Plantation Sketches Part 7

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 Peac.o.c.k. In the estimation of the boy, this sleek and overfed Peac.o.c.k 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 reestablished; 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 demiG.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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.

Awakened by the cannon's roar, Sibyl opened the window and listened. A pale glory to the eastward, a low rustle of leaves, a drowsy chirp from tiny nests, all merging into one inarticulate murmur of awakening nature, told that night was over. Sibyl and her mother hastily dressed themselves, called Rita from her fearless young sleep, roused up the baby, as they still called little Joe; then asked themselves why they did it. There was nothing to do but to sit on the porch or to wander aimlessly, listening with beating hearts to the faint and more faint boom of the artillery. And the roses glowed in the May sunshine, and the honeysuckle wafted its perfume in at the open windows, and the bees droned among the flowers, and all was so peaceful, but for the incessant dull roar of the battle.

The Confederates were finally driven back, the Federals entered the town, and then the b.u.mmers came streaming through the country, leaving desolation behind them. Cattle, poultry, everything eatable was driven off or carried away in the great army wagons that came crashing along, regardless of all obstacles in their cruel course. Cut off from all news from the army, Sibyl and her mother dragged wearily through the long, sad summer, and the two children grew gaunt for want of nourishing food.

It was a morning in the early autumn that Sibyl, sitting at work by an open window, became suddenly conscious of an unusual presence near her, and, looking up, beheld a man gazing fixedly upon her. A party of Federals had that very morning visited the house upon a pretended search for concealed weapons, and the girl, with nerves still vibrating with terror, uttered a little shriek, and, starting up, was about to close the window, when the figure leaped over the low sill, a pair of strong arms encircled her, kisses fell upon her lips, and, ere the shriek of terror could find voice, she recognized, under the rough countryman's hat, the laughing eyes of her brother Sedley.

Such meetings can be better imagined than described; seconds had become minutes ere Sibyl or her mother could begin to realize their joy, which, in its first intensity, was almost pain. Then came the breathless questionings as to the well-being of the other dear ones, then the deep sigh of thankfulness from the long-burdened hearts.

At the sound of a strange voice. Mammy, peeping in at the open door, had fallen prostrate with joy, and, while hugging her boy to her faithful bosom, had called upon her Maker to testify that upon this very morning the scissors had stuck up twice.

"An' I knowed when dey done dat, dat somebody was a-comin'."

Then Dinah, the cook, came in, courtesying and laughing and loyal as though no emanc.i.p.ating army had set foot in Dixie.

When the joyful tidings had reached the children, Rita's thin legs might have been seen flying through the high gra.s.s. The more practical Joe toiled behind, bending under the burden of (their treasure trove) a big pumpkin, a basket of persimmons, and a few stalks of sorghum, for, like the Scriptural colts of the wild a.s.s, they pa.s.sed their time in searching after every green thing.

In the magnetism of the bright presence of the young soldier, all the sad forebodings seemed to vanish into thin air. While listening to his brave words of hope, they forgot that the sunny hours of this most happy day were hastening by. Already the shadows lay long upon the gra.s.s, and there remained yet so much to be said and so little time wherein to say it! By set of sun Sedley must be on his way to rejoin his command. His brief and daring visit had been achieved by his a.s.suming a disguise before venturing inside the enemy's lines.

"How did you ever manage it?" asked the mother. "I tremble when I think of it."

"Oh," he answered, "it was easy enough. I came in with a fellow who was driving cattle into town."

"Oh, Sed!" his sister whispered; "you ran an awful risk; how will you manage to get back without being discovered?"

"There'll be no trouble about that," he answered. "Don't you and mother go and worry yourselves about me. I'll be all right, so cheer up and don't look so doleful."

Urged on by fear, they now almost hurried him away, and Mammy, while filling his haversack with provisions, entreated him to be careful.

"De ain't no tellin' what dem Yankees would do ef dey once clapt hands on you."

Sedley might guess shrewdly enough what his fate would be in such case, but he replied, with his old boyish laugh, that it was his trade to outrun the Yankees.

"Never fear, Mammy," he said at parting. "Trust me to beat 'em at that game."

Then the sad good-byes were said, and manfully he strode down the little path, turning only once to wave a last good-by to the sorrowful group on the broad front porch, who watched till he pa.s.sed out of sight.

The night was spent in anxious watching, but confidence returned with the morning, and all again settled back to their employments and amus.e.m.e.nts. Sybil wandered into the parlor, and, sitting down to the piano, sang in a low, sweet voice some of the pathetic war melodies.

The "colts of the wild a.s.s seeking after every green thing" had sought the sorghum patch, and Mammy had taken a basket into the garden for a final gathering of sage leaves. The day was dreamy, as only an October day of the South can be. The tempered sunlight, streaming softly through the filmy autumnal mist, threw a veil of loveliness over the homeliest objects; the old gray fences, the russet fields, the lonely pastures, where from beneath the gra.s.s roots the tiny crickets chanted their low, sweet dirge the long day through, the cawing of the crows from a distant tree-top, all told in notes of most harmonious pathos that "the fashion of this world pa.s.seth away."

As Mammy, with back stiffened from stooping, raised herself for a moment's rest, she saw Jim lounge into the backyard and speak to Dinah. Mammy had but little use for Jim in general, but now she felt anxious to know what had been going on in the village, and for that reason she left her basket among the sage and went near to hear what he was saying. As she drew near, Dinah suddenly threw up her hands, and, starting from the hencoop on which she had been leaning, came towards her, stuttering and stammering in a manner so excited as to be unintelligible.

"What's dat you say? For G.o.ds sake, ooman, say what yere got to say, an' be done wid it!" said Mammy, too frightened to be patient. Jim then drew near to her and, glancing cautiously towards the not very distant piazza, upon which his mistress happened at the moment to be standing, he whispered, "Dey's done ketched him."

"K-k-ketched who?" stammered Mammy fiercely.

"Mas' Sedley, dat's who," Jim answered doggedly.

"How you know? I don't b'lieve a word on it."

"Anyhow, dey's done done it."

"Ho' come you know so much 'bout it?"

"'Cause I seen 'em when dey done it."

"Y-y-you have de face to stan' da an' tell me dat you seen 'em a-troublin' dat chile an' you not lif' a han' to help him?"