by Jack Thorne
CHAPTER XI.
Uncle Guy.
On looking over the list of Wilmingtons' personages who have beeninstrumental in moulding its character and making it one of the mostdesirable places on earth, and the memory of whose face and name revivethe sweetest recollections of early youth in the dear old town, the nameand face of Uncle Guy comes most vividly before me.
In ante-bellum days in the South, one week in all the year was given bythe master to the slave--a week of absolute freedom, in which the Negro,unrestrained, danced and frolicked and otherwise amused himself to hisheart's content. This season of freedom commenced with the dawn ofChristmas, and lasted until the beginning of the New Year. The slaveheard not the story of the Christ, of the wise men, or the shepherds ofBethlehem; he saw no Christmas tree brilliant with tapers even in thehome of his master. For, unlike Christmas observances in the North, fullof solemnity and historic significance, the Southern Christmas was andis still a kind of Mardi Gras festival, ending with the dawn of the NewYear. Early on each Christmas morning the slaves, old and young, littleand big, gathered at the door of the "Big House" to greet their master,who gave each in turn his Christmas "dram," and then, like a kennel isopened and pent-up hounds are bidden to scamper away, the slaves werelet go to enjoy themselves to their heart's content, and were summonedno more to the field before the dawn of the New Year. While in the ruraldistricts the frolics and kindred pleasures were the chief pastimes, inthe cities and towns the celebrations were more elaborate. In gaudyregalia the "Hog Eye" danced for the general amusement, and the Coonerin his rags "showed his motions." For many years before the war UncleGuy was the star performer at these functions in Wilmington. With whipin hand, he danced and pranced, and in sport flogged children who hadbeen naughty during the year. But to us, who were youngsters in theseventies, Uncle Guy is most vividly remembered as a musician--aclarionet soloist--a member of the Shoo Fly Band, whose martial musicwill ever ring in the ear of memory.
The fall of Fort Fisher added many a new face and character toWilmington life. Negroes who had in the conflict just closed learned ofthe art of war, added impetus to and stimulated the old city's martialspirit and love of gaudy display. And those who through the same agencyhad learned in the military bands and drum corps the art of music wereindispensable adjuvants in elevating her lowly inhabitants. But he whocame with the knowledge of music had a much wider field for usefulnessbefore him; for the Negroes' love for music is stronger than love forwar. Frank Johnson, who had the credit of organizing the Shoo Fly Band,had not tasted of war, but he and Uncle Guy had been "orchestra"musicians before the war. And now, as the increase of talent inWilmington opened a wider field, the band was organized. It was calledFrank Johnson's Band at first, but in after years more familiarly knownas the "Shoo Fly." The name is a small matter, however; music was thechief thing. And how that band could play it! There was a ring in thatmusic that electrified the soul and filled the limbs with renewed vigor.
There was Dick Stove with his trombone, Henry Anderson with his bass, Making music swift as raindrops in a race. There was Guy Wright with his clarionet, Henry Adams with his B, And the music made the youngsters dance with glee. There was Johnson, he play'd second, Who, when horn-blowing was dull, Could play a fiddle tempting to the soul. At Hilton, Paddy's Hollow, at the Oaks, on Kidder's Hill, Where good and bad alike could dance their fill. Then there was Jim, the drummer, Who could beat a drum like Jim? Oh! we little ones were awful proud of him. How nicely he could keep the time. "Shoo Fly, don't bother me!" For I'm a member of old Comp'ny D. It was down old Seventh to Market, And through Market down to Third. Playin' Molly Darlin', sweetes' ever heard; From thence up Third to Castle, while "Up in a Balloon" Made us wish to pay a visit to the moon. Then we had no Gen'l Jacksons Dressed in gol' lace all for show, Then such hifullutin notions didn't go. It was music! Sweetes' music! "Darlin', I am growin' old," Will live, forever live within the soul.
The old Shoo Fly Band is a thing of the past; no more shall we listen toits inspiring music, for the majority of its members have crossed themelancholy flood. The last time that they appeared on the streets ofWilmington only a sextet remained. Dick Stove's trombone horn had beencurtailed in order to hide the marks of decay upon its bell. Theygallantly marched up Market street, and with a dismal, yet notdiscordant blast, turned into Fourth, en route to Hilton. I think thatUncle Guy is the only remaining one of that gallant few living inWilmington to-day, and the friends of those who departed this life inlater years followed their bodies to the grave keeping step to the sadwail of his lone clarionet. Jim Richardson, Dick Stove, Johnson, Adams,Anderson--I wonder, does he think of them now, tenderly, emotionally andwith a longing to join them on the other side. I wonder if they allcluster about him when in his lonely hours he consoles himself with hisclarionet. For many years Uncle Guy has been Wilmington's chiefmusician. Bands magnificent in equipment and rich in talent have beenorganized, to flourish for a few years only. But Uncle Guy's trio ofclarionet and drums has withstood the test of time; yea, they wereindispensable for base ball advertisement and kindred amusements,heading both civic and military processions, white and black, in theiroutings and celebrations, or with bowed head and thoughtful countenancehe has led the march to the grave. As I recollect Uncle Guy, he was theembodiment of neatness, feminine in build--it seemed that natureintended to form a woman instead of a man. Like a woman, he plaited hishair and drew it down behind his ears. His hands and feet were small,his fingers tapering; his face was black, his eyes small, his lips andnose thin, his voice fine, but harsh, and he slightly stooped or bentforward as he walked. There is poetry in every move of his bent figureas he slowly walks down the street on this autumn morning. As we gazeupon him strolling feebly along, we involuntarily sigh for the days whenthe heart was young. May Day, with its buds and blossoms, Christmastide,full of bright anticipations, come trooping up the misty way. We arefollowing the old band; listen to the music! How enchanting!
"Up in a balloon, boys, up in a balloon, Where the little stars are sailing round the moon; Up in a balloon, to pay a visit to the moon, All among the little stars sailing round the moon."
We are making water-mills in the brooks; we are swinging oursweethearts; we feel again the heart throbs of early youth when we daredthe first caress.
"Shoo fly, don't bother me! For I belong to Company D."
* * * * *
It is Monday morning--the washwoman's day of preparation; when theclothes are brought in, the shopping attended to; when the womencongregate on the street corners, sit upon their baskets and bundles orlean against the fences to discuss the doings of the Sunday justpast--what the preacher said and what the neighbors wore, etc. Threewomen stood upon the corner toward which Uncle Guy was tending. But theywere not talking about texts and fashions. Uncle Guy heard the followingas he drew nigh: "Bu'n um! Bu'n um! Good fer nuthin' broke downristercrats an' po' white trash. Ef de men kayn't git gun we kin gitkarsene an' match an' we'll hab um wahkin' de street in dere nite gown."Judge Morse passed by, turned his head to catch as much as possible ofwhat was being spoken. "Negro like," he said, as he went on his way."They are all talk. I was raised among them, heard them talk before, butit amounted to nothing. I'm against any scheme to do them harm, forthere's no harm in them. This Negro domination talk is all bosh."
Uncle Guy stepped to one side and humbly saluted Judge Morse as hepassed, then bore down upon the women who were vigorously discussing theall-absorbing topic. The old man walked out to the edge of the sidewalk,squinted his eyes and came slowly up to where the women stood, comicallypointing his index finger at them: "Look yer," said he, "yuna ta'k toomuch!" raising his voice. "Yuna mouts g'wine ter git yuna inter trouble;hear me? Did yuna see Jedge Morse when he go by? Did yuna see 'im stopter listen at you? Le' me tell yuna sumthin' right good." The old manshook his finger several seconds before proceeding. "Dese white fo'kesis onter you, dey got de
road all map out. Dey no ebry move yuna Niggermakin'. How dey no it? How dey no it, I say?" Another long finger shake."Yuna Nigger uman tell um, yuna runnin' yuna tongue in de kitchen, yunarunnin' yer tongue in de street. Now, instid ov de bocra bein' in destreet in dey nite gown, yuna gwine ter be thar wid nuttin' on. Don'tyou no dat we ain't bin able ter by er gun er ounce powder in munts, an'de bocra got cannon an ebry ting. See how he'pliss yer is? Now yuna gohome, an' quit so much ta'k. Keep cool fer dese bocra pisen." Uncle Guywalked slowly on and the women dispersed. Those who read the newspaperaccounts of that terrible massacre know full well just how true was theprophecy of this old citizen. Doubtless he looks back over it now as acatastrophe beyond his expectations or dreams.
