Chapter 8

“Yesterday, the old lady,” pointing to the picture, “came in. She took no notice of her portrait, but said that she had failed to find you; that she was anxious to hear what you had done about the Bureau business.” (I had forgotten it utterly.) “Well, I could tell her nothing, and she started to go out just as a group opened the door to come in. Mammy made one of her courtly bows, and gave place. The young lady who was one of the three coming in, the others evidently her parents, said, in a loud whisper, 'Why, it's she!' Mammy, who either did not hear or did not understand, was about to pass out, when the young lady accosted her with, 'I beg your pardon, but isn't that your portrait?'

“'I grant you grace, young mistiss, but sence I looks, hit is. Hit wuz did by my young mahster, which he can do all kinds of pictures lovely.'

“'Your young master?' the young lady said--sweet voice, too; dev'lish handsome girl--'your young master?' Then she said aside to the others, 'Isn't it charmingly interesting?'

“'Yes, 'm, I call him so. But really I'm only his'n a fif'.'

“'His fif?' the young lady said, looking puzzled. I stepped up to them to explain, just for politeness, though I was sure that they weren't customers, 'She means that he owned a fifth interest in her previous to--the recent change in affairs.'

“'That's hit,' said Mammy, nodding to them. 'But I don't expect to hear from the other fif's. It don't make much diffunce, howsomever, bein' ez how the Bureau is gwine settle up.'

“The visitors evidently did not understand this. I explained what Mammy was after--you had told me, you know. They were very much amused, and asked a heap of questions. After a little talk between themselves, in which I could not help seeing that the young lady was very earnest, the gentleman asked:

“'Is the work for sale?' Was it for sale!”

My friend nearly prostrated me with a hearty punch by way of expressing his feelings, whilst I was choking for an answer.

“Well, sir, I gave him the figger. He bought so quick that it made me sick I hadn't asked more. Looker here!”

He displayed two new greenbacks which covered the amount. We embraced.

At last Mammy had become a source of revenue. I must, in justice to myself, record the fact that a resolve immediately took form in my mind that she also should be a beneficiary of my good fortune.

My friend wanted me to take the picture down myself. I told him that it was not ethical to do so. The precious burden was confided to his porter. When we returned to his store we found the gentleman there who had made the purchase. I was duly presented by my friend.

The gentleman said that he had not noticed my name on the picture particularly, nor on the receipt given by the merchant for the money, which gave the title and painter of the work, until he had gotten back to the hotel, when his wife recognized it and remembered having been in my studio--a fine name for a small concern--in New York, and that we had many friends in common there.

The upshot of the matter was that the gentleman gave me an invitation to call at the Spottswood. I went the next day.

They were immensely amused and interested with any particulars about her. The father--the names are immaterial, the young lady's was Elaine--asked me jocularly at what sum I estimated my fifth in Mammy. I had previously convinced him that we never had the remotest idea of parting with the old lady. Consequently we had never estimated her value, but that I thought my fifth at the time of the settling of the estate would have been about one hundred dollars. After I had made several visits, the three came to see my other picture.

The day after their departure Mammy called. She was in fine spirits over a visit that she had made to my new friends, at their earnest request. All the time that she was speaking she was working at a knot in the corner of her handkerchief. I knew that she kept her small valuables there, but was thunderstruck when she extracted two fifty-dollar bills.

“Why, Mammy! Where--”

“Dat's all right, honey. The Bureau gent'man fix it all, jess like I tole you. He said dat he done 'nquired, an' yo' fif' was wuth dat--two fifties, one hundred--an' I let him off de res.”

“But what gentleman?”

“Dat gent'man whar was at de Spottswood Hotel. He tole me he wuz agent for de Bureau. An' I tell you, Mahs William, dey's quality, dem folks. You kain' fool Becky.”

Of course I did not enlighten Mammy. What would have been the use?

Not many days thereafter I got a request to ship my “Dead Hopes,” at my price, to the address of a frame-maker in New York. Elaine's father said that he had a purchaser for it. I discovered later that he was a master of pleasant fiction.

When I wondered, long after, to him that he should have bought a Confederate picture, he convinced me that my picture had nothing confederate in it; that he had inferred that I had painted it in a catholic spirit. The lady was in mourning, the flowers faded, the letters too small for postmark, the picture on the wall a colorless photograph, and the sword a regulation pattern common to both armies. He thought it very skilfully planned, and complimented me on it. I was silent. All the Confederate part and point had been in my mind.

About a year after this--I had been located in New York some months--Elaine and I came on a visit to Richmond. I might just as well say that it was our bridal trip.

We looked up Mammy in her comfortable quarters. She had been well provided for. There was some little confusion in her mind at first as to who Elaine was, but on being made to understand, called down fervent blessings upon her head.

“Now the old lady kin go happy. I always said that I had nussed Mahs William, an' of I jess could live long 'nuff to--”

Elaine cut in rather abruptly, I thought.

“Why, Mammy, what a beautiful vine you have on your stoop!”

“What's stoop, honey? Dat's a poach.”

Mammy lived some years longer, aging comfortably, and unvexed by any question of fractions. She died a serene integer, with such comfortable assurance of just valuation as is denied most of us, and contented that it should be expressed in terms that were, to her, the only sure criterion applicable to her race.

An Incident

BY SARAH BARNWELL ELLIOTT

It was an ordinary frame house standing on brick legs, and situated on a barren knoll, which, because of the dead level of marsh and swamp and deserted fields from which it rose, seemed to achieve the loneliness of a real height. The south and west sides of the house looked out on marsh and swamp; the north and east sides on a wide stretch of old fields grown up in broom-grass. Beyond the marsh rolled a river, now quite beyond its banks with a freshet; beyond the swamp, which was a cypress swamp, rose a railway embankment leading to a bridge that crossed the river. On the other two sides the old fields ended in a solid black wall of pine-barren. A roadway led from the house through the broom-grass to the barren, and at the beginning of this road stood an outhouse, also on brick legs, which, save for a small stable, was the sole out-building. One end of this house was a kitchen, the other was divided into two rooms for servants. There were some shattered remnants of oak-trees out in the field, and some chimneys overgrown with vines, showing where in happier times the real homestead had stood.

It was toward the end of February; a clear afternoon drawing toward sunset; and all the flat, sad country was covered with a drifting red glow that turned the field of broom-grass into a sea of gold; that lighted up the black wall of pine-barren, and shot, here and there, long shafts of light into the sombre depths of the cypress swamp. There was no sign of life about the dwelling-house, though the doors and windows stood open; but every now and then a negro woman came out of the kitchen and looked about, while within a dog whined.

Shading her eyes with her hand, this woman would gaze across the field toward the ruin; then down the road; then, descending the steps, she would walk a little way toward the swamp and look along the dam that, ending the yard on this side, led out between the marsh and the swamp to the river. The over-full river had backed up into the yard, however, and the line of the dam could now only be guessed at by the wall of solemn cypress-trees that edged the swamp. Still, the woman looked in this direction many times and also toward the railway embankment, from which a path led toward the house, crossing the heap of the swamp by a bridge made of two felled trees.

But look as she would, she evidently did not find what she sought, and muttering “Lawd! Lawd!” she returned to the kitchen, shook the tied dog into silence, and seating herself near the fire, gazed sombrely into its depths. A covered pot hung from the crane over the blaze, making a thick bubbling noise, as if what it contained had boiled itself almost dry, and a coffee-pot on the hearth gave forth a pleasant smell. The woman from time to time turned the spit of a tin kitchen wherein a fowl was roasting, and moved about the coals on the top of a Dutch oven at one side. She had made preparation for a comfortable supper, and evidently for others than herself.

She went again to the open door and looked about, the dog springing up and following to the end of his cord. The sun was nearer the horizon now, and the red glow was brighter. She looked toward the ruin; looked along the road; came down the steps and looked toward the swamp and the railway path. This time she took a few steps in the direction of the house; looked up at its open windows, at the front door standing ajar, at a pair of gloves and a branch from the vine at the ruin, that lay on the top step of the piazza, as if in passing one had put them there, intending to return in a moment. While she looked the distant whistle of a locomotive was heard echoing back and forth about the empty land, and the rumble of an approaching train. She turned a little to listen, then went hurriedly back to the kitchen.

The rumbling sound increased, although the speed was lessened as the river was neared. Very slowly the train was moving, and the woman, peeping from the window, watched a gentleman get off and begin the descent of the path.

“Mass Johnnie!” she said. “Lawd! Lawd!” and again seated herself by the fire until the rapid, firm footstep having passed, she went to the door, and standing well in the shadow, watched.

Up the steps the gentleman ran, pausing to pick up the gloves and the bit of vine. The negro groaned. Then in the open door, “Nellie!” he called, “Nellie!”

The woman heard the call, and going back quickly to her seat by the fire, threw her apron over her head.

“Abram!” was the next call; then, “Aggie!”

She sat quite still, and the master, running up the kitchen steps and coming in at the door, found her so.

“Aggie!”

“Yes, suh.”

“Why didn't you answer me?”

The veiled figure rocked a little from side to side.

“What the mischief is the matter?” walking up to the woman and pulling the apron from over her face. “Where is your Miss Nellie?”

“I dun'no', suh; but yo' supper is ready, Mass Johnnie.”

“Has your mistress driven anywhere?”

“De horse is in de stable, suh.” The woman now rose as if to meet a climax, but her eyes were still on the fire.

“Did she go out walking?”

“Dis mawnin', suh.”

“This morning!” he repeated, slowly, wonderingly, “and has not come back yet?”

The woman began to tremble, and her eyes, shining and terrified, glanced furtively at her master.

“Where is Abram?”

“I dun'no', suh!” It was a gasping whisper.

The master gripped her shoulder, and with a maddened roar he cried her name --“Aggie!”

The woman sank down. Perhaps his grasp forced her down. “'Fo' Gawd!” she cried--“'fo Gawd, Mass Johnnie, I dun'no'!” holding up beseeching hands between herself and the awful glare of his eyes. “I'll tell you, suh, Mass Johnnie, I'll tell you!” crouching away from him. “Miss Nellie gimme out dinner en supper, den she put on she hat en gone to de ole chimbly en git some de brier what grow dey. Den she come back en tell Abram fuh git a bresh broom en sweep de ya'd. Lemme go, Mass Johnnie, please, suh, en I tell you better, suh. En Abram teck de hatchet en gone to'des de railroad fuh cut de bresh. 'Fo' Gawd, Mass Johnnie, it's de trute, suh! Den I tell Miss Nellie say de chicken is all git out de coop, en she say I muss ketch one fuh unner supper, suh; en I teck de dawg en gone in de fiel' fuh look fuh de chicken. En I see Miss Nellie put 'e glub en de brier on de step, en walk to'des de swamp, like 'e was goin' on de dam--'kase de water ent rise ober de dam den--en den I gone in de broom-grass en I run de chicken, en I ent ketch one tay I git clean ober to de woods. En when I come back de glub is layin' on de step, en de brier, des like Miss Nellie leff um--” She stopped, and her master straightened himself.

“Well,” he said, and his voice was strained and weak.

The servant once more flung her apron over her head, and broke into violent crying. “Dat's all, Mass Johnnie! dat's all! I dun'no' wey Abram is gone; I dun'no' what Abram is do! Nobody ent been on de place dis day--dis day but me--but me! Oh, Lawd! oh, Lawd en Gawd!”

The master stood as if dazed. His face was drawn and gray, and his breath came in awful gasps. A moment he stood so, then he strode out of the house. With a howl the dog sprang forward, snapping the cord, and rushed after his master.

The woman's cries ceased, and without moving from her crouching position she listened with straining ears to the sounds that reached her from the stable. In a moment the clatter of horses' hoofs going at a furious pace swept by, then a dead silence fell. The intense quiet seemed to rouse her, and going to the door, she looked out. The glow had faded, and the gray mist was gathering in distinct strata above the marsh and the river. She went out and looked about her as she had done so many times during that long day. She gazed at the water that was still rising; she peered cautiously behind the stable and under the houses; she approached the wood-pile as if under protest, gathered some logs into her arms and an axe that was lying there; then turning toward the kitchen, she hastened her steps, looking back over her shoulder now and again, as if fearing pursuit. Once in the kitchen she threw down the wood and barred the door; she shut the boarded window-shutter, fastening it with an iron hook; then leaning the axe against the chimney, she sat down by the fire, muttering, “If dat nigger come sneakin' back yer now, I'll split 'e haid open, _sho_.”

Recovering a little from her panic, she was once more a cook, and swung the crane from over the fire, brushed the coals from the top of the Dutch oven, and pushed the tin kitchen farther from the blaze. “Mass Johnnie'll want sump'h'n to eat some time dis night,” she said; then, after a pause, “en I gwine eat _now_.” She got a plate and cup, and helped herself to hominy out of the pot, and to a roll out of the oven; but though she looked at the fowl she did not touch it, helping herself instead to a goodly cup of coffee. So she ate and drank with the axe close beside her, now and then pausing to groan and mutter--“Po' Mass Johnnie!--po' Mass Johnnie!--Lawd! Lawd!--if Miss Nellie had er sen' Abram atter dat chicken--like I tell um--Lawd!” shaking her head the while.

Through the gathering dusk John Morris galloped at the top speed of his horse. Reaching the little railway station, he sprang off, throwing the reins over a post, and strode in.

“Write this telegram for me, Green,” he said; “my hand trembles.

“_To Sam Partin, Sheriff, Pineville:_

“My wife missing since morning. Negro, Abram Washington, disappeared. Bring men and dogs. Get off night train this side of bridge. Will be fire on the path to mark the place.

“JOHN MORRIS.”

“Great God!” the operator said, in a low voice. “I'll come too, Mr. Morris.”

“Thank you,” John Morris answered. “I'm going to get the Wilson boys, and Rountree and Mitchell,” and for the first time the men's eyes met. Determined, deadly, sombre, was the look exchanged; then Morris went away.

None of the men whom Morris summoned said much, nor did they take long to arm themselves, saddle, and mount, and by nine o'clock Aggie heard them come galloping across the field; then her master's voice calling her. There was little time in which to make the signal-fire on the railroad embankment, and to cut light-wood into torches, even though there were many hands to do the work. John Morris's dog followed him a part of the way to the wood-pile, then turned aside to where the water had crept up from the swamp into the yard. Aggie saw the dog, and spoke to Mr. Morris.

“Dat's de way dat dawg do dis mawnin', Mass Johnnie, an' when I gone to ketch de chicken, Miss Nellie was walkin' to'des dat berry place.”

An irresistible shudder went over John Morris, and one of the gentlemen standing near asked if he had a boat.

“The bateau was tied to that stake this morning,” Mr. Morris answered, pointing to a stake some distance out in the water; “but I have another boat in the top of the stable.” Every man turned to go for it, showing the direction of their fears, and launched it where the log bridge crossed the head of the swamp, and where now the water was quite deep.

The whistle was heard at the station, and the rumble of the on-coming train. The fire flared high, lighting up the group of men standing about it, booted and belted with ammunition-belts, quiet, and white, and determined.

Many curious heads looked out as the sheriff and his men--six men besides Green from the station--got off; then the train rumbled away in the darkness toward the surging, turbulent river, and the crowd moved toward the house.

Mr. Morris told of his absence in town on business. That Abram had been hired first as a field-hand; and that later, after his marriage, he had taken Abram from the field to look after his horse and to do the heavier work about the house and yard.

“And the woman Aggie is trust-worthy?”

“I am sure of it; she used to belong to us.”

“Abram is a strange negro?”

“Yes.”

Then Aggie was called in to tell her story. Abram had taken the hatchet and had gone toward the railroad for brush to make a broom. She had taken the dog and gone into the broom-grass to catch a fowl, and the last she had seen of her mistress she was walking toward the dam, which was then above the water.

“How long were you gone after the chicken?”

“I dun'no', suh; but I run um clean to de woods 'fo' I ketch um, en I walk back slow 'kase I tired.”

“Were you gone an hour?”

“I spec so, suh, 'kase when I done ketch de chicken I stop fuh pick up some light-wood I see wey Abram been cuttin' wood yistiddy.”

“And your mistress was not here when you came back--nor Abram?”

“No, suh, nobody; en 'e wuz so lonesome I come en look in dis house fuh Miss Nellie, but 'e ent deyyer; en I look in de bush fuh Abram, but I ent see um nudder. En de dawg run to de water en howl en ba'k en ba'k tay I tie um up in de kitchen.”

“And was the boat tied to the stake this morning?”

“Yes, suh; en when I been home long time en git scare, den I look en see de boat gone.”

“You don't think that your mistress got in the boat and drifted away by accident?”

“No, suh, nebber, suh; Miss Nellie 'fraid de water lessen Mass Johnnie is wid um.”

“Is Abram a good boy?”

“I dun'no', suh; I dun'no' nuffin 'tall 'bout Abram, suh; Abram is strange nigger to we.”

“Did he take his things out of his room?”

“Abram t'ings? Ki! Abram ent hab nuttin' ceppen what Miss Nellie en Mass Johnnie gi' um. No, suh, dat nigger ent hab nuttin' but de close on 'e back when 'e come to we.”

The sheriff paused a moment. “I think, Mr. Morris,” he said at last, “that we'd better separate. You, with Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Rountree, had better take your boat and hunt in the swamp and marsh, and along the river-bank. Let Mr. Wilson, his brothers, and Green take your dog and search in the pine-barren. I'll take my men and my dogs and cross the railroad. The signal of any discovery will be three shots fired in quick succession. The gathering-place'll be this house, where a member of the discovering party'll meet the other parties and bring 'em to the discovery. And I beg that you'll refrain from violence, at least until we can reach each other. We've no proof of anything--”

“Damn proof!”

“An' our only clew,” the sheriff went on, “the missing boat, points to Mrs. Morris's safety.” A little consultation ensued; then agreeing to the sheriff's distribution of forces, they left the house.

The sheriff's dogs--the lean, small hounds used on such occasions--were tied, and he held the ropes. There was an anxious look on his face, and he kept his dogs near the house until the party for the barren had mounted and ridden away, and the party in the boat had pushed off into the blackness of the swamp, a torch fastened at the prow casting weird, uncertain shadows. Then ordering his six men to mount and to lead his horse, he went to the room of the negro Abram and got an old shirt. The two lean little dogs were restless, but they made no sound as he led them across the railway. Once on the other side, he let them smell the shirt, and loosed them, and was about to mount, when, in the flash of a torch, he saw something in the grass.

“A hatchet!” he said to his companions, picking it up; “and clean, thank God!”

The men looked at each other, then one said, slowly, “He coulder drowned her?”

The sheriff did not answer, but followed the dogs that had trotted away with their noses to the ground.

“I'm sure the nigger came this way,” the sheriff said, after a while. “Those others may find the poor young lady, but I feel sure of the nigger.”

One of the men stopped short. “That nigger's got to die,” he said.

“Of course,” the sheriff answered, “but not by Judge Lynch's court. This circuit's got a judge that'll hang him lawfully.”

“I b'lieve Judge More will,” the recalcitrant admitted, and rode on. “But,” he added, “if I know Mr. John Morris, that nigger's safe to die one way or another.”

They rode more rapidly now, as the dogs had quickened their pace. The moon had risen, and the riding, for men who hunted recklessly, was not bad. Through woods and across fields, over fences and streams, down by-paths and old roads, they followed the little dogs.

“We're makin' straight for the next county,” the sheriff said.

“We're makin' straight for the old Powis settlement,” was answered. “Nothin' but niggers have lived there since the war, an' that nigger's there, I'll bet.”

“That's so,” the sheriff said. “About how many niggers live there now?”

“There ain't more than half a dozen cabins left now. We can easy manage that many.”

It was a long rough ride, and in spite of their rapid pace it was some time after midnight before they saw the clearing where clustered the few cabins left of the plantation quarters of a well-known place, which in its day had yielded wealth to its owners. The moon was very bright, and, save for the sound of the horses' feet, the silence was intense.

“Look sharp,” the sheriff said; “that nigger ain't sleepin' much if he's here, and he might try to slip off.”

The dogs were going faster now, and yelping a little.

“Keep up, boys!” and the sheriff spurred his horse.

In a few minutes they thundered into the little settlement, where the dogs were already barking and leaping against a close-shut door. Frightened black faces began to peer out. Low exclamations and guttural ejaculations were heard as the armed men scattered, one to each cabin, while the sheriff hammered at the door where the dogs were jumping.

“It's the sheriff!” he called, “come to get Abram Washington. Bring him out and you kin go back to your beds. We're all armed, and nobody need to try runnin'.”