CHAPTER ONE
_Kettledrum and Fife_
The serene repose of Shady Dale no doubt stood for dulness and lack ofprogress in that day and time. In all ages of the world, and in allplaces, there are men of restless but superficial minds, who mistakerepose and serenity for stagnation. No doubt then, as now, the mostawful sentence to be passed on a community was to say that it was notprogressive. But when you examine into the matter, what is calledprogress is nothing more nor less than the multiplication of theresources of those who, by means of dicker and barter, are trying allthe time to overreach the public and their fellows, in one way andanother. This sort of thing now has a double name; it is calledcivilisation, as well as progress, and those who take things as theyfind them in their morning newspaper, without going to the trouble toreflect for themselves, are no doubt duly impressed by terms that arelarge enough to fill both the ear and mouth at one and the same time.
Well, whatever serene repose stands for, Shady Dale possessed it in aneminent degree, and the people there had their full share of the sorrowsand troubles of this world, as Madame Awtry, or Miss Puella Gillum, orNeighbour Tomlin, or even that cheerful philosopher, Mr. Billy Sanders,could have told you; but of these Nan and Gabriel and Cephas knewnothing except in a vague, indefinite way. They heard hints of rumours,and sometimes they saw their elders shaking their heads as they gossipedtogether, but the youngsters lived in a world of their own, a worldapart, and the vague rumours were no more interesting to them than thereports of canals on Mars are to the average person to-day. He reads inhis newspaper that the markings in Mars are supposed to be canals;whereat he smiles and reflects that these canals can do him no harm. Nanand Gabriel and Cephas were as far from contemporary troubles as we arefrom Mars. The most serious trouble they had was not greater than thatwhich they discovered one day on the Bermuda hill. As they were sittingon the warm grass, wondering how long before peaches would be ripe, theysaw a field mouse cutting up some queer capers. Nan was not veryfriendly with mice, and she instinctively gathered up her skirts; butshe did not run; her curiosity was ever greater than her fear. Presentlywe found that the troubles of Mother Mouse were very real. A tremendousblack beetle had invaded her nest, and had seized one of her children, alittle bit of a thing, naked and red and about the size of a half-ripemulberry. We tried hard to rescue the mouse from the beetle, but soonfound that it was quite dead. Cephas crushed the beetle, which was asvenomous-looking a bug as they had ever seen. Was the beetle preparingto eat the mouse? Tasma Tid said yes, but Gabriel thought not. His ideawas that the Mother Mouse had attacked the beetle, which was blindlycrawling about, and had fallen in the nest accidentally. The beetle,striving to defend itself, had seized the mouse between its pinchers,and held it there until it was quite dead.
But the Bermuda fields were not the only resource of the children. Therewere seasons when Uncle Plato, who was Meriwether Clopton'scarriage-driver, came to town with the big waggon to haul home thesupplies necessary for the plantation; loads of bagging and rope; casesof brogan shoes, and hats for the negroes; and bales on bales ofosnaburgs and blankets. The appearance of the Clopton waggon on thepublic square was hailed by these youngsters with delight. They alwaysmade a rush for it, and, in riding back and forth with Uncle Plato, theyspent some of the most delightful moments of their lives.
And then in the fall season, there was the big gin running at theClopton place, with old Beck, the blind mule, going round and round,turning the cogged and pivoted post that set the machinery in motion.But the youngsters rarely grew tired of riding back and forth with UnclePlato. He was the one person in the world who catered most completely totheir whims, who was most responsive to their budding and eager fancies,and who entered most enthusiastically into the regions created andpeopled by Nan's skittish and fantastic imagination.
These children had their critics, as may well be supposed, especiallyNan, who did not always conform to the rules and theories which havebeen set up for the guidance of girls; but Uncle Plato, along withGabriel and Cephas, accepted her as she was, with all her faults, andtook as much delight in her tricksy and capricious behaviour, as if hewere responsible for it all. She and her companions furnished UnclePlato with what all story-tellers have most desired since hairy manbegan to shave himself with pumice-stone, and squat around a commonhearth--a faithful and believing audience. Uncle AEsop, it may be, caredless for his audience than for the opportunity of lugging in a dismaland perfunctory moral. Uncle Plato, like Uncle Remus, concealed hisbehind text and adventure, conveying it none the less completely on thataccount. Not one of his vagaries was too wild for the acceptance of hissmall audience, and the elusiveness of his methods was a perpetualdelight to Nan, as hers was to Uncle Plato, though he sometimes shookhis head, and pretended to sigh over her innocent evasions.
Once when we were all riding back and forth from the Clopton Place toShady Dale, Nan asked Uncle Plato if he could spell.
"Tooby sho I kin, honey. What you reckon I been doin' all dezelong-come-shorts ef I dunner how ter spell? How you speck I kin git'long, haulin' an' maulin', ef I dunner how ter spell? Why, I couldspell long 'fo' I know'd my own name."
"Long-come-shorts, what are they?" asked Nan.
"Rainy days an' windy nights," responded Uncle Plato, throwing his headback, and closing his eyes.
"Let's hear you spell, then," said Nan.
"Dee-o-egg, dog," was the prompt response. Nan looked at Uncle Plato tosee if he was joking, but he was solemnity itself. "E-double-egg, egg!"he continued.
"Now spell John A. Murrell," said Nan. Murrell, the land pirate, was oneof her favourite heroes at this time.
Uncle Plato pretended to be very much shocked. "Why, honey, dat man wuzrank pizen. En spozen he wa'nt, how you speck me ter spell sump'n ersomebody which I ain't never laid eyes on? How I gwineter spell JohnnyMurrell, an' him done dead dis many a long year ago?"
"Well, spell goose, then," said Nan, seeing a flock of geese marchingstiffly in single file across a field near the road.
Uncle Plato looked at them carefully enough to take their measure, andthen shook his head solemnly. "Deyer so many un um, honey, dey'd bemonstus hard fer ter spell."
"Well, just spell one of them then," Nan suggested.
"Which un, honey?"
"Any one you choose."
Uncle Plato studied over the matter a moment, and again shook his head."Uh-uh, honey; dat ain't nigh gwine ter do. Ef you speck me fer terspell goose, you got ter pick out de one you want me ter spell."
"Well, spell the one behind all the rest."
Again Uncle Plato shook his head. "Dat ar goose got half-grown goslin's,an' I ain't never larnt how ter spell goose wid half-grown goslin's. Youax too much, honey."
"Then spell the one next to head." Nan was inexorable.
"Dat ar ain't no goose," replied Uncle Plato, with an air of triumph;"she's a gander."
"I don't believe you know how to spell goose," said Nan, with somethinglike scorn.
"Don't you fool yo'se'f, honey," remarked Uncle Plato in a tone ofconfidence. "You git me a great big fat un, not too ol', an' not tooyoung, an' fill 'er full er stuffin', an' bake 'er brown in de big oven,an' save all de drippin's, an' put 'er on de table not fur fum whar Imought be settin' at, an' gi' me a pone er corn bread, an' don't have notalkin' an' laughin' in de game--an' ef I don't spell dat goose, I'llcome mighty nigh it, I sholy will. Ef I don't spell 'er, dey won't benuff lef' fer de nex' man ter spell. You kin 'pen' on dat, honey."
Nan suddenly called Uncle Plato's attention to the carriage horses,which were hitched to the waggon. She said she knew their names wellenough when they were pulling the carriage, but now--
"Haven't you changed the horses, Uncle Plato?" she asked.
"How I gwine change um, honey?"
"I mean, haven't you changed their places?"
"No, ma'am!" he answered with considerable emphasis. "No, ma'am; ef Iwuz ter put dat off hoss in de lead, you'd see some mighty high kickin';you sho would."
"Oh, let's try it!" cried Nan, with real eagerness.
"Dem may try it what choosen ter try it," responded Uncle Plato, dryly,"but I'll ax um fer ter kindly le' me git win' er what deyer gwine terdo, an' den I'll make my 'rangerments fer ter be somers out'n sight an'hearin'."
"Well, if you haven't made the horses swap places," remarked Nan, "I'llbet you a thrip that the right-hand horse is named Waffles, and theleft-hand one Battercakes."
At once Uncle Plato became very dignified. "Well-'um, I'm mighty gladfer ter hear you sesso, kaze ef dey's any one thing what I want mo' dananudder, it's a thrip's wuff er mannyfac terbacker. Ez fer de off hoss,dat's his name--Waffles--you sho called it right. But when it comes terde lead hoss, anybody on de plantation, er off'n it, I don't keer whardey live at, ef dey yever so much ez hear er dat lead hoss, will be gladfer ter tell you dat he goes by de name er Muffins." He held out hishand for the thrip.
"Well, what is the difference?" said Nan, drawing back as if to preventhim from taking the thrip.
"De diffunce er what?" inquired Uncle Plato.
"And you expect me to give you money you haven't won," declared Nan."What's the difference between Battercakes and Muffins? A muffin is abattercake if you pour three big spoonfuls in a pan and spread it out,and a battercake is a muffin if you pen it up in a tin-thing like anapkin ring. Anybody can tell you that, Uncle Plato--yes, anybody."
What reply the old negro would have made to this bit of home-madecasuistry will never be known. That it would have been reasonable, ifnot entirely adequate, may well be supposed, but just as he had givenhis head a preliminary shake, the rattle of a kettle-drum was heard, andabove the rattle a fife was shrilling.
The shrilling fife, and the roll and rattle of the drums! These weresounds somewhat new to Shady Dale in 1860; but presently they were to beheard all over the land.
"I can see dem niggers right now!" exclaimed Uncle Plato, as we hustledout of his waggon. "Riley playin' de fife, Green beatin' on dekittledrum, an' Ike Varner bangin' on de big drum. Ef de white folks paymuch 'tention ter dem niggers, dey won't be no livin' in de same countywid um. But dey better not come struttin' 'roun' me!"
The drums were beating the signal for calling together the men whosenames had been signed to the roll of a company to be called the ShadyDale Scouts, and the meeting was for the purpose of organizing andelecting officers. All this was accomplished in due time; but meanwhileNan and Gabriel and Cephas, as well as Tasma Tid and all the rest of thechildren in the town, went tagging after the fife and drums listening toRiley play the beautiful marching tunes that set Nan's blood totingling. Riley was a master hand with the fife, and we had never knownit, had never even suspected it! Nan thought it was very mean in Rileynot to tell somebody that he could play so beautifully.
Well, in a very short time, the company was rigged out in the finestuniforms the children had even seen. All the men, even the privates, hadplumes in their hats and epaulettes of gold on their shoulders; and ontheir coats they wore stripes of glowing red, and shiny brass buttonswithout number. And at least twice a week they marched through thestreets and out into the Bermuda fields, where they had their drillinggrounds. These were glorious days for the youngsters. Nan was soenthusiastic that she organised a company of little negroes, andinsisted on being the captain. Gabriel was the first lieutenant, andCephas was the second. When the company was ready to take the field, itwas discovered that Nan would also have to be orderly sergeant andcolor-bearer. But she took on herself the duties and responsibilities ofthese positions without a murmur. She wore a paper hat of the trueNapoleonic cut, and carried in one hand her famous sword-gun, and thecolors in the other. The oldest private in Nan's company was nine; theyoungest was four, and had as much as he could do to keep up with therest. The uniforms of these sun-seasoned troops was the regulationplantation fatigue dress--a shirt coming to the knees. Two or three ofthe smaller privates had evidently fallen victims to the pot-liquor andbuttermilk habits, for their bellies stuck out black and glistening fromrents in their shirts.
Their accoutrements prefigured in an absurd way the resources of theConfederacy at a later date. They were armed with broomsticks, andwhat-not. The file-leader had an old pair of tongs, which he snappedviciously when Nan gave the word to fire. The famous sword-gun, withwhich Nan did such execution, had once seen service as an umbrellahandle.
One afternoon, as Nan was drilling her troops, she chanced to glancedown the road, and saw a waggon coming along. Deploying her companyacross the highway, she went forward in person to reconnoitre. She soondiscovered that the waggon was driven by Uncle Plato. Running back toher veterans, she placed herself in front of them, and calmly awaitedevents. Slowly the fat horses dragged the waggon along, when suddenlyNan cried "Halt!" whereupon the drummer, obeying previous instructions,began to belabour his tin-pan, while Nan levelled her famous sword-gunat Uncle Plato. "Bang!" she exclaimed, and then, "Why didn't you falloff the waggon?" she cried, as Uncle Plato remained immovable. "Why, youdon't know any more about real war than a baby," she said scornfully.
If the truth must be told, Uncle Plato had been dozing, and when heawoke he viewed the scene before him with astonishment. There was noneed to cry "Halt!" or exclaim "Bang!" for as soon as the drummer beganto beat his tin-pan, the horses stood still and craned their necksforward, with a warning snort, trying to see what this strange andunnatural proceeding meant. Uncle Plato had involuntarily tightened thereins when he was so rudely awakened, and the horses took this for ahint that they must avoid the danger, and, as the shortest way is thebest way, they began to back, and had the waggon nearly turned aroundbefore Uncle Plato could tell them a different tale.
"Ef I'd 'a' fell out'n de waggon, honey, who gwine ter pick me up?" heasked, laughing.
"Why, no one is picked up in war!"
"Is dis war, honey?"
"Of course it is," Nan declared.
"Does bofe sides hafter take part in de rucus?" asked Uncle Plato,making a terrible face at the little negroes.
"Why, of course," said Nan.
Seeing the scowl, Nan's veteran troops began to edge slowly toward thenearest breach in the fence. Uncle Plato seized his whip and pretendedto be clambering from the waggon. At this a panic ensued, and Nan's armydispersed in a jiffy. The seasoned troops dropped their arms and fled.The four-year-old became lost or entangled in a thick growth of jimsonweed, seeing which, Uncle Plato cried out in terrible voice, "Ketch umdar! Fetch um here!"
Then and there ensued a wild scene of demoralisation and anarchy; loudshrieks and screams filled the air; the dogs barked, the hens cackled,and the neighbours began to put their heads out of the windows. Mrs.Absalom, who had charge of the Dorrington household, and who had raisedNan from a baby, came to the door--the defeat of the troops occurredright at Nan's own home--crying, "My goodness gracious! has the yethcaved in?" Then, seeing the waggon crosswise the road, and mistakingNan's shrieks of laughter for cries of pain, she bolted from the housewith a white face.
Mrs. Absalom's reactions from her daily alarms about Nan usuallyresulted in bringing her into open and direct war with everybody insight or hearing, except the child; but on this occasion, her fright hadbeen so serious that when Nan, somewhat sobered, ran to her the goodwoman was shaking.
"Why, Nonny!" cried Nan, hugging her, "you are all trembling."
"No wonder," said Mrs. Absalom in a subdued voice; "I saw you under themwaggon wheels as plain as I ever saw anything in my life. I'm gittin'old, I reckon."
And yet there were some people who wondered how Nan could endure such afoster-mother as Mrs. Absalom.
But the complete rout of Nan's army made no change in the generalcomplexion of affairs. The Shady Dale Scouts continued to perfectthemselves in the tactics of war, and after awhile, when the greatcontroversy began to warm up--the children paid no attention to thepassage of time--the company went into camp. This was a great hour forthe youngsters. Here at last was something real and tangible. Themarching and the countermarching
through the streets and in the oldfield were very well in their way, but Nan and Gabriel and the rest hadgrown used to these man[oe]uvres, and they longed for something new.This was furnished by the camp, with its white tents, and the grimsentinels pacing up and down with fixed bayonets. No one, not even anofficer, could pass the sentinels without giving the password, orcalling for the officer of the guard.
All this, from the children's point of view, was genuine war; but to themembers of the company it was a veritable picnic. The citizens of thetown, especially the ladies, sent out waggon loads of food everyday--boiled ham, barbecued shote, chicken pies, and cake; yes, andpickles. Nan declared she didn't know there were as many pickles in theworld, as she saw unloaded at the camp.
Mr. Goodlett, who was Mrs. Absalom's husband, went out to the camp,looked it over with the eye of an expert, and turned away with a groan.This citizen had served both in the Mexican and the Florida wars, and heknew that these gallant young men would have a rude awakening, when itcame to the real tug of war.
"Doesn't it look like war, Mr. Ab?" Nan asked, running after theveteran.
Mr. Goodlett looked at the bright face lifted up to his, and frowned,though a smile of pity showed itself around his grizzled mouth. He was avery deliberate man, and he hesitated before he spoke. "You think thatlooks like war?" he asked.
"Why, of course. Isn't that the way they do when there's a war?"
"What! gormandise, an' set in the shade? Why, it ain't no more like warthan sparrergrass is like jimson weed--not one ioter." With that, hesighed and went on his way.
But when did the precepts of age and experience ever succeed in chillingthe enthusiasm of youth? With the children, it was "O to be a soldierboy!" and Nan and her companions continued to linger around the edges ofthe spectacle, taking it all in, and enjoying every moment. And theScouts themselves continued to live like lords, eating and drilling, anddozing during the day, and at night dancing to the sweet music ofFlavian Dion's violin. Nan and Gabriel thought it was fine, and, as wellas can be remembered, Cephas was of the same opinion. As for Tasma Tid,she thought that the fife and drums, and the general glare and glitterof the affair were simply grand, very much nicer than war in hercountry, where the Arab slave-traders crept up in the night and seizedall who failed to escape in the forest, killing right and left for themere love of killing. Compared with the jungle war, this pageant wassomething to be admired.
And many of the older citizens held views not very different from thoseof the children, for enthusiasm ran high. The Shady Dale Scouts wentaway arrayed in their holiday uniforms. Many of them never returned totheir homes again, but those that did were arrayed in rags and tatters.Their gallantry was such that the Shady Dale Scouts, disguised asCompany B, were always at the head of their regiment when trouble was onhand. But all this is to anticipate.
Gabriel Tolliver: A Story of Reconstruction Page 2
