Christy

by Catherine Marshall

  As I went out to breathe the pleasant air,

  I saw a lady talkin’ to her daughter fair,

  Rolly-trudum, trudum, trudum-rolly-day . . .

  Oh, if you was to marry, who would be your man,

  Rolly-trudum, trudum, trudum-rolly-day,

  Oh, if you was to marry, who would be your man?

  “I love a handsome farmer and his name is—Sam,”

  Rolly-trudum, trudum, trudum-rolly-day . . .

  The stirring did not seem like work at all so long as we were singing, “Rolly-trudum, trudum-rolly-day—”

  But Fairlight and I did not stop with canning and cooking. We also made window curtains out of flour sacks, the first curtains that the Spencers had ever had. Soon there were flour-sack curtains at many windows in the Cove, for all the women were watching our activities.

  One afternoon Fairlight had been up to the loft to fetch onions and dried apples. She came down bringing under one arm an old book. “The Compt book,” she said, thrusting it at me.

  “The what?”

  “Compt book. Have a look.”

  I took the book curiously, having never heard the word “compt” before. It was a very old book covered with rawhide, sewn together with thread with hinges of rawhide thongs. The paper was rough, the entire book written in longhand, the brown ink faded, in some places faded out. On the first page was the notation “1702” and then “Alexander Malcombe Morrison, at Achinhoar, Argyllshire.”

  I was immediately engrossed in the pages covered with a meticulous spidery script. It took me a while to figure out that the book was a sort of estate journal, a Scottish laird’s records of day-by-day business transactions—how much “Silver rent” he had collected; the buying of “five tydie Cows with three Stirks”; the selling of “Seven pecks meall”; etc., etc.

  The first ten pages or so had actually been written in Latin. Then abruptly, that had been dropped for English, only English with antique spelling.

  Immediately I was aching with curiosity. “Fairlight, where did you get this book?”

  “When I married Jeb, my mama give it to me. Said I mought as well take it along with the coverlids and the three silver spoons.”

  “This was in your family then?”

  “Shorely so. My name was Morrison.”

  “And Alexander, who wrote the Compt book, was an ancestor of yours?”

  “Rightly so—”

  But it was soon obvious that Fairlight knew little more of the family history, so I borrowed the book and pored over it eagerly to see what I could discover. The entries had begun in 1702 and had ended in 1747 with three blank pages left. Judging from the rents collected, the laird had owned large acreage and also some ships. He had had four daughters and two sons, for whom he recorded payment to a tutor, a retired cleric. He was prosperous enough to buy “fyne shurts and cravats” a dozen or so at a time. There were several references to His Grace, the Duke of Argyll, who had apparently been an adjacent landowner and with whom Alexander had had frequent business dealings.

  The laird must have kept the Compt book in his saddlebags and have made entries in it as he rode over his land. Apparently he did not trust his memory and, besides, he had been a methodical business man who recorded every penny—whether in “Scots money” or Sterling.

  One page was headed:

  Rentall Crop and Martimas 1703 years

  Reed from Gilbert McShenoig full and compleat payment for Crop and Martimas—29:04:04

  Or on over in the book . . .

  Apryll third Day, 1711–Then counted and delivered of sheep and muttons to Donald Dugald my heard Fourscore and two wt ane Ram grof yr is eight yt has lambs and 4 to lamb. In all—86.

  And as I flipped over to the next to the last entry made, I was startled to see the name “Neil MacNeill.”

  March 1747–Bought from Neil MacNeill of Barra ane Kow at Seventeen mrks qch and ane bull qch. he is to deliver me att whit-Sunday next.

  Of course I wondered about the sudden cessation of the entries in 1747. Was that the date on which Fairlight’s ancestor had sailed for the New World? And why? Obviously he had had a good life in Scotland, for the Compt book spok of wine and mutton and seed, and “blanketting musline,” “linene napkins,” even “ane pair pumps for the maid.” Was Alexander one of those whose lands had been confiscated by the English after Culloden?

  I sat a long while holding the open book, reading . . . picturing in my mind . . . wondering.

  Fairlight and I had been fishing and were on our way home through the edge of the Holcombes’ land. The way was steeply downhill, and we were approaching a huge boulder to one side of the path. Suddenly my eyes caught movement and I realized that a man’s shoulders were sliding along the far side of the boulder.

  Fairlight saw it too and grabbed my arm. “Looky, I spy—” But she was never able to finish the sentence. The figure was standing directly in our path. It was Bird’s-Eye Taylor. Involuntarily I drew back.

  “Don’t aim to do ye no harm.” He looked the same as always—the inevitable gun in his hands, the dirty felt hat pulled down over his eyes—except that he had let his black beard grow. He was holding out a piece of folded grubby paper. “I’d be beholden, if’n ye’d give this here to Opal.” Forcibly he shoved the paper into my hands. “And thank ye kindly.” And he disappeared around the boulder.

  When Fairlight and I had recovered from our surprise, we agreed that we should tell no one except Opal of this episode: it would not help matters for people to know that Bird’s-Eye was back in the Cove. Then I left Fairlight and struck out with the note for the McHone cabin.

  An hour later when I handed the note to Opal, her first reaction was pleased surprise that anyone would write a letter to her. “First letter ever I had,” she said wonderingly. “I be that glad, Miz Christy, that ye thoughted me to start readin’ afore this.” And she went off into a corner to try to decipher the note for herself.

  For several minutes, I talked to Toot and Vincent, now and again glancing over at Opal. Letter by letter, she was laboriously trying to spell out the words. Finally she gave it up and came back to me. “Can’t rightly make hit all out,” she sighed. “Reckon, Miz Christy, ye’d best read hit aloud to me.” So I took it and read

  Opal—it was not me that kilt Tom. When I can cum back safe I will tell it to you how it was. A friend writ this for me.

  X BT

  I looked at Opal. Her eyes were filled with tears.

  That morning I awoke with the dawn. For a moment I let myself luxuriate in half-drowsiness, enjoying the air, so deliciously fresh and cool, pouring in through the open windows. Then I remembered, there was something special about this day. Oh yes, the last day of school, the closing exercises towards which we had been working so long.

  My mind went back to that snowy January morning when the schoolchildren and I had first met, back to that moment when they had stood in tight little clusters staring at me. So much had happened to them and to me in those seven months—prickings and problems, disappointments and triumphs. I hoped that the program today would be a showcase for some of the victories. If only my mischievous boys would behave for this one day. And if only stage fright did not blank out memory work at critical moments.

  We were attempting a great deal, going far beyond the customary closing exercises: a few recitations, perhaps a cross-spelling bee, with the teacher providing a treat such as twenty-five cents worth of hoarhound drops or peppermint sticks. In the light of recent events in Cutter Gap, Miss Alice, David and I had felt that we needed to use this last day of school to try to pull the Cove people closer together. Thus every pupil was to have some part in the program and all parents had been invited.

  Two prizes were to be given: one for the pupil with the highest marks in all subjects; the other for the child who had memorized and could recite correctly the greatest number of verses of Scripture. There would be refreshments for all—blackberry shrub and cakes and cookies. All of my children had been roamin
g the mountains gathering the blackberries, and Miss Ida, Ruby Mae, Bessie Coburn, Fairlight Spencer and her daughter Clara had been baking for several days.

  After breakfast, I went on over to the schoolroom early to be certain that everything was in order. To my consternation, some of the parents and children were already arriving. There was the Beck family and all of the Allens, including Little Burl who was well and bouncy again, and Creed with his pet raccoon sitting on his shoulder. Creed had never lost sight of the pact I had made with him that first day of school.

  “Miz Christy, this school is a sight to behold,” Lenore Beck enthused. “My eyes are just a-stickin’ out for lookin’.”

  “I holped sweep the floor, Maw,” Joshua Bean Beck bragged.

  But his brother Andrew was not to be outdone. “Yes, but Maw, I’m the one that fetched some of them Turk’s-cap lilies.”

  It was true that the schoolroom had never been so clean and garnished. My pupils and I had even washed the windows and then had decorated the room with rhododendron leaves, fronds of cinnamon ferns and the wild lilies and branches of red elderberry bushes picked high in the mountains. In between the leaves and ferns, I had tacked up the best work of the term: the nicest drawings and maps; the themes with the highest grades; some extraordinary Latin translations and arithmetic papers.

  “Since we’re going to have such a big crowd,” I said to the two fathers, “would you men raise the windows for me?”

  “Glad to accommodate ye,” Will Beck answered. Even as he spoke, Lundy Taylor sauntered in and came directly to me. “Fotched ye a present, Teacher.” He handed me a tin pail of huckleberries. There was a smirk on his face as he leaned close. “Picked them myself—for you.”

  There was no mistaking it, the smell of liquor on Lundy’s breath. “Thanks, Lundy,” I said automatically. “Maybe we can have a huckleberry pie or—something.” I wondered what I should do. If I told David, there might be a scene, and I could not bear the thought of anything spoiling this day. I decided not to say anything and hope that Lundy would not tangle with anyone or make a fool of himself. I had been nervous enough about how my pupils would perform; now with this complication, the butterflies in my stomach reminded me of that first day of school. But Lundy went to his usual seat and sat down docilely.

  Within twenty minutes the room was crowded to the doors with parents standing along the walls, many of them wearing their missionary-barrel clothes. Miss Alice was there, and even Miss Ida had decided to come. She was dressed in her best black taffeta buttoned high on her neck, sitting in a chair which David had carried over for her.

  David opened the program with a greeting to everyone: “Mothers and fathers, boys and girls—this is a big day for our school. We’re proud of what we’ve accomplished, and you can be proud of your children. After the exercises are over, during the refreshment period, we hope that you will wander around and look carefully at the samples of the work posted on the walls. And now, first on our program is a welcome from Mountie O’Teale.”

  The Mountie who came forward to stand in front of the room was a different child from the defeated Mountie of seven months ago. She was dressed in a clean starched gingham dress, her hair neatly combed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She spoke slowly. “Fathers and mothers—we are glad you—have come today. We hope—you like—our program. We hope—that you have—a good time.” Not a single lisp. Not a stutter! It was a proud moment for Mountie and for me. The little girl looked at me triumphantly, adoration in her eyes. I knew that she could scarcely restrain herself from running and throwing herself into my arms. I smiled back, forming the word “Good!” with my lips.

  Then all the children rose and filed to the front of the room to sing a favorite song, “Smiles,” followed by “America” (which I had finally taught them), and then the ballad they loved best, “Sourwood Mountain.”

  After that, all went back to their seats except nine especially chosen first, second, and third graders. These children stood in a row and each brought forward, from behind his back, a large sheet of paper with one letter printed on it. All of the letters together spelled, “OUR SCHOOL.” Beginning at the first O, they recited in turn:

  Vella Holt: O stands for oblige. We’re much obliged for yer comin’ today.

  Joshua Bean: U stands for united—all together.

  Mary O’Teale: R stands for reading, one of the subjects we like best.

  Lulu Spencer: S stands for studying. That’s what we do here.

  Little Burl: C stands for cheerful. We are.

  Sam Houston: H stands for helping.

  Jake Holt: O stands for others. Helping others.

  Della May: O stands for obey too.

  Toot McHone: L stands for learning. For laughter too.

  Then they said in unison, “Much obliged for comin’ to our school.”

  The audience applauded enthusiastically, and the children, very proud of themselves, sat down.

  Then I called on them one by one for the poem or oration or whatever bit of performance they had chosen. They enjoyed “speak pieces” as they called them, and it had seemed best to allow them latitude in their selections. But as one followed another, I began to think that perhaps I had given too little supervision because there was wild variety. “Excelsior” was top choice, with three pupils reciting it. The drama of Longfellow’s poem fascinated them—the runner through the Alpine villages, found later at daybreak by the monks of Saint Bernard, half-buried in the snow, “still grasping in his hand of ice” that banner “Excelsior.” The audience clapped loudly each time.

  Dick Holt had memorized Stevenson’s

  Dark brown is the river

  Golden is the sand . . .

  from A Child’s Garden of Verses. Bessie Coburn, who currently had a love affair with Shakespeare’s sonnets, recited:

  “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

  I all alone beweep my outcast state,

  And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

  And look upon myself and curse my fate . . .”

  But then Larmie Holt, not quite nine, stood up and intoned solemnly:

  “Ashes to ashes

  Dust to dust,

  We’ve all said something,

  I reckon I must—”

  and sat down. To my surprise, the people applauded, but did not laugh. I never would understand what they considered funny.

  “And Smith O’Teale is next,” I announced.

  Smith started in bravely on “O Captain! My Captain!” But when he got to “Rise up—for you the flag is flung—” he had lost the next line. “Flag is flung . . . is flung . . .” he repeated desperately. “For you . . . The ah, flag is ah—uh—” Red streaks were creeping up his neck. He stared at his feet, cleared his throat. “Hit’s clean gone out’n my head. Blame it all! Made a bobble of that’un,” he said ruefully. The sympathetic parents clapped anyway.

  “Now we have Lundy Taylor,” I said, my eyes on the list in my hand. There was no response and I realized that the room was too quiet. Instantly alerted, I looked up to see Lundy slumped back in his seat, his eyes closed and his face flushed, his head thrown back, his mouth open, breathing heavily. A titter began at the back of the room near him and swept forward.

  In a way, I was relieved; perhaps it would be better this way. I would not try to waken him. But David, not knowing the reason for my hesitation, walked quietly back to Lundy’s desk and tapped the boy on the shoulder. He stirred, but then slid out of the seat onto the floor and lay in a crumpled heap, still snoring. Instantly David understood. The titters became guffaws as David signaled me to go on to the next child.

  “And next on our program we have Creed Allen.” I spoke with more animation than I was feeling at the moment. Necks craned and there was much oohing and aahing as Creed marched to the front with the raccoon riding cockily on one shoulder. I knew that this was not the actual coon that had so frightened me that first day of school. By April that one had been full-grow
n and so restless that Creed had taken pity on him and decided to keep him captive no longer. The boy liked to think that the raccoon with him now was one of Scalawag’s babies, so he called him Scalawag II. Already, the pet animal was large and plump.

  There were exclamations from all over the room: “Now ain’t that a sight in the world!” . . . “Vow and declare! Never saw nothin’ like that! Not since John Sevier shamed the Redcoats!”

  From the expressions on the faces of the men particularly, it was obvious that they thought of coons only as animals for killing. From frontier days coonskin caps had been popular and often as I went around the Cove I had seen coon pelts tacked up on barn doors and cabin walls.

  From his pocket Creed extracted a rock shining with bits of mica and hid it in his thatch of hair. “Wal, now Scalawag, I double-dare ye to fetch it.”

  The little coon slid around his master’s head to the other shoulder and stood there staring ahead with mischievous beady eyes behind the black markings around them, so like a highwayman’s mask. Without turning his head toward Creed, still looking to the front, one paw reached up and began nonchalantly feeling around in the hair. At last he located the rock, and after transferring it to the other paw with its finger-like claws, he turned the rock over and over examining it, smelling it, while he trilled delightedly at the gaping audience. The children laughed and cheered.

  “Raccoons like anything shiny,” Creed declaimed solemnly. “Now this time I’ll try to outsharp him. See this piece of tin, Scalawag?” The coon stretched out an eager paw for it. “No, not yit. Turn around, Scalawag. Zacharias, come up here, will’ya, and keep him a-lookin’ the other way.”

  Zacharias bounded up, delighted to be a part of the show, and while he distracted the raccoon, Creed buried the tin carefully under a tall stack of papers on my desk. “Now Scalawag, ye can start searchin’. Rassel up the tin.”

  The little animal seemed to understand that this was a game. He scurried over to the desk, trundling from one side to the other, methodically lifting papers and looking under each one. The children were rooting for him. “Don’tcha like him?” “He’s a ring-tailed roarer.” “Wisht he was mine.” Finally, Scalawag found the piece of glittering metal and stood on the desk fondling it, almost bowing to his audience.