Old Times in Dixie Land Part 3

However that may have been, our slaves remained on the place, and many of them and their descendants are yet in the employ of the family. It was considered by some persons to be treason to the Confederacy to speak of the freedom of the slaves in their presence, as if refusal to acknowledge the emanc.i.p.ation act would avert its going into effect.

This att.i.tude towards their liberty destroyed all confidence in the master's advice, and so his negroes left him. It was several years before the emanc.i.p.ation of the slave was universally effected, there being secluded places into which the news of freedom percolated slowly, and where slavery existed for some time uninterrupted. In following the army parents often abandoned young children. These were given to anybody who would burden themselves with their care. In many cases the natural guardian never again appeared, and these abandoned ones were practically bond-servants until they learned how to be free of themselves.

Careworn and anxious as we were waiting news of our loved ones in the field and of the cause in which we had risked our all, we were too busy to be sad. Telegraphic communication with the center of war was often cut off for many days. During these agonizing, silent seasons the women drew nearer together, and kept busy sc.r.a.ping lint for the hospitals and converting every woolen dress and every yard of carpet left in the house into shirts and bedding for our boys at the front. We varied the labor of managing plantations with every species of bazaar, supper, candy-pulling and tableaux that would raise a dollar for the army. Then we got all the entertainment we could out of our daily domestic round, as I did out of Becky Coleman, one of my old servants who occasionally relieved the monotony of her "daily round" by coming "to 'nquire 'bout de white folks." It was October when she made one of these visits, but summer reigned in earth and sky. A n.o.ble avenue of black walnuts completely shaded one side of my Myrtle Grove house. The large green nuts were beginning to ripen, for when a branch swayed in the wind one would drop from time to time with such a resounding thump upon the ground that it was a matter for satisfaction when Becky seated herself on the steps of the porch without having encountered a thwack on her head from the missile-dealing trees.

"I hear singing over in the woods," said I to Becky. "Why are you not at the meeting this evening?"

"Who? me? eh--eh--but may be yo don' kno' I dun got my satisfacshun down dar a while ago. I'm better off at home. Hester done got me convinced.

Lemme tell you how 'twas. One Sunday ebenin' I heard tell dar wurs gwine to be er sort er 'sperience praar-meeting down to ole Unk Spencer's house, en es 'twan't fer, I jes' tuk my foot in my han'! I did, en I went dar.

"Well, ev'rything was gwine on reg'lar, en peaceable, widout no kin' er animosity, plum till dey riz up to sing de very las' _hime_. De preacher who wus er leadin' got up den en tuk up de _hime_ book en gin out:

"'Ermazin' grace how sweet de soun'

In de beleever's year!'

"Now, yo knows yo'sef dey ain't nothin' tall incitin' 'bout dat ar' chune: you knows it; en as fer me, I was jes' dar er stanin' up wid de res', wid my mouf open, jes' er singin' fer dear life, never dreamin' 'bout nothin'

happ'nin', when heah c.u.m Hester Whitfiel'--coming catter-corner 'cross from de yuther side er de house, wid her han' h'isted up in de aar, en I 'clar fo' de Lawd, she hit me er clip rite in my lef' eye, en mos' busted it clean outen my haid. It c.u.m so onexpectedlike dat leetle mo'en I would er drap in de flo'. I jes' felt like I wus shot! Den she had er pa'cel er big bra.s.s rings on her han', en dey cut rite inter my meat!

"I tell yo', ma'am, I was hurted, I jes' seed stars, I did! so I up en tole her: "Oman, ef yo got ennything 'g'inst me, why don't you come out in de big road en gimme er fair fight? Fer Gawd-elmighty's sake don' go en make 'ten' like yo happy, en bus' my eye open dis heah way.' Says I, "Ligion ain't got nuthin' ter do wid no sich 'havoir; I don' see no Holy Sperit 'bout it,' says I. "Twas jes' de nachul ole saturn what mak' yo'

do dat, en I jes knows it,' says I. "Ligion don' make n.o.body hurt nothin',' says I. Yo reads de Book, Miss Calline, en yo knows I'm speakin'

de salvashun trufe, now ain't I?

"Den all de folks c.u.m crowdin' 'roun' en gethered a holt uv us, en ef dey hadn't, I lay I woulder stretched her out dar in de flo', fer I'm de bes'

'oman--er long ways--en I would er had _her_ convinced in no time. But dey all tu'ned in en baig me ter look over it, bein' es how it happen in meetin'-time; but I tell yo, ma-am, I never look nowhars wid dat eye fer mor'n free weeks. Why, it wus so swole up en sore, I jes' had ter bandage it wid sa.s.syfras peth and wid slippery ellum poultices day en night, en my eye wus dat red, en bloodshottened, dat I never 'spected to see daylight outen it no mo'; en I clar' fo' de Lawd it ain't, got rite na'chul till yit!

"No longer'n dis very ebenin' my ole man, Tom, says ter me: 'I dun seed nuff trouble wid yo, Beck. You needs dem big pop eyes er yone to patch my close, en wuk wid, en I ain't er gwine to hev no bline 'oman rown' me,'

says he; 'en I let yo know frum dis out yo don't go ter no mo'

praar-meetin's, 'zaminashuns er what-cher-callums; dat's de long en short uv it!' says he. 'Ef you ain' got sense nuff ter stay away frum dar,' says he, 'I'll insense yo wid my fis'.' I knows de weight er dat han' er hisen, en I'm gwine min' him _dis_ time, ennyhow;" and Becky pointed toward the cabin from whence the sound of singing was wafted on the breeze, saying, "Yes'um, I'm gwine stay away frum dar, fer er fac'!"

"Becky, is such an incident common at your prayer-meetings?" I inquired.

"Why, no, ma'am, nuthin' like dat never happen to me befo'; yit, I 'members mighty well when Betsy Washin'ton c.u.m thoo'--'fo' she jined de chu'ch. 'Twas in de meetin'-house, but yo couldn't onerstan' one single wud de preacher wus er sayin', fer she wus jes' er shoutin' es loud es she could fer who las' de longes'--en I onertuk, fool like, to hole her; fer she wus in sich a swivit, we wus feared she'd brek loose en go inter a reg'lar hard fit, so I jes' grabbed good holt er de 'oman, 'roun' de wais', es she wus er hollerin', en er jumpin'; en when she felt de grip I fotch on her, she tu'n 'roun', she did, en gethered my sleeve in 'tween her fingers (en she is jes' es strong es enny mule), en sh.o.r.e's yore settin' dar in dat air big cheer, en I'm er stannin' heah, talkin' ter yer, she gin me one single jerk, en I 'clar ter Gawd, she tore my whole sleeve outen de arm-hole, en ripped er big slit clean 'cross my coat body!

Why I jes' thought de 'oman wus gwine ter strip me start naiked, rite dar in de meetin'-house! I got dat shame I jes' let er go, I did, en den went perusin' roun' 'mongst de wimmin en borryd er shawl ter kiver me up; en den I moved on todes home.

"But I mus' let yo know de nex' time I met up wid Betsy, I washed her face good wid what she dun. I jes' tole her de nex' time she got ter shoutin'

'roun' me she mout bre'k her neck--I wan't gwine hole her, I wan't gwine tech her; 'fer,' says I, 'yo done gone en 'stroyed de bes' Sunday dress I got, yo is dat,' says I, 'fer er fac'!'

"Den Betsy 'lowed she didn't keer, en dat she didn't know what she wus er doin', but I tuk mighty good notice she never made no motion to grab onter Aunt Sally Brown's co'se homespun gown when _she_ tuk er tu'n er hol'in uv her. But uv co'se, I heap ruther hev my close tore dan to hev my eye busted out. But dey ain't no need er airy one bein' done; en I tole her so, I did dat. 'Sholey Christians,' say I, 'kin 'joy dersef widout hurtin'

n.o.body, neither tarin' der close!' I up en axed her ef she eber knowed de white folks in de big house karyin' on datterway, en ef she eber seed Miss Marthy er Miss Reeny er cuttin' up like dat in de white folks'

meetin'-house? Well, she jes' bust out er laffiin' in my face at dat, en she 'lowed n.i.g.g.ahs wan't like white folks nohow.

"'I knows better'n dat,' says I. 'Fer Gawd made us all outen de dus' er de groun', bofe de white en de black;' en, Miss Calline, yo' ma uster tell me ef I 'haved mysef, en kep' mysef clean, en never tole no lies, ner 'sturb yuther folks' things, I wus good es ennybody, en I b'lieves it till yit; dat's de salvashun trufe, I'm tellin', white 'oman, it sholey is!

"But _den_ Betsy got mad, she did, en gin me er push,--we wus walkin'

'long de top er de levee--en I wus so aggervated dat I c.u.m back at 'er wid er knock dat made her roll down smack inter de gully. Den she hollered so de men fishin' unner de river bank c.u.m er runnin'. She had don' sprain her wris', en ef her arm had been broke she cudn't er made no mo' fuss. Lemme tell yo de trufe! de very nex' Sunday dey tu'ned us bofe outen de chu'ch case we fit, en I cayn't go to praar-meetin' tell I done jine ergin."

"Well, Becky, you've made me forget there is a war and Yankee raids, and I reckon I'll have to give you a cup of store-coffee for doing it."

"Thanky, Miss Calline! I'll be powerful 'bliged ter yo'; en I mus' be er movin', en pa'ch dis heah coffee fer my ole mammy's supper, fer she's gittin' monshus tired of tea off dem tater chips what we has ter drink dese days."

CHAPTER VII.

WAR MEMORIES: THE STORY OF PATSY'S GARDEN.

Our vision of the outside world of human affairs was very narrow and circ.u.mscribed in those war-times, and my seminary of five young girls was often a victim to _ennui_. No weekly mail, no books, no music, no new gowns from one year's end to another.

The only vital question was: "What is the war news?" There were also no coffee, no loaf-sugar, no lemons in the house. However, with plenty of milk, eggs and b.u.t.ter, fresh fruit and vegetables, to say nothing of fowls galore, we survived. The girls made cake and candy, so with the abundance of open-kettle brown sugar, we diversified our daily _menu_ with many sweet compounds.

The one unfailing source of pleasure was the garden. True, the army at Morganza would send out a raid every fortnight, when fences were broken down and destroyed: then the cows and other cattle would get in and partake of our lettuce and cabbages. But we never gave up; the negroes would drive the marauding cattle out and rebuild the fences every time they were destroyed. On one of these occasions I heard Miss Emma Chalfant say to Uncle Primus: "I shall tell on you when your people come back here; I heard you curse and swear at Mrs. Merrick's cows this morning--and you call yourself a preacher, too!" "Dese cows and dese Yankees is 'nuff to make ennybody cuss, Miss Emma," said the negro, as he went along snapping his long whip as he drove the poor animals away from the garden.

Here I am tempted to give the true story of Martha Benton. This girl became positively exhilarated under the influence of perfume and flowers.

The delectable odor of Sweet Olive--a mingled essence of peach, pineapple, and orange-flower--produced in her a frenzy of delight. She had been introduced to the exotic floral world by the proprietor of a fine garden where she frequently visited.

Her father could not understand his daughter's delight in the contemplation of Nature's beauty; for, as far as these things were concerned, he was afflicted with a total blindness worse than a loss of actual sight. Mr. Benton was fond of fruit but he never noticed or admired the flowers from which the fruit was formed. Nevertheless, he seemed pleased that his neighbor, Mr. Thornton, should be interested in his daughter, and take pleasure in talking with her about his rare plants.

"Miss Patsy," said Mr. Thornton, "it requires tact and perseverance to grow a perfect lily."

"I could do it if I had the bulbs," said the girl.

At the close of the interview, a dozen bulbs and an extensive package of plants were put in the carriage for the young lady to take home, as a compliment to her interest in his favorite pursuit.

Mr. Benton's front door-yard was given over to his horses, and sometimes the calves were allowed to share in the rich pasturage it furnished.

Several ancient cedar trees, ragged and untrimmed, and two thrifty oaks stood on what should have been a lawn, and a straggling row of pomegranates grew along the line of fence on one side, apparently in defiance of cattle and all other exterminating influences.

On her return home, Patsy displayed her treasures to her mother, and was enthusiastic over her floral prospects.

"Papa," said she, "you must give me s.p.a.ce in the vegetable garden for the present, and Tom must prepare the ground."

"It is perfect foolishness," said Mr. Benton. "Old Thornton is such a stuck-up old goose that I hated to make him mad, otherwise I should not have brought these things home with me. The truth is I would not swap a row of cotton-plants in my field for everything that old man has got in all his grounds and greenhouses put together."

"O father, everything he has is so beautiful!" said Patsy. "The summer-houses are like fairy-land, all covered over with roses and vines."

"You keep cool, Pat, and don't set your head on having a flower-garden.

Your mother was just like you when I married her. The first thing she did was to set out some rose bushes in the front yard. Soon after she took sick and they all died, and she herself came mighty near doing the same thing; so she gave up the whole business, like a sensible woman. Tom is hoeing potatoes just now, and you must not call him from his work to plant this truck, which is of no account anyway. You'd better fling it all in the river. It would be far better than to go out on the damp ground wasting your time and labor."

"No, indeed," said Patsy, who had the dauntless energy of a true gardener; "I shall plant them myself--every one!"

She did so, and her treasures made themselves at home in the rich, mellow soil, and throve wonderfully in response to her careful tending. In a short time she gathered roses and violets, and her golden-banded lilies shot up several tall stems crowned with slender, shapely buds, which were watched with great solicitude. Every morning Patsy would say: "They will bloom to-morrow."

Mr. Benton refused to "consider the lilies" of his daughter except in the light of a nuisance. Only the evening before, he had seen her standing in the bean-arbor with Walter Jones, who seemed lost in his admiration of the girl while she devoured the beauty of the flowers; and Mr. Benton was not happy at the sight.

"It just beats the devil," he said to himself, "how there is always a serpent getting into a man's garden to beguile a foolish girl. It ain't no suitable place anyhow for girls to be dodging around in with their beaux.

My mind's made up," said he, striking his closed right hand into the open palm of the left. "I'll wipe out that flower-bed."

Early the next morning, before the family had risen, Mr. Benton marched into the garden armed with a hoe. He went to the lily-bed and began the work of destruction. Aunt Cindy, the cook, was surprised as she took a view from the kitchen window.