CHAPTER III.

THE GLORIOUS FOURTH.

“Plumes himself in Freedom’s pride Tyrant stern to all beside.”

—BURNS.

ON an insignificant little village built on a narrow flat beside the Savannah river, the sun had been pouring his red hot rays all day, with even greater intensity than was usual at that season of the year.

The inhabitants, however, paid little heed to the extreme heat, and only when the sun sank to the western horizon did they leave their fields and workshops and wend their ways homewards.

Two railroad bridges, and another for the public highway, connected this little village with the city of A——, on the opposite side of the river, and in the neighboring State of Georgia.

A long low trestle carried one of those railroad tracks two or three squares or streets back from the stream towards the hills a half-mile away.

Not far from this trestle, on a broad street which ran parallel with and along the brink of the stream, stood a strong, two-story brick building. Its uses had been various; but at the time of which we write it did service as an armory or drill room for Co. A of the Eighteenth Regiment of National Guards of South Carolina; and also as a dwelling for the Captain of the Company, who, having just returned from his day’s work in the city, now sat with his chair tilted back against the post of the open door, tossing his infant and conversing with his wife, who was preparing their evening meal.

It might be mentioned that the parties in this little domestic scene were of African descent.

“Howdy? Cap’n Doc, Howdy?” shouted a negro teamster, driving up to the door with a great dash and rattling of wheels.

“Hello! That yo’, Dan?” replied the Captain, letting the front legs of his chair down upon the floor with a bump that came near unseating him. “Come in, won’t ye?”

“I’m obliged to yo’, but I couldn’t nohow. I just wants, to know what sort of a combustification is we gwoine to hev to-morrow; and when does de militia come out?”

The speaker was evidently “the worse for the drink,” which must account for his forgetfulmess of what he had been well informed of, and he wriggled and giggled as if greatly tickled.

“The militia,” said Captain Doc, “has got to faum (form) and march down to the grounds, when the doings begin, and stand guard; and after the speeches and all is ovah, we shall go through the usual everlutions, accompanied with music and the flag. I’m sorry we didn’t get that shooting-match I tried to have, so we could ha’ got some unifaum; but I shall inspeck yo’s guns and accouterments mighty close, and put yo’ through mighty sharp on the drill.”

“But a nigger that don’t car’ ’nough ’bout the Centennial fo’th o’ July to get to know all ’bout the doings fo’ the third o’ July, don’t ’zerve to be baun free and ekil.”

“Wal, I wa’n’t baun free an’ ekil, an’ I don’t ’speck to be baun free an’ ekil, nuther, but ’fo’ I done gone ovah to ’Gusta wid dis ere load o’ truck, I knowed all ’bout it. But I met dat are _magnifishent_ young gem’man, Tom Bakah, and, oh, laws!” (spreading his horny palms, with fingers extended and rolling his head and eyes from side to side), “‘mose put my eyes out o’ my head! All upsot my idees! His nose turned up, ’pears like six feet high; no, six inches high; and he drove he horse so scrumbunctious like, ’mose upset my little ambulancer,” and Dan turned to his two little rats of donkeys in harness of knotted raw-hides, which resembled old and assorted clothes lines.

The little creatures stood meekly before an indescribable vehicle, a ridiculous cross between a rude hay-rick and a huge crockery-crate on wheels. It was all out of proportion to the little team, whose backs were scarcely as high as the waist-bands of stumpy Dan.

“Tough little fellahs, dese is,” said the teamster, patting them affectionately, “but mighty feared o’ Mars’ Tom, a’n’t yo’,—Eigh, Jack?”

“See dat nigh critter cock his eye now, and wag dat off ear,” continued Dan, winking at Captain Doc, and giggling and wriggling as before.

“Don’t like Mars’ Tom, do yo’, Jack?” again addressing the intelligent donkey, which not only wagged his off ear, but shook his head in a most decided manner, to the great amusement of his owner.

“Oh, Dan, you musn’t mind the antics of that boy Tom,” said a voice behind him; whereupon Dan wriggled and jumped, and whirled about, and bowed himself double, and made grimaces, and giggled and wriggled, and danced a jig; and finally, with another low bow and long scrape of his right foot, he shook hands with the speaker, who was no other than our friend Marmor. “Tom is only just home from school, you know, and of course the man who knew more before he was born than could ever be cudgeled into that knowledge-box of hissen, is _nothing_ to him! Let him alone, and let him swell though, just as big as he can, he’ll bust the quicker, and we’ll find out the quicker how big he really is when the vacuum is gone, and what is left is packed down solid.”

“‘Pears like dis yere young Tom cat tinks he smell a mice, or a niggah he’s huntin,” said Dan, “an’ he’s gwoine fo’ to _chaw ’im up_ mighty quick!” (suiting his gesture to his words by a long sniff, and a quick motion of his jaws.)

Dan’s buffoonery was irresistible, and the half dozen persons who had gathered at the captain’s door manifested their appreciation by hilarious applause.

“‘Pears like I couldn’t leave such ’stinguished comp’ny, nohow,” he continued, “but dey is a panoramia fo’ my vishum which am decomrated by hoe cakes an’ hominy, an’ lasses an’ bacon, an’ sich tings;” and with his hands upon his empty stomach, Dan bowed very low and obsequiously, and mounting his “ambulancer,” gathered up the ragged ends of his raw-hide ribbons, touched Jack with his long green stick, and rattled away, while Captain Doc shouted after him, “Two o’clock, and no tipsy men on parade.”

The queer little turnout, which would have been a spectacle in any part of the northern states, though common enough in the southern, crept slowly up the steep hill in the rear of the village, where buildings of curious and indescribable styles were scattered without order or taste, and few indications of thrift. Stopping on the outskirts of the town, and before a small cabin built of one thickness of rough boards, the vertical cracks between which would nearly receive the fingers of an adult, and the windows of which, without sash or glazing, were closed only by clumsy wooden shutters—the usual style of cabin inhabited by the southern negro—Dan leaped from his vehicle, and entering, sniffed and looked about searchingly, till a tall, angular mulatto woman entered from the back door with an armful of wood.

“Any suppah yet, Mira?”

“No, sah. Yo’ suppah ha’n’t ready yit, but I’s cookin’ it. I’s mighty tired. I’s done done all dat whole big cotton field.”

“Good, chile! good, chile!” said the husband, approaching and attempting to kiss her as she stooped to replenish the open fire.

No sooner had his breath touched her face than she turned, with a stick of wood in one hand, and confronted him, while the smoke and flame leaped out in alarming proximity to her dress.

“See here now, yo’ Dan; yo’ been drinkin’ gin,” fixing her dark eyes reprovingly upon his silly face. “Dat’s de way yo’ been spendin’ yo’ money.”

“Mira Pipsie, yo’s de smartest woman in de whole worl’. Yo’s got ’em zackly, I reckon” (wriggling and curveting about the room and back to her side again). “I nebber boughtened me no finery o’ no kind; no new bonnet, nor nuffin. Yo’ buys what yo’ wants, an’ so does I.”

“Yes; but yo’ comes home an’ wants suppah, an’ it’s de cotton o’ my raisin’ as buys yo’ suppah.”

“Yah! yah! yah! I’s a lucky dog, shor!” and he executed a jig followed by a double shuffle, knocking his heels upon the bare floor with what vigor he could command, and at the same time improvising as follows:

“I’s de smartest little wife Ebber seen in all yo’ life; She marks her cotton-bag Wid a little calico rag, An’ gits de biggis’ price, An’ as slick as any mice She smiles, an’ bows, an’ flies aroun’, An’ totes her cotton off to town. Home she comes, an’ O my! See de new bonnet! _Oh, my eye!_ Away to church she sing an’ pray, Hallelujah! look dis way! Dina Duncan’s in de shade, Mira beats all on dress parade. But jes’ see Dina’s _bran new shawl_! Can’t heah no mo’ preachin’ af’er all. Elder, I’m gone nex’ Sunday sho’, Can’t wear dis here ole shawl o’ mine no mo’!”

Here the song abruptly terminated, for the “smartest little wife,” who was some inches taller than her husband, and by no means slender, took her liege lord by the damp, unstarched collar of his soiled blue shirt, and marching him to the door, seated him upon the step, saying in a low, decided, and well recognized tone, “Now yo’ jes’ set dar, yo’ drunk niggah, yo’, an’ don’t yo’ open dat big red mouf o’ yo’n no mo’ till I git some hominy to fill it up. I don’t want no niggah’s heels scratchin’ roun’ on my flo’. Ef yo’d buy bettah finery ’n dem ole trowsahs, an’ go to church, an’ let whiskey ’lone, yo’ cotton’d be some good. Ef I didn’t mark my cotton o’ my raisin’, an’ toat de money myself, I’d jes like t’ know whar yo’d git yo’ tea, an’ coffee, an’ flou’h, an’ all dem tings?”

With an admonitory shake of her finger, she entered the house, and resumed her culinary operations; but soon reappeared, bearing a gun and accoutrements, and sundry materials for polishing them; having first dexterously examined it, and found it without charge.

“Heah now, yo’ Pipsie; yo’ got sense ’nough t’ clean dis ’ere gun?” she asked. “Reckon you’ll be mighty proud o’ dis ’ere ‘finery,’ marchin’ up an’ down long o’ de res’, an’ de folks all lookin’ on.”

“He, he! Didn’t I say ‘smartest little wife’? Reckon I kin do dat are. Reckon I’ll p’rade on de fo’th, an’ yo’ll wait till Sunday.”

Two of his neighbors presently joined Mr. Pipsie, with whom he was soon discussing the anticipated celebration, which was quite a novelty in the locality. Suddenly a loud sound of wheels was heard.

“Hello!” cried Dan, springing from his seat. “Heah comes my friend Bakah! Hello, Babe! Bett’ take car, dat team, else yo’ git toated clean off, an gone to smash ’fo’ yo’ muddah knows nuffin ’bout it. Reckon yo’ didn’t ax her mout yo’ gwout alone?”

The sound of the jolting wagon rendered this speech inaudible to the youthful driver, who was passing without a “Howdy!” (an offense in that locality) but the loud, derisive “guffaw” of the three colored men, which followed Dan’s sally, did not fail to reach him, and he paused suddenly, just past the door.

He was tall and large, but unusually boyish for a youth of twenty years. In an angry tone he shouted:

“Dan Pipsie, come out here! I want to see yer.”

That individual made his way, quite deliberately, to the side of the vehicle, and with a strange mixture of timidity and bravado in his manner.

“What do you mean by cursing me in that way? I ha’n’t done nothing to you,” said the boy.

“Oh, laws! I’s jest in fun, an’ I’s shor’ yo’ didn’t heah yo’r name mixin’ up in it. A man’s a right to talk or cuss on his own do’,” (door) “an’ nothin’ to no man no’ his boy gwoine ’long de road.”

The youngster’s eyes flashed, and his face was pale with rage. What! _he_ to be called a _boy_ by a “nigger?” He looked down upon the diminutive black figure beside him, in whose hands was one of Remington’s best rifles, and that alone restrained him from laying the long lash of his driving-whip close about the “black biped,” as he mentally called him. He did venture to retort with some asperity.

The altercation was brief, but heated, and soon the whip was cracked decidedly closer to Pipsie’s left ear than was comfortable to its owner.

“Yo’ jes be little mo’ ca’ful, yo’ young man!” said Pipsie, rubbing the ear briskly. “Yo’ not got no runaway niggah slave heah now. I’se a free man, an’ got as much rights as yo’, an’ mo’n dat, too, I’se got a United States gun heah, an’ I knows how to shoot, too. Yo’ needn’t ’sult no National Guards fo’ nuffin’. Ef yo’ ha’n’t got no mo’ yo’ want say t’ me, yo’ bes’ jes’ git ’long ’bout yo’ business, or yo’ may git hurt!” and he made a feint to raise the empty gun to his eye, when young Tom Baker rode away in great haste.

Baconsville had never witnessed such a “celebration” as it enjoyed the next day, which came bright and beautiful.

Though usually tardy in morning rising—possibly from dread of the malaria, which the sun dissipates by nine o’clock, on this memorable day, the inhabitants of the village were astir at an early hour, for, through the heavy fog which crept up from the river, and shrouded the whole valley, the red-haired and fair-skinned Marmor, and the largest, strongest, and blackest citizen, with a few followers, were dimly visible, dragging a blacksmith’s anvil along the principal streets.

They paused frequently in front of the residences and shops of the chief citizens to salute them by an explosion of gunpowder upon the anvil—the nearest approach to a cannonade possible in the impecuneous little city. But not earlier than four o’clock in the afternoon was the excitement at its height. At that time the brass band was playing national airs under a great oak tree on a vacant plot of ground on which a platform had been erected; and a few seats placed in front of it for the accommodation of the gentler sex were rapidly filling; for, at a safe distance, thirteen explosions upon the anvil, in commemoration of the thirteen original colonies, were being followed by thirty-seven, in honor of the then existing States of the Union.

These were the recognized signals for the commencement of the most important exercises of the day; and the militia having formed at the armory, marched to the rostrum, bearing the “Stars and Stripes,” and were disposed on either side of the speaker’s stand, while other free and patriotic citizens stood in compact groups near and about the well-filled seats.

All being ready, a chairman elected, the glass of water and bouquet of flowers placed before the speaker, and the band having duly discoursed, a short, smooth-voiced negro—an accredited preacher of the Methodist persuasion, and member of the State Legislature from that district—was introduced. He made a long, peculiarly energetic, interesting and instructive address, rich in metaphor and quaint expressions, glowing with native eloquence, and abounding in graphic description, wholesome counsel, and eulogy of the “United States.”

Not an allusion was made to the past relations of the races in the South, unless an exhortation to gratitude towards the United States be so construed, in view of the fact that the very few whites present acknowledged no such debt.

After the address, music followed, and then Marmor was formally introduced to his neighbors, and read in clear, loud tones the inevitable “Preamble and Declaration of Independence,” to the manifest disgust of a small group of men who stood in the rear of the crowd.

A tall, muscular man, with iron-gray hair and bushy beard, turned upon his heel with an oath, saying: “Marmor, the contemptible radical, takes too much pleasure in reading that preamble to me, and I’m a fool to hear it any way. _All men created equal!_ It is a self-evident lie!” and he strode away, followed by the boyish young man, Tom, to whom the reader has already been introduced.

“Father,” said he, “that red-headed fool acts like a Yankee. You wouldn’t suppose he fought for the Lost Cause.”

“It is the cursed German blood in him!” replied “the old man Baker,” as his neighbors called him. “He hasn’t been in the State long enough to get the Republican taint out of it. His father wasn’t born here.”

“It is a pity that a Yankee bullet hadn’t hit _him_, instead of brother Will.” He’s a scalawag and a carpet-bagger, both in one.”

“Yes, I’d like to rid the State of his presence, and the niggers of one leader. If it wasn’t for the leaders, we could manage the ignorant ones.”

The exercises at “the stand” closed at five o’clock, and the Militia soon formed, thirty or forty strong, and marched off up Market street; which being over one hundred and fifty feet in width, afforded ample space for the evolutions which the men performed with commendable precision for nearly an hour.

At length they stood resting at the upper end of the street.

“Have you noticed the clouds, Captain?” asked the tall second-lieutenant, approaching his superior with raised cap, “That’s so, Watta,” replied Captain Doc, glancing at the clouds, “We’ll march down to the armory and dismiss. Attention, Company.”

The necessary orders being given, they proceeded by fours, interval march, open order, with guns across their shoulders, and arms over their guns; thus occupying little over one third of the width of the street.

Soon after they had thus started, a single buggy occupied by two young men, turned from Main street into Market street, entering it two or three streets in front of them and approached the advancing Militia-men at a slow trot. The horse was old and steady, and neither the glittering guns, nor flag, nor fife and drum disturbed his equanimity; and, urged by his driver, he did not pause nor turn aside till in the very face of the soldiers, who had already halted.

The road was broad and level, but the travel had been confined mostly to one track, and the remainder of the surface was overgrown with grass and May weeds.

Just at the place of their meeting, a well occupied a few feet in the centre of the street; and a shallow ditch crossed the half of the street at the right of the vehicle. Yet fully fifteen feet of the level highway was unoccupied at the right of the Militia, and the driver could easily have passed around the Company, had he chosen to do so, instead of urging his horse directly upon the advancing column.

The discourtesy of this act was aggravated by the fact that the young men had, during a half-hour previously, been driving leisurely from one bar-room to another, or sitting in their carriage and watching the movements of the Company in common with a large number of other citizens, both white and colored, during which time frequent opportunities had occurred in which they might have driven up the then totally unoccupied street.

These young men were Tom Baker and his sister’s husband, Harry Gaston, who, like his father-in-law, had often expressed his aversion to “the Nigger Militia Company.”

Captain Doc left his position, and approaching them said:

“Mr. Gaston, I do not know for what reason you treat me in this manner.”

“What manner?”

“Aiming to drive through my company when you have room enough on the outside to drive in the road.”

“Well, this is the rut I always travel in,” was the contemptuous reply, made with an oath.

“That may be true,” replied the Captain, “but if ever you had a company out here, I should not have treated you in this kind of a manner. I should have gone around, and showed some respect to you.”

“Well,” retorted Gaston, “this is the rut I always travel in, and I don’t intend to get out of it for no niggers!”

“You don’t intend to break up our drill do you?” asked Lieutenant Watta; his yellow face growing visibly pale.

“All I want is to pass through and go home.”

“But you want to drive through our ranks.”

“No! ——. He can’t go through here,” said another voice.

“We will stay here all night before we will give way to them,” said Watta, the conversation with lawyer Elly and Uncle Jesse recurring to his memory.

“Never mind,” said Gaston with an oath, “you won’t always be insulting me. You had better stop now, for you’ll find you’ve got to.”

“Egh, Watta, don’t yos’ mind what Mann Harris said—tole that Hanson Baker, Tom’s brother, said a month ago that there’s gwoine to be the —— to pay in Baconsville pretty soon? Reckon the white folks is begun that p’ogramme he tole ’bout,” said another militia man. “He said fifteen hundred of ’em was ready to break us up, an’ of co’se Gasten’s one of ’em.”

A volley of oaths and abusive epithets was rolling from Tommy Baker’s lips; which was indeed their most familiar utterance when addressing persons of color; and some members of the company began to return the charge in kind.

“Attention, company!” shouted Capt. Doc. “It is going to rain, and we had best house our guns. We won’t hold any contention with these men. Now, yo’ hush up! I’ll settle this matter. Open order, and let them go through.”

The command was obeyed, but not without murmurs of discontent, which, however, were soon quieted, as a slight shower descended, and they hastened off to the armory.

Marmor, with his two little children, had been standing a few rods away, watching and praising the exercise.

When the altercation occurred, being a Warden of the town, he sent John Carr, the Town Marshal, or Chief of Police, to ascertain its cause; but it was passed before his arrival at the scene.