flowing westward. He went to Mississippi, where he married his first
wife. In a year's time, he returned to his old home. When asked about
his wife--for he returned alone--he curtly answered that she was well
enough off. Mrs. Absalom was among those who made the inquiry, and her
prompt comment was, "She's well off ef she's dead; I'll say that much."
But there was a persistent rumour, coming from no one knew where, that
when a child was born to Silas, the wife was seized with such a horror
of the father that the bare sight of him would cause her to scream, and
she constantly implored her people to send him away. It is curious how
rumours will travel far and wide, from State to State, creeping through
swamps, flying over deserts and waste places, and coming home at last as
the carrier-pigeon does, especially if there happens to be a grain of
truth in them.
It turned out that the lady, in regard to whom Silas Tomlin expressed
such curiosity, was a Mrs. Claiborne, of Kentucky, who, with her
daughter, had refugeed from point to point in advance of the Federal
army. Finally, when peace came, the lady concluded to make her home in
Georgia, where she had relatives, and she selected Shady Dale as her
place of abode on account of its beauty. These facts became known later.
Evidently the new-comers had resources, for they arranged to occupy the
Gaither house, taking it as it stood, with Miss Polly Gaither, furniture
and all. This arrangement must have been satisfactory to Miss Polly in
the first place, or it would never have been made; and it certainly
relieved her of the necessity of living on the charity of her
neighbours, under pretence of borrowing from them. But so strange a
bundle of contradictions is human nature, that no sooner had Miss Polly
begun to enjoy the abundance that was now showered upon her in the shape
of victuals and drink than she took her ear-trumpet in one hand and her
work-bag in the other, and went abroad, gossiping about her tenants,
telling what she thought they said, and commenting on their
actions--not maliciously, but simply with a desire to feed the curiosity
of the neighbours.
In order to do this more effectually, Miss Polly returned visits that
had been made to her before the war. There was nothing in her talk to
discredit the Claibornes or to injure their characters. They were
strangers to the community, and there was a natural and perfectly
legitimate curiosity on the part of the town to learn something of their
history. Miss Polly could not satisfy this curiosity, but she could whet
it by leaving at each one's door choice selections from her catalogue of
the sayings and doings of the new-comers--wearing all the time a dress
that Miss Eugenia, the daughter, had made over for her. Miss Polly was a
dumpy little woman, and, with her wen, her ear-trumpet, and her
work-bag, she cut a queer figure as she waddled along.
There was one piece of information she gave out that puzzled the
community no little. According to Miss Polly, the Claibornes had hardly
settled themselves in their new home before Silas Tomlin called on them.
"I can't hear as well as I used to," said Miss Polly--she was deaf as a
door-post--"but I can see as well as anybody; yes indeed, as well as
anybody in the world. And I tell you, Lucy Lumsden"--she was talking to
Gabriel's grandmother--"as soon as old Silas darkened the door, I knew
he was worried. I never saw a grown person so fidgety and nervous,
unless it was Micajah Clemmons, and he's got the rickets, poor man. So I
says to myself, 'I'll watch you,' and watch I did. Well, when Mrs.
Claiborne came into the parlour, she bowed very politely to old Silas,
but I could see that she could hardly keep from laughing in his face;
and I don't blame her, for the way old Silas went on was perfectly
ridiculous. He spit and he spluttered, and sawed the air with his arms,
and buttoned and unbuttoned his coat, and jerked at the bottom of his
wescut till I really thought he'd pull the front out. I wish you could
have seen him, Lucy Lumsden, I do indeed. And when the door was shut on
him, Mrs. Claiborne flung herself down on a sofa, and laughed until she
frightened her daughter. I don't complain about my afflictions as a
general thing, Lucy, but I would have given anything that day if my
hearing had been as good as it used to be."
And though Gabriel's grandmother was a woman of the highest principles,
holding eavesdropping in the greatest contempt, it is possible that she
would have owned to a mild regret that Miss Polly Gaither was too deaf
to hear what Silas Tomlin's troubles were. This was natural, too, for,
on account of the persistent rumours that had followed Silas home from
Mississippi, there was always something of a mystery in regard to his
first matrimonial venture. There was none about his second. A year or
two after he returned home he married Susan Pritchard, whose father was
a prosperous farmer, living several miles from town. Susan bore Silas a
son and died. She was a pious woman, and with her last breath named the
child Paul, on account of the conjunction of the names of Paul and Silas
in the New Testament. Paul grew up to be one of the most popular young
men in the community.
CHAPTER EIGHT
_The Political Machine Begins its Work_
All that has been set down thus far, you will say, is trifling,
unimportant and wearisome. Your decision is not to be disputed; but if,
by an effort of the mind, you could throw yourself back to those dread
days, you would understand what a diversion these trifling events and
episodes created for the heart-stricken and soul-weary people of that
region. The death of Margaret Bridalbin moved them to pity, and awoke in
their minds pleasing memories of happier days, when peace and prosperity
held undisputed sway in all directions. The arrival of the Claibornes
had much the same effect. It gave the community something to talk about,
and, in a small measure, took them out of themselves. Moreover, the
Claibornes, mother and daughter, proved to be very attractive additions
to the town's society. They were both bright and good-humoured, and the
daughter was very beautiful.
To a people overwhelmed with despair, the most trifling episode becomes
curiously magnified. The case of Mr. Goodlett is very much to the point.
He was merely an individual, it is true, but in some respects an
individual represents the mass. When Sherman's men hanged him to a
limb, under the mistaken notion that he was the custodian of the Clopton
plate, the last thing he remembered as he lost consciousness, was the
ticking of his watch. It sounded in his ears, he said, as loud as the
blows of a sledge-hammer falling on an anvil. From that day until he
died, he never could bear to hear the ticking of a watch. He gave his
time-piece to his wife, who put it away with her other relics and
treasures.
How it was with other communities it is not for this chronicler to say,
but the collapse of the Confederacy, coming when it did, was an event
that Shady Dale least expected. The last trump will cause no greater
surprise and consternation the world over, than the news of Lee's
surrender caused in that region. The public mind had not been prepared
for such an event, especially in those districts remote from the centres
of information. Almost every piece of news printed in the journals of
the day was coloured with the prospect of ultimate victory: and when the
curtain suddenly came down and the lights went out, no language can
describe the grief, the despair, and the feeling of abject humiliation
that fell upon the white population in the small towns and village
communities. How it was in the cities has not been recorded, but it is
to be presumed that then, as now, the demands and necessities of trade
and business were powerful enough to overcome and destroy the worst
effects of a calamity that attacked the sentiments and emotions.
It has been demonstrated recently on some very wide fields of action
that the atmosphere of commercialism is unfavourable to the growth of
sentiments of an ideal character. That is why wise men who believe in
the finer issues of life are inclined to be suspicious of what is
loosely called civilisation and progress, and doubtful of the theories
of those who clothe themselves in the mantle of science.
Whatever the feeling in the cities may have been when news of the
surrender came, it caused the most poignant grief and despair in the
country places: and there, as elsewhere in this world, whenever
suffering is to be borne, the most of the burden falls on the shoulders
of the women. It is at once the strength and weakness of the sex that
woman suffers more than man and is more capable of enduring the pangs of
suffering.
As for the men they soon recovered from the shock. They were startled
and stunned, but when they opened their eyes to the situation they found
themselves confronted by conditions that had no precedent or parallel in
the history of the world. It is small fault if their minds failed at
first to grasp the significance and the import of these conditions, so
new were they and so amazing.
A few years later, Gabriel Tolliver, who, when the surrender came, was a
lad just beyond seventeen, took himself severely to task before a public
assemblage for his blindness in 1865, and the years immediately
following; and his criticisms must have gone home to others, for the
older men who sat in the audience rose to their feet and shook the house
with their applause. They, too, had been as blind as the boy.
It was perhaps well for Shady Dale that Mr. Sanders came home when he
did. He had been in the field, if not on the forum. He had mingled with
public men, and, as he himself contended, had been "closeted" with one
of the greatest men the country ever produced--the reference being to
Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Sanders had to tell over and over again the story of
how he and Frank Bethune didn't kidnap the President; and he brought
home hundreds of rich and racy anecdotes that he had picked up in the
camp. In those awful days when there was little ready money to be had,
and business was at a standstill, and the courts demoralised, and the
whole social fabric threatening to fall to pieces, it was Mr. Billy
Sanders who went around scattering cheerfulness and good-humour as
carelessly as the children scatter the flowers they have gathered in the
fields.
Mr. Sanders and Francis Bethune had formed a part of the escort that
went with Mr. Davis as far as Washington in Wilkes County. On this
account, Mr. Sanders boasted that at the last meeting of the Confederate
Cabinet held in that town, he had elected himself a member, and was duly
installed. "It was the same," he used to say, "as j'inin' the
Free-masons. The doorkeeper gi' me the grip an' the password, the head
man of the war department knocked me on the forrerd, an' the thing was
done. When Mr. Davis was ready to go, he took me by the hand, an' says,
'William,' says he, 'keep house for the boys till I git back, an' be
shore that you cheer 'em up.'"
This sort of nonsense served its purpose, as Mr. Sanders intended that
it should. Wherever he appeared on the streets a crowd gathered around
him--as large a crowd as the town could furnish. To a spectator standing
a little distance away and out of hearing, the attitude and movements of
these groups presented a singular appearance. The individuals would move
about and swap places, trying to get closer to Mr. Sanders. There would
be a period of silence, and then, suddenly, loud shouts of laughter
would rend the air. Such a spectator, if a stranger, might easily have
imagined that these men and boys, standing close together, and shouting
with laughter at intervals, were engaged in practising a part to be
presented in a rural comedy--or that they were a parcel of simpletons.
One peculiarity of Mr. Sanders's humour was that it could not be
imitated with any degree of success. His raciest anecdote lost a large
part of its flavour when repeated by some one else. It was the way he
told it, a cut of the eye, a lift of the eyebrow, a movement of the
hand, a sudden air of solemnity--these were the accessories that gave
point and charm to the humour.
Mr. Sanders had cut out a very large piece of work for himself. He kept
it up for some time, but he gradually allowed himself longer and longer
intervals of seriousness. The multitude of problems growing out of the
new and strange conditions were of a thought-compelling nature; and they
grew larger and more ominous as the days went by. Gabriel Tolliver might
take to the woods, as the saying is, and so escape from the prevailing
depression. But Mr. Sanders and the rest of the men had no such
resource; responsibility sat on their shoulders, and they were compelled
to face the conditions and study them. Gabriel could sit on the fence by
the roadside, and see neither portent nor peril in the groups and gangs
of negroes passing and repassing, and moving restlessly to and fro, some
with bundles and some with none. He watched them, as he afterward
complained, with a curiosity as idle as that which moves a little child
to watch a swarm of ants. He noticed, however, that the negroes were no
longer cheerful. Their child-like gaiety had vanished. In place of their
loud laughter, their boisterous play, and their songs welling forth and
filling the twilight places with sweet melodies, there was silence.
Gabriel had no reason to regard this silence as ominous, but it was so
regarded by his elders.
He thought that the restless and uneasy movements of the negroes were
perfectly natural. They had suddenly come to the knowledge that they
were free, and they were testing the nature and limits of their freedom.
They desired to find out its length and its breadth. So much was clear
to Gabriel, but it was not clear to his elders. And what a pity that it
was not! How many mistakes would have been avoided! What a dreadful
tangle and turmoil would have been prevented if these grown children
could have been judged from Gabriel's point of view! For the boy's
interpretation of the restlessness and uneasiness of the blacks was the
correct one. Your historians will tell you that the situation was
extraordinary and full of peril. Well, extraordinary, if you will, but
not perilous. Gabriel could never be brought to believe that there was
anything to be dreaded in the attitude of the blacks. What he scored
himself for in the days to come was that his interest in the matter
never rose above the idle curiosity of a boy.
And yet there were some developments calculated to pique curiosity. A
few years before the war, one of Madame Awtry's nephews from
Massachusetts came in to the neighbourhood preaching freedom to the
negroes. As a result, a large body of the Clopton negroes gathered
around the house one morning with many breathings and mutterings. Uncle
Plato, the carriage-driver, went to his master with a very grave face,
and announced that the hands, instead of going to work, had come in a
body to the house.
"Well, go and see what they want, Plato," said the master of the Clopton
Place.
"I done ax um dat, suh," replied Uncle Plato, "an' dey say p'intedly dat
dey want ter see you."
"Very well; where is Mr. Sanders?"
"He out dar, suh, makin' fun un um."
When Meriwether Clopton went out, he was told by old man Isaiah, the
foreman of the field-hands, that the boys didn't want to be "Bledserd."
It was some time before the master could understand what the old man
meant, but Mr. Sanders finally made it clear, and Meriwether Clopton
sent the negroes about their business with a promise that none of them
should ever be "Bledserd" by his consent.
A year or two before this "rising" occurred, General Jesse Bledsoe had
died leaving a will, by the terms of which all his negroes were given
their freedom, and provision was made for their transportation to a free
State. But the General had relatives, who put in their claims, and
succeeded in breaking the will, with the result that many of the negroes
were carried to the West and Southwest, bringing about a wholesale
separation of families, the first that had ever occurred in that
section. The impression it made on both whites and negroes was a lasting
one. In the minds of the blacks, freedom was only another name for
"Bledserin'."
Nevertheless, when, after the collapse of the Confederacy and the advent
of Sherman's army, the Clopton negroes were told that they were free, a
large number of them joined the restless, migratory throng that passed
to and fro along the public highway, some coming, some going, but all
moved by the same irresistible impulse to test their freedom--to see if
they really could come hither and go yonder without let or hinderance.
Uncle Plato and his family, with a dozen others who were sagacious
enough to follow the old man's example, remained in their places and
fared better than the rest.
For a time Shady Dale rested peacefully in its seclusion, watching the
course of events with apparent tranquillity. But behind this appearance
of repose there was a good deal of restlessness and uneasiness.
Sometimes its bosom (so to speak) was inflamed with anger, and sometimes
it would be sunk in despair. One of the events that brought Shady Dale
closer to the troubles that the newspapers were full of, was a circular
letter issued by Major Tomlin Perdue, of Halcyondale. Major Perdue had
returned home thoroughly reconstructed. He was full of admiration for
General Grant's attitude toward General Lee, and he endorsed with all
his heart the tone and spirit of Lee's address to his old soldiers; but
when he saw the unexpected turn that the politicians had been able to
give to events, he found it hard to hold his peace. Finally, when he
could restrain himself no longer, he incited his friends to hold a
meeting and propose his name as a candidate for Congress. This was done,
and the Major seized the opportunity to issue a circular letter
declining the nomination, and giving his reasons therefor. This letter
remains to this day the most scathing arraignment of carpet-baggery,
bayonet rule, and the Republican Party generally that has ever been put
in print. It contained some decidedly picturesque references to the
personality of the commander of the Georgia district, who happened to be
General Pope, the famous soldier who had his head-quarters in the saddle
at a very interesting period of the Civil War.
Major Perdue did not intend it so, but his letter was a piece of pure
recklessness. The effect of this scorching document was to bring a
company of Federal troops to Halcyondale, and in the course of a few
weeks a detachment was stationed at Shady Dale. In each case they
brought their tents with them, and went into camp. This was taken as a
signal by the carpet-baggers that the region round-about was to be
cultivated for political purposes, and forthwith they began operations,
receiving occasional accessions in the person of a number of scalawags,
the most respectable and conscientious of these being Mr. Mahlon Butts,
who had been a vigorous and consistent Union man all through the war. He
could be neither convinced nor intimidated, and his consistency won for
him the respect of his neighbours. But when the carpet-baggers made
their appearance, and Mahlon Butts began to fraternise with them, he was
ostracised along with the rest.
It soon became necessary for the whites to take counsel together, and
Shady Dale became, as it had been before the war, the Mecca of the
various leaders. Before the war, the politicians of both parties were in
the habit of meeting at Shady Dale, enjoying the barbecues for which the
town was famous, and taking advantage of the occasion to lay out the
programme of the campaign. And now, when it was necessary to organise a
white man's party, the leaders turned their eyes and their steps to
Shady Dale.
Then it was that Gabriel had an opportunity to see Toombs, and Stephens,
and Hill, and Herschel V. Johnson--he who was on the national ticket
with Douglas in 1860--and other men who were to become prominent later.
There were some differences of opinion to be settled. A few of the
leaders had advised the white voters to take no part in the political
farce which Congress had arranged, but to leave it all to the negroes
and the aliens, especially as so many of the white voters had been
disfranchised, or were labouring under political disabilities. Others,
on the contrary, advised the white voters to qualify as rapidly as
possible. It was this difference of opinion that remained to be settled,
so far as Georgia was concerned.
It was Gabriel's acquaintance with Mr. Stephens that first fired his
ambition. Here was a frail, weak man, hardly able to stand alone, who
had been an invalid all his life, and yet had won renown, and by his
wisdom and conservatism had gained the confidence and esteem of men of
all parties and of all shades of opinion. His willpower and his energy
lifted him above his bodily weakness and ills, and carried him through
some of the most arduous campaigns that ever occurred in Georgia, where
heated canvasses were the rule and not the exception. Watching him
closely, and noting his wonderful vivacity and cheerfulness, Gabriel
Tolliver came to the conclusion that if an invalid could win fame a
strong healthy lad should be able to make his mark.
It fell out that Gabriel attracted the attention of Mr. Stephens, who
was always partial to young men. He made the lad sit near him, drew him
out, and gave him some sound advice in regard to his studies. At the
suggestion of Mr. Stephens, the lad was permitted to attend the
conferences, which were all informal, and the kindly statesman took
pains to introduce the awkward, blushing youngster to all the prominent
men who came.
It was curious, Gabriel thought, how easily and naturally the invalid
led the conversation into the channel he desired. He was smoking a clay
pipe, which his faithful body-servant replenished from time to time.
"Mr. Sanders," he began, "I have heard a good deal about your attempt
to kidnap Lincoln. What did you think of Lincoln anyhow?"
"Well, sir, I thought, an' still think that he was the best all-'round
man I ever laid eyes on."
"He certainly was a very great man," remarked Mr. Stephens. "I knew him
well before the war. We were in Congress together. It is odd that he
showed no remarkable traits at that time."
"Well," replied Mr. Sanders, "arter the Dimmycrats elected him
President, he found hisself in a corner, an' he jest had to be a big
man."
"You mean after the Republicans elected him," some one suggested.
"Not a bit of it,--not a bit of it!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Why the
Republicans didn't have enough votes to elect three governors, much less
a President. But the Dimmycrats, bein' perlite by natur' an' not
troubled wi' any surplus common sense, divided up the'r votes, an' the
Republicans walked in an' took the cake. If you ever hear of me votin'
the Dimmycrat ticket--an' I reckon I'll have to do it--you may jest put
it down that it ain't bekase I want to, but bekase I'm ableege to. The
party ain't hardly got life left in it, an' yit here you big men are
wranglin' an' jowerin' as to whether you'll set down an' let a drove of
mules run over you, or whether you'll stan' up to the rack, fodder or no
fodder."
"This brings us to the very point we are to discuss," said Mr. Stephens,
laughing. "I may say in the beginning that I am much of Mr. Sanders's
opinion. Some very able men insist that if we take no part in this
reconstruction business, we'll not be responsible for it. That is true,
but we will have to endure the consequences just the same. Radicalism
has majorities at present, but these will disappear after a time."
"I reckon some of us can be trusted to wear away a few majorities," said
Mr. Sanders, dryly, and it was his last contribution to the discussion.
As might be supposed, no definite policy was hit upon. The conditions
were so new to those who had to deal with them, that, after an
interchange of views, the company separated, feeling that the policy
proper to be pursued would arise naturally out of the immediate
necessities of the occasion, or the special character of the situation.
This was the view of Mr. Stephens, who, as he was still suffering from
his confinement in prison, accepted the invitation of Meriwether Clopton
to remain at Shady Dale for a week or more.