Chapter IV: Part 4

On my periodical visits home I always called upon her, and had a royal reception. I had casually said in a message to her in one of my letters that I never would forget her black tea and brown sugar. The old dame remembered this, and on my first visit home and to her, and on all succeeding visits, treated me to a brew of my favorite.

“Jess the same, Mahs William. Come from Mr. Blar's jess the same.”

But we become sophisticated in time. I found that Mammy's tea lingered in my memory, it is true; and the prospect of a recurrence very nearly operated against future visits. But virtue asserted herself, and I always went.

War now supervened. To it the brushes and the palette yielded. I returned home, and to arms. While all this made a complete revolution in my affairs, those of Mammy seemed to hold the even tenor of their way.

I saw Mammy every time I had a furlough, and she repaired for me damages of long standing. In sentiment she was immovably on my side. She objected decidedly to any more of “them no-'count men bein' sot free,” and was very doubtful whether any more of her own sex should be so favored, except “settled women.”

I do not know whether Mammy had a lurking suspicion that general manumission meant competition or not. So far as I could make out, she fared as she had long elected to do. Bacon and greens and her perennial tea were good enough for her. And here may be noted the average negro's indifference to cates. In my experience I never knew them to give up “strong food” for delicate fare except on prescription.

The next phase of my intercourse with Mammy was after the evacuation of the city and the event of Appomattox. The first incident was, with the negroes' usual talent that way, so transmogrified in pronunciation that it could mean nothing to them. It stood to them for a tremendous change, one which could not be condensed into a word, even though it exceeded their powers to pronounce it.

I had come back, as had thousands of others, with nothing in my hands, and only a few days' rations accorded by the enemy in my haversack; had come back to a mass of smoking débris and a wide area of ruin which opened unrecognized vistas that puzzled, dazed, and pained the home-seeker.

By instinct, I suppose, I drifted towards my _ante bellum_ quarters. My former landlord gave me a speechless welcome. To my inquiry as to the possibility of my reinhabiting my old quarters, he simply nodded and handed me the key. The tears that I had seen standing on his lids rolled down as he did so.

The room was cumbered with the chattels of the last tenant. There was no bed amongst them, but a roll of tattered carpet served me perfectly. I fell asleep over a slab of hardtack. That evening, on waking, I bethought me of Mammy.

My kind host allowed me to make a toilet in his back room behind the store. It consisted of a superficial ablution and the loan of a handkerchief. Mammy was not in. A neighbor of her sex and color offered me a chair in her house, but I sat in Mammy's tiny porch.

This part of the city was unchanged, but I missed a familiar steeple which had always been visible from Mammy's door.

It was late afternoon when Mammy came. She did not recognize me, but paused at the gate.

“Ef you's a sick soldier you must go to the hospital; you kain' stay here,” I heard her say before I roused myself sufficiently to speak.

“Mammy.”

An ejaculation of the name of the Lord that brought the neighbor to her door went up, and Mammy caught my hands and wept.

“Come in, my Gawd! Mahs William! you ain' hurted, is you?”

She pushed a chair to me and took one herself. For a few moments she confined herself to ejaculations of “Well! well! well!” and the name of the Deity. Then, “The town is bu'nt up; the army done 'rendered, an' Mahs William come back ragged ez a buzzard!”

I did not interrupt her. I could think of nothing to say, and began to be afraid that something was the matter with my brains. Meanwhile Mammy was bustling about, and before I knew it she had started the little fire into a blaze and the tea was boiling.

The flickering light glinted over the walls. At first I did not heed what it revealed; then I saw it glow and fade over some early efforts of my own, frame-less crudities, to which Mammy had fallen heir. They had become old masters! What centuries ranged themselves between the birth of those pictures and now!

This time tea was nectar, and after I had eaten a little cold middling bacon and hoe-cake, that she had put before me on a fractured member of our old Canton set, I took a more cheerful view of life. I believe that I would have shed tears over these poor relics from happier days, except that I was not quite conscious that anything was real that day. I told Mammy where I was. She seemed to think it perfectly in the nature of things that I should be there. Indeed, she appeared singularly calm in this cataclysm.

I encountered friends on my return to my quarters, and had invitations innumerable to meals and shelter. My costume was no drawback. Nobody knew how anybody was dressed.

The city was in a fever of excitement over the probable fate of those who had not yet returned, and in making provision for the homeless. Mammy turned up next morning with some of my civilian clothes that had been confided to her.

Mammy's simple “What you gwine do now, Mabs William?” thrown in whilst she assisted by her presence at my complete change of toilet--lapse of time was nothing to her--woke me to the momentous problem. There was no commissary sergeant to distribute even the meagre rations that so long left us ravenous after every meal. I could not camp in the Capitol Square, even if I had wished so to do.

Mammy left me with the injunction to call on her “ef I didn't have nowhar else to go.”

I went with unbroken fast to see what was left of the city. I met many acquaintances on the same errand. None of us seemed to realize that day what was to be done. For four years our campaigns had been planned for us.

I learned from one acquaintance, however, that I could have rations for the asking, and not long after found myself in line at the United States Commissary Department, along with hundreds of others, and departed thence bearing a goodly portion of hardtack and codfish. These I took to Mammy, who cooked the fish for me under loud protests against the smell.

Not long thereafter a number of us paroled soldiers made a mess, and cooked for ourselves at the room of one of them.

On one of these indeterminate days--dates had become nothing to me--I saw a dapper young man sketching about the ruins. I spoke to him, and mentioned that his had been my profession. This acquaintance was the beginning of hope.

I showed the young man places of interest, gave him points about a good many things, and at last fell to making sketches to help him out. They were perfectly satisfactory and liberally paid for. With this capital I set myself up in another place, which had a north light--by-the-way, I had been dispossessed of the asylum where I first found shelter, as the previous tenant returned. I was able to purchase material and apparel. But what was I to paint, and where to sell the product? My hand was out, I discovered, so I set to studying still life, and painting those of my friends who had the patience to sit.

I would have gone back to my old haunts in New York but for the material reason that my funds were too low, and the sentimental one that I not only was not in the humor for appealing to citizens of that section for patronage, but was not sure that it would not be withheld, from an analogous state of mind towards me.

Summer ran into fall. Mammy's visits increased in frequency, and her conversation drifted towards the difficulties of living.

I had long ago discharged all of her claims for material and repairs, but I noticed a tendency on her part to prepare my mind for a regular subsidy. I ignored these hints because it was impossible for me to carry out Mammy's plan, and painful for me to say so.

She approached the matter in a different way finally, and said, one day:

“Mahs William, you been cayin' on yo' fif' for some time now. Doan you think it's time for some of the yothers to look after them?”

I suggested that the whole family was about on a parity financially; that one brother was drifting in the trans-Mississippi, another living more precariously than I was. Suddenly a thought struck me, and I proposed that Mammy should apply to my married sister in the country, who could at least give her a home.

Mammy was very nearly indignant in her rejection of the proposition.

“Me live in de country! Why, Mahs William, I'm town-bred to de backbone. What I gwine do thar? Whar's anybody whar'll want my sponge-cake, jelly, and blue-monge, whar I can git ez much ez I wants to do in town? Who gwine want my clar-starchin' an' pickle-makin' an' ketchups? Dem tacky people doan want none of my makin's.”

I ventured to remind Mammy that all dwellers in the country were not tackies.

“I know dat, sah; but whole parcel of um is. Besides, heap uv de quality folks is poor an' in trouble sence the revackeration. I'd rather give up my other fif's fust.”

Of course Mammy's propositions were contradictory, but I had long known that she was not gifted with a logical mind, so I made no attempt to convict her of inconsistency.

From time to time I got small jobs of drawings for architects, as people had begun to bestir themselves and rebuild. I had been assured that I would find no prejudice against me in New York, but would stand on my own merits. I was not profoundly convinced that this was a safe risk for me to take. But living here was becoming impossible. Our own people were out of the question as purchasers of pictures. My still-lifes, from long exposure in the window of a friendly merchant in Broad Street, were becoming the camping-ground of the flies, and deteriorating rapidly. I was not strong in landscape, and the only subjects which suggested themselves were military, taken from my point of view politically, and not likely to be convertible into cash by persons of other convictions.

I was leaning against my ceiling one gray afternoon--at least I suppose it should be called ceiling, for it ran from the highest part of the chamber on an angle to the floor, and was pierced by a dormer--and contemplating a bunch of withered flowers which I had studied almost into dissolution, when Mammy knocked.

I had laid my palette on the floor, and was standing with my hands in my pockets. They fumbled, on one side with my bunch of keys, on the other with a small roll of small bills, the dreadful fractional currency of that era, whilst, in imagination, I projected my motive on the bare canvas, a twenty by twenty-four. I was sorry that Mammy had come, because a subject was beginning to take form in my mind. It was suggested by the withered flowers.

I thought that it would be a good idea to group them with a bundle of letters, some showing age, the top one with a recent postmark, and call the composition “Dead Hopes.” My thoughts were divided between the selection of a postmark for the top letter and the possibility of getting a frame, whilst Mammy was going through the process of finding a chair and seating herself. The invitation to come in implied the other courtesies.

The old lady was marvellously attired, and I wondered what could be the occasion of it. She had on a plaid shawl of purple, green, and red checkers, crossed on her bosom. Around her throat there was a lace collar of some common sort, held by a breastpin of enormous value if calculated by the square inch. She wore her usual turban of red and white, but on the top of it to-day was a straw bonnet of about the fashion of 1835, with flowers inside, and from it depended a green veil. Her frock was silk of an indescribable tint, the result of years of fading, and was flounced. The old lady had freed herself of her black cotton gloves, and was rolling them into a ball. I sighed inwardly, for this was the outward sign of undeterminable sitting.

Suddenly the self-arranged color scheme struck me as the cool light fell over Mammy. I seated myself and seized my palette.

“Sit still, Mammy, right where you are. I'm going to paint you.”

“Namer Gawd! paint me, Mahs William? After all dem pretty things whar you kin paint, paint yo' old Mammy?” She slapped herself on the knees, called the name of the Lord several times, and burst into the heartiest laugh that I had heard from her for some time.

“Yes, Mammy, just sit right still, and don't talk much, and I won't make you tired.”

I worked frantically, getting in the drawing as surely as I could, then attacked the face in color. The result was a success that astonished me. Mammy's evident fatigue stopped me. It was fortunate. I might have painted more and spoiled my study. I thought that she would go now, but her mission was not fulfilled. She had come to consult me on an important matter.

“You know this Freedman's Bureau, Mahs William? Well, they tells me--Lawd knows what they calls it bureau for!--they tells me that of a colored pusson goes down thar and gives in what he wuz worth--women either, mind you--that the guv'mint would pay um.”

Mammy paused for corroboration, but I determined to hear what she might add to this remarkable statement. “Well?”

“Well, sah, I didn't want to go down thar without no price, so I called in to arst you what you might consider yo' fif' worth, an' five times ovah.”

I did not laugh at Mammy. The emancipated negroes had such utterly wild notions of what was going to be done for them that Mammy's statement did not surprise me very much. I let her go with the assurance that I would inquire into the matter. She left enjoining me not to put that “fif' too cheap,” and I insisting that she should not go to the Bureau, in deference to whose officials her astonishing toilet had evidently been made.

I was so much pleased with my own work that it was nearly twilight before the knock of a familiar friend roused me. He was a clever amateur, and took the greatest interest in my work. His enthusiasm over Mammy's effigy made me glow. He agreed to pose for me in Mammy's costume.

Next day I borrowed the outfit without intimating that it was to be worn by anybody. Mammy was over-nervous about its being properly cared for. I think that she still contemplated appearing in it at the Bureau.

In a week the picture was complete. My model and I went out and celebrated appropriately but frugally.

A small label in the corner gave the title to the picture--“My old Mammy.”

My friend gave my work a place in his window, and my acquaintances generally accorded unqualified praise. The older ones recognized Mammy at once.

Pending a purchaser for this, I started my deferred subject, and changed it into a figure piece. A lovely friend was my model. She contemplated the flowers and letters. Above the old piece of furniture on which she leaned there hung a photograph, a sword, and a sash--a more striking suggestion of my first title, “Dead Hopes.” How little I dreamed, as I worked, that there was such happy irony in the name, and that Mammy could ever, in the remotest way, conduce to such a result!

Nearly every morning I hovered about my friend's establishment at a sufficient distance to elude suspicion of my anxiety, but easily in visual range of my exhibit.

One morning it was not visible. I rushed to the store with a throbbing breast. Alas! the picture had only been shifted to another light. Before the revulsion of feeling had time to overpower me I was seized by my friend the merchant.

“It's a regular play,” he exclaimed.

He forced me to a seat on a pile of cheese-boxes, and facing me, began:

“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'.”

The door opened cautiously, and an old negro looked out. “Abram's my son, Mr. Partin,” he said, “an' 'fo' Gawd he ent yer.”

“No lyin', old man; the dogs brought us straight here. Don't make me burn the house down; open the door.”

The door was closing, when the sheriff, springing from his horse, forced it steadily back. A shot came from within, but it ranged wild, and in an instant the sheriff's pistol covered the open room, where a smouldering fire gave light. Two of the men followed him, and one, making for the fire, pushed it into a blaze, which revealed a group of negroes--an old man, a young woman, some children, and a young man crouching behind with a gun in his hand. The sheriff walked straight up to the young man, whose teeth were chattering.

“I arrest you,” he said; “come on.”

“That's the feller,” confirmed one of the guard; “I've seen him at Mr. Morris's place.”

“Tie him,” the sheriff ordered, “while I git that gun. Give it to me, old man, or I'll take you to jail too.” It was yielded up--an old-time rifle--and the sheriff smashed it against the side of the chimney, throwing the remnants into the fire. “Lead on,” he said, and the young negro was taken outside. Quickly he was lifted on to a horse and tied there, while the former rider mounted behind one of his companions, and they rode out of the settlement into the woods.

“Git into the shadows,” one said; “they might be fools enough to shoot.”

Once in the road, the sheriff called a halt. “One of you must ride; back to Mr. Morris's place and collect the other search-parties, while we make for Pineville jail. Now, Abram, come on.”

“I ent done nuttin', Mr. Parin, suh,” the negro urged. “I ent hot Mis' Morris.”

“Who said anything 'bout Mrs. Morris?” was asked, sharply.

The negro groaned.

“You're hanging yourself, boy,” the sheriff said; “but since you know, where _is_ Mrs. Morris?”

“I dun'no', suh.”

“Why did you run away?”

“'Kase I 'fraid Mr. Morris.”

“What were you 'fraid of?”

“'Kase Mis' Morris gone.”

They were riding rapidly now, and the talk was jolted out.

“Where'?”

“I dun'no', suh, but I ent tech um.”

“You're a damned liar.”

“No, suh, I ent tech um; I des look at um.”

“I'd like to gouge your eyes out!” cried one of the men, and struck him.

“None o' that!” ordered the sheriff. “And you keep your mouth shut, Abram; you'll have time to talk on your trial.”

“Blast a trial!” growled the crowd.

“The rope's round his neck now,” suggested one, “and I see good trees at every step.”

“Please, suh, gentlemen,” pleaded the shaking negro, “I ent done nuttin'.”

“Shut your mouth!” ordered the sheriff again, “and ride faster. Day'll soon break.”

“You're 'fraid Mr. Morris'll ketch us 'fore we reach the jail,” laughed one of the guard. And the sheriff did not answer.

The eastern sky was gray when the party rode into Pineville, a small, straggling country town, and clattered through its one street to the jail. To the negro, at least, it was a welcome moment, for, with his feet tied under the horse, his hands tied behind his back, and a rope with a slip-knot round his neck, he had not found the ride a pleasant one. A misstep of his horse would surely have precipitated his hanging, and he knew well that such an accident would have given much satisfaction to his captors. So he uttered a fervent “Teng Gawd!” as he was hustled into the jail gate and heard it close behind him.

Early as it was, most of the town was up and excited. Betting had been high as to whether the sheriff would get the prisoner safe into the jail, and even the winners seemed disappointed that he had accomplished this feat, although they praised his skilful management. But the sheriff knew that if the lady's body was found, that if Mr. Morris could find any proof against the negro, that if Mr. Morris even expressed a wish that the negro should hang, the whole town would side with him instantly; and the sheriff knew, further, that in such an emergency he would be the negro's only defender, and that the jail could easily be carried by the mob.

All these thoughts had been with him during the long night, and though he himself was quite willing to hang the negro, being fully persuaded of his guilt, he was determined to do his official duty, and to save the prisoner's life until sentence was lawfully passed on him. But how? If he could quiet the town before the day brightened, he had a plan, but to accomplish this seemed wellnigh impossible.

He handcuffed the prisoner and locked him into a cell, then advised his escort to go and get food, as before the day was done--indeed, just as soon as Mr. Morris should reach the town--he would probably need them to help him defend the jail.

They nodded among themselves, and winked, and laughed a little, and one said, “Right good play-actin'”; and watching, the sheriff knew that he could depend on only one man, his own brother, to help him. But he sent him off along with the others, and was glad to see that the crowd of townspeople went with his guard, listening eagerly to the details of the suspected tragedy and the subsequent hunt. This was his only chance, and he went at once to the negro's cell.

“Now, Abram,” he said, “if you don't want to be a dead man in an hour's time, you'd better do exactly what I tell you.”

“Yes, suh, please Gawd.”

“Put on this old hat,” handing him one, “and pull it down over your eyes, and follow me. When we get outside, you walk along with me like any ordinary nigger going to his work; and remember, if you stir hand or foot more than a walk, you are a dead man. Come on.”

There was a back way out of the jail, and to this the sheriff went. Once outside, he walked briskly, the negro keeping step with him diligently. They did not meet any one, and before very long they reached the sheriff's house, which stood on the outskirts of the town. Being a widower, he knocked peremptorily on the door, and when it was opened by his son, he marched his prisoner in without explanation.

“Shut the door, Willie,” he said, “and load the Winchester.”

“Please, suh--” interjected the negro. For answer, the sheriff took a key from the shelf, and led him out of the back door to where, down a few steps, there was another door leading into an underground cellar.

“Now, Abram,” he said, “you're to keep quiet in here till I can take you to the city jail. There is no use your trying to escape, because my two boys'll be about here all day with their repeating rifles, and they can shoot.”

“Yes, suh.”

“And whoever unlocks this door and tells you to come out, you do it, and do it quick.”

“Yes, suh.”

Locking the door, the sheriff turned to his son. “You and Charlie must watch that door all day, Willie,” he said; “but you musn't seem to watch it; and keep your guns handy, and if that nigger tries to get away, kill him; don't hesitate. I must go back to the jail and make out like he's there. And tell Charlie to feed the horse and hitch him to the buggy, and let him stand ready in the stable, for when I'll want him I'll want him quick. Above all things, don't let anybody know that the nigger's here. But keep the cellar key in your pocket, and shoot if he tries to run. If your uncle Jim comes, do whatever he tells you, but nobody else, lessen they bring a note from me. Now remember. I'm trusting you, boy; and don't you make any mistake about killing the nigger if he tries to escape.”

“All right,” the boy answered, cheerfully, and the father went away. He almost ran to the jail, and entering once more by the back door, found things undisturbed. Presently his brother called to him, and the gates and doors being opened, came in, bringing a waiter of hot food and coffee.

“I told Jinnie you'd not like to leave the jail,” he said, “an' she fixed this up.”

“Jinnie's mighty good,” the sheriff answered, “and sometimes a woman's mighty handy to have about--sometimes; but I'd not leave one out in the country like Mr. Morris did; no, sir, not in these days. We could do it before the war and during the war, but not now. The old niggers were taught some decency; but these young ones! God help us, for I don't see any safety for this country 'cept Judge Lynch. And I'll tell you this is my first an' last term as sheriff. The work's too dirty.”

“Buck Thomas was a boss sheriff,” his brother answered; “he found the niggers all right, but the niggers never found the jail, and the niggers were 'fraid to death of him.”

“Maybe Buck was right,” the sheriff said, “and 'twas heap the easiest way; but here comes the town.”

The two men went to the window and saw a crowd of people advancing down the road, led by Mr. Morris and his friends on horseback.

“I b'lieve you're the only man in this town that'll stand by me, Jim,” the sheriff said. “I swore in six last night, and I see 'em all in that crowd. Poor Mr. Morris! in his place I'd do just what he's doin'. Blest if yonder ain't Doty Buxton comin' to help me! I'll let him in; but see here, Jim, I'm goin' to send Doty to telegraph to the city for Judge More, and I want you to slip out the back way right now, and run to my house, and tell Willie to give you the buggy and the nigger, and you drive that nigger into the city. Of course you'll kill him if he tries to escape.”

“The nigger ain't here!”