Never mind the pain
For gladness will outlive it.
When your neighbor needs a smile
Don't hesitate to give it.
Then came sorrow into the life of Alfred. The father was ill for many
months; war came with its blighting influences, bringing ruin to many,
prosperity to a few.
The father's family were Virginians, the mother's Marylanders. True to
their traditions they believed in the people of the South, not favoring
secession, however. In the white heat of continued controversy relatives
became enemies.
To add to their troubles Brownsville was visited by the most disastrous
fire in its history. Alfred's folks lost everything, even to their
wearing apparel. Alfred was the most fortunate member of the family. He
entered and re-entered the burning home after he had been warned not to
do so. At every return from the blazing house he carried some of his
boyish belongings.
Lin, in recounting the thrilling scenes of the night of the fire, said:
"Ef the men hed hed any sense all the things could hev been got out. Jim
Lucas and Tom Brawley jes piled the bedsteads, bureaus, looking glasses
and arm-cheers out of the third story winders an' durn ef I didn't see
Tom Brawley kum out of the house with a arm load of pillurs wrapped up
in a blanket. Hit takes a fire or a dog fight to show whuther peepul hev
got eny judgment or not."
On his last trip out of the house Alfred carried his dog "Bobbie," two
pet frizzly chickens, the uniform Lacy Hare and Aunt Betsy fashioned,
Mrs. Young's part of his clown suit and the head-drum or tambourine.
Lin fairly snorted when she saw the boy approaching; "Now look at the
dratted, fickle boy, leavin' his Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes to perish
fur them ole show duds. Hit beats the bugs jes to think thet boy 'ud run
into thet house blazin' like a lime kiln from top to bottom. A body'd
thot he'd tried to save somethin' thet would a done us good. But no; all
he thinks about is them ole show things. It's a wonder he didn't try to
get the melodeon out eny way."
The condition of the family was changed in one night from prosperity to
near-poverty. The mother resolutely refused all proffered aid from
relatives with whom relations had been strained. To Uncle Joe's and
Betsy's offer she returned the message: "If we were Southern
sympathizers before the fire, we are not beggars now."
Lin was as defiant as the mother: "Huh, yes. Ef we'd let 'em help
us now, the fust election kum up they'd throw it up to us. Uncle
Billy is a candidate fer county jedge, I reckon he wants a few
votes. The Lord will purvide a way." She added: "Jus tell Joe an'
Betsy an' all the rest of 'em thet we'll hoe our own row yit a
while. No siree-horse-fly-over-the-river-to-Green-County, we don't
want no abolishunist to help us."
Alfred could not fully comprehend the feelings that influenced the
members of the family in the stand they took, but anything his mother
said or did always met with his loyal support.
The proud, strong-minded mother guided the destinies of the family
through the troublesome times that followed. The strictest economy was
practiced in all things. Brownsville has ever been noted for the
hospitality of its people and the plenteous supplies found on the tables
of all. Therefore, when the usual good things were missing from the
table and the mother explained that it would not be for long but for the
time being it was imperative to live sparingly, Alfred put all in a good
humor by calling on Muz, (the children's favorite name for the mother),
"Muz, cook it all up at once and let's have one good, big meal like we
used to have, then starve right."
Uncle Jake and Aunt Betty and all their family were steadfast friends
during all the days of distress, as were Uncle William and grandfather
and his family. Even Cousin Charley exerted himself to be of assistance.
Lin afterwards declared that the Biblical prophecy, "Meny shall be
called an' only a few kum," had found verification in Charley's changed
conduct. Since Lin "jined" church, she often attempted to quote
scripture.
Among other offerings that Cousin Charley bestowed upon Alfred were two
hounds with a colony of lively fleas. This gift was greatly appreciated
by Alfred as the dogs were good coon hunters. It was not long ere the
news came to Alfred's folks that Cousin Charley had stolen the hounds
from Turner Simpson, a colored man who lived near the town, and noted
for his superior hounds and numerous children. When the mother firmly
commanded that the dogs be returned to their owner Alfred was greatly
disappointed. Lin informed the boys that the dogs had to eat and that
the mother had enough mouths to feed "without runnin' a dog's boardin'
house. Why ye durned little fool ye, don't ye know Charley's jus put
them dogs yar to git 'em kept. They'll jus keep 'em yar till they want
to hunt coon an' then they'll take 'em. Ef it wur a hoss or hippotumas
es was in thet sorry animile show, an' Charley 'ud gin it to ye, I'd
feel ye could call it yer own. But a houn' dog, never. He'd never part
with a houn'. Some fine mornin' the houn's'll turn up missin' an' ye'll
find Dr. Playford hes bought 'em fur about five dollars."
Lin's reference to Dr. Playford gave Alfred an inspiration. He was on
his way to Dr. Bob Playford's with the hounds chained together and
nearly pulling him off his feet, so eager were they for exercise. The
sporting doctor's eyes glistened as he looked the dogs over and noted
their good points. Alfred explained that they were a present from
Cousin Charley, that he prized them greatly but his mother would not
permit him to retain them.
The doctor purchased and paid for the dogs, handing the boy a crisp five
dollar greenback bill. Although greenbacks were greatly depreciated in
value at that time, no bill of like denomination has ever before or
since had the purchasing power that that five dollars had for Alfred. He
could scarcely contain himself until he arrived at home, that he might
hand the money to his mother. The doctor informed Alfred that he would
give him an additional dollar if he would deliver the dogs to Turner
Simpson, adding: "Simpson keeps all my hounds; he has a pack of them
there now and these two will be all I'll need for a while. Be careful of
the dogs, almost anybody will steal a hound dog and brag about it
afterwards."
When requested to deliver the dogs to Simpson, Alfred was dumbfounded.
He was soon on his way with the dogs. They did not have to drag the boy
as on the way to the doctor's house. When they struck the old road above
the tannery, Alfred gave the hounds a run, until Turner Simpson's house
came into view.
Their arrival brought hounds from under the old log house, the porch and
the stable. Kinky, woolly-headed, barefooted pickanninnies peeked
through broken window panes and out of half-opened doors. The baying of
the hounds brought old Simpson out to the road.
Alfred advised him that Dr. Playford had paid him one dollar to deliver
the hounds and sent instructions that they be properly cared for.
"Oh, shucks. You jes tell Bob I allus takes good keer ob his dawgs,"
spoke the old negro in a half joking way. "An' you say to de Doctor, dat
when he wants to take a pair ob houns away from yar agin he better jes
tell me. I done sarch four days fuh dem houns. I neber dream de Doctor
hed 'em. I nearly hed a fite wid John McCune's boys kase I cused dem ob
kidnapin' de houns. Now I mus' go ober an' tell John de Doctor hed de
dawgs all de time."
The six dollars were given to the mother. Lin declared Alfred the best
boy in the world and one who, "ef he had the chance, could take keer of
himself."
A few days later Cousin Charley brought Alfred a fine pair of white and
blue pigeons in a nice little box. After talking on many subjects
Charley came to the real object of his visit. He stated that he had
bought the two hounds from a man whom he did not know. He paid the man
the cash for the dogs. Now he had learned that the dogs had been stolen
from Turner Simpson and he felt it his duty to restore them to their
rightful owner.
Lin was washing dishes at the beginning of Charley's talk. She seated
herself on the table--a favorite position of Lin's--and nodded approval
at the end of every sentence Charley uttered. When _he_ concluded, Lin
began:
"I'll be tee-to-tall-y dog-goned ef this haint the mos' curious
sarcumstance thet's ever kum up. Now a man--and Lin emphasized each word
with the laying of the forefinger of her right hand into the palm of her
chubby left--stole Turner Simpson's houns. Ye say ye bought 'em--nodding
at Charley--ye didn't know they wus stole. Ye gin the houns to Alfurd.
Now ye kum after the dogs; ye has to gin the houns back to Turner
Simpson. Ye furgit who ye got the houns from an' can't git yer money
back, ye're out jus thet much. Now s'posin' Alfurd sole them air houns
to Doctor Bob Playford--Charley crimsoned--an' the Doctor says 'Yere
Alfurd, yers a dollar, carry the houns to Turner Simpson's' an' Alfurd
'ud do hit, then yer conscience 'ud be easy, wouldn't hit?'"
"Yes um," meekly answered Charley, "but I don't think Bob Playford wants
to buy any houns, he has a plenty, 'bout twenty I reckon."
Lin smiled as she informed Cousin Charley that "he hed twenty-two by
this time. An' let me tell ye sumthin' further: Ef ye're tradin' in
birds or pigins or whatever ye call 'em, ye better fin' sum other feller
to handle 'em kase Alfurd's got on a swappin' canter an' it'll be hard
to head him." Lin laughed long and heartily. Cousin Charley mumbled
something about the principle of the thing as he left the house.
It developed that Cousin Charley had been doing quite a business in
hounds. The pair Alfred had, or a similar pair, had been sold to Doctor
Playford, at least twice during the past six months. When Charley needed
a little money, he just sold the Doctor a pair of his own hounds.
The Doctor took it all good naturedly as he remarked: "Charley has
stolen more hounds for me than he has sold me, therefore, I still owe
him."
The mother, when the facts came out, forthwith sent Alfred to the Doctor
with the five dollars. The Doctor laughed and said: "Alfred, go home and
tell Mary (his mother) that I gave you the five dollars for keeping the
dogs. And say--If Charley steals them again you just grab them, come and
tell me and I'll give you five dollars more."
Alfred played spy on Charley for some time but Charley seemed to have
lost interest in the hound business.
After the old play-ground, Jeffries Commons was abandoned, Sammy
Steele's tan-yard became the favorite practicing place of the
athletically inclined boys of the town. The soft tan bark was even more
suitable for tumbling, leaping and jumping than the old saw-dust ring on
the commons.
The owner of the tan-yard, Sammy Steele--no one ever called him
Samuel--was thought, by those who did not know him intimately, to be
hard and severe. And so he was to those who fell under his displeasure.
Only a few of the boys of the town were permitted to enjoy the
practicing place. Alfred was one of them. To Alfred, the dignified, hard
working, honest tanner, was always kindly.
Alfred performed many errands and did many chores with quickness and
willingness for the owner of the tan-yard. The willingness of the boy
caught the fancy of the industrious man. One day he called Alfred up to
his office.
The big, earnest man began by saying, (he always repeated his words)--:
"Little Hatfield boy, little Hatfield boy, you are not big enough to do
much work, much work, but you are willing, you are willing, to do all
you can. You are here a greater part of your time, the greater part of
your time. The bark is thrown down, thrown down, from the loft to the
mill, to the mill, where they grind it; I say grind it, little bits of
bark fly off, fly off on the ground bark. I want the ground bark kept
clear of the unground, of the unground bark. You are spry, I say you are
spry. It will take you but a little while morning and afternoon to clear
the ground bark pile of the unground pieces, of the unground pieces. For
this I will pay you twenty-five cents a day, twenty-five cents a day."
Alfred wended his way home in high glee. The prospect of earning money
was pleasing to the boy. Long before the family arose in the morning he
was up and waiting for his breakfast. Although it was but a few moment's
walk to his place of employment, he insisted that he had best carry his
noonday lunch. This the mother would not permit.
[Illustration: The Bark Mill]
Active as a squirrel the boy scampered over the bark pile picking up the
bits of unground bark. The work was but play.
The noon hour found him on the tan bark pile practicing. As the bell
rang calling the men to work he was at his place with the most
industrious of them.
During the many years that have begun and ended since he worked in Sammy
Steele's tannery, Alfred has received some pretty fair weeks' salaries,
but no pay ever brought the happiness the one dollar and fifty cents he
received for that week's work in the old bark mill when he presented it
to his mother.
Not many days elapsed before his industry was rewarded by an increase of
wages to three times the amount he had previously received. His work
took wider range, upstairs to the big finishing room and the office
where he came in constant contact with the owner of the tannery. He made
himself more useful to the man higher up, and when his pay was increased
to one dollar a day, it seemed a fortune was in sight.
The illusion still clung. The present was but the means to an end and
beyond lay his hopes. To become a great clown in the circus was the
goal. Nor were the little band of minstrels, whose rehearsals had been
checked by the fire and the loss of the melodeon, lost sight of. The big
finishing room found the little band of amateur minstrels rehearsing
almost every night, strange to say, the straight laced old tanner did
not object. When several of the nearby neighbors complained of the noise
and din, he simply gave orders to limit the rehearsals to 10 p. m.
Lin said: "Huh! ef enybody but Alfurd was at the head of it, Sammy
Steele would a histed every one on 'em long ago."
Lin was peeved. She could not imagine how the singing could be anything
without her voice and the melodeon. A tan-yard hand who played the
violin by ear had supplanted Lin. She declared he could only "fiddle fer
dancin', he couldn't foller singin'. Ye can't foller a fiddle an' sing,
ye got to hev a melodeon or accordion. A fiddle wus never made to sing
with, hit's all right fer dancin'. Lor', ye never hear any real music
less ye got a lead. That's the reason ye never hear any good singin' in
Baptus meetin'. They're agin manufactured music, they haven't got
enythin' to go by."
Lin had joined the Campbellite Church for the reason that it was the
furthest from the Baptist belief, so she claimed. Alfred always believed
down deep in his heart that Lin had allied herself with that particular
denomination for the reason that her vocal abilities were appreciated in
the little congregation and for the further reason that the church had
an organ.
Lin felt her exclusion from the minstrel rehearsals more than she cared
to reveal. Alfred did all he could to comfort her. He assured her that
Charley Wagner, the violin player, was not nearly so satisfactory as
she.
"But s'pose I had saved the melodeon"--(Lin always attributed her
rejection by the minstrel band to the loss of the melodeon)--"you
couldn't a-used it in the tan-yard, it's too damp there and it would
spoil the tune of it. Why, it's most ruined my tambourine. Beside,"
concluded Alfred, "regular minstrels are all men, they don't have any
women folks in 'em."
His explanation was plausible but it did not satisfy Lin. "Huh! I wasn't
good enuf fur yer ole tan-yard pack. I s'pose when ye got a lot of
patchin' and sewin' to do, ye'll be callin' on me but ye won't fin' me
in. Good bye, Mr. Clown, minstrel. Next time ye try to ak out afore
folks I hope ye'll do better en ye did the nite uv the big party."
This was a home thrust, it pierced to the quick. Alfred was over
sensitive. Often, when the remembrance of the failure alluded to by Lin
troubled his mind, he had soothed himself with the hope that few had
noticed his failure. But Lin's remark forced the awful feeling upon him
that, like Cousin Charley's potato deal, it was known and talked of by
the whole town.
Unexpected happenings brought the rehearsals of the minstrels in the old
tan-yard to an abrupt ending.
It was during the dark days of the reconstruction period, immediately
following the war. Only those of the south can fully realize what those
days meant to a people already impoverished by the _most gigantic war of
Christendom_.
Colonel Charlotte, once wealthy, now reduced to almost want, (we will
place his residence, oh anywhere, in Virginia, Georgia or Alabama); his
once productive plantation neglected for want of tenants and help to
cultivate it, stock and products confiscated. Many and earnest were the
conferences held by the Colonel and his unfortunate neighbors, to devise
ways and means to recuperate their lost fortunes. After each conference
with his friends the Colonel would wend his way homeward to confer with
his good wife, who was a most sensible and therefore a lovable woman.
When the Colonel was most despondent the wife was most buoyant, cheering
him as best she could. After the Colonel had given vent to his feelings,
recounting for the hundredth time his helplessness in the face of the
oppressive laws rigidly enforced by the carpet-bag officers; after he
had delivered himself of a tirade against those who were responsible for
the condition of affairs, the good wife said: "Colonel, I know if the
Christian people of the North were aware of the sufferings of our
people, we would get relief. I pity you in your troubles and do hope we
may see a way to help ourselves. We are out of corn, the meal is almost
gone and we have very little bacon left. Our children should be in
school but I cannot bear to send them with the toes out of their shoes
and their shabby clothes."
The Colonel would compress his lips, cussing every Yankee on earth. He
would find his way to the country store to while away another day in
useless conference with his neighbors. The same persons met daily and
dispersed nightly to carry their woes to their homes. Time and again
Colonel Charlotte informed the patient little wife that he was without
hope.
"Don't give up," encouraged the wife, "I know it looks dark but it is
always darkest before dawn; let us look toward the east and pray for
light. I know something will come to us, but for my part, I would not
care. I can stand it, but the children, poor innocents, should not be
made to suffer; no shoes or clothes fit to go to school or church in.
The winter is coming on and our provisions are scant. I worry only on
account of the children. Colonel, do the best you can; that is all
mortal can do, the Lord will do the rest."
The Colonel left his fireside early the next morning resolved to find
something to relieve the wants of his family. Returning home later than
usual he was in a towering rage. The good wife was alarmed.
"Why, Colonel, what has disturbed you so?"
"Wife, I'm mad clar through and if Captain Barbour warn't an old friend
of the family, I declar' to God I'd assaulted him today."
"Heaven forbid," pleaded the wife, "I know Captain Barbour surely would
not wound your feelings intentionally."
The Colonel explained that they were talking over their troubles,
bewailing their helplessness, when Captain Barbour said: "Why Colonel
Charlotte, you're better off than any of us, you have the means at your
command to not only make a living but to lay a little money by."
"And wife, when I asked him how, what do you think he said? That I had a
carriage and horses and I could open a livery stable. Open a livery
stable!" And the hot blood of the Charlottes' reddened his temples again
as he clinched his fists and walked up and down in his anger. "Me, a
Charlotte, engage in the livery business. Why, wife, I could scarcely
keep my hands off him. Me, a Charlotte, in the livery business. Pollute
that old family carriage that bears on its panels the crest of the
Charlotte family, whose blood runs back to the men of Cromwell."
The facts are the old family carriage was about the only relic of the
Charlotte family's former greatness; imported from England years before,
held as almost sacred by succeeding generations of the Charlotte family.
To have one intimate that the sacred old vehicle should be used to
convey the common herd was a heavy blow to the pride of the Colonel.
"Well, Colonel," soothingly spoke the wife, "I know your pride has
been hurt, I know just how badly you feel. I know you are proud and
I really fear that Captain Barbour in his zeal to assist you was
indiscreet. He should not have spoken so abruptly but should have
given you time to consider the motive that prompted him. I
know--he--he--meant--well--and--and--perhaps--you--should--consider
his advice. Can't we talk it over?" As she approached him, looking
up into his face with a half smile and a half cry, she pleaded:
"I would hate to say one word that would humble your pride,
but--but those children--you know they ought to have schooling.
And I declare, Colonel--I do not know--what we're going to do for
something to--to--eat." And here the wife broke down.
The Colonel folded her in his arms as he soothed her, stroking her hair.
He declared he would sacrifice all the pride of the Charlottes that she
and his did not suffer.
The negroes were sent to the corn patch to fetch the old horses, pluck
the burrs out of manes and tails, smooth them up by currying the long
hair off their shaggy coats. The old family carriage was hauled out of
the shed, washed, the brass mountings brightened, the coat of arms, the
panels scoured until they shone again.
The sting was somewhat removed from the Colonel's feelings by the
painter making the sign read "Liberty Stable." The word "Livery" was
not in the painter's vocabulary. When he assured the Colonel that the
sign was proper the Colonel was more satisfied.
Four or five days wore away. The Colonel, from his seat in front of the
store, like Enoch Arden patiently watching for a sail, grew more
despondent each day.
One November evening, the rain gently falling from the weeping clouds
seemingly in sympathy with the Colonel's dismal feelings, a young negro
was seen coming towards him. Colonel Charlotte recognized Sam, a former
slave, the son of an old house servant.
The Colonel returning the salutation in a manner none the less cheery
said: "Why, Sam, how you all has growed up. I declare I wouldn't knowed
you only your voice is so much like your father's. How's all? Whar you
livin' and what you a-doin' for yourself? Come on boy, tell me about
you eh?"
Sam explained to the Colonel that "he was working on de new railroad
buildin' down Raleigh way an' wus doin' tolerable well. A dollar a day,
not countin' Sundays an' I gits my fodder."
"Well, Sam, if you can stow vittles away like you all done when I fed
you, you're gettin' well paid."
The Colonel laughed at his own joke, the first laugh he had indulged in
for days. Sam was encouraged by the Colonel's good humor. Doffing his
hat, he addressed the Colonel in a sort of patronizing manner:
"Cunnel, I dun heard you all gone into the liberty business."
This flattered the Colonel slightly and he straightened up, replying:
"Yes, Sam, I just got tired of seeing my horses and vehicles around
doing nothing and I wanted something to occupy my time. I don't count
much on what I'll make but it will keep me from rusting out."
"Well, Cunnel, I'se jus come all de way down yar to see you. Dar's gwine
to be a dance down to Townsley's tonight an' me an' my company an' my
friend an' his gal wants to go, an' I kum to ask you all how much you
gwine fur to ax us to carry us all to de dance an'----"
Like a flash the Colonel jumped to his feet, the old rickety,
split-bottom chair was hurled after Sam with the words:
"You dam black scoundrel, I'll break every bone in your black body if I
get hold of you."
This speech was hurled after the thoroughly frightened Sam as the
Colonel pursued him. Giving up the chase the Colonel stalked home. His
wife observed his anger as he entered.
"Wife, I've never in my life sustained a worse shock than today. To
think of it after all these days of waitin', after I have been in the
liberty business all these days, the first human being to come to
me"--and the Colonel choked with rage--"the first human being to come to
me to hire that old family carriage, was a dam nigger."
Then the Colonel in more moderate language described the scene between
himself and Sam. The good wife listened to the Colonel until he
concluded. Then in a conciliatory tone, she said: "Well, Colonel, it
does seem as though fate is cruel to you. I do hope you will bear up
bravely. I think it just awful that the first customer should have been
a nigger. I do hope we will have others soon."
Then after a pause, she resumed, "Insofar as I am concerned I would
willingly die before I'd ask you, a Charlotte, to sacrifice your pride
further. But when I think of our children I don't know what to say.
Colonel," and she trembled as she spoke, "do you--do--you think--Sam had
money to pay for the hire of the carriage?"
"I done heard the money jingle in his pocket when he run."
"Well, Colonel, I wouldn't even suggest that--that--you carry those
niggers to the ball, but if--if we only had the money--it would do us so
much good. Those children--."
The Colonel waited to hear no more. Out into the chilly autumn evening,
more briskly than he had moved in weeks, stalked the Colonel. Reaching
the Liberty Stable, he ordered one of the boys to locate Sam. "Make
haste," was his parting order.
The boy soon returned escorting Sam who seemed somewhat afraid to get
too near the livery stable proprietor. The Colonel assured Sam that he
desired to talk with him. Leading the way he walked until well out of
hearing of his stable boy.
He began inquiringly, "So there's a big ball at Townsley's tonight. It's
the fust I've heard of it, an' you an' your company wants to go. Well
Sam, you work hard fur your money an' you ought not to spend it too
freely because winter's coming on and these reconstruction laws the
Yankees have put on us will make it hard on all of us."
"About how much do you reckon it will cost you all to go to the ball in
a first class livery turn out?"
"I dunno sah," meekly answered Sam.
"How much you got?" was the Colonel's next question.
"Five dollars," and Sam jingled the coin in his pocket, showing a set of
ivories that would have been the envy of any society belle in the land.
"Give it to me," and the Colonel reached his long arm out towards Sam,
the palm of his hand up. Sam placed the five dollars in it.
"Sam, I want to see you have your pleasure. Five dollars is less than I
ever charged for a carriage to a ball before. Being's it's you I'll let
it go fer that figure providin' you never mention to any person on earth
that you hired a conveyance from Colonel Charlotte."
"Yes, sah. I'll promise an' I'll neber tell airy livin' soul 'bout it,"
answered Sam, showing signs of fright.
The Colonel looked about to assure himself that there were no witnesses
and commanded Sam to raise his right hand and kneel on the ground. Sam
hesitated, the ground was wet and he had on his new store pants, but
down he knelt.
"Now swear by all the laws of reconstruction that if you ever tell you
rid in Colonel Charlotte's kerrige, you will be whipped by the Ku-Klux,
haunted by ghosts and burned by witches until you are dead and buried in
a grave as deep as hell."
The thoroughly frightened boy assented to the oath. The Colonel ordered
him to arise, get his company together, "mosey" down to where the big
road crossed the branch and wait until the carriage arrived.
The Colonel never entered the livery stable, content to leave the
conducting of the same to his help. However, he was not content to trust
the old family carriage to them. Ordering the horses hitched to the
sacred vehicle, the Colonel hastened to the house, "to plant the tin,
afore some dam Yankee carpet-bagger grabbed it," as he expressed it.
He returned to find the carriage ready for him. Two tallow dips burning
dimly in the big, old-fashioned lamps on either side of the driver's
seat were the admiration of the boys who lighted them. The Colonel
ordered them to "blow them thar candles out," saying that they only
blinded him. The real reason was that the Colonel did not desire any
light shed on the transaction that would disclose his part in it.
Once down the hill he halted the team under the big oak tree where four
dusky figures, two males and two females, stood. In a voice he intended
to sound other than his own, the Colonel ordered the waiting group to
"git in quick, pull down the curtains and don't airy dam niggers poke
your heads out till we git to Townsley's."
The horses moved off, the Colonel soliloquizing as they trotted along
the sandy road: "S'pose I meet a white man an' he asks me where I'm
goin', what will I tell him? Was there ever a white man, was there ever
a Charlotte put to this test before. If ever a Charlotte knew that I
engaged in this business what would I say to him? Did I ever think I'd
come to this? Me, Colonel Charlotte, hauling niggers to a ball." And he
again cussed the reconstruction laws.
Arriving at the country store the dance was already under full headway.
The fiddles and scraping of feet could be plainly heard.
The voice of the caller, "Swing your partners; all hands around; first
gent lead off to the right," floated out on the damp air.
"Git out," was the Colonel's orders to his fares. "Now, don't stay all
night or you'll walk back," were his last words to Sam and his company
as they ran upstairs to the ball room.
Tying the horses to the fence, the Colonel lighted his pipe, walking to
and fro to warm his chilled blood, he gave way to his gloomy thoughts
again. "What would Captain Barbour, Colonel Woodburn and Major Hinkle
say if they found out that he, Colonel Charlotte, was engaged in
carrying niggers to a ball. Ef I was to be ketched yar by a white man,
what explanation could I make that would protect the honor of my
family?"
For himself the Colonel felt that he was eternally disgraced and had
reached the point where he was willing to be ostracized but hoped to
protect the family name.
Sam returned to the carriage to find a wrap or other article the women
had forgotten. The air was very chilly. "Sam, have you all got any fire
upstairs," asked the Colonel.
"Yes, sah, dars a roarin' fire up yander Colonel. Jus walk up sah an'
warm yoself."
Pulling his hat down over his eyes, turning his coat collar up to
disguise himself, the Colonel climbed the narrow stairs. Peeping
through the door at the whisking dancers he skulked along the side of
the room until he reached the big, open wood fireplace. The warmth was
very grateful to his benumbed frame. He had not the assurance to look
around at the dancers; while his front side was thoroughly warmed, the
rear of his anatomy was still numb. About the time he had determined to
about face, the dance ceased. He heard several remarks not intended for
his ears:
"Who is dat ole white man 'trudin' yar? Whar did dat ole white man kum
frum? Who fetched him up yar?"
The Colonel couldn't bear it longer. Stalking out, he descended the
stairs, asking himself if he could sink lower. In the depths of
degradation, what could happen that would sink him lower. A Charlotte
ordered out of a nigger ballroom.
The cold air pierced him more quickly since leaving the ballroom. The
big wood fire influenced him to return to its comforting warmth. By this
time the fire had heated up the room. The heat from the over-heated
revellers, the aroma permeating the atmosphere, was not unfamiliar to
the Colonel's sense of smell yet none the less unpleasant.
It impelled the Colonel to seek fresh air more quickly than the side
remarks had previously. Out in the chilly air he gave way to his
thoughts as before, thoughts tinged with even more bitterness.
The fire had made him more and more susceptible to the cold and it was
not long ere the Colonel started on his way to warm himself again. Sam
met him at the foot of the stairs. Bowing and scraping, he began by
apologizing profusely:
"Cunnel, I declars I hates to tell you all but the gemmen dat runs de
frolik jus tol' me I has to. I'se been pinted a committee to tell you
dey hes made a good hot fire in de back room down stairs fer you. You
kin go in an' warm yerself. Dey all doan wants you to kum in de big room
up stairs eny more. De fak is, de ladies up dar objecks to de oder ob de
stable on yer clothes."
The facts are that a tannery is not as pleasant to the olfactory senses
as Pinaud's perfumes, but Alfred, unlike Col. Charlotte, had exposed
himself to objectionable odors by working over the vats and leather by
day, and thumping the tambourine by night in the big finishing room. But
no complaints ever came to his ears of the unpleasant odor of the
tannery he carried home with him until Lin was discarded by the minstrel
band. Therefore, when the mother, backed by Lin, informed him that he
would have to give up his tan-yard affiliations, the boy felt in his
heart that as in the Colonel's case, it was not the odor but prejudice.
He almost wished he had arranged that Lin might have retained her place
as leader of the singing. But there were other reasons why he was
ordered to leave the tanning business.
The Workman Hotel was but a few steps from the old tannery. The new
landlord was giving the place a cleaning up. Cal Wyatt, the son of the
hotel man, came over to the tannery and requested Alfred, John Caldman,
Vince Carpenter and several others to go over during the noon hour to
the cellar and give them a hand in stacking up sundry barrels and kegs.
All complied. The barrels were quickly lifted on top of each other. A
tin cup full of some sort of fluid was passed around several times. All
sipped from the cup, much as folks do from a loving cup nowadays. As the
barrels were piled higher, the tin cup went around again and again.
Alfred had sipped from a large spoon a little of the same sort of
tasting stuff when Grandpap Irons made a little toddy before breakfast.
But never had his lips sunk into a tin cup filled with the stuff
previously. A feeling came over him such as he had never experienced,
and it seemed as if all in the cellar were similarly affected. Those of
the tan-yard hands who had never been known to raise their voices in
song, essayed to sing the minstrel songs. Those so awkward that they
could not walk naturally endeavored to dance.
Ordinarily Alfred would have laughed himself weak at the hilarious
attempts of the tan-yard hands, and their imitations. Under the
influence of the tin cup's magic fluid he held them in that contempt
that only the professional can feel for the jay who endeavors to imitate
him.
[Illustration: The Tin Cup Went Round Again and Again]
Alfred stood motionless, or as near motionless as he possibly could.
John Caldman, who was known and respected as the one quiet and
unobtrusive person in the tannery, and from whose lips a loud word never
escaped, stood erect and immovable as the singing, dancing tan-yard
hands whirled about him. With compressed lips and haughty mien he seemed
not to notice them.
Suddenly he spoke and in a voice so loud and unnatural that all were
awed into silence. The quiet man had changed so completely he seemed
another person. Alfred gazed at him in astonishment. He hurled epithets
and denunciations at those whose names he had never before mentioned
aloud. He recalled insults and abuse heaped upon him by all connected
with the tannery; he invited, he insisted that the biggest and
strongest of those about him come out and fight. He dared the whole
crowd to jump on him.
None accepting his dare he declared his intention to go to the tan-yard
and clean out the old shebang, following his threat with a movement
towards the tannery followed by the wobbling crowd.
Entering the big finishing room Alfred saw the infuriated John standing
in the middle of the room, an iron hook in one hand, a lump of coal in
the other, while the workmen were flying upstairs and down stairs.
Alfred endeavored to follow those who went down stairs. He remembered
starting from the first step at the top. Vince Carpenter afterwards
informed him he never hit another step in his descent.
[Illustration: Sammy Steele's Mule Kicked the Boy]
Gathering himself up in time to hear Vince shout: "Here comes Mr.
Steele," as badly scared as his dazed senses would permit him to be,
Alfred fumbled and scrambled about for a moment. He spied a large
wheel-barrow overloaded with cows' ears and other by-products of green
hides that go into the refuse and find their way to the glue factory.
This slimy mess was just out of the lime vat.
Alfred grabbed the handles and started with the wheel-barrow he did not
know where, his sole object being to stall and make the boss believe he
was at work. Along a narrow plank walk he pushed the gruesome load,
weaving, wobbling at every step, threatening to go off one side or the
other at any moment, headed for the dump where all the water-soaked,
discarded tan bark was deposited.
Reaching the dumping ground, standing between the handles of the
wheel-barrow, Alfred attempted to overturn it. The handles overturned
Alfred. Down the steep incline, rolled Alfred, wheel-barrow and contents
in one conglomerate mass, Alfred under the avalanche of cows' ears,
tails, etc.
Mrs. Hampton witnessed from her back porch the race down the dump pile.
Calling a couple of boys the lady led the way to where Alfred lay,
digging him from under the slimy mess. The boys loaded the soaking
figure into the wheel-barrow and carried him home.
Sammy Steele used as motive power in his bark mill a fine white mare and
an iron grey mule. When Alfred could not get the use of the white mare
he rode or drove the mule. Alfred's parents and others continually
cautioned him to beware of the mule, that it was vicious and would
surely kick him.
When the boys arrived at Alfred's home and Lin saw them assisting the
almost senseless boy into the house, she began: "Well, fur the luv of
all thet's holy, what's the rumpus now? I'll bet a fip Sammy Steele's
mewel's kicked thet boy."
The boys did not reply, depositing their burden on the floor, hastily
departed. To Lin's persistent inquiries, Alfred admitted that the mule
had kicked him. In a maudlin way he stuttered: "L-o-o-k-o-u-t, Lin,
she'll k-k-i-c-k you." Then he laughed a silly laugh.
Lin was convinced that the boy was out of his head, delirious from the
mule's kick, sent for the doctor who came in haste. Lin explained that
she was "skeered nearly to death. I wus yar all alone an' they kum
draggin' him in. I tried to talk with him but he's plum out of his head.
His mother an' his pap an' me an' all of us hes warned him time an'
'gain that that mewel would be his death, but he jus kept a-devilin'
aroun' hit; now ye see what kum of hit. He's jus like he had a stroke of
palsy, hit's a wonder the mewel hedn't killed him stun dead. Ef hits
palsied him he mought jus es well be dead."
Thus Lin ran on as the old doctor carefully looked the patient over. The
doctor had long practiced in Brownsville. Tomato vine poisoning cases
were rare. Alfred's ailment on this occasion was common. He made no
mistake in diagnosing the case although he did not inform the family of
his conclusions. However, he assured them that "the boy would be all
right in a day or two. His appetite might not come to him at once but he
would be all right in the morning. Just let him sleep, don't wake him,
and when he gets out caution him to--keep away from the mule," added the
doctor dryly.
Lin said: "Be durned ef hit ain't the queerest case I ever seed.
Alfurd's jus es sick es he kin be an' the old doctur didn't gin him
nothin'."
A few days later it was whispered among the neighbors that Alfred and a
number of the tan-yard hands broke into Bill Wyatt's cellar and drank up
all his liquor and Alfred, "little as he wus, drinked more'n eny of em."
George Washington Antonio Frazier 'lowed that Alfred "drinked so much he
wouldn't want another drink fer a month. I wouldn't ef I'd hed his
cargo," he concluded.
Lin threw her head up in disgust as she denied this rumor: "Huh, all ole
Frazier is peeved 'bout is bekase he didn't git his ole hog belly filled
up fur nuthin'."
Alfred slept he knew not how long. It was night when he awoke. Half
awake, he would doze and dream--now he was carrying gourds of water to
Uncle Joe, hastening back to get a gourdful for his own parched lips. He
would invariably drop the gourd or have some other mishap--he never got
the water to his lips.
He realized that there were others in the room, the lamp was too low to
distinguish them. He listened endeavoring to hear what they were talking
of. The old clock down-stairs struck two, then the little clock on the
mantelpiece chimed twice.
A figure arose, softly crossing the room and a hand was laid softly on
the boy's forehead. His eyes were closed but he knew it was his mother's
hand.
"He is a little less feverish, Pap, you had best go to bed. I'll call
Lin early and lie down. Now go on, you have to work and you won't feel
like it, if you don't get your sleep. Go on now, if he gets worse, I'll
call."
"Gets worse I'll call you." Alfred repeated the words over and over in
his mind. He imagined at first that he had been sick a long time. He
gathered his thoughts--the old tavern cellar came into his mind, the
antics of the tan-yard hands after they had quaffed from the tin cup.
Alfred got no further in his ramblings than the tin cup; only a ray of
thought, yet it was of sufficient power to cause the boy to retch and
strain as though he would heave his stomach up.
The mother was holding a vessel in one hand and supporting the very sick
boy with the other arm.
"Muz, Muz, what's the matter with me--how long have I been sick--d-do
you th-i-n-k I'm goin' to die?"
The mother soothed him and persuaded him to go to sleep. Alfred closed
his eyes and pretended to sleep. He heard footsteps and, peering out of
the corner of his eye, he perceived the form of his father bending over
him.
Softly walking over to where the mother sat with bowed head, the father
began: "I thought I heard him talking. Was he awake?"
"Yes," answered the mother.
"What did he say?" eagerly inquired the father.
The mother informed him.
The father, looking toward the bed, remarked half to himself:
"I hope he will be sober enough to talk to me before I leave the house."
"Why, John," hastily began the mother, "you speak as if he were an old
toper."
"Well, Mary. I did not mean it that way. But I have been worried ever
since that minstrel crowd has been gathering at the tan-yard. Of course,
I never knew Alfred to drink whiskey but they all drink more or less and
Alfred is not the boy to pass anything by there's any fun in."
"But they had no business to give a boy whiskey," argued the wife, "and
I would see about it and I would make an example of them if I were
you."
"I will do all of that and more," warmly answered the father. After a
pause, he resumed: "They tell me they were all in Wyatt's cellar and Cal
Wyatt drew a tin cup of high proof whiskey. Alfred put the cup--"
Alfred was following the father's words. At the mention of the word
"cup," his stomach rebelled again. His father was holding a vessel, his
mother supporting the boy's head.
Turning his head, the father ejaculated: "Phew! If that isn't rot-gut I
never smelt it."
Alfred pretended to go to sleep and the father and mother talked long
and earnestly. Their solicitude for the erring boy, touched Alfred to
the heart. He had not realized until this moment the meanness of his
actions. When Alfred fully realized the misery and suffering he had
caused his parents, he was impelled to crawl to them and kiss the hem of
their garments, promising never to cause them pain from the same cause
again.
Let it be recorded he did not realize immediately when he drank from the
cup, that it was whiskey. After the first swallow or two he became
oblivious to his danger. He felt that he was forever disgraced. He
thought of getting out of bed and fleeing, he cared not whither, only to
get far away from the scene of his disgrace.
We do not know that the boy resolved that he would never touch, taste or
handle whiskey again. We do not know what resolutions he made to
himself, but we do know that whisky never passed his lips again until he
was more than a man grown and then rarely and in very small quantities.
Alfred slept. When he awoke it was daylight. The sun was shining
brightly. His first thought was that he would be late for work. Then he
heard the voice of a neighbor woman, one whom the mother disliked, one
who was noted for her tatling propensities. As an excuse to call she had
brought fruit for Alfred. The boy overheard her inquiries as to his
condition. She whispered long and earnestly with Lin. The latter,
looking down at the pale face of Alfred began questioning him:
"Well, I see ye're alive yit, I gess ye'll kum out of hit. I s'pose the
hull durn town'll be laffin' at me. I never dreamed ye wus jus corned.
Ef I'd knowed, I'd brot ye out uf it quicker; I'd jus made a hull tin
cup uf hot mustard--"
Alfred heard no further than "tin cup." Flopping over on his stomach,
endeavoring to hold down the last remnants of his innards, he begged to
be left alone. But Lin kept on:
"An' yere I sends fur the doctor es innercent es a baby an' up an' tole
him Sammy Steele's mewel hed histed ye. An' when he was feelin' roun' ye
I thot he was feelin' fur busted bones, an' durned ef I ever knowed even
when ye begun throwin' up on the carpit thet ye wus jus drunk."
Lin continued: "Ef I hadn't sent fur the doctor it wouldn't be so blamed
green lookin' in me. I'll never hear the las' uf hit. I'll bet Sammy
Steele's mewel's ears will burn, the hull town'll be talkin' 'bout thet
mewel. They'll say he's a powerful kicker," and Lin laughed despite
herself.
"Why, fur weeks after Joe Sandford got into thet fix with his wall-paper
show clothes folks would laff when I went into meetin'. I could tell
what they wus thinkin' uf the minnit they'd smile. Un the wust part uf
hit is I went over to Mrs. Todd's an' we cried fur two hours. Mrs.
Todd's brother got kicked in the spinel string (cord) with a mewel an'
he died the same nite. He never moved after he wus kicked. He wus
ossified from head to fut."
Alfred laughed. Lin corrected herself by saying: "Thet's what Mrs. Todd
sed ailed him, but I knowed she meant 'palsified'."
Alfred again laughed. Lin knew she had made a mistake; she was sensitive
and it nettled her to notice the smile on Alfred's face. In tones quite
testy she advised him to "hold his laff 'til he could feel hit. Ye
needn't git so peart, ye hain't out of danger yit, ye're liable to have
anuther collapse or sumthin' else. Ye'll never look as white aroun' the
gills when ye're laid out in them linen sheets ye stole fur yer show."
Lin "wondered what gran'muther would say when she heard of his
'sickness'." At the word "sickness" Lin winked with both eyes.
"I'll bet a fip Uncle Ned will say: 'Well, he's another notch nearer
hell.'"
Alfred did not consider the reference to Uncle Ned, but grandmother came
up in his mind and he determined to go to the old lady and tell her the
whole truth. And this he did and, instead of condemnation, he received
advice that strengthened him in avoiding many of the same sort of
pitfalls thereafter.
The tin cup incident ended Alfred's connection with the tan-yard but
Alfred never regretted his experience. The work was most health-giving
and muscle developing. The examples of industry and integrity learned
from Sammy Steele have been a guiding post in the life of the boy.
Alfred had not been in his employ long until he was permitted to
conduct small trades with the customers who visited the tannery.
One day a highly respected farmer brought in a hide. Alfred weighed the
hide and figured up the amount due the farmer when Mr. Steele entered
the room, passing the compliments of the day with the farmer. The hide
was spread out on the table. The tanner folded it over as if to
ascertain if it had been damaged in the skinning process. At the first
touch of the hide he looked into the farmer's face, and in a careless
tone, asked:
"Been killing a beef?"
"Yes," drawled the farmer.
"Eh, huh, eh, huh," nodded the tanner, "what did you do with the
carcass?"
"Oh, we found a market at home for it. We got a big family," replied the
farmer.
"Eh, huh" assented the tanner. Reaching over, he took up the slate,
rubbed out Alfred's figures, figured the hide at about two-thirds the
amount Alfred was about to pay the farmer.
To Alfred's surprise the farmer accepted the cut in price and hastily
took his leave. The tanner looked after him in a contemptuous manner,
turned to Alfred and inquired if he knew the farmer.
Alfred answered: "Yes, he's a neighbor of my uncle. He belongs to the
Baptus Church and I heard the preacher say if God ever made an upright
man, he was one."
"Yes, yes," answered the tanner, "God made all men upright but a murn
hide will warp most of them."
A murn hide is one taken from an animal that dies of a disease. The
sensitive touch of the old tanner detected the diseased hide
immediately.
Alfred has applied this incident to many deals in his life and a murn
hide became one of his pet references to a crooked transaction. The tie
of friendship between Alfred and Sammy Steele lasted while the tanner
lived.
Sammy Steele had not acquired a fortune in all the years of his hard
labor. A skilled workman, he respected labor. No employe of his was ever
tricked out of his wages. He was as fair to the poor as to the rich and
both trusted him. In an uncouth world he was a gentleman; he bowed as
courteously to a wash-woman as to an heiress.
An honest man, he was Alfred's boyhood friend, his friend in manhood.
Alfred loved him while he lived and respected his memory after he was
gone.
If there were more like Sammy Steele in this world there would be better
boys and better men.