Chapter XXXIX: A Visit of Tender Memories 320 (6)

“Lemme ask you, Charlotte,” said Stucker, carefully splitting his dodger, and sopping the hot crumbs in the bacon gravy, “is you missed ary thing outen de yard on dese premises? Caze I heard dem two little gals havin’ a big talk in dat room next to me last night; you knows dat’s a mighty weaky boardin’ ’tween dose rooms and a pusson don’t have to listen to hear. I bin hearin’ ’em movin’ ’bout and a whisperin’ most ginerally every night when dey ought most likely to be asleep. Las’ night a old owl was a squinchin’ on dat mulberry tree by de winder, and de shutter hit slammed. Dat woke dem gals up; it was atter midnight; dey was skeert, one on ’em begin to blubber and sed de debbil was dar to kotch ’em. From de way dey talked—(but it was mystifyin’, I tell you)—I ’lowed in my mind dem gals had stole somethin’, I couldn’t gather what, fur dey didn’t name no specials, but sure’s you born dey’s up to somethin’, and skeered to death ’bout its bein’ foun’ out.”

Charlotte stopped on her way to the frying pan with widening eyes and uplifted fork, and listened attentively, with an occasional jerk of the head toward William.

“Jist tell me,” pursued Levi, “if you ’low dose gals to have de run of de quarters, caze dey gits mischief in dere heads if dey run wid quarter niggers.”

“No, sir,” responded the woman emphatically, “dey never goes down dar; I’m keerful ’bout dat—onreason’ble keerful; no, sir, if I was to let ’em have the run o’ dat quarter lot dere would never be a cold biskit nor a cup o’ clabber in dis house de minit atter you put ’em outen your hands. No, sir, Mr. Stucker, if old Hannah, or ary of de sick niggers down dar wants anything from dis house dey got to send one of their own little niggers wid de cup or de pan, and I pintedly gives ’em what’s needed; dere’s nuff work for Ma’y Ann and Marthy Ann ’bout dis house ’dout dey visitin’ at de quarters and waitin’ on quarter niggers. I bet, dough, dey’s bin in some mischief I ain’t had time to ferret out.”

After a pause she continued, “And you say you think dey done stole somethin’?”

“Yes,” answered Stucker, pushing back his chair and rising from the table; “yes, I understand somethin’ of dat natur’, if you has missed ary thing.”

“We did miss dat currycomb what William comb his har wid; it was a bran new, kinder stiff one, and he missed it last Sunday,” replied Charlotte.

“Dat jist fallen outen de winder, it warn’t lost,” interrupted William, who had been watching for a favorable opportunity to join the conversation.

“Yes, dem spawns foun’ hit outdoors, when I tole ’em I’d skin ’em if it wasn’t perjuced,” said Charlotte, turning to William, who thereupon relapsed into acquiescent silence.

“It warn’t no currycomb dey was talkin’ ’bout last night,” said Stucker, jerking first one leg then the other to free his shaggy breeches of dodger crumbs.

“Jist hold on a minit,” said Charlotte, stepping to the kitchen door and shouting, “Ma’y Ann and Marthy Ann, whar’s you?”

“Here I is, ma’am, I’s comin’, yes ’em,” was responded from an upper porch, and the two little darkies scuffled down the back stairs.

“Jist you two run down to de orchard whar I kin see you all de time, hear me? All de time, and look fur dat Dominiker hen’s nest. I hear her cacklin’ down dar, and don’t neither of you dar’ cum back till you find it. If you cum back ’fore I call you, I’ll pickle you well. Run!”

Two little guinea blue cotton skirts whisked through a gap in the rose hedge and emerged in the deep grass of the orchard, before Charlotte turned back into the kitchen, satisfied they were at a distance, and still under her observation. Levi Stucker meanwhile, having carefully tied his two weeks’ earnings in the corner of his red cotton handkerchief, and shared his last “chaw” of tobacco with William, swung his bundle from the end of his long whitewash pole and departed, with the shambling, shuffling gait of the typical Southern negro.

“I’m gwine upstairs, William, and I’ll ramshackle dat room till I find out what’s dar,” said the woman. She slowly mounted the stairs, down which the two culprits had so lately descended with flying feet, and turned into a small room on the servants’ gallery. She glanced around the bare apartment the two little negroes called their own. There was a battered trunk against the wall with a damaged cover and no fastening of any kind, a rickety chair and a bed. Charlotte tore the linsey dresses, homespun petticoats and check aprons from nails behind the door, shaking and critically examining each article. In the trunk she found remnants of rag dolls and broken toys and bits of quilt pieces that had been their playthings for time out of mind. There were no pockets to examine, no locks to pry open. “Dey don’t need no pockets to carry dere money in, and no locked up trunks fur dere jewelry,” Charlotte always said. It was her habit to go in and out their room freely, to see that it was kept in some kind of order and the bed regularly made up. The door of the room was always open, and no means afforded for securing it on the inside. Notwithstanding these precautions of Charlotte, who practically accepted the doctrine of infant depravity, there was a mystery concealed in that room that at intervals almost throttled the two little negroes, and, strange to say, with all the woman’s vigilance, had slumbered months within sound of her voice. She rapidly threw the clothes on the window sill, turned the trunk inside out and pushed its battered frame into the middle of the floor.

Nothing now remained to be searched but the plain unpainted bed. It was neatly made up, the coarse brown blankets securely tucked in all around. Charlotte whisked that off and dragged after it the cotton mattress which rested on a “sack bottom,” secured by interlacing cords to the bed frame. There was revealed the hidden secret! Crushed quite flat and sticking to the sacking, long under pressure of the cotton mattress and the tossing and tumbling children, what trick of dainty beauty lay before her? It was so crumpled and smothered, torn and ragged, soiled with fleeces of cotton lint that had sifted through the bed seams, and covered with dust and grime that but for glimpses of its original form and color here and there it would never have been recognized. Charlotte snatched it out and fled to the porch to see if Ma’y Ann and Marthy Ann were still down in the orchard. There they lay, prone in the soft grass, happy as only children, and black ones at that, can be. Four little ebony legs kicked up in the air, and the sound of merry shouts reached Charlotte’s ear.

“You’ll fly dem laigs to sum purpose yit, fur I lay I’ll git Marse Jim to giv you a breakdown dat’ll make dem laigs tired,” she said to herself. “You jist lay dar,” she muttered, as she descended the steps. “You needn’t waste your time (it’s a awful short one) lookin’ for aigs dat de ole Dominiker ain’t never laid yit.”

* * * * *

The deep window of the library was wide open, the sash thrown up and an easy lounging chair drawn to the veranda, on which reposed the towering form of the planter, lazily smoking a cigar, and looking off upon the broad, swift river at a passing steamboat, floating so high on its swelling waves that its deck was almost on a line with the top of the grass-covered levee. Its passengers, thronging the “guards” in the fragrance of a fine morning, seemed almost near enough to the spectator on shore to respond to a friendly nod of the head. The delicate lady of the mansion sat silently within, also watching the passing boat.

“I see some one waving a paper from the _Belle Creole_. I believe that’s Green. Yes, he has tied a handkerchief to his crutch, and is waving that.”

The planter rose as he spoke and stood for a moment for a better view. “Here, give me something, quick, to wave back at him.”

At this critical moment Charlotte appeared on the scene. “This will do,” he exclaimed, catching the velvet wreck from the astonished woman’s grasp and tossing it aloft, holding it by the long strings.

“Lord! jist see Marse Jim wid dat bonnet I dun foun’, dat you lost ’fore grinding time, Miss Liza, and whar you spec it was? Right onder Ma’y Ann’s bed.”

“My bonnet! for pity’s sake, only look at it. Look!”

“It don’t look much like a bonnet. It’s more like a red rag to make the turkeys gobble,” replied the master, disdainfully, throwing it to Charlotte.

“My bonnet I paid Olympe twenty dollars for, and never wore it but once; see the satin strings! And just look at the cape at the back! And the feather poppies!”

Charlotte straightened herself up, holding the crumpled bonnet and turning it around to show its proportions. It was of the “skyscraper” shape, made on stiff millinette, that is more easily broken than bent. Mashed sideways, it showed in its flattened state as much of the satin lining as of velvet cover.

“Levi Stucker ain’t no fool. He tole me and William he heard Ma’y Ann and Marthy Ann whisperin’ and plannin’ in dere room nights till he was sure dey was a hatchin’ mischief, ef dey hadn’t already hatched more snakes dan dey could kiver, so I ’low’d I’d go and ramshackle dat room o’ theirn, and onder de baid, Marse Jim, ’twixt de sackin’ and de cotton baid, way onder de very middle, I found dis bonnet what I bin lookin’ fur ever since grindin’ time. Now, Marse Jim, dere ain’t no use in talkin’ to dem gals; dere ain’t no use in readin’ no caterkism to ’em, nor in Miss Liza telling no more tales to ’em ’bout dat liar Anifera, or sum sich name. No use in whippin’ ’em, nudder. If I’se whipped dem two niggers once fur not lookin’ fur dis bonnet when I sont ’em to, I’se whipped ’em forty times. Dat didn’t make ’em find what they hid demselves, and it ain’t going to do ’em no good now. Marse Jim, you jist got to skeer de very life outen ’em, and send ’em to de canefields. Dey is rascals and rogues.”

“Well, Charlotte,” he responded, “put the bonnet on this side, out of sight, and bring those children here. I’ll see what I can do.”

As Charlotte left he turned to his tender-hearted wife and told her, “It is important those little negroes should have a lesson that would be of some use. Charlotte is right on the subject of moral suasion as far as those little imps are concerned, so don’t let your kindness and sympathy interfere with my conduct of the case. Keep in the background, and I will give them a lesson they will not soon forget.”

“I can’t imagine what could have induced those children to make way with that bonnet,” said Miss Liza, meditatively, as she looked at the crumpled wreck on the floor.

“Perhaps mischief, perhaps accident. The thing is to make them acknowledge the theft. Entrenched as they are behind a whole barricade of lies and deceit, the thing is to make them capitulate,” replied the husband.

“Cum right in; don’t be modest now. Marse Jim sont fur you,” was heard in Charlotte’s bantering tone, as she appeared in the doorway, half-leading, half-dragging the reluctant culprits, who already began to sniff a coming battle. With some difficulty she marshaled them before the master and stood close at hand ready to offer moral support if the court of inquiry gave any signs of weakening, or to cut off retreat on the part of the little darkies if they became too alarmed to “stand fire.”

“Well, Mary and Martha, where have you been?” inquired Marse Jim, in his blandest and most conciliatory tone.

“Down in de orchard lookin’ for aigs fur Marm Charlotte.” “And we was findin’ some when she hollowed fur us to cum to de house.” “De Dominicker hen got nest in de haige.” “She’s settin’, too.”

“Hold on, hold on, don’t both of you talk at once. I didn’t ask about the hen’s nest. Have you been all over the orchard in the hot sun?”

“Yes, sir.” “Yes, sir, we goes anywhar fur Marm Charlotte.” “She sont us.” “Yes, sir, she sont us fur aigs.” “An’ we was findin’ sum too.” “Dat Dominicker hen——”

With uplifted restraining hand he said: “Hush, don’t both talk at once. Let me talk some. Did you go away down there without your bonnet?”

“We ain’t got no bonnet.” “Me and Ma’y Ann don’t wear bonnets, Marse Jim.”

“Yes, you have a bonnet. Isn’t this your bonnet?” the master said, in his quiet, inquiring tone, holding up before their bulging eyes the dilapidated wreck that they had not dared look at in all the months they had buried it out of sight. Ma’y Ann steadfastly turned her face away from the ghost. She bit her lips, but uttered not a word.

“No, Marse Jim—I—I—er, Marse Jim, I feel sick, sick,” stammered Marthy, as she trembled so she almost fell.

“Sick! Give me your hand.” She quickly recovered, and clasped the tawny paws behind her back. “Give me your hand; let me feel your pulse.” Reluctantly she proffered the hand. “There, now,” he said, letting the limp little hand fall to her side. “You feel chilly, don’t you? Go sit down on that step.” Marthy sidled slowly away, tears welling her eyes and her whole frame shaken with suppressed sobs.

“Stop dat cryin’; nobody ain’t doin’ nuthin’ to you; stop dat foolishness and listen to what Marse Jim is a sayin’ to you two onreasonable rapscallions,” said Charlotte, in a severe tone. She held Mary Ann (who was making ready to fly at the first opportunity) by the back of her neckband.

“Let Martha alone, Charlotte, she is weakening; we’ll talk about the bonnet to Mary Ann, she knows.”

“No, Marse Jim, I ’clar I never see dat bonnet in all my life; I ’clar I never did. I ’clar——”

“Hush,” said the master in a stern voice, “let me ask a question or two, and only answer what I ask.”

“Tell de truth, too,” ejaculated Charlotte, “onless you want de debbil to kotch you.”

“Give me your hand.” The child clutched at her cotton skirt with both hands. He reached out, quietly and forcibly took one skinny little black paw in his firm grasp. Drawing the shrinking, reluctant child toward him, he fixed his eyes upon her averted face. “Now look me right in the eye; everybody does that to people who are talking to them; look me in the eye. What made you hide that bonnet? Look at me when I am talking to you.”

“I didn’t neber see dat bonnet b’fore. I ’clar——”

“Stop, look at me; don’t look at Martha, she’s better.” The child’s eyes dropped. “Don’t look at the floor, look me in the eye.”

“Marse Jim, slap her; make her look at you.”

“Be quiet, Charlotte; she’s going to tell, I want to help her,” replied the imperturbable inquisitor in his blandest tones. Still holding the reluctant hand and drawing the figure more closely to him, he said, “You say you never saw this bonnet? How came it in your bed?”

There was a long pause. The little negro at last gathered herself up, and, with a gleam of inspiration, exclaimed: “Marse Jim, de rats put it dar—de rats runs all over dat floor nights. Me and Marthy Ann jist hears ’em jist toting things all around. Rats put it dar, Marse Jim, big rats.”

“Dat’s a lie,” said Charlotte, positively. “Nary rat on dat floor. Marse Jim, you jist foolin’ way your time on dese niggers.”

The baffled master turned toward the crouching figure on the steps. She was still trembling, her face buried in her hands. He saw she was ready to confess, but he was determined Mary Ann should acknowledge also.

“Have you a mammy, Mary Ann?” he inquired.

“No, Marse Jim; I ain’t got no mammy; I ain’t never had no mammy, and my daddy, he’s daid, and I ain’t——”

“Hush, I didn’t ask all that. If you haven’t a mammy there’s no one to care if you die. I am sure I don’t want little girls round the house that steal and lie. Nobody else would have you; nobody would buy you, and I can’t keep you here. It’s come to a pretty pass when a lady can’t lay her bonnet on the bed without you two little imps taking it and hiding it for months, and lying about it right straight along. You have no mammy to cry for you, and I don’t want you, and Miss Liza don’t want you. What can be done with you?”

Martha sobbed, on the veranda step, and Mary looked defiant, but no response came to that repeated inquiry. After a pause, Mary Ann bridled up; the matter in question seemed to be taking a broader range; the bonnet seemed to be merging in generalities, and might in time sink into the other question of what can be done with them. Martha’s courage also revived, so she could respond to the inquiry of her parentage.

“I ain’t neber had no daddy, and my mammy she’s married to long Phil now.”

The planter shifted his legs, looked abroad in a meditative way, then turned to the charge.

“Well, now, you girls want to tell us all you know about this,” holding up again before them the battered brim and crushed poppies and long, dingy ribbons. Martha buried her face again, and Mary was suddenly interested in the gambols of a squirrel in the pecan tree. Neither culprit would look at the evidence of their guilt. “What will become of you? I can’t keep you and nobody will buy a rogue; nobody wants you.”

“My mammy wants me, Marse Jim,” whimpered the scared Martha.

“No, your mother is Nancy, isn’t she? She’s a good woman and don’t want a rogue and a liar tied to her all her days.” Another long pause. “Come here, Martha, both of you stand by Charlotte and hold her hands. I will give you one more chance. Which—one—of—you—stole—that bonnet? Did both of you do it together? Who hid it? What made you do it?” There was a pause between the questions, not one word of response. Martha’s tears dropped on her little naked foot, while Mary Ann looked vacantly at the nimble squirrel in apparent indifference, not a muscle of her face giving any evidence of emotion.

“Marse Jim,” said Charlotte, whose impatience increased as she saw signs of action on the part of the inquisitor. “Marse Jim, what you gwine to do? It’s no use er whippin’ dese gals; dere hides is like cowhide and whippin’ ain’t no good noways fur liars. Killin’ is good for such.”

The planter rose from his chair, straightened his tired limbs and kicked the bonnet out of his way. “Bring them along, Charlotte. I’ll see what I can do.”

Charlotte, with a firm grasp of each child, followed the tall leader, who, as he turned into the hall, tossed a nod and a significant wink to his wife. She obediently rose and followed. In all the interview the mistress had remained a passive but interested spectator, feeling sure that at a critical moment a signal from her husband would afford her an opportunity to intervene. The master led his followers straight to the well-house, under whose vine-clad arbor reposed the dripping bucket, attached by a windlass to an endless chain.

“I think it best to drown them,” he quietly remarked. The little group filled the arbor. William and Billy, the gardener; Delia, the laundress; Lucy, the maid; Sawny, the “woodpile boy” and Oliver, who “went wid de buggy,” attracted by the spectacle, gathered around the outskirts. The story of the finding of the long lost bonnet had spread over the yard and premises; fragments had even wafted to “the quarters,” with the mysterious rapidity and certainty that always attended a household event in the old plantation days.

“Mary Ann first,” said the master, as catching her suddenly and firmly by the neckband of her dress and imprisoning her struggling legs by wrapping her skirts tightly around them, he held her over the well-hole, head a little down. The struggles and writhings of the child were of no avail in the grasp of the strong man. “I want you to tell the truth and promise never to tell another lie before I drop you down this well.” The child squirmed and screamed in the relentless clutch, swearing entire ignorance of the whole matter. Charlotte felt she must pile on the agony, so she saw “de debbil down dar wid his pitchfork, ready to ketch her.” That vision was too much for the now thoroughly alarmed little darky.

“I tuck it, Marse Jim, I tuck it,” she screamed.

“Will you ever steal again?” still holding her over the well, where in her own little reflection in the placid water she was convinced to her dying day she had seen “de debbil.”

“Neber, neber, ’fore God, neber agin.”

“Never tell another lie if I let you off?”

“Neber, Marse Jim; neber’s long as I lib. Please the Lord and Miss Liza, I’ll be a good little nigger; neber lie agin if you’ll lemme off dis time.”

While that harrowing scene was being enacted with the most determined and refractory of the little witches, and the spectators on the outskirts were convulsed with laughter—every one of them had at one time or another been suspected of the theft—Martha, the tearful, was on her knees, holding despairingly to Miss Liza’s skirts and imploring her “Jist to save me dis time, I’ll be good, I’ll neber tell anoder lie. I’se got a mammy dat will cry fur me, and I don’t want ter die. Oh! save me frum de debbil,” she screamed, when Charlotte’s voice proclaimed him at the bottom of the well. “Don’t let de debbil have your good little nigger.”

Confessions and promises being obtained, Mary Ann was placed upon her feet. Four little black legs flew down the backyard; two little guinea-blue skirts flipped over the cowyard fence and two little dusky spots vanished in the distance. William called after them to “clip it ’fore de debbil gits outen dat well.” Charlotte held her sides with outbursts of laughter that had been held in painful restraint.

“De debbil done skeer ’em more en Marse Jim,” Sawny remarked, as he shambled back to the woodpile.

“I think, my dear,” said the planter, linking his arm into that of his wife and returning to the library with her, “I think those children had a lesson that may last them all their lives. They had to be scared into a confession.”

“I hated to see them badgered,” she replied. “I dropped a few tears over Martha myself—perhaps,” with a smile, “she thought I was scared too.”

Charlotte came in and picked up the wreck. “Miss Liza, I’se goin’ to take dis bonnet, jist as it is, all tousled up and mashed and I’m gwine to make Ma’y Ann war it one day and Marthy Ann de next clean till dey gits sick o’ bonnets; dey shall war it till de chillen come home Sat-day. I ’spose dere’ll be sum laffin’ done when de chillen sees Ma’y Ann wid dat bonnet tied on her haid.”

Another winter had come and gone, and June was again filling the old plantation with its intoxicating odors and delicious melody. The little room on the back porch was darkened by a heavy curtain at the only window. A table drawn up by the rough wooden bed, made gay by a patchwork quilt, held a few medicine bottles, a cup and spoon; also a tumbler of pink and white roses. The quiet mistress moved about noiselessly, occasionally putting her cool hand upon the brow of the little sick negro, or gently stroking the thin, black fingers that lay listlessly upon the bright coverlet.

“Miss Liza, whar Ma’y Ann?” The lady turned her face from the questioner. After a moment’s hesitation she replied, cheerfully: “She’s all right, Martha.”

“Miss Liza, whar is she? Whar Ma’y Ann?”

“She’s down by the quarters now,” was the unsatisfactory response. The weary patient closed her eyes for a few moments, but it was evident that with the first consciousness, following a severe illness, the child’s thoughts turned to her old companion.

“She ain’t bin here sence I was tuk sick.” After a pause, “I want ter talk to Ma’y Ann ’bout sumthin’.”

“Tell me,” said the mistress, soothingly, “what it was you wanted to see Mary for.”

Both the little negroes had been ill of scarlet fever. The children of the household had not been allowed for weeks to come home for their Saturday holidays. Martha fell ill first, and Mary was removed into the room formerly occupied by Levi Stucker, where she soon fell a victim to the disease. The mistress and Charlotte only were allowed to minister to the invalids. Mary, the robust one of the two, the more mischievous, the one apparently better equipped for a struggle with disease, succumbed, after a few days of delirium. The busy hands were stilled, the flying feet arrested, the voluble tongue silenced, at the touch of the Angel of Death. The little body was carried past the “quarters” and beyond, to the negroes’ “burying ground,” where it lay in peaceful shadows of the trees the romping children loved so well. Martha lingered long on the mysterious border, fitfully fighting an apparently hopeless battle, the more tenderly and faithfully nursed by Mammy Charlotte, as the warm-hearted, childless woman realized the frail tenure of life held by the little negro whom she had ruled in varying moods of sternness and tenderness, untempered with judgment. With the fretful peevishness of convalescence, the sick child whined repeated desires to know “Whar Ma’y Ann?”

“What is it you want to tell Mary Ann to-day, when she is not here? Can’t you tell me?” said the patient watcher.

“I jist want ter see her; I’se gwine ter tell you ’bout dat bonnet, Miss Liza, and she ain’t here, and I mout die; sometimes folkses dies of broke laigs, and my laigs is broke. I want Ma’y Ann ter know I ain’t goin’ outen dis world wid dat bonnet on my soul.”

The mistress drew closer to the bedside, stroked and patted the attenuated hand in a soothing way to quiet and compose the restless invalid.

“Maybe it’s jist as good Ma’y Ann ain’t here, Miss Liza. I kin tell de tale better’n when she is here to jine in.” After a pause, apparently to marshal her thoughts more clearly, the child proceeded: “Dat time Miss Ellen cum here, she tuk outen her trunk a red bonnet, and she sed she had two on ’em jist alike, dat her chillen had wore out, and she fotched ’em fur me and Ma’y Ann. I was in dar and seed de bonnet, and you tuk hit, don’t you ’member, Miss Liza? You tuk hit and sed no, Ma’y Ann and me had no use fur bonnets, and you know’d two pore little white gals at your church dat didn’t have none, and you was goin’ ter give ’em to dem. I went out and tole Ma’y Ann all ’bout hit, and she ’low’d if we had bonnets we cud go to church too. Well, we talked tergedder ’bout dose bonnets, and we plan we’d take ’em ennyhow, fust time we seed ’em. Well, one night Ma’y Ann runned right in here, in dat very door. I was in here den. I shet de door and stood against it, and onder her apern she had de bonnet. She didn’t find only one, but she grabbed dat. I tole her dat was the bery one Miss Ellen took outen her trunk, and me and Ma’y Ann, we tried it on our haids, ’fore dat bery piece o’ lookin’ glass stickin’ on de wall dere, and we ’greed ter watch till we kotch de udder one, so we hid it in dat trunk dar, behind you, Miss Liza, and ev’ry day we tried hit on. I want ter tell you all ’bout hit ’fore Ma’y Ann gits back frum de quarters. I dun know how long we kep’ hit in dat trunk, ontil one day dere was a awful fuss, eberybody skeered up, lookin’ fur your bonnet, dat was missin’. Me and Ma’y Ann was glad. We couldn’t find one of our bonnets now your’n wuz gone, too.”

“Didn’t you know you had taken my bonnet?” said the mistress, who was at last seeing through the mystery.

“Jist let me tell you de whole thing, Miss Liza. I bin layin’ here long time thinkin’ de straight uv hit, so Ma’y Ann can’t bodder me when I telled it to you. Ma’y Ann is dat sondacious she most make you b’lieve anythin’. No, Miss Liza, we never thought dat till one day I hear Miss Ellen say how nice dem red bonnets she brung did look on de Quiggins gals at church. Den Marm Charlotte, she begun agin ’bout your bonnet bein’ missed and she searchin’ fur hit all de time, and I hear her tell Sawny it wuz red and had black flowers on hit. Me and Ma’y Ann took de bonnet outen de trunk dat night and dere wuz de black flowers, jist like she sed, den we know’d you had give Miss Ellen’s bonnets to the Quigginses, and Ma’y Ann had stole your’n. We hefted dis baid and put de bonnet under hit, and, please Gord, Miss Liza, I neber seed dat bonnet agin till Marse Jim shuck hit at us dat day.”

“Why didn’t you come tell me what you had done, and why you had done it, when you first found it out?”

“Miss Liza, we was afeerd. Marm Charlotte kep’ sayin’ whoever had dat bonnet wud be hung, and de odder negroes talked back. Thank de Lord, dey never seed hit, so Ma’y Ann and me didn’t dar let on.”

“Didn’t you expect it would be found out some day?”

“Yes’em, I ’spec we did.”

XXX

WHEN LEXINGTON WON THE RACE

Every Kentucky woman loves a horse, and when Lexington was entered in the great State stake in 1854 a crowd of the _crême de la crême_ of the Blue Grass country clamored to be present at the race. The St. Charles Hotel, then in the hands of those genial hosts, Messrs. Hall and Hildreth, was crowded for the event, beyond its capacity, for when that Kentucky contingent of women, unheralded and unexpected, swarmed into its broad parlor and halls, even the servants’ quarters, so near the roof that the only light admitted was skylight, were put into requisition. There was enough Blue Grass blood in my family to compel a rush to the city, and we had a “sky parlor,” right next to the one occupied by Gen. John H. Morgan (simply “John” then. He won his spurs and title a decade or so later) and his Kentucky wife. It took us “forever and a day” to mount the stairs to our roosts, and we were so tired when we arrived that we actually found the quarters acceptable.

All the Breckinridges, Wards, Flournoys, Johnsons and Hunts in Kentucky were more or less financially interested in the superb racer. Those who did not own one drop of Lexington’s blood, nor one hair of his tail, “put their money” on the horse, and therewith a financial interest was created. Every man, it seemed, in the place, that could spare the time, wanted to see the great race. “Lee Count,” as a good many Kentuckians call Le Comte, was the most prominent rival of their boasted and beloved Lexington, and he showed mettle that astonished even those blind partisans, and added zest to the wagers. Ladies had never been in evidence at a horse race in Louisiana. The bare idea was a shock to the Creole mind, that dominated and controlled all the fashionable, indeed, all the respectable, minds in New Orleans at that day. But the Kentucky belles had minds of their own. Every mortal one of them felt a personal interest, and a personal pride, and a personal ambition in that Kentucky horse, though probably not ten out of the scores who rushed to see him race had ever seen him before, and when he did appear on the paddock he had to be pointed out to those enthusiastic admirers.

What a host of dashing, high-bred, blue-blooded Kentucky women swarmed the parlors, halls, rotunda of that, the finest hotel in all the land! How they talked, in the soft, Southern accent, so peculiarly their own! How they laughed! How they moved about, seemingly knowing everybody they met. How they bet! Gloves, fans, money, too, on their horse, when they found any one in all the crowd that was not a “Lexington horse” man. Those bright women dominated everything in their enthusiasm. I recall a host of them.

There was a lamentable scarcity of conveyances. Those Kentucky people who had never felt the lack of vehicles and horses, had apparently made small provision for travel to the course, so at the moment of departure, when a large party was almost driven to despair, Messrs. Hall and Hildreth ordered out the hotel stage, which was one of the “nine-passenger” type. A nine-passenger coach, one of the kind that was in vogue in the days of Pickwick, afforded seats inside for nine persons, and could accommodate as many outside as chose to pile on. The celerity with which those Kentucky women filled that coach and the Kentucky men covered the top was a sight worth seeing. No doubt when that stage rattled and bumped over the cobblestones, en route to Metaire, many a cautious Creole mamma made her innocent mam’zelles repair to the backyard while she hastily closed the shutters. It was like a circus van, though no circus had ever paraded those decorous streets.

Richard Tenbroeck (also a Kentuckian), who was associated in the management of the course, was on hand to receive the merry crowd from his own State, furnish it with grandstand seats and make it welcome in every way. According to my recollection the Kentucky women were the only females present, so very unfashionable it was for ladies to go to races in the extreme South. There may have been some _demi-mondaines_ scattered here and there, in inconspicuous places.

The race, the only one I had ever witnessed, was tremendously exciting, and as the gallant horses swept round the last lap, Lexington, ever so little, in the lead, the uproar became quite deafening. One of the Johnson women, beautiful and enthusiastic, sprang upon the bench and said to her equally excited escort, “Hold me while I holler.” He threw his strong arms about her and steadied her feet. “Now, holler”—and never did I hear the full compass of the female voice before, nor since. Such excitement, as we all know, is contagious, and it continued for days after the great achievement that put dear old Lexington in the front rank, and filled the pocketbooks of his owners, abettors and admirers.

Of course, this race was practically an all-day venture, and, equally of course, people got hungry; and throats, most particularly Kentucky throats, awfully dry. Mr. Tenbroeck provided liberally for such a contingency, so a luncheon was served al fresco, with lots of champagne, which latter did not dampen the ardor of those terribly dry throats. We assembled in little groups around the viands, and there were jokes and puns and stories that varied the monotony of horse talk, that had dominated every other topic for days. In all the circles there was fun and frolic. Kentuckians can be very hilarious. The unique vehicle that carried our party back to the hotel rocked and tumbled tipsily along. The sprightly crowd that departed in a somewhat steady condition in the forenoon were sleepily tired when they gained their sky parlors later in the day. A brief rest must have revived them, for as we passed through the hall to a rather late breakfast the following morning, trays of empty glasses and bottles, flanked by freshly blacked boots and shoes, afforded evidence that more refreshments had been absorbed later, and the parties had returned to the Land of Nod.

XXXI

LOUISIANA STATE FAIR FIFTY YEARS AGO

It was in 1859 or 1860—I cannot fix the exact dates of many events immediately prior to the war, for the rush of an overwhelming waste carried dates, as everything else, away, but it was before the war that several enterprising and advanced citizens of Louisiana planned and organized and “resolved” themselves into a committee to stimulate the indolent agricultural population to a more active life, by inaugurating a series of State agricultural and mechanical exhibitions, patterned as near as might be on the annual State and county fairs of Kentucky, Missouri and other enterprising agricultural States. Mr. John A. Dougherty, Major Sam Hart, George W. Ward, John Perkins, my husband, Mr. James McHatton and his brother Charles, Wm. A. Pike and others whose names escape me now, secured from the United States government, through the joint efforts of Hon. John Slidell and J. P. Benjamin, United States Senators from Louisiana, and Thomas Green Davidson, Representative of the Sixth District, temporary use of the then practically abandoned Barracks in Baton Rouge, as being the most available site in the State for the purpose of an experimental fair. Only a corporal’s guard had been stationed there, to furl and unfurl the flag and to fire the evening gun, as evidence that the grounds were United States property. In those precincts and under those auspices, were held the first and the last and only “Louisiana State Agricultural and Mechanical Fair.”

There came from New Orleans many exhibitors of farming implements and products; from plantations, whose owners happened to be “wide awake,” cattle, horses, sugar, molasses, and all such; from the small farmer who occasionally read the papers, and thereby kept in touch with the march of events, pigs and poultry; and from the homes of enterprising women, all sorts of fancy work and domestic articles. There were quite handsome prizes of silver, worth competing for, offered by the managers. The parade ground was ample to “show off” harness horses. An area was fenced off for cattle, and side-show places assigned for pigs and poultry. The Barrack buildings, two stories in height, surrounding the enclosure, offered abundant room for the exhibit of farming utensils, harness, etc. Rooms were appropriated for the luncheons and lounging places of friends and guests.

The first two days were rather disappointing, so few people understood just what was being attempted, but the number of the exhibitors increased day by day, so that, before the final day, the managers had reason to be enthusiastic at the success and consequent promise for future State fairs.

Old Mr. Kleinpeter, of the high lands, entered a sow with a litter of nine pigs, whereupon Granville Pierce “went one better” with a sow and fourteen pigs. To be sure, the pigs varied in size, and people made merry over the pig exhibit! From the “Cottage” plantation (Cottage, by the way, was a tremendous big house) came a hogshead of prize open kettle brown sugar. Immediately “Whitehall” plantation saw it could beat that—and next day a hogshead of the “Whitehall” brand was entered. It was thus the project expanded to creditable dimensions. An enterprising lady who had won a silver spoon prize at a similar fair in the West, entered a dressy bonnet, made entirely of fine corn shucks; bows, flowers, feathers and all! Whereupon, a smart miss from Grosse Tête sent three home-made sun bonnets. The domestic exhibit thus resolved itself into a competitive show. A Jew in town had met with indifferent success in a sewing machine venture (sewing machines were in their immaturity then, and not coveted by women who had domestics to order), till the happy thought of a chance at the fair. Soon there was a sewing machine on exhibition—a “Finkle and Lyon”—I don’t forget the make, now happily out of existence, for in an evil moment, moved by the Jew’s persuasive eloquence, I invested in a “Finkle and Lyon” which I quickly found could only be made to “run” by copious drenchings of olive oil, aided by the warm rays of the sun!

All the citizens of Baton Rouge entertained guests for the fair week, the Harney House and other small hostelries being totally inadequate. Several New Orleans merchants showed great interest in the venture. Cuthbert Slocomb entered a fine exhibit of plows, hoes and other farming tools, that were in his line of trade. So, also, did the firm of Slark, Day and Stauffer; Henderson & Gaines sent of their stock, as also did many others whose business brought them in contact with the agricultural world. The cattle display was quite surprisingly good, as were also the harness horses. The inexperienced judges of such stock were often criticised for their decisions, but the people were amiable and in a mood to enjoy everything.

Such an outpouring from the “Cajin” settlements on the river, and on Bayou Tête and Bayou Fordoche, and such other communities of small pretensions, and still smaller achievements, never, I am sure, had invaded Baton Rouge before. It was as “good as a play” to watch their interest and enthusiasm, to see the greetings of families and friends, who lived beyond the reach of a ramshackle _voiture_ and a worn-out horse. I do not recall the season of the year that immortal fair occurred, but it must have been in late winter, for I remember a small dish of radishes on my lunch table, such a rarity that Col. Sparks ate every one. How one does recall, after a lapse of years, such insignificant things! Some of the _bon vivants_, like Dr. French, Mr. Bonnecage, and Dr. Harney, regretted that the enterprise was not postponed till artichokes and river shrimp were in season.

It seems almost immediately after that I accompanied my delegate husband to that ill-starred Democratic convention in Charleston, and almost the next day that the Hon. J. P. Benjamin made his soul-stirring speech in Congress, that magnificent burst of impassioned oratory, whose prediction was never verified; almost the next day that Hon. John Slidell returned to Louisiana a sad, despondent man, and old Tom Green Davidson hobbled back to Baton Rouge on his crutches, so full of bitterness and hate—almost the next day that the flag that waved so gloriously over the parade ground where the hopes and aspirations of those enterprising citizens took flight, was hauled down.——

And after that—the Deluge!

XXXII

THE LAST CHRISTMAS

Christmas before the war. There never will be another in any land, with any peoples, like the Christmas of 1859—on the old plantation. Days beforehand preparations were in progress for the wedding at the quarters, and the ball at the “big house.” Children coming home for the holidays were both amused and delighted to learn that Nancy Brackenridge was to be the quarter bride. “Nancy a bride! Oh, la!” they exclaimed. “Why Nancy must be forty years old.” And she was going to marry Aleck, who, if he would wait a year or two, might marry Nancy’s daughter. While the young schoolgirls were busy “letting out” the white satin ball dress that had descended from the parlor dance to the quarter bride, and were picking out and freshening up the wreath and corsage bouquet of lilies of the valley that had been the wedding flowers of the mistress of the big house, and while the boys were ransacking the distant woods for holly branches and magnolia boughs, enough for the ballroom as well as the wedding supper table, the family were busy with the multitudinous preparations for the annual dance, for which Arlington, with its ample parlors and halls, and its proverbial hospitality, was noted far and wide.

The children made molasses gingerbread and sweet potato pies, and one big bride’s cake, with a real ring in it. They spread the table in the big quarters nursery, and the boys decorated it with greenery and a lot of cut paper fly catchers, laid on the roast mutton and pig, and hot biscuits from the big house kitchen, and the pies and cakes of the girls’ own make. The girls proceeded to dress Nancy Brackenridge, pulling together that refractory satin waist which, though it had been “let out” to its fullest extent, still showed a sad gap, to be concealed by a dextrous arrangement of some discarded hair ribbons. Nancy was black as a crow and had rather a startling look in that dazzling white satin dress and the pure white flowers pinned to her kinks. At length the girls gave a finishing pat to the toilet, and their brothers pronounced her “bully,” and called Marthy Ann to see how fine her mammy was.

As was the custom, the whole household went to the quarters to witness the wedding. Lewis, the plantation preacher, in a cast-off swallow-tail coat of Marse Jim’s that was uncomfortably tight, especially about the waist line, performed the ceremony. Then my husband advanced and made some remarks, to the effect that this marriage was a solemn tie, and there must be no shirking of its duties; they must behave and be faithful to each other; he would have no foolishness. These remarks, though by no means elegant, fitted the occasion to a fraction. There were no high flights of eloquence which the darky mind could not reach, it was plain, unvarnished admonition.

The following morning, Christmas Day, the field negroes were summoned to the back porch of the big house, where Marse Jim, after a few preliminary remarks, distributed the presents—a head handkerchief, a pocketknife, a pipe, a dress for the baby, shoes for the growing boy (his first pair, maybe), etc., etc., down the list. Each gift was received with a “Thankee, sir,” and, perhaps, also a remark anent its usefulness. Then after Charlotte brought forth the jug of whisky and the tin cups, and everyone had a comforting dram, they filed off to the quarters, with a week of holiday before them and a trip to town to do their little buying.

The very last Christmas on the old plantation we had a tree. None of us had ever seen a Christmas tree; there were no cedars or pines, so we finally settled upon a tall althea bush, hung presents on it, for all the house servants, as well as for the family and a few guests. The tree had to be lighted up, so it was postponed till evening. The idea of the house servants having such a celebration quite upset the little negroes. I heard one remark, “All us house niggers is going to be hung on a tree.” Before the dawn of another Christmas the negroes had become discontented, demoralized and scattered, freer than the whites, for the blacks recognized no responsibilities whatever. The family had abandoned the old plantation home. We could not stand the changed condition of things any longer, and the Federals had entered into possession and completed the ruin. Very likely some reminiscent darky told new-found friends, “All de house niggers was hung on a tree last Christmas.” I have heard from Northern lips even more astonishing stories of maltreated slaves than a wholesale hanging.

Frequently before the holidays some of the negroes were questioned as to what they would like to have, and the planter would make notes and have the order filled in the city. That, I think, was the custom at Whitehall plantation. I was visiting there on one occasion when a woman told Judge Chinn she wanted a mourning veil. “A mourning veil!” he replied. “I thought you were going to marry Tom this Christmas?” “I is, marster, but you know Jim died last grinding, and I ain’t never mourned none for Jim. I want to mourn some ’fore I marries ag’in.” I did not remain to see, but I do not doubt she got the mourning veil and had the melancholy satisfaction of wearing it around the quarter lot a few days before she married Tom.

After the departure of our happy negroes, whose voices and laughter could be heard long after the yard gate was closed and they had vanished out of sight, we rushed around like wild to complete preparations for the coming ball guests. They began to arrive in the afternoon from down the coast and from the opposite side of the river. Miles and miles some of them drove in carriages, with champagne baskets, capital forerunners of the modern suit case, tied on behind, and, like as not, a dusky maid perched on top of it; poor thing, the carriage being full, she had to travel in that precarious way, holding on for dear life. Those old-time turtle-back vehicles had outside a small single seat for the coachman only. Parties came also in skiffs, with their champagne baskets and maids. Long before time for the guests from town to appear mammas and maids were busy in the bedrooms, dressing their young ladies for the occasion. Meanwhile the plantation musicians were assembling, two violins, a flute, a triangle, and a tambourine. A platform had been erected at one end of the rooms, with kitchen chairs and cuspidors, for their accommodation. Our own negroes furnished the dance music, but we borrowed Col. Hicky’s Washington for the tambourine. He was more expert than any “end man” you ever saw. He kicked it and butted it and struck it with elbow and heel, and rattled it in perfect unison with the other instruments, making more noise, and being himself a more inspiring sight, than all the rest of the band put together. Col. Hicky always said it was the only thing Washington was fit for, and he kept the worthless negro simply because he was the image (in bronze) of Gen. Lafayette. Col. Hicky was an octogenarian, and had seen Gen. Lafayette, so he could not have been mistaken. When Washington flagged, a few drops of whisky was all he needed to refresh his energies.

The whirl of the dance waxed as the night waned. The tired paterfamiliases sat around the rooms, too true to their mission to retire for a little snooze. They were restored to consciousness at intervals by liberal cups of strong coffee. Black William, our first violin, called out the figures, “Ladies to the right!” “Set to your partners!”—and the young people whirled and swung around in the giddy reel as though they would never have such another opportunity to dance—as, indeed, many of them never did. From the porch and lawn windows black faces gazed at the inspiring scene. They never saw the like again, either.

Laughing, wide-awake girls and tired fathers and mothers started homeward at the first blush of dawn, when they could plainly see their way over the roads. I started too early from a party the year before, and the buggy I was in ran over a dust-colored cow lying asleep in the road. The nodding maid again perilously perched on top the champagne basket, and skiffs with similar freight plied across the broad river as soon as there was sufficient light to enable them to dodge a passing steamboat.

The last ball was a noble success. We danced on and on, never thinking this was to be our last dance in the big house. Clouds were hovering all about us the following Christmas. No one had the heart to dance then. The negroes had already become restless and discontented. After that the Deluge! The big house long ago slid into the voracious Mississippi. The quarters where the wedding feast was spread are fallen into ruins, the negroes scattered or dead. The children, so happy and so busy then, are now old people—the only ones left to look on this imperfectly drawn picture with any personal interest. We lived, indeed, a life never to be lived again.

XXXIII

A WEDDING IN WAR TIME

“Marse Green says cum right away; he’s gwine to marry Miss Fanny to de Captain.”

“When?”

“Soon’s I kin git de preacher. I can’t wait for you; I ain’t got no preacher yit.”

That was a summons I had one hot day in early summer, in war times. Yankees in New Orleans; gunboats almost hourly reported “jist ’round de p’int”; and we people distractedly hanging on the ragged edge of alarm and anxiety, did not pause to think how impossible it was for us to know what was happening “jist ’round de p’int,” for all information about things beyond our physical eyesight was questionable. In the rush of uncertain and unlooked-for events, we could not plan any future, even one day ahead, so overwhelmed were we in mind and estate (not to mention body) with the strenuousness of the pitiful present.