Part 4

“‘Grace,’ he say, blowin hard, ‘is dis you? My Gawd, sister, dey is atter me. I started to slip thoo de lines an’ dey seed me an’ so I had to run fur my life. Do you heer um?’

“We all listen an’ sho ’nough we heerd de Yankees comin’ as fast as dey kin lick it. Young Miss carn’t speak; she des throwed ’er arms ’roun ’er brurr’s neck an’ tried to pull ’im in de house. But he say, ‘No, no; I mus’ run furder; dey gwine s’arch dis house fust place, kase we-all fur de Souf—good-bye!’ an’ ’fo’ Miss Grace could open ’er mouf he’s off thoo de woods an’ out o’ sight in de dark, dough he wasn’t runnin’ out’n a slow dog-trot kase he was too broke down. In a minute ’bout ten men jump de fence an’ come to us.

“‘Here he is!’ one of um say, an’ he stuck a pistol in my face fur de worl’ like he gwine blow my brains out. Dis was a sho ’nough s’prise to me, I tell you, fur it was a powerful good chance fur young Miss ter tell um, yes, I was de one, an’ git um to stop runnin’ after her brurr. I didn’t know what she was gwine to do ’bout it, but it didn’t suit me one bit. I never seed de line o’ pickets I’d try to run thoo, an’ my time hadn’t come to die nohow.

“But one of de men say, ‘No, it was a white man, an’ a reb to boot kase I seed his face an’ his newniform. Dis is des a’ ol’ nigger dat stays ’roun’ dis house.’ Den he up an’ ’dress young Miss. ‘Young lady,’ he ax ’er, ‘is a man pass heer des now?’

“Well, suh, I ’lowed she wouldn’t find ’er tongue, she was so bad put out, but she up an’ say: ‘No, suh, not sence I been standin’ here,’ an’ she say it as cool as ef she was des givin’ ’im a passin’ s’lute. But I reckon dat officer seed thoo ’er kase he said: ‘Some o’ you fellers run down dat way an’ fo’ of us will s’arch de house. Miss,’ he say to Miss Grace, ‘we all know you is fur de downfall o’ de republic, an’ you mus’ ’scuse me fur not takin’ yo’ word, but we is been fooled so many times by you women in de Souf dat we got to be partic’lar.’

“Wid dat, fo’ of um go thoo we-all’s house fum bottom to top an’ ol’ Miss was mighty nigh ’stracted. She riz bodily fum ’er bed an’ fronted um. It was a big wonder to me dat dem Yankees ain’t shot ’er daid in ’er tracks fur de way she belittled um.

“‘You dirty gang o’ raid-hand murderers an’ cut-th’oats,’ she say, ‘I hope an’ pray high heaven will fall down on you an’ crush you in everlastin’ punishment. You ain’t satisfied wid takin’ our sons an’ husbands fum us, but you must go an’ tromple our houses wid yo’ muddy feet an’ fo’ce yo’ ugly se’ves into de sick rooms o’ yo’ betters. Dat shows yo’ raisin’; no Southern gen’man ain’t gwine be so brutish.’

“‘Now, madam,’ de leader say as cool as a watermelon in a deep spring, ‘des keep on yo’ jacket. You ketch yo’ death wid cold, A sudden change fum a warm bed is a bad thing whar doctors is so scarce, anyhow. You better not ’cite yo’se’f—’twon’t do a speck o’ good, an’ in fact you ain’t lookin’ well. You act sorter s’picious. Ef dar is a spy in yo’ house we gwine have ’im fur our meat, an’ all yo’ rampageousness won’t stop us. Dough, I make bold to say, madam, dat we-all ud like to have you on we-all’s side. At close range dat tongue o’ yo’n ud beat a grape-gun all holler.’

“Ol’ Miss didn’t say anything back. She looked out’n ’er eyes, dough, like you seed a balkin’ mule ’fo’ now, mebby, when his laigs is been tied together to break ’im fum kickin’ an’ you stan’ hind ’im wid a whip an’ sorer tap ’im in de flank atter he found out he earn’t kick ’nough to skeer a hoss-fly off’n his back.

“Well, dey all go plumb thoo de house widout a speck ur luck, ’cep’ what dey come acrost in de cupboard. When dey et all dey want an’ is raidy to go, de head man say to ol’ Miss: ‘Madam,’ he say, lookin’ at me kinder ’chievous, ‘we got some work in de camp to be done an’ dis ol’ nigger mus’ go an’ tend to it. We’ll sen’ ’im back in de mawnin’ sho ef he gits thoo.’

“Dat ain’t de fust time I had to do odd jobs fur um, an’ I ain’t s’prised. I had to march back wid one lill swivelly white man dat I could a-mashed twixt my fingers like a skeeter, an’ I would a-tried it, too, ef he hadn’t kep’ a musket level’ on me de whole time. De other soldiers went on after Marse Eddie.

“He’s a spy,’ I heer um say, as dey went off, ’an’ he carn’t git away, nuther, kase he is s’rounded on all sides an’ day is breakin’.’

“By de time we got to de camp de sun was ’ginnin’ to rise an’ a kettle drummer was out wakin’ um all up wid his clatter. I had to he’p wash dishes at de officer’s tent, an’ all dat mawnin’ I heerd um axin’ one another is de spy done kotch. To’ds dinner de men all come back an’ wid um was po’ Marse Eddie. He was so weakly dey had to mos’ drap ’im along. Pon my word, I don’t b’lieve de boy know who had ’im; he looked so wild out o’ his raid eyes.

“Dey tuck ’im to a big tent an’ all de officers got in it and held a court martial—dat’s what dey called it. I couldn’t heer a word dat passed, but de Lawd know I seed Marse Eddie was in a bad fix, kase dey was makin’ sech a big to-do.

“Terrectly dey all come out de tent. De haid man ’mongst um give a order an’ ’bout ten men come up wid deir guns an’ formed a line o’ battle. Den dey marched Marse Eddie out wid his back to a tree. You know, suh, I kin ’member when young Miss an’ ’im used to go to dat selfsame sweetgum when dey was lill. He used to take his knife an’ gouge out de gum an’ put it twixt ’er white teeth an’ she’s say, ‘Quick, Brurr Eddie, give me some dat’s hard ’fo’ my teeth stick together—dis heer is too saft.’

“Den young Marster ud take some o’ de dry gum in his fingers, kase it wouldn’t lay on de knife-blade, an’ when he’d make ’er shet ’er eyes he’d drap it in ’er mouf. Yes, suh, I kin ’member dat as plain as ef ’twas yesterday.

“Well, when dey got de po’ droopy young man agin de tree, an’ yell at ’im to hold his haid up, all de big, strappin’ soldiers stand in front an’ de captain drilled um. All deir clothes looked so blue an’ deir buttons an shoulder straps flashed in de sun like a lookin’-glass in de light. Seem like I kin heer de same locust a-singin’ in de woods right now dat was singin’ den. De sky was blue, an’ wide open, des like Gawd Almighty done tore de clouds apart so Marse Eddie’s white soul could git away fum dat measly crowd o’ blood-thirsty cowards. I knowed I couldn’t do a thing to help ’im, an’ I tried to hold steady an’ take one las’ look at my young Marster, but I couldn’t see any plainer dan you kin thoo a frosty window. But when de captain say, ‘Raidy, take aim!’ I looked away. De guns all went off wid one crack, an’ when de smoke is ris’ a lill, I seed Marse Eddie settin’ on de groun’ agin de tree wid his haid down des fur de world like I seed ’im one day when he’d been watchin’ us cut wheat an’ got drowsy an’ fell asleep in de shade.

“Dey tuck ’im off to bury ’im, an’ I went back to work; but I couldn’t do it jestice, an’ kept drappin’ de dishes an’ pans, I was so outdone thinkin’ ’bout de folks at home. Den de captain pass me an’ say: ‘Look heer, what you snifflin’ ’bout? Did you know dis young man?’

“An’ when I told ’im yesser, dat captain got mighty serious in de face an’ yell out to de rest um, ‘Why didn’t you-all had dis man testify?’

“But nobody wouldn’t answer. Den de captain set down nigh me an’ I could see his hands was tremblin’ powerful. He talked low like he was sorter ashamed. An’ he ax me: ‘Who is de young man? Whar do he live?’

“I told ’im Marse Eddie was my young Marster an’ at he was s’rounded in de mountains when he was tryin’ to git home on his furlough, wid his so’ arm, an’ sick an’ hungry.

“Well, suh, I hain’t never had too much use fur Yankees, but dat one’s face cert’ney did look troubled.

“‘Gawd furgive us,’ he say, dat’s what he said, ‘and we-all thought he was lyin’ to git free;’ an’ he most stagger as he walked off. Den I heer ’im order um not to bury Marse Eddie yit but to wait. Dey fixed ’im as nice as dey kin on a litter an’ put a new gray blanket on ’im an’ send ’im off to we-all’s place, kase I reckon dey lowed dey had done all de damage dey kin an’ thought it would be a kindness to old Miss to bury ’er own child.

“After dey done gone, I heer de captain say: ‘Dis is a mistaken duty. I’d ruther myse’f lie on dat litter. Heaven is gwine to curse dis bloodshed, Lieutenant,’ he say to a spry young man. ‘Lieutenant, you know’ what we-all shot dat po’ boy fur? We shot ’im kase he come home wounded to see his fair-faced sister back on dat plantation, an’ his old bedridden mother. Lieutenant, let dat be a lesson to you. Dat letter in his pocket wasn’t no spy-letter. It was des to his pa back in de army of de Souf tellin’ ’im he was nigh his home. When he writ he was tryin’ to git thoo de lines it wasn’t to spy. Yo’ maw’s a-livin’, ain’t she, Lieutenant?’ De young man nodded his haid, an’ den de captain went on agi’n: ‘Well, des put yo’se’f in dis young man’s place an’ den you gwine see how yo’ maw ud feel to had you sent home dat away.’

“Wid all de ’sturbance, it seemed like dey done furget dat I ort to be at home wid my white folks at sech a’ awful time, an’ dey kep’ me till long atter dinner. Den who shall come right in de camp ’cep’ young Miss? I never in all my days seed sech a look as was in her face. Seemed like she was in ’er sleep, ur out’n ’er mind, ur suppin another. It looked like all de officers in de camp wanted to hide out, but de captain was man enough to face ’er an’ went right up to whar she was.

“‘I come to see de spot whar de young Confederate died dis mawnin’, if you please,’ she said, as cool as I ever seed young Miss in my life, dough ’er eyes was flashin’ like diamonds in de sun.

“‘Young lady,’ de captain say, mighty white in de face, ‘dis is a po’ time to ’spress regrets, but Gawd knows dis is a gre’t mistake. I’d ruther be daid myse’f. I pray Gawd to furgive us. We acted too quick. De evidence showed dat yo’ brother was a spy, an’ we never knowed no better till it was all over.’

“‘I did not come to discuss his death,’ young Miss said mighty haughty. ‘I des want to see de spot whar he fell. We-all is grateful fer his remains—sometimes it ain’t done, I believe.’

“‘Young Miss,’ I said to ’er, ‘come, le’s go back home; dey will let me go wid you.’

“Den she looked at me fur de fus time. ‘Was you heer, Ham?’ she say; ‘den you’ll do; you kin show me ’dout troublin’ dese gentlemen. Show me whar my brurr fell, an’ den I’ll go back to mother. I was des afraid de army would march off an’ I never would know de exact spot whar de outrage happened.’

“Den I led ’er to’des de sweetgum an’ p’int it out. She des took one look at it, an’ den she put ’er han’ over ’er face an’ said in a awful low voice: ‘Le’s go quick, Ham,’ an’ I knowed she was afeerd she’d break down ’fo’ dem low-lived soldiers, an’ dat she’d druther be daid ’an to do it. All de way home she ain’t open ’er lips.

“Well, to close my tale, when old Marster come home after de war was over ol’ Miss was daid. It seems a long time ago. Young Miss an’ ’er pa went to Richmond to live, whar he had a lill property dat ’scaped de Yankee’s hands. She turned out to be a gre’t lady an’ had big men—governors an’ congressmen runnin’ atter her to git ’er to marry um. De funniest thing of all was de way dat Yankee captain did after de war was over; I heer some o’ my white folks say he writ two dozen letters to young Miss. He told ’er in um dat she was the onliest woman he ever laid eyes on dat completely tuck his heart and he say ’twas all kase she had so much pride and fine sperit. He begged ’er to let by-gones be by-gones an’ let ’im come down to Richmond an’ ’splain, but she didn’t so much as answer de letters an’ got so she sent um back to ’im dout openin’ um. Dey say he managed to meet ’er at a big dinner somebody give up in Richmond an’ was introduced to ’er. Of co’se, young Miss was too much of a lady to ’suit ’im when dey bofe visitin’ de same house, so she bowed to ’im an’ ’changed a few words, but she left de house an’ called her carriage. Dat’s what my white folks done tole me; I dunno, but it cert’ney was like young Miss. Dey say dat treatment didn’t faze dat captain, he was so dead bent on gittin’ ’er fur his wife; so one day, some time atter dat, he follered ’er to a big chu’ch in Richmond, whar she went to worship. Dey say it had high steps to it, an’ when she come out’n de do’ she seed ’im at de foot o’ de steps waitin’ fur ’er, wid his hat helt out in his hand. Well, suh, what you reckon young Miss did? She had her purse in ’er hand wid some small change in it, an’ when she passed ’im she tuck out a copper piece an’ drap it in his hat widout so much as lookin’ at ’im, des as ef he was a begger. Dey say dat settled ’im. He went off an’ never bothered ’er again.

“Did she marry? Yes, suh, she did, fer she had pickin’ choice o’ de whole country, Norf an’ Souf. She married a big rich man in Richmond, an’ she’s got some o’ de likeliest childern in de world. Her pa is dar doin’ well, too; dey send me money every now an’ den an’ wish me well. Dey is folks right, suh, an’ ef you ever run across um you’ll know I’m tellin’ you de trufe.”

SONG.

BY ROBERT LOVEMAN.

Drenched in the dew of tender tears, A song doth blossom in my heart; The trembling words are fraught with fears, The melody is love’s sweet art.

O, to my lady, song, away! Be thou my courier, true and fleet, Mesh her in music all the day, Then die in fragrance at her feet.

THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTHERN MILLS.

A HOPEFUL SIDE TO LIFE IN THE FACTORY COMMUNITIES.

By Leonora Beck Ellis.

While the political economist knits his brows in perplexity over the immoderate increase of cotton mills in the Southern States, and the social reformer cries vehemently against their child labor and low adult wages, these problems are solving themselves by natural processes which man’s economics or sociological theories can neither hurry nor retard.

Cotton manufacturing has traversed the road to its base of supply, and can no more be severed from it again than the descending rivulet can turn and run up hill. Child labor is only a complicated error of new conditions, and will in due process fall to inevitable decay. The wage problem mutates everywhere, yet optimism assures us that it bears steadily towards solution.

But the mill people of the South are a new and picturesque labor class. Some glimpses of their homes and family life will, we believe, afford interest to the reader for entertainment as well as to the student of sociology.

* * * * *

There are points of distinct difference between the factory operatives of the South and those of any other section of our country or of Europe.

In the first place, there are no urban instincts in these Southern mill communities. Whatever virtues they lack at least they have not the vices of cities. The good and the evil in them are still such as belong to a strictly rural people. But no one must expect, after another decade and a half, to find the same thing true; for, with the passing of the present generation, this unique characteristic must of necessity be largely lost. Gregariousness of living is potent to efface such a mark even when deeply stamped.

It may be asked, What are the indications of this quality which, for want of a better name, is termed rusticity? The signs are many and easy to read. No observant person can miss the plain evidence even in his first day with the mill people. He walks past the cottages, row on row, and sees prince’s feather and bachelor’s button growing in the tiny yards, patchwork quilts sunning from the windows, and strings of red pepper festooned on the back porches. The boys are quite often chewing tobacco, but they are not smoking cigarettes. Often, alas! the girls dip snuff, but they do not lace in their waists, nor attempt handkerchief flirtations. The women are given to quiet, and a profound reserve usually marks their social intercourse. The festive gatherings in the entertainment halls on Saturday nights are either stiff parties or genuine country dances. The “barbecue” is common on a general holiday and the “all day singing” of a Sunday still remains the acme of enjoyment, affording the perfect blending of sociality and devotion.

A second quality differentiating our people from the Northern factory communities of to-day, is what may well be called their unmodified Americanism. Up to the present time there is an entire absence of the foreign element of population among them, and the effect of such absence is very marked. Not only do better manners prevail in this people sprung from our own soil, but better morals, greater social purity, less turbulence and lawlessness. Remember, that observance of law is easier, more natural, even to illiterate Americans, than to other nations, because Law has typified to them from childhood the majesty of right, not the tyranny of might.

The finer respect for women which marks American manhood, extends also to these toilers. Except among their very lowest, motherhood inspires the regard it meets with in other social strata. And while in many of the mills the number of female employees exceeds that of males, yet in few of the better kind are there any mothers of young children at work.

These considerations lead at once to the questions, Where does such a class of labor come from? What are its antecedents?

The first is easily answered: The operatives have poured into the new factories, not from town or city, but from the country, direct from the cotton fields, we may say, to the mills. It was certainly not an anomalous movement when cotton was bringing 4¾ cents per pound. But as the staple moves back to its old prices, 10 and 12 cents, some reactionary phases must be looked for and provided against.

The antecedents of this class of labor deserve attention. A great majority of the operatives come from the agricultural class known as tenant farmers; that is, men who farm the land for others, paying as rent a considerable portion of each year’s crop. The tenant system was adopted in the South during the period of disorder and chaotic ruin following the Civil War, when our old system of labor was dissolved and no better base remained on which to build anew the fabric of agricultural life. Unfit as it is for a country of such institutions as ours, and the source in itself of very sore evils, the tenant system still had a necessary part in the last half century.

Many of the tenant farmers of the last generation had indeed “seen better days.” Not a few had been freeholders before the war, although usually of the little farms interspersed here and there among the great plantations of the aristocrats. Many others had been overseers, factors, agents of various sorts. A very small proportion came from the class of decayed gentlemen. The rest were made up from those strata usually lumped together in our designation, “crackers,” or, in the South Carolina term, “poor Buckra.”

Such are the antecedents of the mass of operatives in the new mills of the South. Bearing in mind this derivation, you will not find it difficult to account for many qualities, traits and habitudes that might otherwise appear anomalous. For example, their extravagance is a characteristic almost without parallel among other classes of toilers. But it is simple of explanation.

The transition from a dollarless past to a many-dollared present would render any class of untutored human beings extravagant. Through a long period of tenant farming, these people scarcely saw a piece of money from Christmas to Christmas. Each year’s supplies were either furnished by the owner of the land, or bought on credit at a nearby store, to be paid for when the cotton was picked. The harvest came, sometimes good, sometimes bad; but good or bad, it seemed uniformly to take it all to pay the merchant and the landlord. The tenant rarely enjoyed even the sorry pleasure of selling his cotton and paying the hard cash to these creditors; instead, he usually hauled the raw product of his toil directly to them, then turned apathetically away to begin his half-hearted preparations for another year’s crop. His wife and children shared his labors, sharing also his empty-handedness.

This went on through the dragging years of the South’s agricultural prostration, until the last decade came, with its mills and its industrial revolution, when the moneyless and landless ones drew into the new communities, to try bread-winning under unfamiliar conditions. The mothers and daughters had often worked on the farms, so they did not hesitate at the factory door, except when very young children claimed the care of the former. In most instances, indeed, the women’s fingers proved the readiest for the new occupation.

But neither women nor men acquired dexterity without a period of laborious effort, such as all workmen must struggle through when, possessed of only the inherited instincts of generations of bucolic ancestors, they set themselves to some form of mechanical labor. That period being done with, a certain amount of skill began to appear in all fairly intelligent operatives, and shortly they found themselves bringing home each Saturday night, or alternate Saturday night, according as pay day fell, an amount of money that to them seemed an amazing treasure-pile.

Cases such as the following are found in every prosperous factory community: The father, mother, and six or eight boys and girls, ranging from twelve to twenty odd years, are at work in one mill. Large families are the rule in this class, remember. Now, the adults, if fair weavers, easily average $22.99 apiece per month. The younger members of the family are probably spinners, and average about $14 each. This family, then, that in the old life of the farm thought themselves fortunate indeed to handle $100 in cash throughout a year, now bring home something like $175 every month!

Is it strange to you that extravagance seizes upon this metamorphosed household? If the sudden transition from pennilessness to plethoric pocket-books did not lead in itself straight to spendthrift living, the precedents of their neighbors would speedily teach the trait.

So the housewife loads the table with luxuries hitherto unknown; the pretty girl is tempted into all the caprices of dress that her little Vanity Fair may flaunt, while the father and brother can scarcely tell whither their dollars speed on such swift wings.