TOWN

John Taylor had written to his sister. He wanted information, very

definite information, about Tooms County cotton; about its stores, its

people--especially its people. He propounded a dozen questions, sharp,

searching questions, and he wanted the answers tomorrow. Impossible!

thought Miss Taylor. He had calculated on her getting this letter

yesterday, forgetting that their mail was fetched once a day from the

town, four miles away. Then, too, she did not know all these matters and

knew no one who did. Did John think she had nothing else to do? And

sighing at the thought of to-morrow's drudgery, she determined to

consult Miss Smith in the morning.

Miss Smith suggested a drive to town--Bles could take her in the

top-buggy after school--and she could consult some of the merchants and

business men. She could then write her letter and mail it there; it

would be but a day or so late getting to New York.

"Of course," said Miss Smith drily, slowly folding her napkin, "of

course, the only people here are the Cresswells."

"Oh, yes," said Miss Taylor invitingly. There was an allurement about

this all-pervasive name; it held her by a growing fascination and she

was anxious for the older woman to amplify. Miss Smith, however,

remained provokingly silent, so Miss Taylor essayed further.

"What sort of people are the Cresswells?" she asked.

"The old man's a fool; the young one a rascal; the girl a ninny," was

Miss Smith's succinct and acid classification of the county's first

family; adding, as she rose, "but they own us body and soul." She

hurried out of the dining-room without further remark. Miss Smith was

more patient with black folk than with white.

The sun was hanging just above the tallest trees of the swamp when Miss

Taylor, weary with the day's work, climbed into the buggy beside Bles.

They wheeled comfortably down the road, leaving the sombre swamp, with

its black-green, to the right, and heading toward the golden-green of

waving cotton fields. Miss Taylor lay back, listlessly, and drank the

soft warm air of the languorous Spring. She thought of the golden sheen

of the cotton, and the cold March winds of New England; of her brother

who apparently noted nothing of leaves and winds and seasons; and of the

mighty Cresswells whom Miss Smith so evidently disliked. Suddenly she

became aware of her long silence and the silence of the boy.

"Bles," she began didactically, "where are you from?"

He glanced across at her and answered shortly:

"Georgia, ma'am," and was silent.

The girl tried again.

"Georgia is a large State,"--tentatively.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you going back there when you finish?"

"I don't know."

"I think you ought to--and work for your people."

"Yes, ma'am."

She stopped, puzzled, and looked about. The old horse jogged lazily on,

and Bles switched him unavailingly. Somehow she had missed the way

today. The Veil hung thick, sombre, impenetrable. Well, she had done her

duty, and slowly she nestled back and watched the far-off green and

golden radiance of the cotton.

"Bles," she said impulsively, "shall I tell you of the Golden Fleece?"

He glanced at her again.

"Yes'm, please," he said.

She settled herself almost luxuriously, and began the story of Jason and

the Argonauts.

The boy remained silent. And when she had finished, he still sat silent,

elbow on knee, absently flicking the jogging horse and staring ahead at

the horizon. She looked at him doubtfully with some disappointment that

his hearing had apparently shared so little of the joy of her telling;

and, too, there was mingled a vague sense of having lowered herself to

too familiar fellowship with this--this boy. She straightened herself

instinctively and thought of some remark that would restore proper

relations. She had not found it before he said, slowly:

"All yon is Jason's."

"What?" she asked, puzzled.

He pointed with one sweep of his long arm to the quivering mass of

green-gold foliage that swept from swamp to horizon.

"All yon golden fleece is Jason's now," he repeated.

"I thought it was--Cresswell's," she said.

"That's what I mean."

She suddenly understood that the story had sunk deeply.

"I am glad to hear you say that," she said methodically, "for Jason was

a brave adventurer--"

"I thought he was a thief."

"Oh, well--those were other times."

"The Cresswells are thieves now."

Miss Taylor answered sharply.

"Bles, I am ashamed to hear you talk so of your neighbors simply because

they are white."

But Bles continued.

"This is the Black Sea," he said, pointing to the dull cabins that

crouched here and there upon the earth, with the dark twinkling of their

black folk darting out to see the strangers ride by.

Despite herself Miss Taylor caught the allegory and half whispered, "Lo!

the King himself!" as a black man almost rose from the tangled earth at

their side. He was tall and thin and sombre-hued, with a carven face and

thick gray hair.

"Your servant, mistress," he said, with a sweeping bow as he strode

toward the swamp. Miss Taylor stopped him, for he looked interesting,

and might answer some of her brother's questions. He turned back and

stood regarding her with sorrowful eyes and ugly mouth.

"Do you live about here?" she asked.

"I'se lived here a hundred years," he answered. She did not believe it;

he might be seventy, eighty, or even ninety--indeed, there was about him

that indefinable sense of age--some shadow of endless living; but a

hundred seemed absurd.

"You know the people pretty well, then?"

"I knows dem all. I knows most of 'em better dan dey knows demselves. I

knows a heap of tings in dis world and in de next."

"This is a great cotton country?"

"Dey don't raise no cotton now to what dey used to when old Gen'rel

Cresswell fust come from Carolina; den it was a bale and a half to the

acre on stalks dat looked like young brushwood. Dat was cotton."

"You know the Cresswells, then?"

"Know dem? I knowed dem afore dey was born."

"They are--wealthy people?"

"Dey rolls in money and dey'se quality, too. No shoddy upstarts dem,

but born to purple, lady, born to purple. Old Gen'ral Cresswell had

niggers and acres no end back dere in Carolina. He brung a part of dem

here and here his son, de father of dis Colonel Cresswell, was born. De

son--I knowed him well--he had a tousand niggers and ten tousand acres

afore de war."

"Were they kind to their slaves?"

"Oh, yaas, yaas, ma'am, dey was careful of de're niggers and wouldn't

let de drivers whip 'em much."

"And these Cresswells today?"

"Oh, dey're quality--high-blooded folks--dey'se lost some land and

niggers, but, lordy, nuttin' can buy de Cresswells, dey naturally owns

de world."

"Are they honest and kind?"

"Oh, yaas, ma'am--dey'se good white folks."

"Good white folk?"

"Oh, yaas, ma'am--course you knows white folks will be white

folks--white folks will be white folks. Your servant, ma'am." And the

swamp swallowed him.

The boy's eyes followed him as he whipped up the horse.

"He's going to Elspeth's," he said.

"Who is he?"

"We just call him Old Pappy--he's a preacher, and some folks say a

conjure man, too."

"And who is Elspeth?"

"She lives in the swamp--she's a kind of witch, I reckon, like--like--"

"Like Medea?"

"Yes--only--I don't know--" and he grew thoughtful.

The road turned now and far away to the eastward rose the first

straggling cabins of the town. Creeping toward them down the road rolled

a dark squat figure. It grew and spread slowly on the horizon until it

became a fat old black woman, hooded and aproned, with great round hips

and massive bosom. Her face was heavy and homely until she looked up and

lifted the drooping cheeks, and then kindly old eyes beamed on the young

teacher, as she curtsied and cried:

"Good-evening, honey! Good-evening! You sure is pretty dis evening."

"Why, Aunt Rachel, how are you?" There was genuine pleasure in the

girl's tone.

"Just tolerable, honey, bless de Lord! Rumatiz is kind o' bad and Aunt

Rachel ain't so young as she use ter be."

"And what brings you to town afoot this time of day?"

The face fell again to dull care and the old eyes crept away. She

fumbled with her cane.

"It's de boys again, honey," she returned solemnly; "dey'se good boys,

dey is good to de're old mammy, but dey'se high strung and dey gits

fighting and drinking and--and--last Saturday night dey got took up

again. I'se been to Jedge Grey--I use to tote him on my knee,

honey--I'se been to him to plead him not to let 'em go on de gang,

'cause you see, honey," and she stroked the girl's sleeve as if pleading

with her, too, "you see it done ruins boys to put 'em on de gang."

Miss Taylor tried hard to think of something comforting to say, but

words seemed inadequate to cheer the old soul; but after a few moments

they rode on, leaving the kind face again beaming and dimpling.

And now the country town of Toomsville lifted itself above the cotton

and corn, fringed with dirty straggling cabins of black folk. The road

swung past the iron watering trough, turned sharply and, after passing

two or three pert cottages and a stately house, old and faded, opened

into the wide square. Here pulsed the very life and being of the land.

Yonder great bales of cotton, yellow-white in its soiled sacking, piled

in lofty, dusty mountains, lay listening for the train that, twice a

day, ran out to the greater world. Round about, tied to the well-gnawed

hitching rails, were rows of mules--mules with back cloths; mules with

saddles; mules hitched to long wagons, buggies, and rickety gigs; mules

munching golden ears of corn, and mules drooping their heads in

sorrowful memory of better days.

Beyond the cotton warehouse smoked the chimneys of the seed-mill and the

cotton-gin; a red livery-stable faced them and all about three sides of

the square ran stores; big stores and small wide-windowed, narrow

stores. Some had old steps above the worn clay side-walks, and some were

flush with the ground. All had a general sense of dilapidation--save

one, the largest and most imposing, a three-story brick. This was

Caldwell's "Emporium"; and here Bles stopped and Miss Taylor entered.

Mr. Caldwell himself hurried forward; and the whole store, clerks and

customers, stood at attention, for Miss Taylor was yet new to the

county.

She bought a few trifles and then approached her main business.

"My brother wants some information about the county, Mr. Caldwell, and I

am only a teacher, and do not know much about conditions here."

"Ah! where do you teach?" asked Mr. Caldwell. He was certain he knew the

teachers of all the white schools in the county. Miss Taylor told him.

He stiffened slightly but perceptibly, like a man clicking the buckles

of his ready armor, and two townswomen who listened gradually turned

their backs, but remained near.

"Yes--yes," he said, with uncomfortable haste. "Any--er--information--of

course--" Miss Taylor got out her notes.

"The leading land-owners," she began, sorting the notes searchingly, "I

should like to know something about them."

"Well, Colonel Cresswell is, of course, our greatest landlord--a

high-bred gentleman of the old school. He and his son--a worthy

successor to the name--hold some fifty thousand acres. They may be

considered representative types. Then, Mr. Maxwell has ten thousand

acres and Mr. Tolliver a thousand."

Miss Taylor wrote rapidly. "And cotton?" she asked.

"We raise considerable cotton, but not nearly what we ought to; nigger

labor is too worthless."

"Oh! The Negroes are not, then, very efficient?"

"Efficient!" snorted Mr. Caldwell; at last she had broached a phase of

the problem upon which he could dilate with fervor. "They're the

lowest-down, ornriest--begging your pardon--good-for-nothing loafers you

ever heard of. Why, we just have to carry them and care for them like

children. Look yonder," he pointed across the square to the court-house.

It was an old square brick-and-stucco building, sombre and stilted and

very dirty. Out of it filed a stream of men--some black and shackled;

some white and swaggering and liberal with tobacco-juice; some white and

shaven and stiff. "Court's just out," pursued Mr. Caldwell, "and them

niggers have just been sent to the gang--young ones, too; educated but

good for nothing. They're all that way."

Miss Taylor looked up a little puzzled, and became aware of a battery of

eyes and ears. Everybody seemed craning and listening, and she felt a

sudden embarrassment and a sense of half-veiled hostility in the air.

With one or two further perfunctory questions, and a hasty expression of

thanks, she escaped into the air.

The whole square seemed loafing and lolling--the white world perched on

stoops and chairs, in doorways and windows; the black world filtering

down from doorways to side-walk and curb. The hot, dusty quadrangle

stretched in dreary deadness toward the temple of the town, as if doing

obeisance to the court-house. Down the courthouse steps the sheriff,

with Winchester on shoulder, was bringing the last prisoner--a

curly-headed boy with golden face and big brown frightened eyes.

"It's one of Dunn's boys," said Bles. "He's drunk again, and they say

he's been stealing. I expect he was hungry." And they wheeled out of the

square.

Miss Taylor was tired, and the hastily scribbled letter which she

dropped into the post in passing was not as clearly expressed as she

could wish.

A great-voiced giant, brown and bearded, drove past them, roaring a

hymn. He greeted Bles with a comprehensive wave of the hand.

"I guess Tylor has been paid off," said Bles, but Miss Taylor was too

disgusted to answer. Further on they overtook a tall young yellow boy

walking awkwardly beside a handsome, bold-faced girl. Two white men came

riding by. One leered at the girl, and she laughed back, while the

yellow boy strode sullenly ahead. As the two white riders approached the

buggy one said to the other:

"Who's that nigger with?"

"One of them nigger teachers."

"Well, they'll stop this damn riding around or they'll hear something,"

and they rode slowly by.

Miss Taylor felt rather than heard their words, and she was

uncomfortable. The sun fell fast; the long shadows of the swamp swept

soft coolness on the red road. Then afar in front a curled cloud of

white dust arose and out of it came the sound of galloping horses.

"Who's this?" asked Miss Taylor.

"The Cresswells, I think; they usually ride to town about this time."

But already Miss Taylor had descried the brown and tawny sides of the

speeding horses.

"Good gracious!" she thought. "The Cresswells!" And with it came a

sudden desire not to meet them--just then. She glanced toward the swamp.

The sun was sifting blood-red lances through the trees. A little

wagon-road entered the wood and disappeared. Miss Taylor saw it.

"Let's see the sunset in the swamp," she said suddenly. On came the

galloping horses. Bles looked up in surprise, then silently turned into

the swamp. The horses flew by, their hoof-beats dying in the distance. A

dark green silence lay about them lit by mighty crimson glories beyond.

Miss Taylor leaned back and watched it dreamily till a sense of

oppression grew on her. The sun was sinking fast.

"Where does this road come out?" she asked at last.

"It doesn't come out."

"Where does it go?"

"It goes to Elspeth's."

"Why, we must turn back immediately. I thought--" But Bles was already

turning. They were approaching the main road again when there came a

fluttering as of a great bird beating its wings amid the forest. Then a

girl, lithe, dark brown, and tall, leaped lightly into the path with

greetings on her lips for Bles. At the sight of the lady she drew

suddenly back and stood motionless regarding Miss Taylor, searching her

with wide black liquid eyes. Miss Taylor was a little startled.

"Good--good-evening," she said, straightening herself.

The girl was still silent and the horse stopped. One tense moment pulsed

through all the swamp. Then the girl, still motionless--still looking

Miss Taylor through and through--said with slow deliberateness:

"I hates you."

The teacher in Miss Taylor strove to rebuke this unconventional greeting

but the woman in her spoke first and asked almost before she knew it--

"Why?"

_Five_