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GABRIEL TOLLIVER
_A Story of Reconstruction_
By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
_Author of "Uncle Remus," "The Making of a Statesman," etc._
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
NEW YORK
1902
COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
_Published, October, 1902 R_
* * * * *
To James Whitcomb Riley
* * * * *
CONTENTS
_Prelude_
CHAPTER ONE _Kettledrum and Fife_
CHAPTER TWO _A Town with a History_
CHAPTER THREE _The Return of Two Warriors_
CHAPTER FOUR _Mr. Goodlett's Passengers_
CHAPTER FIVE _The Story of Margaret Gaither_
CHAPTER SIX _The Passing of Margaret_
CHAPTER SEVEN _Silas Tomlin Goes A-Calling_
CHAPTER EIGHT _The Political Machine Begins Its Work_
CHAPTER NINE _Nan and Gabriel_
CHAPTER TEN _The Troubles of Nan_
CHAPTER ELEVEN _Mr. Sanders in His Cups_
CHAPTER TWELVE _Caught in a Corner_
CHAPTER THIRTEEN _The Union League Organises_
CHAPTER FOURTEEN _Nan and Her Young Lady Friends_
CHAPTER FIFTEEN _Silas Tomlin Scents Trouble_
CHAPTER SIXTEEN _Silas Tomlin Finds Trouble_
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN _Rhody Has Something to Say_
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN _The Knights of the White Camellia_
CHAPTER NINETEEN _Major Tomlin Perdue Arrives_
CHAPTER TWENTY _Gabriel at the Big Poplar_
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE _Bridalbin Follows Gabriel_
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO _The Fate of Mr. Hotchkiss_
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE _Mr. Sanders Searches for Evidence_
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR _Captain Falconer Makes Suggestions_
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE _Mr. Sanders's Riddle_
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX _Cephas Has His Troubles_
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN _Mr. Sanders Visits Some of His Old Friends_
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT _Nan and Margaret_
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE _Bridalbin Finds His Daughter_
CHAPTER THIRTY _Miss Polly Has Some News_
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE _Mr. Sanders Receives a Message_
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO _Malvern Has a Holiday_
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE _Gabriel as an Orator_
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR _Nan Surrenders_
GABRIEL TOLLIVER
_Prelude_
"Cephas! here is a letter for you, and it is from Shady Dale! I know you
will be happy now."
For several years Sophia had listened calmly to my glowing descriptions
of Shady Dale and the people there. She was patient, but I could see by
the way she sometimes raised her eyebrows that she was a trifle
suspicious of my judgment, and that she thought my opinions were unduly
coloured by my feelings. Once she went so far as to suggest that I was
all the time looking at the home people through the eyes of
boyhood--eyes that do not always see accurately. She had said, moreover,
that if I were to return to Shady Dale, I would find that the friends of
my boyhood were in no way different from the people I meet every day.
This was absurd, of course--or, rather, it would have been absurd for
any one else to make the suggestion; for at that particular time, Sophia
was a trifle jealous of Shady Dale and its people. Nevertheless, she was
really patient. You know how exasperating a man can be when he has a
hobby. Well, my hobby was Shady Dale, and I was not ashamed of it. The
man or woman who cannot display as much of the homing instinct as a cat
or a pigeon is a creature to be pitied or despised. Sophia herself was a
tramp, as she often said. She was born in a little suburban town in New
York State, but never lived there long enough to know what home was. She
went to Albany, then to Canada, and finally to Georgia; so that the only
real home she ever knew is the one she made herself--out of the raw
material, as one might say.
Well, she came running with the letter, for she is still active, though
a little past the prime of her youth. I returned the missive to her with
a faint show of dignity. "The letter is for you," I said. She looked at
the address more carefully, and agreed with me. "What in the world have
I done," she remarked, "to receive a letter from Shady Dale?"
"Why, it is the simplest thing in the world," I replied. "You have been
fortunate enough to marry me."
"Oh, I see!" she cried, dropping me a little curtsey; "and I thank you
kindly!"
The letter was from an old friend of mine--a school-mate--and it was an
invitation to Sophia, begging her to take a day off, as the saying is,
and spend it in Shady Dale.
"Your children," the letter said, "will be glad to visit their father's
old home, and I doubt not we can make it interesting for the wife." The
letter closed with some prettily turned compliments which rather caught
Sophia. But her suspicions were still in full play.
"I know the invitation is sent on your account, and not on mine," she
said, holding the letter at arm's length.
"Well, why not? If my old friend loves me well enough to be anxious to
give my wife and children pleasure, what is there wrong about that?"
"Oh, nothing," replied Sophia. "I've a great mind to go."
"If you do, my dear, you will make a number of people happy--yourself
and the children, and many of my old friends."
"He declares," said Sophia, "that he writes at the request of his wife.
You know how much of that to believe."
"I certainly do. Imagine me, for instance, inviting to visit us a lady
whom you had never met."
Whereupon Sophia laughed. "I believe you'd endorse any proposition that
came from Shady Dale," she declared.
She accepted the invitation more out of curiosity than with any
expectation of enjoying herself; but she stayed longer than she had
intended; and when she came back her views and feelings had undergone a
complete change. "Cephas, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for not
going to see those people," she declared. "Why, they are the salt of the
earth. I never expected to be treated as they treated me. If it wasn't
for your business, I would beg you to go back there and live. They are
just like the people you read about in the books--I mean the good
people, the ideal characters--the men and women you would like to meet."
Here she paused and sighed. "Oh, I wouldn't have missed that visit for
anything. But what amazes me, Cephas, is that you've never put in your
books characters such as you find in Shady Dale."
The suggestion was a fertile one; it had in it the active principle of a
germ; and it was not long before the ferment began to make itself felt.
The past began to renew itself; the sun shone on the old days and gave
them an illumination which they lacked when they were new. Time's
perspective gave them a mellower tone, and they possessed, at least for
me, that element of mystery which seems to attach to whatever is
venerable. It was as if the place, the people, and the scenes had taken
the shape of a huge picture, with just such a lack of harmony and unity
as we find in real life.
Let those who can do so continue to import harmony and unity into their
fabrications and call it art. Whether it be art or artificiality, the
trick is beyond my powers. I can only deal with things as they were; on
many occasions they were far from what I would have had them to be; but
as I was powerless to change them, so am I powerless to twist
individuals and events to suit the demands or necessities of what is
called art.
Such a feat might be possible if I were to tell the simple story of Nan
and Gabriel and Tasma Tid during the days when they roamed over the old
Bermuda hills, and gazed, as it were, into the worlds that existed only
in their dreams: for then the story would be both fine and beautiful. It
would be a wonderful romance indeed, with just a touch of tragic
mystery, gathered from the fragmentary history of Tasma Tid, a
child-woman from the heart of Africa, who had formed a part of the cargo
of the yacht _Wanderer_, which landed three hundred slaves on the coast
of Georgia in the last months of 1858. You may find the particulars of
the case of the _Wanderer_ in the files of the Savannah newspapers, and
in the records of the United States Court for that district; but the
tragic history of Tasma Tid can be found neither in the newspapers nor
in the court records.
But for this one touch of mystery and tragedy, this chronicle, supposing
it to deal only with the childhood and early youth of Nan and Gabriel,
would resolve itself into a marvellous fairy tale, made up of the
innocent dreams and hopes and beliefs, and all the extraordinary
inventions and imaginings of childhood. And even mystery and tragedy
have their own particular forms of simplicity, so that, with Tasma Tid
in the background the tale would be artless enough to satisfy the most
artful. For, even if the reader, seated on the magic cloak of some
competent story-teller, were transported to the heart of Africa, where
the mountains, with their feet in the jungle, reach up and touch the
moon, or to China, or the Islands of the Sea, the hero of the tale would
be the same. His name is Dilly Bal, and he carries on his operations
wherever there are stars in the sky. He is a restless and a roving
creature, flitting to and fro between all points of the compass.
When King Sun crawls into his trundle bed and begins to snore, Dilly
Bal creeps forth from Somewhere, or maybe from Nowhere, which is just on
the other side, fetching with him a long broom, which he swishes about
to such purpose that the katydids hear it and are frightened. They hide
under the leaves and are heard no more that night. That is why you never
hear them crying and disputing when you chance to be awake after
midnight.
But Dilly Bal knows nothing of the katydids; he has his own duties to
perform, and his own affairs to attend to; and these, as you will
presently see, are very pressing. It is his business, as well as his
pleasure, to be the Housekeeper of the Sky, which he dusts and tidies
and puts in order. It is a part of his duty to see that the stars are
safely bestowed against the moment when old King Sun shall emerge from
his tent, and begin his march over the world. And then, in the dusk of
the evening, Dilly Bal must take each star from the bag in which he
carries it, polish it bright, and put it in its proper place.
Sometimes, as you may have observed, a star will fall while Dilly Bal is
handling it. This happens when he is nervous for fear that King Sun,
instead of going to bed in his tent, has crept back and is watching from
behind the cloud mountains. Sometimes a star falls quite by accident, as
when Lucindy or Patience drops a plate in the kitchen. You will be sure
to know Dilly Bal when you see him, for, in handling the stars and
dusting the sky, his clothes get full of yellow cobwebs, which he never
bothers himself to brush off.
But Dilly Bal's most difficult job is with the Moon. Regularly the Moon
blackens her face in a vain effort to hide from King Sun. If she used
smut or soot, Dilly Bal's task would not be so difficult; but she has
found a lake of pitch somewhere in Africa, and in this lake she smears
her face till it is so black her best friends wouldn't know her. The
pitch is such sticky stuff that it is days and days before it can be
rubbed off. The truth is, Dilly Bal never does succeed in getting all
the pitch off. At her brightest, the Moon shows signs of it. So said
Tasma Tid, and so we all firmly believed.
Yes, indeed! If this chronicle could be confined to the childhood and
youth of those children, Dilly Bal would be the hero first and last. He
was so real to all of us that we used to wander out to the old Bermuda
fields almost every fine afternoon, and sit there until the light had
faded from the sky, watching Dilly Bal hanging the stars on their pegs.
The Evening Star was such a large and heavy one that Dilly Bal always
replaced it before dark, so as to be sure not to drop it.
Once when we stayed out in the Bermuda fields later than usual, a big
star fell from its place, and went flying across the sky, leaving a long
and brilliant streamer behind it. At first, Nan thought that Dilly Bal
had tried to hang the Evening Star on the wrong peg, but when she looked
in the west, there was the big star winking at her and at all of us as
hard as it could.
The pity of it was that Nan and Gabriel, and all their young friends,
had finally to come in contact with the hard practical affairs of the
world. As for Tasma Tid, contact had no special influence on her. She
was to all appearance as unchangeable as the pyramids, and as mysterious
as the Sphinx. But it was different with Nan and Gabriel, and, indeed,
with all the rest. Their story soon ceased to be a simple one. In some
directions, it appeared to be a hopeless tangle, catching a great many
other persons in its loops and meshes; so that, instead of a simple,
entrancing story, all aglow with the glamour of romance, they had
troubles that were grievous, and their full share of dulness and
tediousness, which are the essential ingredients of everyday life.
After all, it is perhaps fortunate that the marvellous dreams of Nan and
Gabriel, and the quaint imaginings of Tasma Tid are not to be
chronicled. The spinning of this glistening gossamer once begun would
have no end, for Nan was an expert dreamer both night and day, and in
the practice of this art, Gabriel was not far behind her; while Tasma
Tid, who was Nan's maid and bodyguard, could frame her face in her
hands, and tell you stories from sunrise to sundown and far into the
night.
Tasma Tid, though she was only a child in stature and nature, was
growner in years, as she said, than some of the grownest grown folks
that they knew. She was a dwarf by race, and always denied bitterly,
sometimes venomously, that she was a negro, declaring that in her
country the people were always at war with the blacks. Her color was
dark brown, light enough for the blood tints to show in her face, and
her hair was straight and glossy black. From the _Wanderer_, she soon
found herself in the slave market at Malvern, and there she fell under
the eye of Dr. Randolph Dorrington, Nan's father, who bought her
forthwith. He thought that a live doll would please his daughter. The
dwarf said that her name was Tasma Tid in her country, and she would
answer to no other.
It was a very fortunate bargain all around, especially for Nan, for in
the African woman she found both a playmate and a protector. Tasma Tid
was far above the average negro in intelligence, in courage and in
cunning. She was as obstinate as a mule, and no matter what obstacles
were thrown in her way, her own desires always prevailed in the end, a
fact that will explain her early appearance in the slave market. Those
of her owners who failed to understand her were not willing to see her
spoil on their hands, like a barrel of potatoes or a basket of shrimps.
The African was uncanny when she chose to be, outspoken, vicious, and
tender-hearted, her nature being compounded of the same qualities and
contradictions as those which belong to the great ladies of the earth,
who, with opportunity always at their elbows, have contrived to create a
great stir in the world.
When Dr. Dorrington fetched Tasma Tid home, he called out to Nan from
his gig: "I have brought you a live doll, daughter; come and see how you
like it."
Nan went running--she never learned how to walk until she was several
years older--and regarded Tasma Tid with both surprise and sympathy.
The African, seeing only the sympathy, leaped from the gig, seized Nan
around the waist, lifted her from the ground, ran this way and that, and
then released her with a loud and joyous laugh.
"What do you mean by that?" cried Nan, somewhat taken aback.
"She stan' fer we howdy," the African answered.
"Well, let's see you tell popsy howdy," suggested Nan, indicating her
father.
"Uh-uh! he we buckra."
From that hour Tasma Tid attached herself to Nan, following her
everywhere with the unquestioning fidelity of a dog. She sat on the
floor of the dining-room while Nan ate her meals, and slept on a pallet
by the child's bed at night. If the African was sweeping the yard, a
task she sometimes consented to perform, she would fling the brushbroom
away and go with Nan if the child started out at the gate. At first this
constant attendance was somewhat annoying to Nan, for she was an
independent lass; but presently, when she found that Tasma Tid was a
most accomplished and versatile playfellow, as well as the depositary of
hundreds of curious fables and quaint tales of the wildwood, Nan's
irritation disappeared.
As for Gabriel--Gabriel Tolliver--he was almost as indispensable as the
African woman. Children learn a good many things, as they grow older,
and I have heard that Nan and Gabriel were thought to be queer, and that
all who were much in their company were also thought to be queer. No
one knows why. It was a simple statement, and simple statements are
readily believed, because no one takes the trouble to inquire into them.
A man who has views different from those of the majority is called
eccentric; if he insists on promulgating them, he is known as a crank.
In the case of Nan and Gabriel, it may be said by one who knows, that,
while they were different from the majority of children, they were
neither queer nor eccentric.
They, and those whom they chose as companions, were children at a time
when the demoralisation of war was about to begin--when it was already
casting its long shadow before it--and when their elders were discussing
as hard as ever they could the questions of State rights, the true
interpretation of the Constitution, squatter sovereignty, the right of
secession--every question, in short, except the one at issue. In this
way, and for this reason, the two children and their companions were
thrown back upon themselves.
Of those who formed this merry little company, not one went to the
academies that had been established in the town early enough to be its
most ancient institutions. Nan was taught by her father, Randolph
Dorrington, and Gabriel and I said our lessons to his grandmother, Mrs.
Lucy Lumsden. Thus it happened that we were through with our school
tasks before the children in the two academies had begun their morning
recess.
"We would never have been such good friends," said Nan on one occasion,
"if I hadn't wanted to go to your house, Gabriel, to see how your
grandmother wavies her hair. I saw Cephas, and asked him to go along
with me." Child as she was, Nan had her little vanities. She desired
above all things that her hair should fall away from her brow in little
rippling waves, like those that shone in the silver-grey hair of
Gabriel's grandmother.
"Why, my grandmother doesn't wavie her hair at all," protested Gabriel.
"Of course not," replied Nan, with a toss of the hand; "I found that out
for myself. And I was very sorry; I want my hair to wavie like hers and
yours."
"Well, if your hair was to wavie like mine," said Gabriel, "you'd have a
mighty hard time combing it in the morning."
"Don't you remember," Nan went on in a reminiscent way, "that she made
you shake hands with me that day? It was funny the way you came up and
held out your arm. If I had jumped at you and said _Boo!_ I don't know
what would have happened." Gabriel grew very red at this, but Nan
ignored his embarrassment. "You had syrup on your fingers, you know, and
then we all had some in a saucer. Yes, and we all sopped our bread in
the same saucer, and Cephas here got the syrup on his face and in his
hair."
It never occurred to me in those days that Nan was beautiful, or that
Gabriel was handsome, but looking back in the light of experience, it is
easy to remember that they had in their features all the promises that
the long and slow-moving years were to fulfil. I was struck, however, by
one peculiarity of Nan's face. When her countenance was at rest, it
gave out a hint of melancholy, and there was an appealing look in her
brown eyes; but when she smiled or laughed, the sombre face broke up
into numberless dimples. Apart from her countenance, there was a charm
about her which I have never been able to trace to its source, and which
of course is beyond description; and this charm remained, and made
itself felt whether the appearance of melancholy had its dwelling-place
in her eyes, which were large, and lustrous, and full of tenderness, or
whether her face was brilliant with smiles. She had a deserved
reputation as a tomboy, but she carried off her tricksy whims with a
daintiness that preserved them from all hint of coarseness; and if
sometimes she was rude, she had a way of righting herself that none
could resist.
As for Gabriel, he was always large for his age. He was strong and
healthy, possessing every physical excuse for roughness and
boisterousness; but association with his grandmother, who was one of the
gentlest of gentlewomen, had toned him down and smoothed the rough
edges. His hair was dark and curly, and his face gave promise of great
strength of character--a promise which, it may be said here, was
fulfilled to the letter. He was as whimsical as Nan, and, in addition,
had moods to which she was a stranger.
These things did not occur to Cephas the Child, but are the fruits of
his memory and experience. He only knew at that time that Nan and
Gabriel were both very good to him. He was considerably younger than
either of them, and he often wondered then, and has wondered since, why
they were such good friends of his, and why they were constantly hunting
him up if he failed to make his appearance. Perhaps because he was so
full of unadulterated mischief. Gabriel, with all his gravity, was full
of a quaint humour, and Nan hunted for cause for laughter in everything;
and she was never more beautiful than when this same laughter had shaken
her tawny hair about her face.
We had travelled widely. Nan had been to Malvern with her father, and
had seen sights--railway trains, omilybuses, as she called them, a great
big hotel, and "oodles" of crippled persons; yes, and besides the
crippled persons, there was a blind man standing on the corner with a
big card hanging from his neck; and that very day, she had eaten
"reesins" until she never wanted 'em any more, as she said. Gabriel and
Cephas had not gone so far; but once upon a time, they went to
Halcyondale, and, among other things, had seen Major Tomlin Perdue kill
sparrows with a pistol. Nan had been anxious to go with them at the
time, but when she heard about the slaughter of the sparrows, she was
very glad she had stayed at home, for what did a grown man as old as
Major Perdue want to kill the poor little brown sparrows for? Nan's
question was never answered. Gabriel and Cephas had only seen in the
transaction the enviable skill of the Major; whereas Nan thought of
nothing but the poor little birds that had been slain for a holiday
show. "They may have been singing sparrows, or snow-birds," mourned Nan.
True enough; but Gabriel and Cephas had thought of nothing but the
skill of the marksman with his duelling pistols. Tasma Tid also had her
point of view. "Wey you no fetcha dem lil bud home fer we supper?" She
was hardly satisfied when she was told that the little birds, all put
together, would have made hardly more than a mouthful.
CHAPTER ONE
_Kettledrum and Fife_
The serene repose of Shady Dale no doubt stood for dulness and lack of
progress in that day and time. In all ages of the world, and in all
places, there are men of restless but superficial minds, who mistake
repose and serenity for stagnation. No doubt then, as now, the most
awful sentence to be passed on a community was to say that it was not
progressive. But when you examine into the matter, what is called
progress is nothing more nor less than the multiplication of the
resources of those who, by means of dicker and barter, are trying all
the time to overreach the public and their fellows, in one way and
another. This sort of thing now has a double name; it is called
civilisation, as well as progress, and those who take things as they
find them in their morning newspaper, without going to the trouble to
reflect for themselves, are no doubt duly impressed by terms that are
large enough to fill both the ear and mouth at one and the same time.
Well, whatever serene repose stands for, Shady Dale possessed it in an
eminent degree, and the people there had their full share of the sorrows
and troubles of this world, as Madame Awtry, or Miss Puella Gillum, or
Neighbour Tomlin, or even that cheerful philosopher, Mr. Billy Sanders,
could have told you; but of these Nan and Gabriel and Cephas knew
nothing except in a vague, indefinite way. They heard hints of rumours,
and sometimes they saw their elders shaking their heads as they gossiped
together, but the youngsters lived in a world of their own, a world
apart, and the vague rumours were no more interesting to them than the
reports of canals on Mars are to the average person to-day. He reads in
his newspaper that the markings in Mars are supposed to be canals;
whereat he smiles and reflects that these canals can do him no harm. Nan
and Gabriel and Cephas were as far from contemporary troubles as we are
from Mars. The most serious trouble they had was not greater than that
which they discovered one day on the Bermuda hill. As they were sitting
on the warm grass, wondering how long before peaches would be ripe, they
saw a field mouse cutting up some queer capers. Nan was not very
friendly with mice, and she instinctively gathered up her skirts; but
she did not run; her curiosity was ever greater than her fear. Presently
we found that the troubles of Mother Mouse were very real. A tremendous
black beetle had invaded her nest, and had seized one of her children, a
little bit of a thing, naked and red and about the size of a half-ripe
mulberry. We tried hard to rescue the mouse from the beetle, but soon
found that it was quite dead. Cephas crushed the beetle, which was as
venomous-looking a bug as they had ever seen. Was the beetle preparing
to eat the mouse? Tasma Tid said yes, but Gabriel thought not. His idea
was that the Mother Mouse had attacked the beetle, which was blindly
crawling about, and had fallen in the nest accidentally. The beetle,
striving to defend itself, had seized the mouse between its pinchers,
and held it there until it was quite dead.
But the Bermuda fields were not the only resource of the children. There
were seasons when Uncle Plato, who was Meriwether Clopton's
carriage-driver, came to town with the big waggon to haul home the
supplies necessary for the plantation; loads of bagging and rope; cases
of brogan shoes, and hats for the negroes; and bales on bales of
osnaburgs and blankets. The appearance of the Clopton waggon on the
public square was hailed by these youngsters with delight. They always
made a rush for it, and, in riding back and forth with Uncle Plato, they
spent some of the most delightful moments of their lives.
And then in the fall season, there was the big gin running at the
Clopton place, with old Beck, the blind mule, going round and round,
turning the cogged and pivoted post that set the machinery in motion.
But the youngsters rarely grew tired of riding back and forth with Uncle
Plato. He was the one person in the world who catered most completely to
their whims, who was most responsive to their budding and eager fancies,
and who entered most enthusiastically into the regions created and
peopled by Nan's skittish and fantastic imagination.
These children had their critics, as may well be supposed, especially
Nan, who did not always conform to the rules and theories which have
been set up for the guidance of girls; but Uncle Plato, along with
Gabriel and Cephas, accepted her as she was, with all her faults, and
took as much delight in her tricksy and capricious behaviour, as if he
were responsible for it all. She and her companions furnished Uncle
Plato with what all story-tellers have most desired since hairy man
began to shave himself with pumice-stone, and squat around a common
hearth--a faithful and believing audience. Uncle AEsop, it may be, cared
less for his audience than for the opportunity of lugging in a dismal
and perfunctory moral. Uncle Plato, like Uncle Remus, concealed his
behind text and adventure, conveying it none the less completely on that
account. Not one of his vagaries was too wild for the acceptance of his
small audience, and the elusiveness of his methods was a perpetual
delight to Nan, as hers was to Uncle Plato, though he sometimes shook
his head, and pretended to sigh over her innocent evasions.
Once when we were all riding back and forth from the Clopton Place to
Shady Dale, Nan asked Uncle Plato if he could spell.
"Tooby sho I kin, honey. What you reckon I been doin' all deze
long-come-shorts ef I dunner how ter spell? How you speck I kin git
'long, haulin' an' maulin', ef I dunner how ter spell? Why, I could
spell long 'fo' I know'd my own name."
"Long-come-shorts, what are they?" asked Nan.
"Rainy days an' windy nights," responded Uncle Plato, throwing his head
back, and closing his eyes.
"Let's hear you spell, then," said Nan.
"Dee-o-egg, dog," was the prompt response. Nan looked at Uncle Plato to
see if he was joking, but he was solemnity itself. "E-double-egg, egg!"
he continued.
"Now spell John A. Murrell," said Nan. Murrell, the land pirate, was one
of her favourite heroes at this time.
Uncle Plato pretended to be very much shocked. "Why, honey, dat man wuz
rank pizen. En spozen he wa'nt, how you speck me ter spell sump'n er
somebody which I ain't never laid eyes on? How I gwineter spell Johnny
Murrell, an' him done dead dis many a long year ago?"
"Well, spell goose, then," said Nan, seeing a flock of geese marching
stiffly in single file across a field near the road.
Uncle Plato looked at them carefully enough to take their measure, and
then shook his head solemnly. "Deyer so many un um, honey, dey'd be
monstus hard fer ter spell."
"Well, just spell one of them then," Nan suggested.
"Which un, honey?"
"Any one you choose."
Uncle Plato studied over the matter a moment, and again shook his head.
"Uh-uh, honey; dat ain't nigh gwine ter do. Ef you speck me fer ter
spell goose, you got ter pick out de one you want me ter spell."
"Well, spell the one behind all the rest."
Again Uncle Plato shook his head. "Dat ar goose got half-grown goslin's,
an' I ain't never larnt how ter spell goose wid half-grown goslin's. You
ax too much, honey."
"Then spell the one next to head." Nan was inexorable.
"Dat ar ain't no goose," replied Uncle Plato, with an air of triumph;
"she's a gander."
"I don't believe you know how to spell goose," said Nan, with something
like scorn.
"Don't you fool yo'se'f, honey," remarked Uncle Plato in a tone of
confidence. "You git me a great big fat un, not too ol', an' not too
young, an' fill 'er full er stuffin', an' bake 'er brown in de big oven,
an' save all de drippin's, an' put 'er on de table not fur fum whar I
mought be settin' at, an' gi' me a pone er corn bread, an' don't have no
talkin' an' laughin' in de game--an' ef I don't spell dat goose, I'll
come mighty nigh it, I sholy will. Ef I don't spell 'er, dey won't be
nuff lef' fer de nex' man ter spell. You kin 'pen' on dat, honey."
Nan suddenly called Uncle Plato's attention to the carriage horses,
which were hitched to the waggon. She said she knew their names well
enough when they were pulling the carriage, but now--
"Haven't you changed the horses, Uncle Plato?" she asked.
"How I gwine change um, honey?"
"I mean, haven't you changed their places?"
"No, ma'am!" he answered with considerable emphasis. "No, ma'am; ef I
wuz ter put dat off hoss in de lead, you'd see some mighty high kickin';
you sho would."
"Oh, let's try it!" cried Nan, with real eagerness.
"Dem may try it what choosen ter try it," responded Uncle Plato, dryly,
"but I'll ax um fer ter kindly le' me git win' er what deyer gwine ter
do, an' den I'll make my 'rangerments fer ter be somers out'n sight an'
hearin'."
"Well, if you haven't made the horses swap places," remarked Nan, "I'll
bet you a thrip that the right-hand horse is named Waffles, and the
left-hand one Battercakes."
At once Uncle Plato became very dignified. "Well-'um, I'm mighty glad
fer ter hear you sesso, kaze ef dey's any one thing what I want mo' dan
anudder, it's a thrip's wuff er mannyfac terbacker. Ez fer de off hoss,
dat's his name--Waffles--you sho called it right. But when it comes ter
de lead hoss, anybody on de plantation, er off'n it, I don't keer whar
dey live at, ef dey yever so much ez hear er dat lead hoss, will be glad
fer ter tell you dat he goes by de name er Muffins." He held out his
hand for the thrip.
"Well, what is the difference?" said Nan, drawing back as if to prevent
him from taking the thrip.
"De diffunce er what?" inquired Uncle Plato.
"And you expect me to give you money you haven't won," declared Nan.
"What's the difference between Battercakes and Muffins? A muffin is a
battercake if you pour three big spoonfuls in a pan and spread it out,
and a battercake is a muffin if you pen it up in a tin-thing like a
napkin ring. Anybody can tell you that, Uncle Plato--yes, anybody."
What reply the old negro would have made to this bit of home-made
casuistry will never be known. That it would have been reasonable, if
not entirely adequate, may well be supposed, but just as he had given
his head a preliminary shake, the rattle of a kettle-drum was heard, and
above the rattle a fife was shrilling.
The shrilling fife, and the roll and rattle of the drums! These were
sounds somewhat new to Shady Dale in 1860; but presently they were to be
heard all over the land.
"I can see dem niggers right now!" exclaimed Uncle Plato, as we hustled
out of his waggon. "Riley playin' de fife, Green beatin' on de
kittledrum, an' Ike Varner bangin' on de big drum. Ef de white folks pay
much 'tention ter dem niggers, dey won't be no livin' in de same county
wid um. But dey better not come struttin' 'roun' me!"
The drums were beating the signal for calling together the men whose
names had been signed to the roll of a company to be called the Shady
Dale Scouts, and the meeting was for the purpose of organizing and
electing officers. All this was accomplished in due time; but meanwhile
Nan and Gabriel and Cephas, as well as Tasma Tid and all the rest of the
children in the town, went tagging after the fife and drums listening to
Riley play the beautiful marching tunes that set Nan's blood to
tingling. Riley was a master hand with the fife, and we had never known
it, had never even suspected it! Nan thought it was very mean in Riley
not to tell somebody that he could play so beautifully.
Well, in a very short time, the company was rigged out in the finest
uniforms the children had even seen. All the men, even the privates, had
plumes in their hats and epaulettes of gold on their shoulders; and on
their coats they wore stripes of glowing red, and shiny brass buttons
without number. And at least twice a week they marched through the
streets and out into the Bermuda fields, where they had their drilling
grounds. These were glorious days for the youngsters. Nan was so
enthusiastic that she organised a company of little negroes, and
insisted on being the captain. Gabriel was the first lieutenant, and
Cephas was the second. When the company was ready to take the field, it
was discovered that Nan would also have to be orderly sergeant and
color-bearer. But she took on herself the duties and responsibilities of
these positions without a murmur. She wore a paper hat of the true
Napoleonic cut, and carried in one hand her famous sword-gun, and the
colors in the other. The oldest private in Nan's company was nine; the
youngest was four, and had as much as he could do to keep up with the
rest. The uniforms of these sun-seasoned troops was the regulation
plantation fatigue dress--a shirt coming to the knees. Two or three of
the smaller privates had evidently fallen victims to the pot-liquor and
buttermilk habits, for their bellies stuck out black and glistening from
rents in their shirts.
Their accoutrements prefigured in an absurd way the resources of the
Confederacy at a later date. They were armed with broomsticks, and
what-not. The file-leader had an old pair of tongs, which he snapped
viciously when Nan gave the word to fire. The famous sword-gun, with
which Nan did such execution, had once seen service as an umbrella
handle.
One afternoon, as Nan was drilling her troops, she chanced to glance
down the road, and saw a waggon coming along. Deploying her company
across the highway, she went forward in person to reconnoitre. She soon
discovered that the waggon was driven by Uncle Plato. Running back to
her veterans, she placed herself in front of them, and calmly awaited
events. Slowly the fat horses dragged the waggon along, when suddenly
Nan cried "Halt!" whereupon the drummer, obeying previous instructions,
began to belabour his tin-pan, while Nan levelled her famous sword-gun
at Uncle Plato. "Bang!" she exclaimed, and then, "Why didn't you fall
off the waggon?" she cried, as Uncle Plato remained immovable. "Why, you
don't know any more about real war than a baby," she said scornfully.
If the truth must be told, Uncle Plato had been dozing, and when he
awoke he viewed the scene before him with astonishment. There was no
need to cry "Halt!" or exclaim "Bang!" for as soon as the drummer began
to beat his tin-pan, the horses stood still and craned their necks
forward, with a warning snort, trying to see what this strange and
unnatural proceeding meant. Uncle Plato had involuntarily tightened the
reins when he was so rudely awakened, and the horses took this for a
hint that they must avoid the danger, and, as the shortest way is the
best way, they began to back, and had the waggon nearly turned around
before Uncle Plato could tell them a different tale.
"Ef I'd 'a' fell out'n de waggon, honey, who gwine ter pick me up?" he
asked, laughing.
"Why, no one is picked up in war!"
"Is dis war, honey?"
"Of course it is," Nan declared.
"Does bofe sides hafter take part in de rucus?" asked Uncle Plato,
making a terrible face at the little negroes.
"Why, of course," said Nan.
Seeing the scowl, Nan's veteran troops began to edge slowly toward the
nearest breach in the fence. Uncle Plato seized his whip and pretended
to be clambering from the waggon. At this a panic ensued, and Nan's army
dispersed in a jiffy. The seasoned troops dropped their arms and fled.
The four-year-old became lost or entangled in a thick growth of jimson
weed, seeing which, Uncle Plato cried out in terrible voice, "Ketch um
dar! Fetch um here!"
Then and there ensued a wild scene of demoralisation and anarchy; loud
shrieks and screams filled the air; the dogs barked, the hens cackled,
and the neighbours began to put their heads out of the windows. Mrs.
Absalom, who had charge of the Dorrington household, and who had raised
Nan from a baby, came to the door--the defeat of the troops occurred
right at Nan's own home--crying, "My goodness gracious! has the yeth
caved in?" Then, seeing the waggon crosswise the road, and mistaking
Nan's shrieks of laughter for cries of pain, she bolted from the house
with a white face.
Mrs. Absalom's reactions from her daily alarms about Nan usually
resulted in bringing her into open and direct war with everybody in
sight or hearing, except the child; but on this occasion, her fright had
been so serious that when Nan, somewhat sobered, ran to her the good
woman was shaking.
"Why, Nonny!" cried Nan, hugging her, "you are all trembling."
"No wonder," said Mrs. Absalom in a subdued voice; "I saw you under them
waggon wheels as plain as I ever saw anything in my life. I'm gittin'
old, I reckon."
And yet there were some people who wondered how Nan could endure such a
foster-mother as Mrs. Absalom.
But the complete rout of Nan's army made no change in the general
complexion of affairs. The Shady Dale Scouts continued to perfect
themselves in the tactics of war, and after awhile, when the great
controversy began to warm up--the children paid no attention to the
passage of time--the company went into camp. This was a great hour for
the youngsters. Here at last was something real and tangible. The
marching and the countermarching through the streets and in the old
field were very well in their way, but Nan and Gabriel and the rest had
grown used to these man[oe]uvres, and they longed for something new.
This was furnished by the camp, with its white tents, and the grim
sentinels pacing up and down with fixed bayonets. No one, not even an
officer, could pass the sentinels without giving the password, or
calling for the officer of the guard.
All this, from the children's point of view, was genuine war; but to the
members of the company it was a veritable picnic. The citizens of the
town, especially the ladies, sent out waggon loads of food every
day--boiled ham, barbecued shote, chicken pies, and cake; yes, and
pickles. Nan declared she didn't know there were as many pickles in the
world, as she saw unloaded at the camp.
Mr. Goodlett, who was Mrs. Absalom's husband, went out to the camp,
looked it over with the eye of an expert, and turned away with a groan.
This citizen had served both in the Mexican and the Florida wars, and he
knew that these gallant young men would have a rude awakening, when it
came to the real tug of war.
"Doesn't it look like war, Mr. Ab?" Nan asked, running after the
veteran.
Mr. Goodlett looked at the bright face lifted up to his, and frowned,
though a smile of pity showed itself around his grizzled mouth. He was a
very deliberate man, and he hesitated before he spoke. "You think that
looks like war?" he asked.
"Why, of course. Isn't that the way they do when there's a war?"
"What! gormandise, an' set in the shade? Why, it ain't no more like war
than sparrergrass is like jimson weed--not one ioter." With that, he
sighed and went on his way.
But when did the precepts of age and experience ever succeed in chilling
the enthusiasm of youth? With the children, it was "O to be a soldier
boy!" and Nan and her companions continued to linger around the edges of
the spectacle, taking it all in, and enjoying every moment. And the
Scouts themselves continued to live like lords, eating and drilling, and
dozing during the day, and at night dancing to the sweet music of
Flavian Dion's violin. Nan and Gabriel thought it was fine, and, as well
as can be remembered, Cephas was of the same opinion. As for Tasma Tid,
she thought that the fife and drums, and the general glare and glitter
of the affair were simply grand, very much nicer than war in her
country, where the Arab slave-traders crept up in the night and seized
all who failed to escape in the forest, killing right and left for the
mere love of killing. Compared with the jungle war, this pageant was
something to be admired.
And many of the older citizens held views not very different from those
of the children, for enthusiasm ran high. The Shady Dale Scouts went
away arrayed in their holiday uniforms. Many of them never returned to
their homes again, but those that did were arrayed in rags and tatters.
Their gallantry was such that the Shady Dale Scouts, disguised as
Company B, were always at the head of their regiment when trouble was on
hand. But all this is to anticipate.
CHAPTER TWO
_A Town with a History_
Before, during, and after the war, Shady Dale presented always the same
aspect of serene repose. It was, as you may say, a town with a history.
Then, as now, there were towns all about that had no such fortunate
appendage behind them to explain their origin. No one could tell what
they were begun for; no one could say whether they had for their nucleus
an old field or a cross-roads grocery, or whether a party of immigrants
pitched their tents there because the grass was fine and the water
abundant. There is one city in Georgia, and it is the most prosperous of
all, that was built on the idea that the cattle-paths and the old
government roads afford the most convenient and picturesque contours for
the streets; and to this day, the thoroughfares of that city afford a
most interesting study to those who are interested in either topography
or human nature; for it is possible to go to that city, and, with half
an eye, discover the places where the waggons and other vehicles turned
aside nearly a hundred years ago to avoid the mudholes, the fallen
trees, and other temporary obstructions. They have been preserved in the
conformation of the streets.
Shady Dale is no city, and it may be that its public-spirited citizens
stretch the meaning of the term when they call it a town. Nevertheless,
the community has a well-defined history. When Raleigh Clopton, shortly
after the signing of the treaty of peace between the United States and
Great Britain, crossed the Oconee, and settled on the lands of the
hostile Creeks, his friends declared that he was tempting Providence;
and so it seemed; but the event proved that from first to last, his
adventure was under the direct guidance of Providence. He demonstrated
anew the truth of two ancient maxims: he who risks nothing, gains
nothing; heaven helps those who help themselves. Raleigh Clopton risked
everything and gained the most beautiful domain in all the land. He had,
indeed, one stormy interview with General McGillivray, the great Creek
chief and statesman, but after that all was peace and prosperity.
General McGillivray was one of the most remarkable men of his time, and
his time was during an era of remarkable men. He possessed a genius that
enabled him to cope successfully with the ablest statesmen of his day.
He drew Washington into a secret treaty with the Creek Nation, and when
McGillivray died, the Father of his country referred to him as "my
friend," and deplored his taking off. Courageous and adventurous
himself, McGillivray was no doubt attracted by the attitude and
personality of the fearless Virginian. He became the warm friend of
Raleigh Clopton, and marked that friendship by deeding to the first
white settler two thousand acres of land lying between the Little River
hills on one side, and the meadows of Murder Creek on the other.
Moreover, he named the estate Shady Dale, and aided Raleigh Clopton to
establish a trading-post where the court-house of the town now stands;
and on a pine near by, he caused to be made the semblance of a broken
arrow, a token that between the Creeks and the Master of Shady Dale a
lasting peace had been established.
This was the beginning. When the multifarious and long-disputed treaties
between the United States and the Creek Nation had been signed, and a
general peace was assured, Raleigh Clopton communicated with his friends
in Wilkes, Burke, Columbia and Richmond counties--the choice spirits who
had fought by his side in the bloodiest battles of the War for
Independence--informed them of his good fortune, and invited them to
share it. The response was all that he could have desired. His old
friends and comrades lost no time in joining him--the Dorringtons, the
Tomlins, the Gaithers, the Awtrys, the Terrells, the Odoms, the
Lumsdens, and, later, the friends and relatives of these. For the most
part they were men of substance and character.
Well, perhaps not all. There are black sheep in every flock, and
wherever the nature of Adam survives, there we may behold wisdom and
folly dancing to the same tune, and sin and repentance occupying the
same couch. So it has been from the first, and so it will be to the end.
But, take them all in all, making due allowance for the tendencies of
human nature, the men and women who responded to the invitation of
Raleigh Clopton may be described as the salt of the earth. They had all,
women and men, been subjected to the trials and hardships of a war in
which no quarter was asked or given; and their experiences had given
them a strength of character, and a versatility in dealing with
unexpected events, that could hardly be matched elsewhere. To each of
those who responded to his invitation, Raleigh Clopton gave a part of
his domain, and laid out their settlement for them.