. When this was over there would
be no time. How long would it be before they would really hang him? And
would they? The whole procedure seemed so unreal, so barbaric that he
could scarcely believe it--that he was a part of it. Still they rode on.
“Are they really going to hang him?” he asked of one who rode beside
him, a total stranger who seemed however not to resent his presence.
“That’s what they got ’im fer,” answered the stranger.
And think, he thought to himself, to-morrow night he would be resting
in his own good bed back in K----!
Davies dropped behind again and into silence and tried to recover
his nerves. He could scarcely realize that he, ordinarily accustomed
to the routine of the city, its humdrum and at least outward social
regularity, was a part of this. The night was so soft, the air so
refreshing. The shadowy trees were stirring with a cool night wind. Why
should any one have to die this way? Why couldn’t the people of Baldwin
or elsewhere have bestirred themselves on the side of the law before
this, just let it take its course? Both father and son now seemed
brutal, the injury to the daughter and sister not so vital as all this.
Still, also, custom seemed to require death in this way for this. It
was like some axiomatic, mathematic law--hard, but custom. The silent
company, an articulated, mechanical and therefore terrible thing, moved
on. It also was axiomatic, mathematic. After a time he drew near to the
wagon and looked at the negro again.
The latter, as Davies was glad to note, seemed still out of his
sense. He was breathing heavily and groaning, but probably not with
any conscious pain. His eyes were fixed and staring, his face and
hands bleeding as if they had been scratched or trampled upon. He was
crumpled limply.
But Davies could stand it no longer now. He fell back, sick at heart,
content to see no more. It seemed a ghastly, murderous thing to do.
Still the company moved on and he followed, past fields lit white
by the moon, under dark, silent groups of trees, through which the
moonlight fell in patches, up low hills and down into valleys, until
at last a little stream came into view, the same little stream, as it
proved, which he had seen earlier to-day and for a bridge over which
they were heading. Here it ran now, sparkling like electricity in the
night. After a time the road drew closer to the water and then crossed
directly over the bridge, which could be seen a little way ahead.
Up to this the company now rode and then halted. The wagon was driven
up on the bridge, and father and son got out. All the riders, including
Davies, dismounted, and a full score of them gathered about the wagon
from which the negro was lifted, quite as one might a bag. Fortunately,
as Davies now told himself, he was still unconscious, an accidental
mercy. Nevertheless he decided now that he could not witness the end,
and went down by the waterside slightly above the bridge. He was not,
after all, the utterly relentless reporter. From where he stood,
however, he could see long beams of iron projecting out over the water,
where the bridge was braced, and some of the men fastening a rope to a
beam, and then he could see that they were fixing the other end around
the negro’s neck.
Finally the curious company stood back, and he turned his face away.
“Have you anything to say?” a voice demanded.
There was no answer. The negro was probably lolling and groaning, quite
as unconscious as he was before.
Then came the concerted action of a dozen men, the lifting of the black
mass into the air, and then Davies saw the limp form plunge down and
pull up with a creaking sound of rope. In the weak moonlight it seemed
as if the body were struggling, but he could not tell. He watched,
wide-mouthed and silent, and then the body ceased moving. Then after a
time he heard the company making ready to depart, and finally it did
so, leaving him quite indifferently to himself and his thoughts. Only
the black mass swaying in the pale light over the glimmering water
seemed human and alive, his sole companion.
He sat down upon the bank and gazed in silence. Now the horror was
gone. The suffering was ended. He was no longer afraid. Everything
was summery and beautiful. The whole cavalcade had disappeared; the
moon finally sank. His horse, tethered to a sapling beyond the bridge,
waited patiently. Still he sat. He might now have hurried back to the
small postoffice in Baldwin and attempted to file additional details
of this story, providing he could find Seavey, but it would have done
no good. It was quite too late, and anyhow what did it matter? No
other reporter had been present, and he could write a fuller, sadder,
more colorful story on the morrow. He wondered idly what had become of
Seavey? Why had he not followed? Life seemed so sad, so strange, so
mysterious, so inexplicable.
As he still sat there the light of morning broke, a tender lavender
and gray in the east. Then came the roseate hues of dawn, all the
wondrous coloring of celestial halls, to which the waters of the stream
responded. The white pebbles shone pinkily at the bottom, the grass and
sedges first black now gleamed a translucent green. Still the body hung
there black and limp against the sky, and now a light breeze sprang up
and stirred it visibly. At last he arose, mounted his horse and made
his way back to Pleasant Valley, too full of the late tragedy to be
much interested in anything else. Rousing his liveryman, he adjusted
his difficulties with him by telling him the whole story, assuring him
of his horse’s care and handing him a five-dollar bill. Then he left,
to walk and think again.
Since there was no train before noon and his duty plainly called him
to a portion of another day’s work here, he decided to make a day of
it, idling about and getting additional details as to what further
might be done. Who would cut the body down? What about arresting the
lynchers--the father and son, for instance? What about the sheriff
now? Would he act as he threatened? If he telegraphed the main fact of
the lynching his city editor would not mind, he knew, his coming late,
and the day here was so beautiful. He proceeded to talk with citizens
and officials, rode out to the injured girl’s home, rode to Baldwin to
see the sheriff. There was a singular silence and placidity in that
corner. The latter assured him that he knew nearly all of those who
had taken part, and proposed to swear out warrants for them, but just
the same Davies noted that he took his defeat as he did his danger,
philosophically. There was no real activity in that corner later. He
wished to remain a popular sheriff, no doubt.
It was sundown again before he remembered that he had not discovered
whether the body had been removed. Nor had he heard why the negro came
back, nor exactly how he was caught. A nine o’clock evening train to
the city giving him a little more time for investigation, he decided
to avail himself of it. The negro’s cabin was two miles out along a
pine-shaded road, but so pleasant was the evening that he decided
to walk. En route, the last rays of the sinking sun stretched long
shadows of budding trees across his path. It was not long before he
came upon the cabin, a one-story affair set well back from the road and
surrounded with a few scattered trees. By now it was quite dark. The
ground between the cabin and the road was open, and strewn with the
chips of a woodpile. The roof was sagged, and the windows patched in
places, but for all that it had the glow of a home. Through the front
door, which stood open, the blaze of a wood-fire might be seen, its
yellow light filling the interior with a golden glow.
Hesitating before the door, Davies finally knocked. Receiving no answer
he looked in on the battered cane chairs and aged furniture with
considerable interest. It was a typical negro cabin, poor beyond the
need of description. After a time a door in the rear of the room opened
and a little negro girl entered carrying a battered tin lamp without
any chimney. She had not heard his knock and started perceptibly at the
sight of his figure in the doorway. Then she raised her smoking lamp
above her head in order to see better, and approached.
There was something ridiculous about her unformed figure and loose
gingham dress, as he noted. Her feet and hands were so large. Her black
head was strongly emphasized by little pigtails of hair done up in
white twine, which stood out all over her head. Her dark skin was made
apparently more so by contrast with her white teeth and the whites of
her eyes.
Davies looked at her for a moment but little moved now by the oddity
which ordinarily would have amused him, and asked, “Is this where
Ingalls lived?”
The girl nodded her head. She was exceedingly subdued, and looked as if
she might have been crying.
“Has the body been brought here?”
“Yes, suh,” she answered, with a soft negro accent.
“When did they bring it?”
“Dis moanin’.”
“Are you his sister?”
“Yes, suh.”
“Well, can you tell me how they caught him? When did he come back, and
what for?” He was feeling slightly ashamed to intrude thus.
“In de afternoon, about two.”
“And what for?” repeated Davies.
“To see us,” answered the girl. “To see my motha’.”
“Well, did he want anything? He didn’t come just to see her, did he?”
“Yes, suh,” said the girl, “he come to say good-by. We doan know when
dey caught him.” Her voice wavered.
“Well, didn’t he know he might get caught?” asked Davies
sympathetically, seeing that the girl was so moved.
“Yes, suh, I think he did.”
She still stood very quietly holding the poor battered lamp up, and
looking down.
“Well, what did he have to say?” asked Davies.
“He didn’ have nothin’ much to say, suh. He said he wanted to see
motha’. He was a-goin’ away.”
The girl seemed to regard Davies as an official of some sort, and he
knew it.
“Can I have a look at the body?” he asked.
The girl did not answer, but started as if to lead the way.
“When is the funeral?” he asked.
“Tomorra’.”
The girl then led him through several bare sheds of rooms strung in
a row to the furthermost one of the line. This last seemed a sort of
storage shed for odds and ends. It had several windows, but they were
quite bare of glass and open to the moonlight save for a few wooden
boards nailed across from the outside. Davies had been wondering all
the while where the body was and at the lonely and forsaken air of the
place. No one but this little pig-tailed girl seemed about. If they had
any colored neighbors they were probably afraid to be seen here.
Now, as he stepped into this cool, dark, exposed outer room, the
desolation seemed quite complete. It was very bare, a mere shed or
wash-room. There was the body in the middle of the room, stretched upon
an ironing board which rested on a box and a chair, and covered with
a white sheet. All the corners of the room were quite dark. Only its
middle was brightened by splotches of silvery light.
Davies came forward, the while the girl left him, still carrying her
lamp. Evidently she thought the moon lighted up the room sufficiently,
and she did not feel equal to remaining. He lifted the sheet quite
boldly, for he could see well enough, and looked at the still, black
form. The face was extremely distorted, even in death, and he could see
where the rope had tightened. A bar of cool moonlight lay just across
the face and breast. He was still looking, thinking soon to restore the
covering, when a sound, half sigh, half groan, reached his ears.
At it he started as if a ghost had made it. It was so eerie and
unexpected in this dark place. His muscles tightened. Instantly his
heart went hammering like mad. His first impression was that it must
have come from the dead.
“Oo-o-ohh!” came the sound again, this time whimpering, as if some one
were crying.
Instantly he turned, for now it seemed to come from a corner of the
room, the extreme corner to his right, back of him. Greatly disturbed,
he approached, and then as his eyes strained he seemed to catch the
shadow of something, the figure of a woman, perhaps, crouching against
the walls, huddled up, dark, almost indistinguishable.
“Oh, oh, oh!” the sound now repeated itself, even more plaintively than
before.
Davies began to understand. He approached slowly, then more swiftly
desired to withdraw, for he was in the presence of an old black mammy,
doubled up and weeping. She was in the very niche of the two walls,
her head sunk on her knees, her body quite still. “Oh, oh, oh!” she
repeated, as he stood there near her.
Davies drew silently back. Before such grief his intrusion seemed cold
and unwarranted. The guiltlessness of the mother--her love--how could
one balance that against the other? The sensation of tears came to his
eyes. He instantly covered the dead and withdrew.
Out in the moonlight he struck a brisk pace, but soon stopped and
looked back. The whole dreary cabin, with its one golden eye, the
door, seemed such a pitiful thing. The weeping mammy, alone in her
corner--and he had come back to say “Good-by!” Davies swelled with
feeling. The night, the tragedy, the grief, he saw it all. But also
with the cruel instinct of the budding artist that he already was, he
was beginning to meditate on the character of story it would make--the
color, the pathos. The knowledge now that it was not always exact
justice that was meted out to all and that it was not so much the
business of the writer to indict as to interpret was borne in on him
with distinctness by the cruel sorrow of the mother, whose blame, if
any, was infinitesimal.
“I’ll get it all in!” he exclaimed feelingly, if triumphantly at last.
“I’ll get it all in!”
THE LOST PHŒBE
They lived together in a part of the country which was not so
prosperous as it had once been, about three miles from one of those
small towns that, instead of increasing in population, is steadily
decreasing. The territory was not very thickly settled; perhaps a
house every other mile or so, with large areas of corn- and wheat-land
and fallow fields that at odd seasons had been sown to timothy and
clover. Their particular house was part log and part frame, the log
portion being the old original home of Henry’s grandfather. The new
portion, of now rain-beaten, time-worn slabs, through which the wind
squeaked in the chinks at times, and which several overshadowing elms
and a butternut-tree made picturesque and reminiscently pathetic, but
a little damp, was erected by Henry when he was twenty-one and just
married.
That was forty-eight years before. The furniture inside, like the house
outside, was old and mildewy and reminiscent of an earlier day. You
have seen the what-not of cherry wood, perhaps, with spiral legs and
fluted top. It was there. The old-fashioned four poster bed, with its
ball-like protuberances and deep curving incisions, was there also, a
sadly alienated descendant of an early Jacobean ancestor. The bureau
of cherry was also high and wide and solidly built, but faded-looking,
and with a musty odor. The rag carpet that underlay all these sturdy
examples of enduring furniture was a weak, faded, lead-and-pink-colored
affair woven by Phœbe Ann’s own hands, when she was fifteen years
younger than she was when she died. The creaky wooden loom on which
it had been done now stood like a dusty, bony skeleton, along with a
broken rocking-chair, a worm-eaten clothes-press--Heaven knows how
old--a lime-stained bench that had once been used to keep flowers on
outside the door, and other decrepit factors of household utility, in
an east room that was a lean-to against this so-called main portion.
All sorts of other broken-down furniture were about this place; an
antiquated clothes-horse, cracked in two of its ribs; a broken mirror
in an old cherry frame, which had fallen from a nail and cracked
itself three days before their youngest son, Jerry, died; an extension
hat-rack, which once had had porcelain knobs on the ends of its pegs;
and a sewing-machine, long since outdone in its clumsy mechanism by
rivals of a newer generation.
The orchard to the east of the house was full of gnarled old
apple-trees, worm-eaten as to trunks and branches, and fully ornamented
with green and white lichens, so that it had a sad, greenish-white,
silvery effect in moonlight. The low outhouses, which had once housed
chickens, a horse or two, a cow, and several pigs, were covered with
patches of moss as to their roof, and the sides had been free of paint
for so long that they were blackish-gray as to color, and a little
spongy. The picket-fence in front, with its gate squeaky and askew, and
the side fences of the stake-and-rider type were in an equally run-down
condition. As a matter of fact, they had aged synchronously with the
persons who lived here, old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phœbe Ann.
They had lived here, these two, ever since their marriage, forty-eight
years before, and Henry had lived here before that from his childhood
up. His father and mother, well along in years when he was a boy,
had invited him to bring his wife here when he had first fallen in
love and decided to marry; and he had done so. His father and mother
were the companions of himself and his wife for ten years after they
were married, when both died; and then Henry and Phœbe were left with
their five children growing lustily apace. But all sorts of things had
happened since then. Of the seven children, all told, that had been
born to them, three had died; one girl had gone to Kansas; one boy had
gone to Sioux Falls, never even to be heard of after; another boy had
gone to Washington; and the last girl lived five counties away in the
same State, but was so burdened with cares of her own that she rarely
gave them a thought. Time and a commonplace home life that had never
been attractive had weaned them thoroughly, so that, wherever they
were, they gave little thought as to how it might be with their father
and mother.
Old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phœbe were a loving couple. You
perhaps know how it is with simple natures that fasten themselves
like lichens on the stones of circumstance and weather their days to
a crumbling conclusion. The great world sounds widely, but it has no
call for them. They have no soaring intellect. The orchard, the meadow,
the corn-field, the pig-pen, and the chicken-lot measure the range of
their human activities. When the wheat is headed it is reaped and
threshed; when the corn is browned and frosted it is cut and shocked;
when the timothy is in full head it is cut, and the hay-cock erected.
After that comes winter, with the hauling of grain to market, the
sawing and splitting of wood, the simple chores of fire-building,
meal-getting, occasional repairing, and visiting. Beyond these and the
changes of weather--the snows, the rains, and the fair days--there are
no immediate, significant things. All the rest of life is a far-off,
clamorous phantasmagoria, flickering like Northern lights in the night,
and sounding as faintly as cow-bells tinkling in the distance.
Old Henry and his wife Phœbe were as fond of each other as it is
possible for two old people to be who have nothing else in this
life to be fond of. He was a thin old man, seventy when she died, a
queer, crotchety person with coarse gray-black hair and beard, quite
straggly and unkempt. He looked at you out of dull, fishy, watery eyes
that had deep-brown crow’s-feet at the sides. His clothes, like the
clothes of many farmers, were aged and angular and baggy, standing out
at the pockets, not fitting about the neck, protuberant and worn at
elbow and knee. Phœbe Ann was thin and shapeless, a very umbrella of
a woman, clad in shabby black, and with a black bonnet for her best
wear. As time had passed, and they had only themselves to look after,
their movements had become slower and slower, their activities fewer
and fewer. The annual keep of pigs had been reduced from five to one
grunting porker, and the single horse which Henry now retained was a
sleepy animal, not over-nourished and not very clean. The chickens, of
which formerly there was a large flock, had almost disappeared, owing
to ferrets, foxes, and the lack of proper care, which produces disease.
The former healthy garden was now a straggling memory of itself, and
the vines and flower-beds that formerly ornamented the windows and
dooryard had now become choking thickets. A will had been made which
divided the small tax-eaten property equally among the remaining
four, so that it was really of no interest to any of them. Yet these
two lived together in peace and sympathy, only that now and then old
Henry would become unduly cranky, complaining almost invariably that
something had been neglected or mislaid which was of no importance at
all.
“Phœbe, where’s my corn-knife? You ain’t never minded to let my things
alone no more.”
“Now you hush, Henry,” his wife would caution him in a cracked and
squeaky voice. “If you don’t, I’ll leave yuh. I’ll git up and walk out
of here some day, and then where would y’be? Y’ain’t got anybody but me
to look after yuh, so yuh just behave yourself. Your corn-knife’s on
the mantel where it’s allus been unless you’ve gone an’ put it summers
else.”
Old Henry, who knew his wife would never leave him in any
circumstances, used to speculate at times as to what he would do if
she were to die. That was the one leaving that he really feared. As
he climbed on the chair at night to wind the old, long-pendulumed,
double-weighted clock, or went finally to the front and the back door
to see that they were safely shut in, it was a comfort to know that
Phœbe was there, properly ensconced on her side of the bed, and that if
he stirred restlessly in the night, she would be there to ask what he
wanted.
“Now, Henry, do lie still! You’re as restless as a chicken.”
“Well, I can’t sleep, Phœbe.”
“Well, yuh needn’t roll so, anyhow. Yuh kin let me sleep.”
This usually reduced him to a state of somnolent ease. If she wanted a
pail of water, it was a grumbling pleasure for him to get it; and if
she did rise first to build the fires, he saw that the wood was cut and
placed within easy reach. They divided this simple world nicely between
them.
As the years had gone on, however, fewer and fewer people had called.
They were well-known for a distance of as much as ten square miles as
old Mr. and Mrs. Reifsneider, honest, moderately Christian, but too old
to be really interesting any longer. The writing of letters had become
an almost impossible burden too difficult to continue or even negotiate
via others, although an occasional letter still did arrive from the
daughter in Pemberton County. Now and then some old friend stopped with
a pie or cake or a roasted chicken or duck, or merely to see that they
were well; but even these kindly minded visits were no longer frequent.