The Man in Gray: A Romance of North and South Part 3

"I can't."

"We're goin' fishin'--"

"Honest?"

"Sure. Uncle Ben's sick. But after dinner he's promised to take us. He's not too sick to fish."

"I can't stay," the barefoot boy sighed.

"Come on. There's three bird's nests in the orchard. The second layin'.

It ain't no harm to break up the second nest. Birds've no business layin' twice in one season. We _ought_ to break 'em up."

"I'm afraid I can't."

His tone grew weaker and Robbie pressed him.

"Come on. We'll get the bird's eggs and chase the calves and colts till the dinner bell rings, ride the horses home from the fields, and go fishin' after dinner and stay till dark."

"No--"

"Come on!"

John glanced up the road toward the big gate beyond which his mother was waiting his return. The temptation was more than his boy's soul could resist. He shook his head--paused--and grinned.

"Come on, Sid, John's goin' with us," Robbie called to his young henchman as he approached.

"All right," John consented, finally throwing every scruple to the winds. "Ma'll whip me sh.o.r.e, but, by granny, it'll be worth it!"

The aristocrat slipped his arm around his chum and led him to the orchard in triumph.

Custis laughed.

"He'd rather play with that little, poor white rascal than any boy in the country."

"Don't blame him," Phil replied. "He may be dirty and ragged but he's a real boy after a real boy's heart. And the handsomest little beggar I ever saw--who is he?"

"The boy of a poor white family, the Doyles. They live just outside our gate on a ten-acre farm. His mother's trying to make him go to school.

His father laughs and lets him go hunting and fishing."

They were strolling past the first neat row of houses in the servants'

quarters. Phil thought of them as the slave quarters. Yet he had not heard the word slave spoken since his arrival. These black people were "servants" and some of them were the friends and confidants of their master and his household. Phil paused in front of a cottage. The yard flamed with autumn flowers. Through the open door and windows came the hum of spinning wheels and the low, sweet singing of the dark spinners, spinning wool for the winter clothing of the estate. From the next door came the click and crash of the looms weaving the warm cloth.

"You make your own cloth?" the Westerner asked in surprise.

"Of course, for the servants. It takes six spinners and three weavers working steadily all year to keep up with it, too."

"Isn't it expensive?"

"Maybe. We never thought of it. We just make it. Always have in our family for a hundred years."

They pa.s.sed the blacksmith's shop and saw him shoeing a blooded colt.

Phil touched the horse's nostrils with a gentle hand and the colt nudged him.

"It's funny how a horse knows a horseman instinctively--isn't it, Phil?"

"Yes. He knows I'm going to join the cavalry."

They moved down the long row of whitewashed cottages, each with its yard of flowers and each with a huge pile of wood in the rear--wood enough to keep a sparkling fire through the winter. Chubby-faced babies were playing in the sanded walks and smiling young mothers watched them from the doors.

Phil started to put a question, stammered and was silent.

"What is it?" Custis asked.

"You'll pardon my asking it, old boy, but are these black folks married?"

The Southern boy laughed heartily.

"I should say so. A negro wedding is one of the joys of a plantation boy's life."

"But isn't it awful when they're separated?"

"They're not separated."

"Never?"

"Not on this plantation. Nor on any estate whose master and mistress are our friends. It's not done in our set."

"You keep them when they're old, lazy and worthless?"

"If they're married, yes. It's a luxury we never deny ourselves, this softening of the rigor of the slave regime. It's not business. But it's the custom of the country. To separate a husband and wife is an unheard-of thing among our people."

The thing that impressed the Westerner in those white rows of little homes was the order and quiet of it all. Every yard was swept clean.

There was nowhere a trace of filth or disease-breeding refuse. And birds were singing in the bushes beside these slave cottages as sweetly as they sang for the master and mistress in the pillared mansion on the hill. They pa.s.sed the stables and paused to watch a dozen colts playing in the inclosure. Beyond the stable under the shadows of great oaks was the dog kennel. A pack of fox hounds rushed to the gate with loud welcome to their young master. He stooped to stroke each head and call each dog's name. A wagging tail responded briskly to every greeting. In another division of the kennel romped a dozen bird-dogs, pointers and setters. The puppies were nearly grown and eager for the fields. They climbed over Custis in yelping puppy joy that refused all rebuffs.

Phil looked in vain for the bloodhounds. He was afraid to ask about them lest he offend his host. Custis had never seen a bloodhound and could not guess the question back of his schoolmate's silence.

Sam entered the inclosure with breakfast for the dogs.

Phil couldn't keep his eyes off the sunlit, ebony face. His smile was contagious. His voice was music.

The Westerner couldn't resist the temptation to draw him out.

"You were certainly dressed up last night, Sam!"

"Yer lak dat suit I had on, sah?"

"It was a great combination."