MR. HIRAM STILL TELLS HOW TO BRIDLE A SHY HORSE, AND CAPTAIN ALLEN LAYS
DOWN HIS HOE
So Peace spread her white wings, extending her serenity and shedding
her sweetness even in those regions where war had passed along.
Without wasting time or repining about the past, Dr. Cary and General
Legaie and the other men began to pick up such of the tangled and
broken threads of the old life as could be found, and to form with them
the new. They mended the worn vehicles, patched up the old harness
and gear, broke their war-horses to drive, and set in to live bravely
and cheerfully, in as nearly the old manner as they could. They had,
they believed, made the greatest fight on record. They had not only
maintained, but had increased, the renown of their race for military
achievement—the reputation which they most highly valued. They had
been overwhelmed, not whipped; cast down, but not destroyed. They still
had the old spirit, the unconquerable spirit of their race, and, above
all, they had the South.
Dr. Cary determined to use every effort to restore at once the old
state of affairs, and, to this end, to offer homes and employment to
all his old servants.
Accordingly, he rode down to the county seat one day to have an
interview with the officers there. He went alone, because he did not
know precisely how he would be received, and, besides, there was by no
means general approval of his course among his friends.
He found that the ranking officer, Captain Middleton, had been summoned
that morning to the city by Colonel Krafton, the provost in command
there. The next in command, however, Lieutenant Thurston, was very
civil and obliging to the Doctor, and, on learning of his plans, took
steps to further them.
The officer summoned all the negroes who were hanging around the
village, to assemble on the court-green, told them of the Doctor’s
offer, and, after a short talk to them, ordered all the Doctor’s old
servants who were present, and had not secured employment elsewhere, to
return home and go to work on the wages he had agreed the Doctor should
pay. For, as he said to Middleton when he returned:
“By Gad! Larry, I was not sure whether I was talking to Don Quixote
or old Dr. Filgrave—I know he is cousin to them both, for he told me
so—he is a cousin to everybody in the United States. And, besides, I
was so bored with those niggers hanging around, looking pitiful, and
that tall, whispering fellow, Still, who tells about the way he had to
act during the war to keep the people from knowing he was on our side,
that I would have ordered every nigger in the country to go with the
old gentleman if he had wanted them. By the way, he is the father of
the girl they say is so devilishly pretty, and he asked after you most
particularly. Ah! Larry, I am a diplomat. I have missed my calling.”
And, as he looked at his tall, good-looking superior, the little
Lieutenant’s eyes twinkled above the bowl of his pipe, which was much
the shape of himself.
The engagement to furnish his negroes rations Dr. Cary was enabled to
make, because on his arrival at the county seat he had fallen in with
Hiram Still, who had offered to lend him a sum of money, which he said
he happened to have by him. Hiram had been down to take the oath of
allegiance, he told the Doctor.
“I been wonderin’ to myself what I was to do with that money—and what
I turned all them Confed notes into gold and greenbacks for,” he said.
“Fact is, I thought myself a plum fool for doin’ it; but I says,
‘Well, gold’s gold, whichever way it goes.’ So I either bought land or
gold. But’t does look’s if Providence had somethin’ to do with it, sure
’nough. I ain’t got a bit o’ use for it—you can take it and pay me
just when it’s convenient.”
Still had never been a favorite with Dr. Cary, though the latter
confessed that he could cite on positive ground for his dislike. When
he thought of his antipathy at all, he always traced it back to two
things—one that Legaie always disliked Still, the other that when
Still had his attack of inflammatory rheumatism at the outbreak of
the war, the symptoms were such as to baffle the Doctor’s science.
“That’s a pretty ground for a reasonable man to found an antipathy on,”
reflected the Doctor.
As the Doctor and Hiram rode back together toward home, Still was so
bitter in his denunciation of the Federals and of their action touching
the negroes, that the Doctor actually felt it his duty to lecture
him. They were all one country now, he said, and they should accept
the result as determined. But Still said, “Never!” He had only taken
the oath of allegiance, he declared, because he had heard he would be
arrested unless he did. But he had taken it with a mental reservation.
This shocked the Doctor so much that he rebuked him with sternness, on
which Still explained that he did not mean exactly that, but that he
had heard that if a man took an oath under threats he was absolved from
it.
“There was some such legal quibble,” the Doctor admitted, with a sniff,
but he was “very sure that no brave man would ever take an oath for
such a reason, and no honest one would ever break one.” He rode off
with his head very high.
When Still reached home that evening he was in uncommonly good spirits.
He was pleasanter than usual to his daughter, who appeared the plainer
because of the contrast that her shabby clothes presented to the
showy suit which her brother wore. It was to his son, however, that
Mr. Still showed his particular good-humor. Wash had just come home
for a little visit from the city, where he had been ever since his
return from the army, and where he was now studying medicine. He was a
tall, slim fellow, very much like his father in appearance, though in
place of the rather good-tempered expression which usually sat on the
latter’s face, Wash’s look was usually sour and discontented.
“Ah, Wash, my son, I did a good stroke of business for you to-day,”
said the father that evening at supper.
“What was it? Did you buy another farm? You’ll break, buying so much
land,” replied his son, pleasantly.
Still put aside the ungraciousness of the reply. He was accustomed to
his son’s slurs.
“Yes and no.” He winked at Virgy, to whom he had already confided
something of his stroke of business. He glanced at the door to see that
no one was listening, and dropped his voice to his confidential pitch.
“I lent the Doctor a leetle money.” He nodded with satisfaction.
Wash became interested; but the next instant attempted to appear
indifferent.
“How much? What security did he give?”
“More than he’ll be able to pay for some time, and the security’s all
right. Aha! I thought that would wake you up. I’ll lend him some more
one of these days and then we’ll get the pay—with interest.” He winked
at his son knowingly. “When you’re tryin’ to ketch a shy horse, don’t
show him the bridle; When you’ve got him, then—!” He made a gesture
of slipping on a halter. This piece of philosophy appeared to satisfy
the young man and to atone for the apparent unwisdom of his father’s
action. He got into such a good-humor that he began to talk pleasantly
with his sister and to ask her about the young men in the neighborhood.
It was striking to see how she changed at the notice her brother took
of her. The listless look disappeared, and her eyes brightened and made
her face appear really interesting.
Presently the young man said:
“How’s Lord Jacquelin?” At the unexpected question the blood mounted
to the girl’s face, and after an appealing look she dropped her eyes
quickly.
* * * * *
When the end of the month came, Dr. Cary summoned his hands and paid
them their wages one by one, according to his contract with Thurston,
checking each name, as he paid them, on a pay-roll he had prepared.
Their reception of the payment varied with the spirit of the men; some
being gay and facetious; others taking it with exaggerated gravity. It
was the first time they had ever received stipulated wages for their
services, and it was an event.
The Doctor was well satisfied with the result, and went in to make the
same settlement with the house-servants. The first he met was Mammy
Krenda, and he handed her the amount he had agreed on with Thurston
as a woman’s wages. The old woman took it quietly. This was a relief.
Mrs. Cary had been opposed to his paying her anything; she had felt
sure that the mammy would feel offended. “Why, she is a member of the
family,” she said. “We can’t pay her wages.” The Doctor, however,
deemed himself bound by his engagement with Thurston. He had said he
would pay all wages, and he would do so. So when the mammy took the
money with her usual curtsey, in one way the Doctor’s spirits rose,
though he was conscious of a little tug at his heart, as if the old
ties had somehow been loosened. He rallied, however, at the reflection
that he could satisfy his wife, at last, that he knew human nature more
profoundly than she did—a doctrine he had secretly cherished, but had
never been entirely successful in establishing.
In this satisfactory state of mind, not wishing to sever entirely the
tie with the mammy, as the old woman still stood waiting, he, after a
moment, said kindly and with great dignity:
“Those are your wages, mammy.”
“My what, sir?” The Doctor was conscious of a certain chilling of the
atmosphere. He looked out of the window to avoid her gaze.
“Your wages—I—ah—have determined—I—think it better from this time
to—ah—.” He had no idea it was so difficult. Why had he not got Mrs.
Cary to attend to this—why had he, indeed, not taken her advice?
Pshaw!— He had to face the facts; so he would do it. He summoned
courage and turned and looked at the old woman. She was in the act of
putting the money carefully on the corner of the table by her, and if
the Doctor had difficulty in meeting her gaze, she had none in looking
at him. Her eyes were fastened on him like two little shining beads.
They stuck him like pins. The Doctor felt as he used to feel when a
young man he went to pay his addresses to his wife—he was conscious
that whenever he met Krenda she was inspecting him, searching his
inmost soul—looking through and through him. He had to assert himself.
“You see, I promised the Federal officer at the court-house to pay
everyone wages,” he began with an effort, looking at the old woman.
“How much does you pay _Miss Bessie_?”
“How much what?”
“_Wages._” He had no idea one word could convey so much contempt.
“Why, nothing—of course—”
Old Krenda lifted her head.
“I’m gwine ’way.”
“What!”
“I’m feared you’ll charge me _bode_!” She had expanded. “I ken git
a little house somewheres, I reckon—or I ken go to th’ city and
nuss—chillun.”
“Mammy—you don’t understand—” The Doctor was never in such a dilemma.
If his wife would only come in! What a fool he was, not to have known
that his wife knew more about it than he did.
“Won’t you accept the money as a gift from me?” he said at last,
desperately.
“Nor—I ain’ gwine _tetch_ it!” The gesture was even more final than
the tone. With a sniff, she turned and walked out, leaving the Doctor
feeling like a school-boy.
He rose after a few minutes and went to his wife’s room to get her to
make his peace. The door was shut, but he opened it. The scene within
was one that remained with him through life. His wife was weeping, and
the mammy and Blair were in each other’s arms. The only words he heard
were from the mammy.
“Ef jest my _ole marster_ could come back. He’d know I didn’ do it for
no wages.”
“Oh! mammy, _he_ knows it too!”
The Doctor was never conscious of being so much alone in his life, and
it took some time to make his peace.
In the same way that the old planters and landowners set in to restore
the old places, the younger men also went to work. Necessity is a good
spur and pride is another.
Stamper, with Delia Dove “for overseer,” as he said, was already
beginning to make an impression on his little place. As he had “kept
her from having an overseer,” he said, the best thing he could do was
to “let her be one.”
“Talk about th’ slaves bein’ free, Mr. Jack! they won’t all be free
long’s Delia Dove’s got me on her place.” The little Sergeant’s chuckle
showed how truly he enjoyed that servitude. “She owns me, but she
treats me well,” he laughed.
The Stamper place, amid its locusts and apple-trees, with its hipped
roof and dormer-windows, small as it was, was as old as Red Rock—at
least as the new mansion, with its imposing porticoes and extended
wings, built around the big fireplace of the old house—and little
Andy, though being somewhat taciturn he never said anything about
it, was as proud of this fact as he was of being himself rather than
Hiram Still. He had got an old army wagon from somewhere and was now
beginning his farming operations in earnest. It had had “U. S.” on it,
but though Andy insisted that the letters stood for “_US_,” not for the
United States, Delia Dove had declined to ride in the vehicle as long
as it had such characters stamped on it. As Mrs. Stamper was obdurate,
Andy finally was forced to save her sensibilities, which he did by
substituting “D” for “U.” This, he said, would stand either for “Delia
Stamper,” or “D—d States.”
Jacquelin Gray was almost the only one of the men who was not able to
go to work. His wound showed a tendency to break out afresh.
Steve Allen intended to practise law as soon as matters settled
themselves. As yet, however, he could not engage in any profession. He
had not yet determined to take the oath of allegiance. Meantime, to
the great happiness of his cousins, especially of Miss Thomasia, he
deferred going to the county seat and, moved by the grassy appearance
of the once beautifully cultivated fields of Red Rock, began farming.
Perhaps, it was sheer pride and dislike of meeting Middleton at the
court-house under circumstances so different from those under which
they had met last; perhaps it was the pleasure of being near Birdwood
that kept him. It was very pleasant when his day’s work was done, to
don his old gray jacket, play gentleman once more, and ride across
the river of an evening; lounge on the grass under the big trees at
Birdwood, and tease Blair Cary about Jacquelin, until her eyes flashed,
and she let out at him, as he used to say, “like a newly bridled
filly.” So he hitched his war-horses, Hotspur and Kate, to ploughs and
ploughed day by day, while he made his boy, Jerry, plough furrow for
furrow near him, under promise of half of his share of their crop if
he kept up, and of the worst “lambing” he had ever had in his life if
he did not. Jerry was a long, slim, young negro, as black as tar. He
was the grandson of old Peggy, Steve’s mammy, and had come from the far
South. Where Steve had got him during the war no one knew except Steve
and Jerry themselves. Steve said he found him hanging to a tree and
cut him down because he wanted the rope; but that if he had known Jerry
as well then as he did afterward, he would have left him hanging. At
this explanation, Jerry always grinned, exhibiting two rows of white
teeth which looked like corn from a full ear. Jerry was a drunkard,
a liar, and a thief. But one thing was certain: he adored Steve, who
in return for that virtue bore delinquencies which no one else in the
world would have tolerated. Jerry had one other trait which recommended
him to his master: he was as brave as a lion; he would not have been
afraid of the devil himself unless he had taken on the shape of Mr.
Stevenson Allen, of whom alone Jerry stood in wholesome awe.
Steve’s bucolic operations came somewhat suddenly to an end. One
evening, after a hard day’s work, he met Wash Still dressed up and
driving a new buggy, turning in at Dr. Cary’s gate. He was “going to
consult Dr. Cary about a case,” he said. Next day, as Steve was working
in the field, he saw Wash driving down the hill from the manager’s
house with the same well-appointed rig. Steve stopped in the row and
looked at him as he drove past. Just then Jerry came up. His eye
followed his master’s, and his face took on an expression of scorn.
“Umph! things is tunned sort o’ upside down,” he grunted. “Overseer’s
son drivin’ buggy, and gent’mens in de fiel’.” Steve smiled at Jerry’s
use of the plural. The next moment Hiram Still rode down the hill, and
turning his horse in Steve’s direction came across the field.
“He sutney don’ like you, Cun’l,” said Jerry, “an’ he don’ like the
Cap’n neider;” by which last, he designated Jacquelin. Jerry always
gave military titles to those he liked—the highest to Steve, of
course. “He say it do him good to see you wuckin’ in the fiel’ like a
nigger, and some day he hope to set in de gret-house and see you doin’
it.”
Still passed quite close to Captain Allen, and as he did so, reined in
his horse, and sat looking down at Steve, as he came to the end of his
row.
“We all have to come to it, at last, Captain,” he said.
Whether it was his words, and the look on his face, or whether Steve
had intended anyhow to do what he did, he straightened up, and shot a
glance at the Manager.
“You think so? Well, you are mistaken.” He raised his hoe and stuck it
in the ground up to the eye.
“There,” he said to Still, in a tone of command, “take that home.
That’s the last time I’ll ever touch a hoe as long as I live. I’ve
brains enough to make my living by them, and if I haven’t, I mean to
starve!” He walked past the overseer with his head so straight, that
Still began to explain that he had meant no offence. But Steve took no
further notice of him.
“Jerry, you can keep on; I’ll see that you get your part of the crop.”
“Nor—I ain’t gwine to hit anur lick, nurr—I’ll starve wid yer.” And
Jerry lifted his hoe and drove it into the ground; looked at Still
superciliously, and followed his master with as near an imitation of
his manner and gait as he could achieve.
It was only when Steve was out of hearing, that Still’s look changed.
He clenched his fist, and shook it after the young man.
“I’ll bring you to it yet,” he growled.
That evening Steve announced his intention of beginning immediately the
practice of his profession.