Chapter 6

[2] As this is a true tale of an old-time plantation negro, I think it but fair to state that he had a "chist" full of good clothes; but, with a parsimony not uncommon among his race, he preferred to protect his feet with old bits of blanket, instead of using the excellent home-knit woollen socks which lay snugly hidden away in his "chist;" and it was the same feeling which caused him to wrap himself now into an old garment made up of patches, although three good ones lay snugly folded away in the same chest.

THE JUNIOR RESERVE

It was in the early summer of 1864 that the family at Swan Manor was thrown off its balance by the calling out of "The Junior Reserves." That unfledged boys, and among them their own little smooth-cheeked Billy, should be called upon to fill up the thinned and broken ranks of the Southern army filled their hearts with dismay. The old Squire, with bushy brows beetling over his eyes, sat in grief too deep for words, a prey to the darkest forebodings. Miss Jemima had wept until her eyes were mere nothings, while her nose, coming gallantly to the front, had assumed an undue prominence. Kate, with her pretty lips drawn to keep down the rising sobs, tried all in vain to bestow upon her twin brother bright looks and smiles, ever before so ready and spontaneous. In the early secession days it had seemed such fun to ride to dress parade and toss bouquets to the laughing "boys in gray," while all the world played Dixie!

"Away down South in Dixie."

How she and Billy had whispered and plotted, and how great the triumph when together they climbed the gate-post and, after much toil, successfully planted their little red and white flag! But now, alas! all was changed,--they were fast getting to be grown-up people, and now her own dear Billy must go to help drive the Yankees out of Dixie.

As for Billy himself, a suppressed but exultant grin shone upon his face, a trifle deprecating when in the presence of his grandfather or his tearful Aunt Jemima, but very jubilant despite these drawbacks. In truth this junior reserve was only too pleased to exchange the Latin grammar for the musket, and little cared he for prospective hardships, provided school were not among them.

In the few busy days before the departure, Kate followed Billy's footsteps, trying in vain to share his elation. "Good gracious, Kate," he would exclaim, when he discovered her furtively wiping her eyes with her little damp ball of a pocket handkerchief, "don't be such a little goose; why, what would you have a fellow do? I had no idea that you were that sort of a girl." Then, as between laughing and crying her face contorted itself into a sort of spasmodic grin, he would say: "Now that's right, that's the way to do, if you'll just cheer up, I'll be all right; the Yankees'll not bother me much, you bet."

At the request of Serena (Billy's former nurse) her boy Cy was chosen to accompany his young master as body servant, one of his chief recommendations being that, naturally "skeary," he would be a safe companion; also, as his mother proudly averred, he was the fastest runner upon the plantation.

It was upon a golden evening in June that little Billy bade farewell to his home, Miss Jemima and Kate going with him to the little wayside station. Cy, gotten up in great style, followed, while the rear was brought up by a motley procession,--all eager for the honor of carrying some of the belongings. The Squire, with Don the old Irish setter, stood in the doorway until Billy passed out of sight; then the two together, the old man and the old dog, went back into the silent house.

The path to the station wound its way through a field of ripening wheat, from whence the clear whistle of a partridge smote sharply though the fervid air. Billy paused, and, pointing to a tangle of blackberry, exclaimed: "There's a nest there as sure as shooting, and I'll go there to-mor--" A quick catching of the breath cut short the unfinished words, and the boy, with lips slightly drawn, quickened his pace. Kate, choking down her sobs, held his hand in her tight clasp, as she kept pace with his hurried step. Miss Jemima, steadying her voice, remarked with a sprightly air that there would be fine shooting when he should come back in the autumn. Then the little station came into view, looking very empty and deserted; two men loading a flat car were the only living objects to be seen. They paused in their work to greet Billy, and ask where he was off to. It seemed so strange a thing to Kate that all the world did not know.

The train was not on time, and the waiting became so painful that it was almost with gladness that they heard the warning whistle far down the track. A small crowd had gradually collected, and some one remarked: "She's blowin' for the bridge. It'll be ten minutes before she's here." To the tumultuously throbbing hearts of the little party it was a positive relief when a puff of smoke was seen and the engine came rushing around the bend. Then there were hurried kisses; the bell clanged, a voice called out, "All aboard," and the train was off. "Gone, gone, gone," Kate repeated over and over to herself, as she gazed with tearless eyes into the dim distance of the now silent track.

As the party retraced their steps homeward the partridge was still calling his cheerful "Bob White" from amid the wheat, while from the shadowy depth of a laurel thicket came the sweet gurgle of the wood-thrush.

In the late summer, news--glorious news--came that the foe had been driven back, and their boy was unhurt.

Later, a man from the front at home on furlough was heard to say that "Billy Swan was a regular trump, and had borne himself like a veteran." Kate walked elate, saying the words over and over, with a proud smile, "A hero, a regular trump,"--he, her own dear Billy. The old Squire, too, with ill-concealed pride in his boy, was once more like his former self.

Happy days--brief, hopeful days! Alas, alas! Many Junes have come and gone since little Billy was laid to rest in the old burying-ground, close to the wheat-field where the partridge calls, calls, the long day through. June roses scatter their leaves above him, and when the sun drops low, with long golden shafts upon the green mound which covers him, from far down in the laurel thicket comes the liquid gurgle of the wood-thrush. Kate looks into faces, once frank and bright, and full of youth and hope, now grown old and seamed with care, and she tells herself that "whom the gods love, die young."

MAMMY

Two little snub noses were flattening themselves against the nursery window pane, while the four eager eyes watched the soft flakes whirling through the air and silently descending upon the whitening earth.

"Sposen we was to steal out," whispered the boy, "an' hide, so Mammy couldn't never find us no more."

An excited chuckle interrupted the further development of this deliciously lawless scheme; but, though the little sister caught the infection, she prudently turned from the tempting prospect, saying, "No, Sed, I's 'fraid you might git the croups an' die."

The other occupants of the room were a little roly-poly cherub of a girl, seated in a tiny chair, holding in her arms a rag baby, which she rocked and dangled in servile imitation of her mammy, who, with bumpings peculiar to the nursery chair, was rocking to sleep a still younger babe. A fair little maiden, curled up comfortably upon a cushion, the firelight glistening upon her yellow locks, bent over a book, from which she read, in high-pitched, childish voice, to her mammy, the story of "Ellen Lynn." Mammy was very proud that her nursling could read, and would cast admiring looks upon the child as she bent over her book, with finger pointing to each word. Both were absorbed in the story, and every picture was examined with scrupulous care.

Another occupant of the nursery was "Chany," the under nursemaid. Gawky, sleek, and black, she sat flat upon the floor, her large, well-shod feet turned to the fire, a picture of lazy, vacant content.

"Ch-Ch-Chany," stuttered Mammy, "look in de top drawer an' git a hankcher and blow dat chile's nose. Go on wid yo book, honey; Mammy ain't goin' 'sturb you no mo."

"Mr. Lynn left the sleigh, and turning from the island"--piped little Caroline. Then there came another prolonged snuffle from Sedley.

"You Ch-Ch-Chany, why'n't you git dat hankcher?" caused that languid maiden to bestir herself. Having fumbled in the drawer for the handkerchief, she approached the window, but no sooner did the little boy become aware of her intention than, with a rebellious shake of his curly head, he buried his nose in his little chapped fists, and, regardless of Sibyl's advice, that he had better be good, he firmly stood his ground, determined to resist Chany to the death.

"He ain't gwine let me tetch him," said Chany, feebly dabbing at him with the handkerchief.

"Do, pray, gal, don't be so no-'count," Mammy answered. Then Chany, stung by the imputation, made another helpless dive; a scuffle ensued, in which she was utterly routed, and the victorious Sedley threw himself upon Mammy's lap.

"Gi' me de hankcher," said Mammy, with an air of withering contempt. "There, now, you done woke up your little brother," she said, when, the nose being blown, she again returned to trying to jolt baby Joe to sleep. "He jest had drapped off into a doze."

"Oh, chilluns, le's pop some corn!" Chany now exclaimed. "Here's a whole sight of it," she went on, as she searched a basket, which she had unearthed from the closet.

"Oh! pop corn!" shouted Sedley and Sibyl, running, and each seizing an ear.

"Oh! pop torn!" echoed the cherub, throwing down her rag baby. So the shovel was run into the ashes, and Chany and the three little ones set to work to shell the corn.

Quiet was again restored, and Caroline, who, all through the hubbub, had kept her finger faithfully upon "island," continued her reading.

Mammy now substituted a sideways movement of the knees for the more vigorous bumping of the chair, and baby Joe--lying luxuriously upon her wide lap--gazed dreamily into the glowing coals upon the hearth, until gradually the white lids drooped over the blue eyes, and he slept. The nursery was very quiet now. The corn-poppers were intent upon their work, and Mammy, soothed by the unwonted stillness, listened drowsily to the little reader until fresh interest was excited by the following words.

"The men were now still more alarmed," read Caroline. "Farmer Lynn said that he would go with them and see what had become of Mr. Lynn and Annie. The whole party accordingly went back to the river. After searching about for some time, one of the men espied something black on the surface of the snow, at a great distance down the river. They all proceeded to the spot, and were dreadfully shocked on arriving there to find that the black spot was a part of Mr. Lynn's arm and that his body was beneath, frozen, and buried up in the snow."

When Mammy heard these words, she threw up her arms, and exclaimed, "Lord, have mercy 'pon my soul! What! Mr. Lynn hisself?"

To her imagination Mr. Lynn was a most real person. The book was now brought to her and she, with little Caroline, looked with deep and mournful interest at the picture of the empty sleigh.

"It certainly is a awful country to live in; seem like it ain't fitten for a dog, much less white folks. To think o' Mr. Lynn hisself bein' froze to death. Well! well! well! It certainly was onexpected."

The children's story books furnished Mammy with many thoughts. Among them was a set of German nursery tales, full of quaint colored pictures, in which she took especial pleasure. Seated by the nursery fire, the baby asleep in his crib and the others out at play, she would turn the leaves feeling that each picture was a living portrait. Slovenly Peter, Rocking Phillip, and Greedy Jacob were her favorites. Once when shown a pretzel, she exclaimed, "Ef it ain't the very thing what Jacob had in his hand when he busted," and, taking the pretzel in her hand, she contemplated it with a thoughtful and sentimental air.

The nursery door was now burst open, and in rushed Harry, bringing with him a blast of fresh cold air; black Ned came too, and both brought upon their feet enough snow to cover the carpet with moist tracks.

"You Ne-Ne-Ned, ain't you got no mo' manners than to be a-tracking up de house dis way? Go 'long out and clean your feet;" but the hubbub was too great for Mammy's words to be heeded; pig-tails were being brandished aloft, and the children all clustered round Harry and Ned, asking questions and clamoring for pig-tails.

"Look!" said Harry. "Here's somefin better'n pig-tails," and he drew from his pocket the mangled remains of a dozen or more snow-birds.

A scramble now ensued, and Sibyl--having secured as many as she wanted--retired to a corner, and silently fell to plucking them, while Sedley, who was as vainglorious as a Comanche, capered about on his short legs, and boasted of imaginary exploits with trap and dead-fall.

Caroline looked on, half pleased and half disgusted, keeping herself clear of contact.

"Miss Calline she too proud to tetch pig-tails," grinned Chany.

"'F cose she is," Mammy answered, bridling. She was very vain of Miss Caroline's daintiness.

The baby was now laid in his crib. Chany was dispatched for salt and pepper; the shovel was again run into the ashes, pig-tails were placed delicately upon the coals, and the nursery, pervaded with the various odors of wet shoes, burnt corn, fried grease, etc., was given up to disorder and cooking, into which Mammy threw herself with as much zest as did the children. The pig-tails were broiled to a turn, and the small birds were frizzling away upon the shovel, when Sedley, taking advantage of his opportunity, made a rush for the door, opened it, and was outside, with mouth and hands full of snow. Before Mammy's vigilant eye had noted his escape, he was flying back in triumph, with a big ball in his fist, when she met him and, with dexterous grasp, wrenched it from him.

"Di-di-did anybody ever see your match!" she exclaimed as she hurled the ball into the fire. "I clar I's got a good mind to take you right straight to your ma."

But Sedley knew the value of such threats and soon wiggled himself out of her grasp.

"Da now, go 'long an' 'have yourself," she said, with admiring fondness, as he laughed and capered away from her.

"Honey, what is you a-doin'?" she now inquired of Sibyl, who, with hot cheeks, was bending over a pile of coals. "Cookin' a bird? Let me do it,--you's a-burnin' your little face clean to a cracklin'."

"No, Mammy, I'm cookin' my bird for grandma," the child answered, rejecting all help, "an' I'm goin' to do it all by myself."

"Wh', baby honey, your gran'ma ain't comin' before Christmas eve, an' dat's a week off. Your bird ain't goin' keep all dat time, but ne' mine, I'll make Ned ketch you another one."

* * * * *

Upon Christmas Eve, the children might have been seen at the big gate, straining their eyes down the road, each hoping to be the first to see their grandmother's carriage. Visions of waxen dolls, sugar-plums, and other vague delights imparted a double zest to her arrival,--to say nothing of Uncle Robin (the driver) who, in the estimation of the little boys, was of far greater importance than was their grandmother. To them he was an oracle of wisdom, and their delight was to follow him about the stable lot or to sit in the sunshine and hang upon his words; for his imagination was fertile, and the boys would listen with wonder to the tales of his prowess and skill with horses. Something was now observed to be moving far down the road, which soon proved to be the carriage. Yes, there were "Phoenix" and "Peacock," which no one but Uncle Robin could handle, and there sat Uncle Robin upon the box, and there was grandma inside, smiling and waving her handkerchief, and there, too, sat Aunt Polly, grandma's maid.

The carriage stopped, and Uncle Robin, bowing and smiling, descended and opened the door, and they all scrambled in and were hugged and kissed, and Polly admired their beauty and exclaimed at their growth. Then the door was clapped to again, but not before Harry had managed to slip out and clamber to the box beside Uncle Robin, who, having driven through the gate, handed him the reins, with a caution to keep his eye upon Peacock. In the estimation of the boy, this sleek and overfed Peacock seemed little less than a raging lion whom only Uncle Robin could quell.

"He'll run in a minute, if he gits a chance," said the guileful Uncle Robin. So Harry clutched the reins and drove proudly past the lot, in full view of some of the men, turned in at the yard gate, and drew up before the door.

Grandma could not wait for the hanging of the Christmas stockings, but insisted upon opening her trunk at once, and displaying her gifts to the children's delighted eyes. The wax babies exceeded their wildest hopes. The house was made horrible with horns and drums. Mammy laughed and showed her dimples and courtesied over her own gorgeous present, and all felt that Christmas had really come.

For several days, indeed, throughout the holidays, Harry felt that he had left childhood far behind him, and, as he strutted about the stable yard, he now and then expectorated, in imitation of Uncle Robin, as though he had a quid in his mouth.

Aunt Polly, though far inferior to Uncle Robin in the children's estimation, was yet a person of distinction, and no naughtiness was ever displayed when she was by to witness it.

Mammy usually enjoyed a gossip with Aunt Polly over the nursery fire. But, sometimes feelings of coolness would arise. Polly belonged to the family of the mother of the children, while Mammy came from that of the father, and between the two a slight rivalry had always existed as to the superiority of her own white children.

"'T is a pity Miss Calline's back's so round," said Polly one night as the children were being undressed.

Now, if there was a feature in which Mammy took a pride, it was in the straightness of the children's limbs and the flatness of their backs, above all the limbs and backs in the other branches of the family; so, firing up at once, she replied that she would like to see a flatter back than "this here one," laying her hand upon Caroline's.

"Miss Emmaline's is a sight flatter," Polly stoutly maintained. "She's got as pretty shape as ever I see,--all our people's got good shapes from old Missis down. I reckon this chile's got her back from her pa's fambly." When Polly said this, Mammy felt that the gauntlet had been flung down, and, at once, with an eloquence all her own, so defended the "shapes" of her "fambly" that Polly was fairly beaten in the war of words, and was forced to admit, with many apologies, that Miss Caroline's back was as flat as Miss Emmaline's.

Mammy accepted the apology with some hauteur, and it was several days before entire cordiality was reëstablished; in fact, in all her after life, Mammy would, when in certain moods, hark back to "dat time when dat long-mouthed Polly had de imperdence to say dat our folks' backs weren't as straight as hern."

Full of peaceful content were the lives of both whites and blacks. Merrily the Christmas went by, to be followed by others as merry, and the winters and summers came and went, turning childhood into maturity and maturity into old age. Mammy's glory reached its zenith when, at "Miss Calline's" grand wedding, she herself rustled about in all the grandeur of a new black silk and Polly was forever squelched. The whole world seemed full of prosperity, abundance, and careless happiness, when suddenly, like a thunderbolt, the war came.

The plantation home was abandoned very carelessly, and with light hearts the family drove away, expecting nothing but to return with the frosts of winter. They refugeed to a farmhouse upon the outskirts of a little up-country village.

Sedley, though still a beardless youth, shouldered his musket, and took his place in the ranks. Sibyl and her mother, in the little rude farmhouse, thought not of their lost splendor, but cheerfully looked for the good days sure to come when, the war over, the dear ones would come back, and the old times. Every Southern woman knows how it was when the great battles were fought and a trembling, white-lipped group of women and aged men would stand huddled together to hear what the midnight dispatches might have in store for them.

In the little upland village the refugees were closely knit together by hopes and fears in common. When sorrow fell upon one household the little community all mourned. But if the wires brought glad words that all at the front were unharmed, there would come a period of happy reaction; the little society would be wildly gay, especially if one or more young heroes from the front had come home with a slight wound,--just enough to make a demigod of him.

Such was Sedley's happy fate one never-to-be-forgotten summer, when every girl in the village fell madly in love with his blue eyes and his gray coat and his mustache and his lovely voice, as he strummed the guitar in the moonlight,--and most of all with his merry laugh. Did time permit, I might tell of such odd costumes, such make-ups of homespun and lace, fine old silks and calicoes, in which the Dixie girls danced so merrily.

It was just upon the heels of one of these happy seasons that a rumor was whispered that the army was about to fall back and that the offices and stores would be removed in consequence. At first the rumor was rejected,--no good Confederate would listen to such treason; but finally the croakers were proved to be right. The government stores were hastily removed. The office-holders took a sad farewell of those whom they left behind them, and the little town was abandoned to its fate, outside the Confederate lines.

Sibyl and her mother were among the tearful group who watched the little band of departing friends, as it passed out of the town, waved a last adieu, and strained their dimmed eyes for a last sight of the Confederate gray, ere they went sadly back to their homes.

When Sibyl and her mother reached home, they found Mammy already at work. She had ripped open a feather bed, and amid its downy depths she was burying whatever she could lay her hands upon. Clothing, jewelry, even a china ornament or two,--all went in. It was a day or two after that Rita complained of a great knot in her bed, which had bruised her back and prevented her sleeping. Mammy heard her, but, waiting until they were alone, said in a half whisper, "Honey, I knows what dat knot is, 't ain't nothin' but your brother's cavalry boots that I hid in the bed. I reckon the feathers has got shuck down. Don't say nothin', an' I'll turn your bed over, and then you won't feel 'em. An', honey, do pray be kereful how you talks before Jim. I ain't got no 'pinion o' Jim, an' it'll never do in de world to let him speck where the things is hid."

No one knew how soon the Yankees might come, and all were busily engaged in concealing whatever they had of value. People may smile now at some of the recollections of that day, but they were earnest enough then, and as much importance was attached to the concealment of a ham or a pound of black sugar as to that of a casket of diamonds. Clothing and provisions were hidden in various strange and out-of-the-way places, and, when night came, Mammy and her mistress were glad to rest their tired bodies, although too much excited to sleep. At last, however, a deep sleep fell upon them, from which they were awakened by the distant roar of cannon. The village, though no longer a depot for Confederate stores, was not to be given up without a struggle. It now became a sort of debatable ground, and cannonading, more or less distant, told the anxious listeners of almost daily skirmishes.