for. There was some little confusion in her mind at first as to who Elaine
was, but on being made to understand, called down fervent blessings upon
her head.
“Now the old lady kin go happy. I always said that I had nussed Mahs
William, an' of I jess could live long 'nuff to--”
Elaine cut in rather abruptly, I thought.
“Why, Mammy, what a beautiful vine you have on your stoop!”
“What's stoop, honey? Dat's a poach.”
Mammy lived some years longer, aging comfortably, and unvexed by any
question of fractions. She died a serene integer, with such comfortable
assurance of just valuation as is denied most of us, and contented that it
should be expressed in terms that were, to her, the only sure criterion
applicable to her race.
An Incident
BY SARAH BARNWELL ELLIOTT
It was an ordinary frame house standing on brick legs, and situated on a
barren knoll, which, because of the dead level of marsh and swamp and
deserted fields from which it rose, seemed to achieve the loneliness of a
real height. The south and west sides of the house looked out on marsh and
swamp; the north and east sides on a wide stretch of old fields grown up in
broom-grass. Beyond the marsh rolled a river, now quite beyond its banks
with a freshet; beyond the swamp, which was a cypress swamp, rose a railway
embankment leading to a bridge that crossed the river. On the other two
sides the old fields ended in a solid black wall of pine-barren. A roadway
led from the house through the broom-grass to the barren, and at the
beginning of this road stood an outhouse, also on brick legs, which, save
for a small stable, was the sole out-building. One end of this house was a
kitchen, the other was divided into two rooms for servants. There were some
shattered remnants of oak-trees out in the field, and some chimneys
overgrown with vines, showing where in happier times the real homestead had
stood.
It was toward the end of February; a clear afternoon drawing toward sunset;
and all the flat, sad country was covered with a drifting red glow that
turned the field of broom-grass into a sea of gold; that lighted up the
black wall of pine-barren, and shot, here and there, long shafts of light
into the sombre depths of the cypress swamp. There was no sign of life
about the dwelling-house, though the doors and windows stood open; but
every now and then a negro woman came out of the kitchen and looked about,
while within a dog whined.
Shading her eyes with her hand, this woman would gaze across the field
toward the ruin; then down the road; then, descending the steps, she would
walk a little way toward the swamp and look along the dam that, ending the
yard on this side, led out between the marsh and the swamp to the river.
The over-full river had backed up into the yard, however, and the line of
the dam could now only be guessed at by the wall of solemn cypress-trees
that edged the swamp. Still, the woman looked in this direction many times
and also toward the railway embankment, from which a path led toward the
house, crossing the heap of the swamp by a bridge made of two felled trees.
But look as she would, she evidently did not find what she sought, and
muttering “Lawd! Lawd!” she returned to the kitchen, shook the tied dog
into silence, and seating herself near the fire, gazed sombrely into its
depths. A covered pot hung from the crane over the blaze, making a thick
bubbling noise, as if what it contained had boiled itself almost dry, and a
coffee-pot on the hearth gave forth a pleasant smell. The woman from time
to time turned the spit of a tin kitchen wherein a fowl was roasting, and
moved about the coals on the top of a Dutch oven at one side. She had made
preparation for a comfortable supper, and evidently for others than
herself.
She went again to the open door and looked about, the dog springing up and
following to the end of his cord. The sun was nearer the horizon now, and
the red glow was brighter. She looked toward the ruin; looked along the
road; came down the steps and looked toward the swamp and the railway path.
This time she took a few steps in the direction of the house; looked up at
its open windows, at the front door standing ajar, at a pair of gloves and
a branch from the vine at the ruin, that lay on the top step of the piazza,
as if in passing one had put them there, intending to return in a moment.
While she looked the distant whistle of a locomotive was heard echoing back
and forth about the empty land, and the rumble of an approaching train. She
turned a little to listen, then went hurriedly back to the kitchen.
The rumbling sound increased, although the speed was lessened as the river
was neared. Very slowly the train was moving, and the woman, peeping from
the window, watched a gentleman get off and begin the descent of the path.
“Mass Johnnie!” she said. “Lawd! Lawd!” and again seated herself by the
fire until the rapid, firm footstep having passed, she went to the door,
and standing well in the shadow, watched.
Up the steps the gentleman ran, pausing to pick up the gloves and the bit
of vine. The negro groaned. Then in the open door, “Nellie!” he called,
“Nellie!”
The woman heard the call, and going back quickly to her seat by the fire,
threw her apron over her head.
“Abram!” was the next call; then, “Aggie!”
She sat quite still, and the master, running up the kitchen steps and
coming in at the door, found her so.
“Aggie!”
“Yes, suh.”
“Why didn't you answer me?”
The veiled figure rocked a little from side to side.
“What the mischief is the matter?” walking up to the woman and pulling the
apron from over her face. “Where is your Miss Nellie?”
“I dun'no', suh; but yo' supper is ready, Mass Johnnie.”
“Has your mistress driven anywhere?”
“De horse is in de stable, suh.” The woman now rose as if to meet a climax,
but her eyes were still on the fire.
“Did she go out walking?”
“Dis mawnin', suh.”
“This morning!” he repeated, slowly, wonderingly, “and has not come back
yet?”
The woman began to tremble, and her eyes, shining and terrified, glanced
furtively at her master.
“Where is Abram?”
“I dun'no', suh!” It was a gasping whisper.
The master gripped her shoulder, and with a maddened roar he cried her name
--“Aggie!”
The woman sank down. Perhaps his grasp forced her down. “'Fo' Gawd!” she
cried--“'fo Gawd, Mass Johnnie, I dun'no'!” holding up beseeching hands
between herself and the awful glare of his eyes. “I'll tell you, suh, Mass
Johnnie, I'll tell you!” crouching away from him. “Miss Nellie gimme out
dinner en supper, den she put on she hat en gone to de ole chimbly en git
some de brier what grow dey. Den she come back en tell Abram fuh git a
bresh broom en sweep de ya'd. Lemme go, Mass Johnnie, please, suh, en I
tell you better, suh. En Abram teck de hatchet en gone to'des de railroad
fuh cut de bresh. 'Fo' Gawd, Mass Johnnie, it's de trute, suh! Den I tell
Miss Nellie say de chicken is all git out de coop, en she say I muss ketch
one fuh unner supper, suh; en I teck de dawg en gone in de fiel' fuh look
fuh de chicken. En I see Miss Nellie put 'e glub en de brier on de step, en
walk to'des de swamp, like 'e was goin' on de dam--'kase de water ent rise
ober de dam den--en den I gone in de broom-grass en I run de chicken, en I
ent ketch one tay I git clean ober to de woods. En when I come back de glub
is layin' on de step, en de brier, des like Miss Nellie leff um--” She
stopped, and her master straightened himself.
“Well,” he said, and his voice was strained and weak.
The servant once more flung her apron over her head, and broke into violent
crying. “Dat's all, Mass Johnnie! dat's all! I dun'no' wey Abram is gone; I
dun'no' what Abram is do! Nobody ent been on de place dis day--dis day but
me--but me! Oh, Lawd! oh, Lawd en Gawd!”
The master stood as if dazed. His face was drawn and gray, and his breath
came in awful gasps. A moment he stood so, then he strode out of the house.
With a howl the dog sprang forward, snapping the cord, and rushed after his
master.
The woman's cries ceased, and without moving from her crouching position
she listened with straining ears to the sounds that reached her from the
stable. In a moment the clatter of horses' hoofs going at a furious pace
swept by, then a dead silence fell. The intense quiet seemed to rouse her,
and going to the door, she looked out. The glow had faded, and the gray
mist was gathering in distinct strata above the marsh and the river. She
went out and looked about her as she had done so many times during that
long day. She gazed at the water that was still rising; she peered
cautiously behind the stable and under the houses; she approached the
wood-pile as if under protest, gathered some logs into her arms and an axe
that was lying there; then turning toward the kitchen, she hastened her
steps, looking back over her shoulder now and again, as if fearing pursuit.
Once in the kitchen she threw down the wood and barred the door; she shut
the boarded window-shutter, fastening it with an iron hook; then leaning
the axe against the chimney, she sat down by the fire, muttering, “If dat
nigger come sneakin' back yer now, I'll split 'e haid open, _sho_.”
Recovering a little from her panic, she was once more a cook, and swung the
crane from over the fire, brushed the coals from the top of the Dutch oven,
and pushed the tin kitchen farther from the blaze. “Mass Johnnie'll want
sump'h'n to eat some time dis night,” she said; then, after a pause, “en I
gwine eat _now_.” She got a plate and cup, and helped herself to hominy out
of the pot, and to a roll out of the oven; but though she looked at the
fowl she did not touch it, helping herself instead to a goodly cup of
coffee. So she ate and drank with the axe close beside her, now and then
pausing to groan and mutter--“Po' Mass Johnnie!--po' Mass Johnnie!--Lawd!
Lawd!--if Miss Nellie had er sen' Abram atter dat chicken--like I tell
um--Lawd!” shaking her head the while.
Through the gathering dusk John Morris galloped at the top speed of his
horse. Reaching the little railway station, he sprang off, throwing the
reins over a post, and strode in.
“Write this telegram for me, Green,” he said; “my hand trembles.
“_To Sam Partin, Sheriff, Pineville:_
“My wife missing since morning. Negro, Abram Washington, disappeared. Bring
men and dogs. Get off night train this side of bridge. Will be fire on the
path to mark the place.
“JOHN MORRIS.”
“Great God!” the operator said, in a low voice. “I'll come too, Mr.
Morris.”
“Thank you,” John Morris answered. “I'm going to get the Wilson boys, and
Rountree and Mitchell,” and for the first time the men's eyes met.
Determined, deadly, sombre, was the look exchanged; then Morris went away.
None of the men whom Morris summoned said much, nor did they take long to
arm themselves, saddle, and mount, and by nine o'clock Aggie heard them
come galloping across the field; then her master's voice calling her. There
was little time in which to make the signal-fire on the railroad
embankment, and to cut light-wood into torches, even though there were many
hands to do the work. John Morris's dog followed him a part of the way to
the wood-pile, then turned aside to where the water had crept up from the
swamp into the yard. Aggie saw the dog, and spoke to Mr. Morris.
“Dat's de way dat dawg do dis mawnin', Mass Johnnie, an' when I gone to
ketch de chicken, Miss Nellie was walkin' to'des dat berry place.”
An irresistible shudder went over John Morris, and one of the gentlemen
standing near asked if he had a boat.
“The bateau was tied to that stake this morning,” Mr. Morris answered,
pointing to a stake some distance out in the water; “but I have another
boat in the top of the stable.” Every man turned to go for it, showing the
direction of their fears, and launched it where the log bridge crossed the
head of the swamp, and where now the water was quite deep.
The whistle was heard at the station, and the rumble of the on-coming
train. The fire flared high, lighting up the group of men standing about
it, booted and belted with ammunition-belts, quiet, and white, and
determined.
Many curious heads looked out as the sheriff and his men--six men besides
Green from the station--got off; then the train rumbled away in the
darkness toward the surging, turbulent river, and the crowd moved toward
the house.
Mr. Morris told of his absence in town on business. That Abram had been
hired first as a field-hand; and that later, after his marriage, he had
taken Abram from the field to look after his horse and to do the heavier
work about the house and yard.
“And the woman Aggie is trust-worthy?”
“I am sure of it; she used to belong to us.”
“Abram is a strange negro?”
“Yes.”
Then Aggie was called in to tell her story. Abram had taken the hatchet and
had gone toward the railroad for brush to make a broom. She had taken the
dog and gone into the broom-grass to catch a fowl, and the last she had
seen of her mistress she was walking toward the dam, which was then above
the water.
“How long were you gone after the chicken?”
“I dun'no', suh; but I run um clean to de woods 'fo' I ketch um, en I walk
back slow 'kase I tired.”
“Were you gone an hour?”
“I spec so, suh, 'kase when I done ketch de chicken I stop fuh pick up some
light-wood I see wey Abram been cuttin' wood yistiddy.”
“And your mistress was not here when you came back--nor Abram?”
“No, suh, nobody; en 'e wuz so lonesome I come en look in dis house fuh
Miss Nellie, but 'e ent deyyer; en I look in de bush fuh Abram, but I ent
see um nudder. En de dawg run to de water en howl en ba'k en ba'k tay I tie
um up in de kitchen.”
“And was the boat tied to the stake this morning?”
“Yes, suh; en when I been home long time en git scare, den I look en see de
boat gone.”
“You don't think that your mistress got in the boat and drifted away by
accident?”
“No, suh, nebber, suh; Miss Nellie 'fraid de water lessen Mass Johnnie is
wid um.”
“Is Abram a good boy?”
“I dun'no', suh; I dun'no' nuffin 'tall 'bout Abram, suh; Abram is strange
nigger to we.”
“Did he take his things out of his room?”
“Abram t'ings? Ki! Abram ent hab nuttin' ceppen what Miss Nellie en Mass
Johnnie gi' um. No, suh, dat nigger ent hab nuttin' but de close on 'e back
when 'e come to we.”
The sheriff paused a moment. “I think, Mr. Morris,” he said at last, “that
we'd better separate. You, with Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Rountree, had better
take your boat and hunt in the swamp and marsh, and along the river-bank.
Let Mr. Wilson, his brothers, and Green take your dog and search in the
pine-barren. I'll take my men and my dogs and cross the railroad. The
signal of any discovery will be three shots fired in quick succession. The
gathering-place'll be this house, where a member of the discovering
party'll meet the other parties and bring 'em to the discovery. And I beg
that you'll refrain from violence, at least until we can reach each other.
We've no proof of anything--”
“Damn proof!”
“An' our only clew,” the sheriff went on, “the missing boat, points to Mrs.
Morris's safety.” A little consultation ensued; then agreeing to the
sheriff's distribution of forces, they left the house.
The sheriff's dogs--the lean, small hounds used on such occasions--were
tied, and he held the ropes. There was an anxious look on his face, and he
kept his dogs near the house until the party for the barren had mounted and
ridden away, and the party in the boat had pushed off into the blackness of
the swamp, a torch fastened at the prow casting weird, uncertain shadows.
Then ordering his six men to mount and to lead his horse, he went to the
room of the negro Abram and got an old shirt. The two lean little dogs were
restless, but they made no sound as he led them across the railway. Once on
the other side, he let them smell the shirt, and loosed them, and was about
to mount, when, in the flash of a torch, he saw something in the grass.
“A hatchet!” he said to his companions, picking it up; “and clean, thank
God!”
The men looked at each other, then one said, slowly, “He coulder drowned
her?”
The sheriff did not answer, but followed the dogs that had trotted away
with their noses to the ground.
“I'm sure the nigger came this way,” the sheriff said, after a while.
“Those others may find the poor young lady, but I feel sure of the nigger.”
One of the men stopped short. “That nigger's got to die,” he said.
“Of course,” the sheriff answered, “but not by Judge Lynch's court. This
circuit's got a judge that'll hang him lawfully.”
“I b'lieve Judge More will,” the recalcitrant admitted, and rode on. “But,”
he added, “if I know Mr. John Morris, that nigger's safe to die one way or
another.”
They rode more rapidly now, as the dogs had quickened their pace. The moon
had risen, and the riding, for men who hunted recklessly, was not bad.
Through woods and across fields, over fences and streams, down by-paths and
old roads, they followed the little dogs.
“We're makin' straight for the next county,” the sheriff said.
“We're makin' straight for the old Powis settlement,” was answered.
“Nothin' but niggers have lived there since the war, an' that nigger's
there, I'll bet.”
“That's so,” the sheriff said. “About how many niggers live there now?”
“There ain't more than half a dozen cabins left now. We can easy manage
that many.”
It was a long rough ride, and in spite of their rapid pace it was some time
after midnight before they saw the clearing where clustered the few cabins
left of the plantation quarters of a well-known place, which in its day had
yielded wealth to its owners. The moon was very bright, and, save for the
sound of the horses' feet, the silence was intense.
“Look sharp,” the sheriff said; “that nigger ain't sleepin' much if he's
here, and he might try to slip off.”
The dogs were going faster now, and yelping a little.
“Keep up, boys!” and the sheriff spurred his horse.
In a few minutes they thundered into the little settlement, where the dogs
were already barking and leaping against a close-shut door. Frightened
black faces began to peer out. Low exclamations and guttural ejaculations
were heard as the armed men scattered, one to each cabin, while the sheriff
hammered at the door where the dogs were jumping.
“It's the sheriff!” he called, “come to get Abram Washington. Bring him out
and you kin go back to your beds. We're all armed, and nobody need to try
runnin'.”
The door opened cautiously, and an old negro looked out. “Abram's my son,
Mr. Partin,” he said, “an' 'fo' Gawd he ent yer.”
“No lyin', old man; the dogs brought us straight here. Don't make me burn
the house down; open the door.”
The door was closing, when the sheriff, springing from his horse, forced it
steadily back. A shot came from within, but it ranged wild, and in an
instant the sheriff's pistol covered the open room, where a smouldering
fire gave light. Two of the men followed him, and one, making for the fire,
pushed it into a blaze, which revealed a group of negroes--an old man, a
young woman, some children, and a young man crouching behind with a gun in
his hand. The sheriff walked straight up to the young man, whose teeth were
chattering.
“I arrest you,” he said; “come on.”
“That's the feller,” confirmed one of the guard; “I've seen him at Mr.
Morris's place.”
“Tie him,” the sheriff ordered, “while I git that gun. Give it to me, old
man, or I'll take you to jail too.” It was yielded up--an old-time
rifle--and the sheriff smashed it against the side of the chimney, throwing
the remnants into the fire. “Lead on,” he said, and the young negro was
taken outside. Quickly he was lifted on to a horse and tied there, while
the former rider mounted behind one of his companions, and they rode out of
the settlement into the woods.
“Git into the shadows,” one said; “they might be fools enough to shoot.”
Once in the road, the sheriff called a halt. “One of you must ride; back to
Mr. Morris's place and collect the other search-parties, while we make for
Pineville jail. Now, Abram, come on.”
“I ent done nuttin', Mr. Parin, suh,” the negro urged. “I ent hot Mis'
Morris.”
“Who said anything 'bout Mrs. Morris?” was asked, sharply.
The negro groaned.
“You're hanging yourself, boy,” the sheriff said; “but since you know,
where _is_ Mrs. Morris?”
“I dun'no', suh.”
“Why did you run away?”
“'Kase I 'fraid Mr. Morris.”
“What were you 'fraid of?”
“'Kase Mis' Morris gone.”
They were riding rapidly now, and the talk was jolted out.
“Where'?”
“I dun'no', suh, but I ent tech um.”
“You're a damned liar.”
“No, suh, I ent tech um; I des look at um.”
“I'd like to gouge your eyes out!” cried one of the men, and struck him.
“None o' that!” ordered the sheriff. “And you keep your mouth shut, Abram;
you'll have time to talk on your trial.”
“Blast a trial!” growled the crowd.
“The rope's round his neck now,” suggested one, “and I see good trees at
every step.”
“Please, suh, gentlemen,” pleaded the shaking negro, “I ent done nuttin'.”
“Shut your mouth!” ordered the sheriff again, “and ride faster. Day'll soon
break.”
“You're 'fraid Mr. Morris'll ketch us 'fore we reach the jail,” laughed one
of the guard. And the sheriff did not answer.
The eastern sky was gray when the party rode into Pineville, a small,
straggling country town, and clattered through its one street to the jail.
To the negro, at least, it was a welcome moment, for, with his feet tied
under the horse, his hands tied behind his back, and a rope with a
slip-knot round his neck, he had not found the ride a pleasant one. A
misstep of his horse would surely have precipitated his hanging, and he
knew well that such an accident would have given much satisfaction to his
captors. So he uttered a fervent “Teng Gawd!” as he was hustled into the
jail gate and heard it close behind him.
Early as it was, most of the town was up and excited. Betting had been high
as to whether the sheriff would get the prisoner safe into the jail, and
even the winners seemed disappointed that he had accomplished this feat,
although they praised his skilful management. But the sheriff knew that if
the lady's body was found, that if Mr. Morris could find any proof against
the negro, that if Mr. Morris even expressed a wish that the negro should
hang, the whole town would side with him instantly; and the sheriff knew,
further, that in such an emergency he would be the negro's only defender,
and that the jail could easily be carried by the mob.
All these thoughts had been with him during the long night, and though he
himself was quite willing to hang the negro, being fully persuaded of his
guilt, he was determined to do his official duty, and to save the
prisoner's life until sentence was lawfully passed on him. But how? If he
could quiet the town before the day brightened, he had a plan, but to
accomplish this seemed wellnigh impossible.
He handcuffed the prisoner and locked him into a cell, then advised his
escort to go and get food, as before the day was done--indeed, just as soon
as Mr. Morris should reach the town--he would probably need them to help
him defend the jail.
They nodded among themselves, and winked, and laughed a little, and one
said, “Right good play-actin'”; and watching, the sheriff knew that he
could depend on only one man, his own brother, to help him. But he sent him
off along with the others, and was glad to see that the crowd of
townspeople went with his guard, listening eagerly to the details of the
suspected tragedy and the subsequent hunt. This was his only chance, and he
went at once to the negro's cell.
“Now, Abram,” he said, “if you don't want to be a dead man in an hour's
time, you'd better do exactly what I tell you.”
“Yes, suh, please Gawd.”
“Put on this old hat,” handing him one, “and pull it down over your eyes,
and follow me. When we get outside, you walk along with me like any
ordinary nigger going to his work; and remember, if you stir hand or foot
more than a walk, you are a dead man. Come on.”
There was a back way out of the jail, and to this the sheriff went. Once
outside, he walked briskly, the negro keeping step with him diligently.
They did not meet any one, and before very long they reached the sheriff's
house, which stood on the outskirts of the town. Being a widower, he
knocked peremptorily on the door, and when it was opened by his son, he
marched his prisoner in without explanation.
“Shut the door, Willie,” he said, “and load the Winchester.”
“Please, suh--” interjected the negro. For answer, the sheriff took a key
from the shelf, and led him out of the back door to where, down a few
steps, there was another door leading into an underground cellar.