the teacher rode in the buggy. We kept with them a little way, but the
weather was fine and the roads were good, and after a while the Little
Master gave me the rein, which I had been asking for ever so long, and I
cantered forward, leaving the buggy far behind and out of sight.
“I cantered on in this way, up hill and down hill—for it was as easy as
walking—until we came nearly to the town. Then suddenly the Little Master
reached forward and touched me on the shoulder. It was the way he had of
warning me. We were coming to a point where another road led into ours,
and it was well the Little Master warned me when he did. Else, when I saw
what I did, I should have given a start that would have unseated him; for
right before me, coming slowly our road, was a train of huge wagons,
covered with white cloth. There were five wagons, each pulled by two
mules. In front of the foremost wagon a file of negroes was marching,
two by two. There must have been forty odd in all. At first I thought
they were pulling the wagon, for there was a stout rope reaching from the
end of the wagon tongue to the foremost negro of the file, and the end
was fastened to his waist. On each side of this rope the other negroes
walked, and I soon saw that every one was handcuffed to the rope.
[Illustration: THE SLAVE TRAIN]
“The sight of all this,” said the gray pony, continuing his story,
“surprised me so that I stopped in the road, and came near tucking tail
and running back the way I came. But the Little Master was never afraid
of anything. He stroked my shoulder and scolded me, too, and urged me
forward. Now there was nothing about this wagon train to frighten me.
I had seen wagon trains before. But this one loomed up so suddenly and
unexpectedly that it made me have a queer, shivery feeling, as when I
hear a horse-fly zooning around and don’t know where he is going to
light. It happened that the wagons were on a sandy level, and neither
their wheels nor the mules’ feet made any noise. The negroes were
marching along as silently as the shadows that run on the ground when the
moon is shining and the clouds are flying. It was the first time I had
ever seen negroes going along the road together in utter silence. They
were neither talking nor laughing, and they seemed to be very far from
singing.
“Going nearer, I saw that the negro drivers were chained to the wagons.
On each side of the file of marching negroes rode a white man, a shotgun
lying across his lap. I thought the negroes were prisoners, and that the
men were carrying them to court for the judge and jury to sit on them. So
the Little Master thought, for he urged me forward until we came up with
the man who rode near the tall negro at the head of the file.
“‘Good-morning,’ said the Little Master to the man.
“‘Good-day, sonny,’ replied the man, but he kept his eye on the negro at
the head of the file.
“‘Whose negroes are these?’ the Little Master asked.
“‘Mine,’ said the man, smacking his lips over it; ‘every one mine.’
“Then we went on in silence. The Little Master had a way, when he
was puzzled, of reaching over the saddle and twisting a wisp of mane
between his fingers. He did this now. He curled the wisp of hair on his
forefinger and uncurled it ever so many times, as we went on in silence.
I noticed that the negro at the head of the file had his arms tied at the
elbows. The whole weight of the long rope, which was a big one, fell on
this negro, but he was tall and strong and moved forward without sign of
distress.
“Presently the Little Master spoke to the man again. ‘What have your
negroes done that they should be carried to jail?’
“The man laughed loudly, as he replied: ‘I’m not carrying them to jail.
They are for sale.’
“‘Then you are a negro speculator,’ said the Little Master.
“‘That’s what some people call me, sonny; speculator or what not, I have
negroes for sale. If you want to buy one, I’ll sell you that buck at the
head of the gang. He’s the finest of the lot, but I’ll sell him cheap.
He’s worse than a tiger.’
“The Little Master urged me forward until we came to the side of the man
at the head of the file. That was my first sight of the Son of Ben Ali. I
knew at once that he was no negro. The Little Master spoke to him, and he
smiled as he answered.
“‘I’ll sell him cheap, sonny,’ said the man; ‘name your own price, give
me the money, and take him.’
“The Little Master slapped the pommel of his saddle, and I knew by that
he was angry. But what he intended to say was never said, for just then
the White-haired Master and the teacher came by in the buggy, going at a
sweeping trot, and the Little Master gave me the rein to follow, which I
was more than glad to do. Never before had I seen the White-haired Master
use the whip on old Sorrel, the buggy horse, but he used it that day, and
I had hard work to catch up and keep up. The teacher had turned in his
seat and watched the file of negroes and the covered wagons as far as he
could see them. There was a frown on his face, and his eyes had a queer
light in them. I always dodge when a man looks at me that way.
“I think the White-haired Master wanted to get the teacher away from that
procession of negroes. I heard them talking as I cantered behind the
buggy.
“‘You are from the North, and, of course, you don’t understand these
things,’ said the White-haired Master.
“‘You are right,’ replied the teacher. ‘I don’t understand them at all.
I’m truly sorry I saw that sight. I shall see it again in my dreams.’
“‘I have been living here fifty years,’ the White-haired Master remarked,
‘and that is the second time I ever saw it.’
“The teacher said nothing more, and we soon entered the town, where there
was a great many people. Hitched to one of the racks I saw a roan mule
that had given me a vicious bite when we were in the drove together.
He was poor enough now, and his ears hung dejectedly. I wanted to stop
and read him a moral, but the Little Master bade me go on, and I had no
opportunity to speak to my old tormentor.”
IV.
GRISTLE, THE GRAY PONY, CONCLUDES HIS STORY.
The Little Master gave me a drink of cool water from the well in the
public square, and then he had me carried to a comfortable stall in the
stable behind the old tavern. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but
by the time I had dropped off into a comfortable doze, dreaming that I
was nibbling sassafras buds in the orchard at home, a negro came running
into the stable and into my stall. He came upon me so sudden that I
turned in the stall to get out of his way, and nearly mashed the breath
out of him. He limped along and led me to the front of the tavern. There
I saw the Little Master waiting to mount, and I went toward him gladly
enough.
“I thought we were to go home, but my thoughts jumped ahead of facts. I
soon saw that the speculator’s wagons and his file of negroes had come
into town, and had stopped to rest on the public square, where a great
crowd had gathered around them—some out of curiosity and some out of
sympathy. I heard an old horse, blind in one eye, say to a companion tied
near that such sights were seldom seen in these parts. The Little Master
had sent for me, so that, by sitting on my back, he would be as tall as
any of the men.
“He rode me into the crowd that had gathered around the negroes. The
people made way for him, and I soon found myself so close to the Son of
Ben Ali that he could touch my nose with his hand, although his elbows
were pinioned. So that he was able to give me the sign, and I knew him
and spoke to him and he to me; whereupon he knew that he had found one
friend there. He had found two friends, for the Little Master stretched
forth his hands, white as a flower, and touched the Son of Ben Ali on the
cheek, where there was the mark of a wound, saying, ‘Poor fellow! I am
sorry for you.’ And the Son of Ben Ali reached up the best he could, his
arms being pinioned, and took the white hand of the Little Master in his,
and pressed it to his forehead and then to his lips. After that he held
his head higher, so that he looked over all that stood around him and
beyond him, and smiled a little.
“But just then the man who owned him came hustling toward us, untied
the rope to which the Son of Ben Ali was chained and pushed him roughly
through the crowd to the sheriff’s block that stood near the court house
door. This he made the Son of Ben Ali mount, so that all might see him.
As he stood there, without a coat, the collar of his shirt thrown open,
and the muscles of his chest swelling and falling, he seemed to be a man
among men. When the white man stood on the block beside him, the crown of
his hat was no higher than the Son of Ben Ali’s shoulder.
[Illustration: BEN ALI HAD FOUND TWO FRIENDS]
“The man made a speech to the people. I don’t remember everything he
said, but I could see he hated the Son of Ben Ali, and was afraid of
him. He was ready to jump from the block and run. But the Son of Ben
Ali paid no attention to him. He had his eyes fixed on the face of the
Little Master, following every movement he made, and always smiling. The
Little Master kept his eyes on the White-haired Master, and called and
beckoned to him. But somehow—I couldn’t see what the trouble was—the
White-haired Master appeared to be very busy. He was talking with a man
who was a stranger to me, and, although he heard the Little Master, and
nodded and smiled at him, he kept on talking. I went toward him without
any urging, and when we got there he was talking about constitutions and
other government contraptions, and seemed to be very warm over it. I
was so disgusted that I snorted as often and as loud as I could, and if
people had only known it, there was more horse sense in one of my snorts
than there was in all the politics I have heard from that day to this.
“But all this time the speculator, or trader, or whatever you call him,
was calling to the crowd to come and see the fine bargain he was going to
offer. I had one ear for the trader and another for the Little Master.
One said:—
“‘Come up, gentlemen, and see what a sacrifice I am going to make. Come
up, and I’ll tell you why.’
“The other said: ‘Come, father, please come! You’ll be too late!’ The
White-haired Master nodded and smiled. ‘Presently, son; presently.’
“The trader said: ‘Walk right up, gentlemen, and I’ll tell you the truth.
I’m selling this boy because he’s too tricky to travel with. He’s bad
tempered and hard headed. What he needs is a master who will take time to
make him buckle down to work.’
“The Little Master said: ‘Father, come. Oh, don’t wait any longer.’ The
White-haired Master smiled. ‘Yes, yes!’ and placed his hand on my neck,
whereupon I snorted and shook it off.
“The trader cried out at the top of his voice: ‘Come up, gentlemen! Come
up! Look at this boy’s limbs. Look at his muscles. Not a flaw about him,
except his temper. What am I offered, cash down, for this likely fellow?’
“The Little Master said: ‘Please, please hurry, father! You’ll be too
late. The man is selling him now!’ The air was blue with state rights and
constitutions. I shook my head and gave a loud whicker. This seemed to
irritate the White-haired Master, for he ceased to smile and joke.
“‘Go buy him yourself,’ he said, sharply.
“‘How much shall I bid, father?’
“‘Up to twelve hundred dollars.’
“Before the Little Master could take the bridle reins in his hand, I
wheeled and cantered toward the crowd that had gathered around the
sheriff’s block, where the Son of Ben Ali stood.
“The trader was saying: ‘How much am I offered? How much? Look at him,
gentlemen! As sound as a dollar!’
“The man who lives across the creek—Mr. Goshawk—no—Mr. Gossett—got on the
block with the Son of Ben Ali and put on his spectacles and looked at
him, and felt of him, and thumped him on the back, and punched him in the
sides. The Son of Ben Ali never flinched nor moved a muscle. He kept his
eyes fixed on the Little Master. But, after all, what could the Little
Master do? He was but a child.
“Mr. Gossett came down from the block, took off his spectacles, and said
something to the trader, who then cried out:—
“‘What do you think, good people? I am asked to give this boy away! My
friend here offers me five hundred dollars for the finest hand that ever
stood on the block in this country. Five hundred dollars! I am offered
five hundred dollars!’
“‘Seven hundred dollars!’ cried the Little Master.
“The trader stopped and looked at the Little Master, as if he thought the
bid was a joke.
“‘Who said seven hundred?’ he asked.
“‘I did,’ cried the Little Master.
“‘Seven hundred it is,’ said the trader. ‘I am offered seven hundred—only
seven hundred!’
“Mr. Gossett said something to the trader, who cried out: ‘Eight hundred!
I am offered eight hundred!’
“‘Nine hundred!’ said the Little Master.
“‘That is right!’ cried the trader. ‘In this country even the children
have saddle-bags full of money. Nine hundred! I am offered nine hundred!’
“Mr. Gossett nodded his head. I was watching him.
“‘One thousand!’ cried the trader. ‘I am offered one thousand! Am I to
give this man away for one thousand dollars?’
“‘Twelve hundred,’ said the Little Master in a voice as clear as a bell.
“This seemed to stagger the trader. He looked at the Little Master, and
then he looked at the crowd. He shook his head, and then some of the
people laughed. This made others laugh, and then the trader, very red in
the face, turned to Mr. Gossett and said:—
“‘I don’t like to be made a fool of. This negro is yours, sir, for one
thousand dollars.’
“This made the people laugh again, but the Little Master didn’t laugh.
He cried to the crowd around. ‘Get out of the way here!’ and gave me the
word to push my way through. I needed neither whip nor spur for that, and
the people in front of me had as much as they could do to scuffle and
scramble out of my way.
“‘Here, sir, what does this mean?’ cried the Little Master. ‘I bid twelve
hundred dollars, and you sell him for one thousand dollars. What do you
mean?’
“‘Don’t bother me, sonny,’ the man replied. ‘The negro is mine. I sell
him for what I please. This gentleman here,’ he pointed to Mr. Gossett,
‘said you were playing one of your pranks. I’ve no time for pranks. If
you are not pranking, plank down your twelve hundred dollars on that
block there.’
“Mr. Gossett had taken from his pocket a long red book, and was already
counting out the money he had bid. Then and there a thing happened that
has never been understood by anybody but me. Everybody will tell you that
the Little Master tried to ride over and run down Mr. Gossett, but it is
not so. The Little Master had no more to do with it than the old buggy
horse who was tied to the rack near by. I felt the Little Master’s hand
shake as it rested on my shoulder, and I heard him sob. I was so mad that
everything grew dark except Mr. Gossett’s face. I plunged at him and
tried to get his head in my mouth, but he saw me coming and fell backward
and rolled out of the way before I could reach him, nor could I trample
him. His luck saved him.
“And then somebody caught my bridle and gave it a jerk that brought me to
my senses. Whoever it was led me out of the crowd and away from the court
house. I could feel the Little Master shaking in the saddle, and I knew
he was crying, but I held my head down, not knowing what to do or where
to go.
“Presently the White-haired Master, hearing of the commotion, came
running toward us. His face was as white as a sheet.
“‘Why, my son! my darling boy! What is the trouble?’ He placed his arms
around the Little Master. ‘Oh, tell your father! Has any one dared to
hurt so much as your little finger? There, don’t cry any more.’
“Then the Little Master told him what you have already heard, his voice
shaking and his white hands trembling.
“‘Wait!’ said the White-haired Master.
“With that he suddenly turned and went toward the crowd at the court
house. I followed, though the Little Master never touched a rein. The
people seemed to expect something, and they made way for the White-haired
Master, and for me, with my nose at his coat-tails.
“‘Has the sale been closed?’ he asked sharply. His words snapped out like
the popping of a whip.
“‘Yes, sir; yes, sir—it has been closed,’ the trader replied. He was as
humble and polite as one of his poor negroes.
“‘Gossett!’ said the White-haired Master—his voice sounded as I have
heard it when he was talking to a lazy plough hand—‘Gossett! I will give
you fifteen hundred dollars for your bargain.’
“Mr. Gossett shook his head and smiled, showing two or three yellow
teeth. I was so anxious to get at him that the Little Master was
compelled to slap me with the slack of the bridle reins and bid me stand
still.
“‘No,’ said Mr. Gossett, ‘I’d ruther have the nigger than the money.’
“‘I’ll give you two thousand dollars,’ persisted the White-haired Master.
“Mr. Gossett showed his yellow teeth again. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘if
he’s worth that to you, he’s worth it to me. The fact is, I want to tame
the nigger. They say he’s as wild as a buck, and as hard-headed as a
mule. I want to tame him.’
“The White-haired Master turned to the trader. ‘Why did you insult my son
and me by refusing to cry his last bid?’ He caught the man by the throat
and shook him. The people gave back and scattered a little at this, for
in those times men were quick to use their knives and pistols. But the
trader had no idea of using his, though he had both in his belt.
“‘Let me explain, sir; let me explain,’ he cried, as the White-haired
Master released his hold. ‘That gentleman there said the youngster was
only playing me one of his jokes.’
“‘What gentleman?’ the White-haired Master asked, as quick as a flash. He
wheeled and looked around, as if searching for some one. The people were
still afraid a fight was about to take place, and they stood off some
distance, but not so far that they couldn’t hear every word that was said.
“‘What gentleman?’ the White-haired Master repeated, facing the trader.
“The trader went to Mr. Gossett and touched his shoulder so as to make no
mistake. ‘This is the gentleman, sir,’ he said.
“At this the White-haired Master fairly roared with laughter. ‘Pay him
another hundred, Gossett—pay him another hundred! He has earned it.
You’ll not find another man in the county to pay you such a compliment.’
“There must have been some joke or hit in this, for the people laughed
even louder than the White-haired Master, and Mr. Gossett turned very red
in the face. But if it was a joke it passed over my head. I saw no fun
in it, and neither did the Son of Ben Ali, who had drawn near and was
fondling the thin white hand of the Little Master in his.”
Here the Gray Pony paused and held his head up as if he heard a noise
somewhere. Then he cropped off a bunch of peach leaves and chewed on
them, to all appearances relishing their flavor. This done, he scratched
his neck by rubbing it against the peach-tree, which was old and rough.
The children sat absorbed in the story he was telling.
“Now, right here,” the Gray Pony went on, “two or three things happened
so close together that the quickest eye could hardly separate them. If I
told them as they happened I should have to tell them all at once, but
this can’t be done, not even in your tongue. So I’ll have to blunder
along the best I know how. In cantering or galloping I always start off
on my right forefoot. A man taught me that with a whip, and I’ve never
been able to forget it. That foot comes down heaviest, and I always
fling the right foreshoe first. It was loose when we started from home
that morning, and when I jumped at Mr. Gossett I wrenched it nearly off.
For a time I didn’t mind it, but every time I stamped my foot to drive
the flies away it rang and rattled like a cow bell. The Son of Ben Ali,
hearing it rattle as he stood by the Little Master, stooped and placed
his hand on my knee. I gave him my foot, and he drew the shoe off by
giving it a slight twist with his fingers.
“When the White-haired Master told Mr. Gossett to pay the trader another
hundred dollars he made a step toward the man to see what he would do.
At that moment Mr. Gossett’s son George, a great rowdy and bully, came
rushing through the crowd. He was red in the face and fairly foaming at
the mouth. He came crying, ‘Is pap in a fuss? Where are you, pap?’ He had
a pistol in his hand, and when he saw the White-haired Master standing
so near his pap, as he called him, he bellowed like a mad bull, and came
rushing up, leveling the pistol as he got near.
“This happened just as the Son of Ben Ali wrenched the shoe from my foot.
Still stooping he turned his head and saw George Gossett halt and point
his pistol at the White-haired Master. I felt the body of the Son of Ben
Ali sway under my neck in the most unaccountable manner, and the next
moment I saw young Gossett fall as if he had been struck by lightning.
The Son of Ben Ali crept under my belly, and when I saw him again he was
sitting on the block where he had stood to be sold, his arms folded, and
his eyes closed as if he were fast asleep.
“No one knew what had happened except the Son of Ben Ali and myself. All
eyes had been fixed on George Gossett and the White-haired Master. Some
said Gossett had fallen in a fit of passion and that the blood had burst
from his face. Some said that he had fallen on a horseshoe that happened
to be lying near. Some said one thing and some another. George Gossett
always declared, so I’ve heard, that somebody jabbed him in the face with
a forked stick, but his best friends said he was drunk at the time and
fell on the horseshoe and hurt himself. But there were some people who
whispered it around that they saw the blood gush from his face as he fell
forward.
“The matter was never explained, and for many a long day no one but the
Son of Ben Ali and I knew that Gossett had been hit in the face by one of
my shoes. I think the White-haired Master learned the truth by asking
the Son of Ben Ali about it one night, when they were returning from a
long ride together.
“In the midst of the excitement, old Mr. Gossett forgot all about the Son
of Ben Ali. But after the wounded man had been carried to a doctor’s shop
and physicked, and the doctors had said that he would recover, though the
bruise was a serious one, Mr. Gossett remembered his purchase, and came
out to the public square in some alarm, fearing that his newly-bought
slave had given him the slip. But he had not far to seek. Though the
public square was deserted, except for the horses and mules tied to the
racks and a few people straggling aimlessly about, the Son of Ben Ali
still sat on the sheriff’s block, erect and silent, his arms folded and
his feet crossed. The trader’s wagons and his train of slaves had passed
on through the town.
“When Mr. Gossett saw the Son of Ben Ali sitting where he had left him,
he nodded his head approvingly. His son had come to town in a wagon, and
in this the young man had to be carried home. Straw was spread in the
body of the wagon, and into this George Gossett was lifted. The old man
had come in a buggy and he made the Son of Ben Ali sit beside him and
drive him.”
At this point the Gray Pony paused and bit at a speckled fly that was
sitting on his fat side out of reach of the sweep of his tail.
“Is that all?” asked Buster John.
“It is enough,” replied the Gray Pony. “A few days afterward, being
on the far side of the plantation, I heard a plough mule telling Mr.
Gossett’s buggy horse that the Son of Ben Ali had gone to the woods.”
The Gray Pony, saying this, turned and walked away.
V.
RAMBLER, THE TRACK DOG, BEGINS HIS STORY.
The children thought that they had been treated somewhat impolitely by
the Gray Pony, and so, as soon as they could find an opportunity, and
when they thought he was in a good humor, they asked him why he walked
away so abruptly and refused to tell them the reason Aaron went to the
woods and what befell him when he got there.
“As for that,” the Gray Pony answered, “I know nothing of the matter of
my own knowledge. It is all hearsay with me. The Son of Ben Ali can tell
you. He knows. He was there.”
The children had to be content with this until they found an opportunity
to talk with Aaron. He was very busy during the day, and sometimes at
night, managing the affairs of the plantation, but he told them that
whenever they saw a light in his cabin right after supper, he would have
time to talk to them. This happened the next night. Drusilla saw the
light, and told Sweetest Susan and Buster John it was there, and in a few
minutes they were all in Aaron’s cabin.
They found him baking a hoecake and frying some bacon, and it smelt so
good that Buster John’s mouth began to water, although he had just eaten
his supper.