It is to be presumed that Ananias’s explanation was satisfactory to
Colonel Benjamin Flewellen, for he settled down on his former master’s
place, and proceeded to make his presence felt on the farm as it never
had been felt before. Himself and his army-worn horse were decided
accessions, for the horse turned out to be an excellent animal. Ananias
made no contract with his former master, and asked for no wages. He
simply took possession of his old quarters, and began anew the life he
had led in slavery times—with this difference: in the old days he had
been compelled to work, but now he was working of his own free-will and
to please himself. The result was that he worked much harder.
It may be said that though Colonel Benjamin Flewellen was a noted
planter, he was not much of a farmer. Before and during the war he had
intrusted his plantation and his planting in the care of an overseer.
For three hundred dollars a year—which was not much of a sum in slavery
times—he could be relieved of all the cares and anxieties incident to the
management of a large plantation. His father before him had conducted the
plantation by proxy, and Colonel Flewellen was not slow to avail himself
of a long-established custom that had been justified by experience.
Moreover, Colonel Flewellen had a taste for literature. His father had
gathered together a large collection of books, and Colonel Flewellen had
added to this until he was owner of one of the largest private libraries
in a State where large private libraries were by no means rare. He wrote
verse on occasion, and essays in defense of slavery. There are yet living
men who believed that his “Reply” to Charles Sumner’s attack on the
South was so crushing in its argument and its invective—particularly its
invective—that it would go far toward putting an end to the abolition
movement. Colonel Flewellen’s “Reply” filled a page of the New York
“Day-Book,” and there is no doubt that he made the most of the limited
space placed at his disposal.
With his taste and training it is not surprising that Colonel Benjamin
Flewellen should leave his plantation interests to the care of Mr.
Washington Jones, his overseer, and devote himself to the liberal arts.
He not only wrote and published the deservedly famous “Reply” to Charles
Sumner, which was afterward reprinted in pamphlet form for the benefit
of his friends and admirers, but he collected his fugitive verses in a
volume, which was published by an enterprising New York firm “for the
author;” and in addition to this he became the proprietor and editor
of the Rockville “Vade-Mecum,” a weekly paper devoted to “literature,
science, politics, and the news.”
When, therefore, the collapse came, the colonel found himself practically
stranded. He was not only land-poor, but he had no experience in the
management of his plantation. Ananias, when he returned from his jaunt
with the army, was of some help, but not much. He knew how the plantation
ought to be managed, but he stood in awe of the colonel, and he was
somewhat backward in giving his advice. In fact, he had nothing to
say unless his opinion was asked, and this was not often, for Colonel
Flewellen had come to entertain the general opinion about Ananias, which
was, in effect, that he was a sneaking, hypocritical rascal who was not
to be depended on; a good-enough worker, to be sure, but not a negro in
whom one could repose confidence.
The truth is, Ananias’s appearance was against him. He was ugly and
mean-looking, and he had a habit of slipping around and keeping out
of the way of white people—a habit which, in that day and time, gave
everybody reason enough to distrust him. As a result of this, Ananias got
the credit of every mean act that could not be traced to any responsible
source. If a smoke-house was broken open in the night, Ananias was the
thief. The finger of suspicion was pointed at him on every possible
occasion. He was thought to be the head and front of the Union League,
a political organization set in motion by the shifty carpet-baggers for
the purpose of consolidating the negro vote against the whites. In this
way prejudice deepened against him all the while, until he finally became
something of an Ishmaelite, holding no intercourse with any white people
but Colonel Flewellen and Miss Nelly.
Meanwhile, as may be supposed, Colonel Flewellen was not making much of
a success in managing his plantation. Beginning without money, he had as
much as he could do to make “buckle and tongue meet,” as the phrase goes.
In fact he did not make them meet. He farmed on the old lavish plan.
He borrowed money, and he bought provisions, mules, and fertilizers on
credit, paying as much as two hundred per cent interest on his debts.
Strange to say, his chief creditor was Mr. Washington Jones, his former
overseer. Somehow or other Mr. Jones had thrived. He had saved money as
an overseer, being a man of simple tastes and habits, and when the crash
came he was comparatively a rich man. When affairs settled down somewhat,
Mr. Jones blossomed out as a commission merchant, and he soon established
a large and profitable business. He sold provisions and commercial
fertilizers, he bought cotton, and he was not above any transaction,
however small, that promised to bring him a dime where he had invested
a thrip. He was a very thrifty man indeed. In addition to his other
business he shaved notes and bought mortgages, and in this way the fact
came to be recognized, as early as 1868, that he was what is known as “a
leading citizen.” He did not hesitate to grind a man when he had him in
his clutches, and on this account he made enemies; but as his worldly
possessions grew and assumed tangible proportions, it is not to be denied
that he had more friends than enemies.
For a while Mr. Washington Jones’s most prominent patron was Colonel
Benjamin Flewellen. The colonel, it should be said, was not only a patron
of Jones, but he patronized him. He made his purchases, chiefly on
credit, in a lordly, superior way, as became a gentleman whose hireling
Jones had been. When the colonel had money he was glad to pay cash for
his supplies, but it happened somehow that he rarely had money. Jones,
it must be confessed, was very accommodating. He was anxious to sell to
the colonel on the easiest terms, so far as payment was concerned, and he
often, in a sly way, flattered the colonel into making larger bills than
he otherwise would have made.
There could be but one result, and though that result was inevitable,
everybody about Rockville seemed to be surprised. The colonel had
disposed of his newspaper long before, and one day there appeared, in the
columns which he had once edited with such care, a legal notice to the
effect that he had applied to the ordinary of the county, in proper form,
to set aside a homestead and personalty. This meant that the colonel,
with his old-fashioned ways and methods, had succumbed to the inevitable.
He had a house and lot in town, and this was set apart as his homestead
by the judge of ordinary. Mr. Washington Jones, you may be sure, lost no
time in foreclosing his mortgages, and the fact soon came to be known
that he was now the proprietor of the Flewellen place.
Just at this point the colonel first began to face the real problems of
life, and he found them to be very knotty ones. He must live—but how?
He knew no law, and was acquainted with no business. He was a gentleman
and a scholar; but these accomplishments would not serve him; indeed,
they stood in his way. He had been brought up to no business, and it
was a little late in life—the colonel was fifty or more—to begin to
learn. He might have entered upon a political career, and this would
have been greatly to his taste, but all the local offices were filled
by competent men, and just at that time a Southerner to the manner
born had little chance to gain admission to Congress. The Republican
“reconstructionists,” headed by Thaddeus Stevens, barred the way. The
outlook was gloomy indeed.
Nelly Flewellen, who had grown to be a beautiful woman, and who was as
accomplished as she was beautiful, gave music lessons; but in Rockville
at that time there was not much to be made by teaching music. It is due
to the colonel to say that he was bitterly opposed to this project,
and he was glad when his daughter gave it up in despair. Then she took
in sewing surreptitiously, and did other things that a girl of tact and
common sense would be likely to do when put to the test.
The colonel and his daughter managed to get along somehow, but it was a
miserable existence compared to their former estate of luxury. Just how
they managed, only one person in the wide world knew, and that person
was Ananias. Everybody around Rockville said it was very queer how the
colonel, with no money and little credit, could afford to keep a servant,
and a man-servant at that. But there was nothing queer about it. Ananias
received no wages of any sort; he asked for none; he expected none. A
child of misfortune himself, he was glad to share the misfortunes of
his former master. He washed, he ironed, he cooked, he milked, and he
did more. He found time to do little odd jobs around town, and with the
money thus earned he was able to supply things that would otherwise
have been missing from Colonel Flewellen’s table. He was as ugly and as
mean-looking as ever, and as unpopular. Even the colonel distrusted him,
but he managed to tolerate him. The daughter often had words of praise
for the shabby and forlorn-looking negro, and these, if anything, served
to lighten his tasks.
But in spite of everything that his daughter or Ananias could do, the
colonel continued to grow poorer. To all appearances—and he managed to
keep up appearances to the last—he was richer than many of his neighbors,
for he had a comfortable house, and he still had credit in the town.
Among the shopkeepers there were few that did not respect and admire the
colonel for what he had been. But the colonel, since his experience with
Mr. Washington Jones, looked with suspicion on the credit business. The
result was that he and his daughter and Ananias lived in the midst of the
ghastliest poverty.
As for Ananias, he could stand it well enough; so, perhaps, could the
colonel, he being a man, and a pretty stout one; but how about the
young lady? This was the question that Ananias was continually asking
himself, and circumstances finally drove him to answering it in his own
way. There was this much to be said about Ananias; when he made up his
mind, nothing could turn him, humble as he was; and then came a period
in the career of the family to which he had attached himself when he was
compelled to make up his mind or see them starve.