On the Plantation: A Story of a Georgia Boy's Adventures during the War

CHAPTER VIII—SOMETHING ABOUT “SANDY-CLAUS” CHAPTER VIII—SOMETHING ABOUT “SANDY-CLAUS” H arbert’s house on the Turner place was not far from the kitchen, and the kitchen itself was only a few feet removed from the big house; in fact, there was a covered passageway between them. From the back steps of the kitchen two pieces of hewn timber, half buried in the soil, led to Harbert’s steps, thus forming, as the negro called it, a wet-weather path, over which Mr. Turner’s children could run when the rest of the yard had been made muddy by the fall and winter rains. Harbert’s house had two rooms and two fireplaces. One of the rooms was set apart for him and his wife, while the other was used as a weaving-room. In one Harbert used to sit at night and amuse the children with his reminiscences and his stories; in the other Aunt Crissy used to weave all day and sing, keeping time with the flying shuttle and the dancing slays. The children might tire of their toys, their ponies, and everything else, but they could always find something to interest them in Harbert’s house. There were few nights, especially during the winter, that did not find them seated by the negro’s white hearthstone. On special occasions they could hardly wait to finish supper before going out to see him. Sometimes they found Aunt Crissy there, and as she was fat and good-humored—not to say jolly—she was always a welcome guest, so far as the children were concerned. As for Harbert, it was all one to him whether Aunt Crissy was present or not. To use his own sententious phrase, she was welcome to come or she was welcome to stay away. Frequently Joe Maxwell would go and sit there with them, especially when he was feeling lonely and homesick. One evening, in the early part of December, the children hurried through their supper of bread and butter and milk, and ran to Harbert’s house. Aunt Crissy was there, and her fat face and white teeth shone in the firelight as she sat smiling at the youngsters. “I done got Chris’mas in my bones,” she was saying, as Wattie and Willie entered. “Well, I ain’t g wine ter say dat,” said Har-bert, “kaze I’m dat ole dat I ain’t got no roo-mance in my bones fer nothin’ ’tall, ’ceppin’ ’tis de rheumatism; yit dat don’t hender Chris’mas, an’ I ain’t makin’ no deniance but what hit’s in de a’r.” “Now you er talkin’,” exclaimed Aunt Crissy, with unction. “You mos’ sholy is.” There was a little pause, and then Harbert cried out: “In de name er goodness, des lissen at dat!” What was it? The wind, rising and falling, ebbing and flowing like the great waves of the sea, whistled under the eaves, and sighed mournfully over the chimney. But it was not the wind that Harbert heard. There was a sharp rattling on the shingles and a swift pattering at the windows. Harbert and Aunt Crissy looked at each other and then at the children. “What is it?” asked Wattie, drawing a little closer to Harbert. “Pshaw! I know what it is,” said Willie, “it’s sleet.” Harbert shook his head gravely as he gazed in the fire. “It mought be,” he said, “an’ den agin it moughtn’t. It mought be ole Sandy Claus sorter skirmishin’ roun’ an’ feelin’ his way.” “Trufe, too,” said Aunt Crissy, falling in with the idea. “He moughtn’t want to skeer nobody, so he des let folks b’lieve tain’t nothin’ but sleet. Dey tells me dat ole man Sandy Claus is monstus slick.” “He bleedze ter be slick,” remarked Har-bert, “kaze I bin livin’ yere, off an’ on, a mighty long time, an’ I ain’t saw ’im yit. An’ I let you know hit got ter be a mighty slick man dat kin dodge me all dis time. He got to be bofe slick an’ peart.” “Yasser,” said Aunt Crissy, holding her apron up by the corner, and looking at it thoughtfully; “he slick fer true. He light ’pon top er de house same ez a jay-bird, an’ dey ain’t no scufflin’ when he slide down de chimberly.” “Dey sez,” said Harbert, in a reminiscent way—“dey sez dat he rubs hisse’f wid goose-grease fer ter make he j’ints limber an’ loose; when he got dis yere grease on ’im dey can’t nobody ketch ’im, kaze he’d slip right out’n der han’s.” “I speck dat’s so,” said Aunt Crissy, “kaze one time when I wuz livin’ wid Marse Willyum Henry an’ sleepin’ in de house in time er Chris’mas, I tuck’n he’p’d de chillun hang up der stockin’s. After dey all got ter bed, I sot by de fier a-noddin’. How long I sot dar I’ll never tell you, but all of a sudden I yeard a tumble racket. I gun a jump, I did, an’ open my eyes. De outside do’ wuz open, an’ stannin’ dar wuz one er Marse Willyum Henry’s houn’ dogs. He stood dar, he did, wid his bristles up, an’ dar in de middle er the flo’ wuz de ole cat. Her back wuz all bowed up, an’ her tail”—here Aunt Crissy paused and looked all around the room as if in search of something with which to compare the old cat’s tail—“I ain’t tellin’ you no lie; dat cat tail wuz bigger ’roun’ dan my arm!” “I don’t ’spute it,” exclaimed Harbert, with fervor, “dat I don’t.” “An’ dat ain’t all.” Aunt Crissy closed her eyes and threw her head back, as if to add emphasis to what she was about to say. “Dat ain’t all—dem ar stockin’s wuz done fulled up wid goodies, an’ dey wuz done fulled up whilst I wuz a-settin’ right dar.” No style of type has yet been invented that would convey even a faint idea of the impressive tone in which Aunt Cissy made this startling announcement. “Ole Sandy wuz gittin’ you in close quarters, mon,” exclaimed Harbert. “Man, you er talkin’ now,” said Aunt Crissy. “I wuz settin’ right spang at de fier-place,” she went on, describing her position with appropriate gestures, “an’ I could er des retched out my han’—so—an’ totched de stock-in’s, an’ yit, ’spite er dat, ’long come ole Sandy Claus, whilst I wuz settin’ dar noddin’ an’ fulled um up. Dat des what he done. He come, he did, an’ fulled um up right fo’ my face. Ef my eyes had er des bin open I’d a seed ’im, an’ ef I’d a seed ’im, I’d a grabbed ’im right by de coat-tail. Yasser! I’d a grabbed ’im ef he’d a kyar’d me up de chimberly.” Wattie and Willie listened open-mouthed, so intense was their interest; and so, it may be said, did Joe Maxwell. But now Willie spoke: “Suppose you had caught him, Aunt Crissy, what would you have done then?” “Shoo, honey! I’d a helt him hard an’ fas’: I’d a rastled wid ’im, an’ when he’gun ter git de better un me, I’d a squalled out same ez one er dez yere wil’ cats. I’d a squalled so loud I’d a fair ’larmed de settlement.” Aunt Crissy paused, folded her fat arms across her broad bosom and looked in the fire. Harbert, with a long pair of tongs, as musical as those that Shakespeare wrote about, put the noses of the chunks together, and carefully placed a fat pine knot in the center. Then he leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well,” said he, after a while, “I dunno ez I bin close to ole Sandy Claus as what you is, Sis Crissy, but I bin mighty close, an’ ’tain’t bin so mighty long ago needer. One night des ’fo’ Chris’mas I wuz gwine’long thoo de woods close by de Ward place. I wuz gwine’long, I wuz, sorter studyin’ wid myse’f ’bout whedder I ought ter hang up my stockin’s wid de res’ er de folks, when, fus news I know, look like I kin year de win’ blowin’. Hit soun’ so loud dat I stop right in my tracks an ax mysef what de name er goodness is de matter. I ain’t feel no win’ an’ I ain’t see no bush shakin’, but up dar in de top er de trees hit look like dey wuz a reg’lar hurrycane a blowin’. Man, sir! she fair roared up dar, yit I ain’t see no win’, an’ I ain’t see no bush a shakin’. Hit make me feel so quare dat ef a hick’y-nut had a drapped any-whar nigh me, I’d a broke an’ run fum dar like de Ole Boy wuz atter me. Hit make me feel so funny dat I ain’t know whedder it wuz ole man Harbert out dar, or some yuther nigger dat done got los’ in some new country. I stood dar, I did, en des waited fer sump’n ner ter happen, but bimeby de noise all quit, an’ de roarin’ died down, twel you could a yeard a pin drop. I kotch my bref, I did, an’ I’low ter myself dat all dat racket up in de a’r dar mus’ sholy a-bin ole Sandy Claus agwine sailin’ by. Dat what I had in my min’, yit I ain’t stop dar fer ter make no inquirements. I des put out, I did, an’ I went a polin’ home, an’ it make me feel mighty good when I got dar.” The children visited Harbert’s house every night for several nights before Christmas, but somehow they didn’t seem to enjoy themselves. Harbert was so busy with one thing and another that they felt themselves in the way. They had the ardor and the hope of childhood, however, and they continued their visits with persistent regularity. They were very patient, comparatively speaking, and their patience was finally rewarded. The night before Christmas, when their interests and expectations were on the point of culmination, they found Harbert sitting in front of the fire, his head thrown back and his hands folded in his lap; and before the little ones could fix themselves comfortably, Aunt Crissy walked in and flung herself into a chair. “ Whoo-ee! ” she exclaimed. “I’m dat tired dat I can’t skacely drag one foot ’fo’ de yuther. Look like I bin on my feet mighty nigh a mont’, dat it do, an’ I’m dat stiff, I feel like some er my lim’s gwine ter break in two. Dey ain’t nothin’ on dis plantation dat I ain’t had my han’s in, ’specially ef it’s work. It’s Crissy yere, an Crissy dar, de whole blessed time, an’ I dun’ ner what de lazy niggers’roun’ yere would do ef Crissy wuz to take a notion ter peg out. Mistiss got old Charity in de kitchin’ dar a-cookin’ an’ a-growlin’, but when dey’s any nice cookin’ ter be done, Crissy got ter go an’ do it. I wouldn’t mind it so much,” Aunt Crissy went on, “ef dem yuther niggers’d do like dey tuck some intruss in what’s gwine on, but you know yo’se’f, Brer Harbert, how no’count dey is.” “Ah, Lord! you nee’nt ter tell me, Sis Crissy, I know um; I know um all. An’ yit dey’ll all be scrougin’ one ane’r ’fo’ day arter termorrow mornin’ fer ter see which gwine ter be de fus fer ter holler Chris’mas gif’ at marster an’ mistiss. Now you watch um! dey’ll all be dar, an’ dey ain’t none un um skacely yearned der salt. I’m mighty nigh run down. Dis mornin’ de stock in de lot wuz a hollerin’ fer der feed, an’ it wuz broad daylight at dat. Den dar wuz de milkin’: hit wuz atter sun-up ’fo’ dat Marthy Ann got ter de cow-pen. Dat gal blood kin ter you, Sis Crissy, but I done laid de law down; I done tole’er dat de nex’ time she come creepin’ out dat late, I wuz gwine to whirl in an’ gi’ ’er a frailin’, an’ I’m gwine to do it ef de Lord spar’s me.” “Nummine’bout no kinnery, Brer Harbert,” said Aunt Crissy, with emphasis. “You des git you a brush an’ wa’r dat gal out. She new han’ wid de cows, but tooby sho’ she kin git out ’fo’ sun-up.” “I’m mighty glad,” Harbert remarked, glancing at the children, who were not at all interested in the “worriments” of those faithful negroes—“I’m mighty glad dat Chris’mas is so nigh. De corn done in de crib, de fodder in de barn, de cotton’n de gin-house, de hogs done kilt an’ put up, an’ ef Charity ain’t might’ly behindhand de turkey done in de pot. Dat bein’ de case, what mo’ kin we ax, ’ceptin’ we git down yere on de flo’ an’ ax a blessin’?” “Trufe, too!” exclaimed Aunt Crissy. “I ain’t quollin’, but dem niggers is so owdacious lazy dat dey keeps me pestered.” “Yasser!” continued Harbert, “de signs all look like deyer right. When I sets right flat down an’ run it all over, hit make me feel so good dat I got a great mine fer ter hang up my sock right dar side er de chimbly-jam, an’ set up yere an’ watch fer ter see ole Sandy Claus come a-slidin’ down. Ef his foot wuz ter slip, an’ he wuz ter drap down on dat pot-rack dar, I lay he’d wake up de whole plantation. My sock ain’t so mighty long in de leg,” Harbert went on, reflectively, “but she mighty big in de foot, an’ ef ole Sandy Claus wuz ter take a notion fer ter fill’er plum up, she’d lighten his wallet might’ly.” “Did you ever hang up your stockings, Harbert?” asked Willie. “Why, tooby sho’ honey,” replied the negro, laughing. “I bin hang um up way back yander ’fo’ you wuz born’d. An’ I used ter git goodies in um, too. Lord! dem wuz times, sho’ nuff. I used ter git goodies in um dem days, but now I speck I wouldn’t git so much ez a piece er ’lasses candy. But, nummine’bout dat! I’ll des take en hang um up dis night, an’ I’ll be mighty glad ef I git a slishe er cracklin’ bread. Dat kinder bread good nuff for me, ’specially when it right fresh.” “Man, don’t talk!” exclaimed Aunt Crissy. “Look like I kin in about tas’e it now!” “Aunt Crissy, are you going to hang up your stockings?” asked Wattie. “Bless yo’ soul, honey! I mos’ got in de notion un it. Ef ’twan’t dat I’m a sleepin’ up in old Granny Chaney house fer ter sorter keep’er comp’ny, I speck I would hang um up. But dey tells me dat ’twon’t do no good ef you hang up yo’ stockin’s in some un else house. ‘Sides dat, ole Granny Chaney so restless dat she’d in about skeer old Sandy Claus off ef he ’uz to start ter come. I’m a tellin’ you de trufe, Brer Harbert, dat ole creetur done got so dat she don’t skacely close’er eyes fer sleep de whole blessed night. She take so many naps endurin’ ’er de day, dat when night come she des ez wakeful ez dat ole black cat what stay up dar at de barn.” “Dat ole’oman gittin’ ole, mon,” said Har-bert. “She wuz done grown an’ had chillun when I wuz little baby. She lots older dan what I is, an’ I ain’t no chicken myse’f. I speck ef she ’uz ter go back an’ count up ’er Chris-’mases, she done seed mighty nigh ez many ez what ole Sandy Claus is.” “Well,” said Aunt Crissy, changing the subject, “I ain’t gwine hang up no stockin’, kaze I speck dat whatsomever ole Sandy Claus got fer me, he’ll drap it som’rs in de big house, an’ when I holler at marster an’ mistiss in de morn-in’, dey’ll fetch it out.” “Dat’s so,” said Harbert. “Yit I got a mighty good notion fer ter hang up mine an’ take de resk. But I’d a heap ruther git sumpin’ dat’s too big fer ter go in um.” “Well, we are going to hang up our stockings,” said Willie. “I’m going to hang up both of mine, and Wattie says she’s going to hang up both of hers.” “Dat’s right, honey; an’ if dat ain’t ’nuff’ whirl in an’ hang up a meal-sack. I done bin year tell ’fo’ now ’bout folks what hang up great big bags stidder der stocking. Whedder dey got any mo’ dan t’er folks is mo’ dan I kin tell you.” “Harbert,” said Wattie, “do you reckon we’ll git anything at all?” “Oh, I speck so,” said the negro. “I ain’t year talk er you bein’ so mighty bad dis long time. You cuts up scan’lous sometimes, but it’s kaze yo’ buddy dar pesters you.” This suggestion made Willie so angry that he threatened to go back to the big house and go to bed, and he would have gone but for a remark made by Aunt Crissy—a remark that made him forget his anger. “Dey tells me,” said Aunt Crissy, in a sub-dued tone, “dat de cows know when Chris’mas come, an’ many’s de time I year my mammy say dat when twelve o’clock come on Chris’mas-eve night, de cows gits down on der knees in de lot an’ stays dat-away some little time. Ef anybody else had er tole me dat I’d a des hooted at um, but, mammy, she say she done seed um do it. I ain’t never seed um do it myse’f, but mammy say she seed um.” “I bin year talk er dat myse’f,” said Harbert, reverently, “an’ dey tells me dat de cattle gits down an’ prays bekaze dat’s de time when de Lord an’ Saviour wuz born’d.” “Now, don’t dat beat all!” exclaimed Aunt Crissy. “Ef de dumb creeturs kin say der pra’rs, I dunner what folks ought ter be doin’.” “An’ dar’s de chickens,” Harbert went on—“look like dey know der’s sump’n up. Dis ve’y night I year de roosters crowin’ fo’ sev’n o’clock. I year tell dat dey crows so soon in sign dat Peter made deniance un his Lord an’ Marster.” “I speck dat’s so,” said Aunt Crissy. “Hit bleedze ter be so,” responded the old man with the emphasis that comes from conviction. Then he intimated that it was time for the children to go to bed if they wanted to get up early the next morning to see what Sandy Claus had brought. This was a suggestion the youngsters could appreciate, and they scrambled out of the door and went racing to the big house. Before sunrise the plantation was in a stir. The negroes, rigged out in their Sunday clothes, were laughing, singing, wrestling, and playing. The mules and horses having been fed and turned in the pasture for a holiday, were capering about; the cows were lowing in a satisfied manner, the dogs were barking, the geese screaming, the turkeys “yelping” and gobbling, and the chickens cackling. A venerable billy-goat, with a patriarchal beard and the rings of many summers marked on his broad and crumpled horns, had marched up one of the long arms of the packing-screw and was now perched motionless on the very pinnacle of that quaint structure, making a picturesque addition to the landscape, as he stood outlined against the reddening eastern sky. Willie and Wattie were up so early that they had to feel for their stockings in the dark, and their exclamations of delight, when they found them well filled, aroused the rest of the household. By the time breakfast was over the negroes were all assembled in the yard, and they seemed to be as happy as the children, as their laughter and their antics testified. Towering above them all was Big Sam, a giant in size and a child in disposition. He was noted for miles around for his feats of strength. He could shoulder a bale of cotton weighing five hundred pounds, and place it on a wagon; and though he was proud of his ability in this direction, he was not too proud to be the leader in all the frolics. He was even fuller of laughter and good-humor than his comrades, and on this particular morning, while the negroes were waiting for the usual Christmas developments, Big Sam, his eyes glistening and his white teeth shining, struck up the melody of a plantation play-song, and in a few minutes the dusky crowd had arranged itself in groups, each and all joining in the song. No musical director ever had a more melodious chorus than that which followed the leadership of Big Sam. It was not a trained chorus, to be sure, but the melody that it gave to the winds of the morning was freighted with a quality indescribably touching and tender. In the midst of the song Mr. Turner appeared on the back piazza, and instantly a shout went up: “Chris’mas gif, marster! Chris’mas gif!” and then, a moment later, there was a cry of “Chris’mas gif, mistiss!” “Where is Harbert?” inquired Mr. Turner, waving his hand and smiling. “Here me, marster!” exclaimed Harbert, coming forward from one of the groups. “Why, you haven’t been playing, have you?” “I bin tryin’ my han’, suh, an’ I monst’ us glad you come out, kaze I ain’t nimble like I useter wuz. Dey got me in de middle er dat ring dar, an’ I couldn’t git out nohow.” “Here are the store-room keys. Go and open the door, and I will be there directly.” It was a lively crowd that gathered around the wide door of the store-room. For each of the older ones there was a stiff dram apiece, and for all, both old and young, there was a present of some kind. The presents were of a substantial character, too. Those who had made crops of their own found a profitable market right at their master’s door. Some of them had made as much as two bales of cotton on the land they were permitted to cultivate, while others had made good crops of corn—all of which was bought by their master. Then the big six-mule wagon was brought into service, and into this was packed the horse-collars, made of shucks and wahoo-bark, the baskets, the foot-mats, the brooms, the walking-canes, and the axe-helves, that were to find a market in the town nine miles away. In spite of the war, it was a happy time, and Joe Maxwell was as happy as any of the rest. CHAPTER IX—DESERTERS AND RUNAWAYS A ll was peace on the plantation, but war has long arms, and it dropped its gifts of poverty and privation in many a humble home with which Joe Maxwell was familiar. War has its bill of fare, too, and much of it was not to Joe’s taste. For coffee there were various substitutes: sweet potatoes, chipped and dried, parched meal, parched rye, parched okra-seeds, and sassafras tea. Joe’s beverage was water sweetened with sorghum-sirup, and he found it a very refreshing and wholesome drink. Some of the dishes that were popular in the old colonial days were revived. There was persimmon bread; what could be more toothsome than that? Yet a little of it went a long way, as Mr. Wall used to say. And there was potato pone—sweet potatoes boiled, kneaded, cut into pones, and baked. And then there was callalou—a mixture of collards, poke salad, and turnip greens boiled for dinner and fried over for supper. This was the invention of Jimsy, an old negro brought over from the West Indies, whose real name was Zimzi, and who always ran away when anybody scolded him. The old-fashioned loom and spinning-wheel were kept going, and the women made their own dyes. The girls made their hats of rye and wheat straw, and some very pretty bonnets were made of the fibrous substance that grows in the vegetable known as the bonnet squash. It was agreed on all sides that times were very hard, and yet they seemed very pleasant and comfortable to Joe Maxwell. He had never seen money more plentiful. Everybody seemed to have some, and yet nobody had enough. It was all in Confederate bills, and they were all new and fresh and crisp. Joe had some of it himself, and he thought he was growing rich. But the more plentiful the money became, the higher went the price of everything. After a while Joe noticed that the older men became more serious. There were complaints in the newspapers of speculators and extortioners—of men who imposed on and mistreated the widows and wives of the soldiers. And then there was a law passed preventing the farmers from planting only so many acres of land in cotton, in order that more food might be raised for the army. After this came the impressment law, which gave the Confederate officials the right to seize private property, horses, mules, and provisions. And then came the conscription law. There was discontent among the men who were at home, but they were not left to make any serious complaints. One by one the conscript officers seized all except those who were exempt and hurried them off to the front. Those who thought it a disgrace to be conscripted either volunteered or hired themselves as substitutes. This is the summing up of the first three years of the war, so far as it affected Joe Maxwell. The impression made upon him was of slow and gradual growth. He only knew that trouble and confusion were abroad in the land. He could see afterward what a lonely and desperate period it must have been to those who had kinsmen in the war; but, at that time, all these things were as remote from him as a dream that is half remembered. He set up the editor’s articles, criticising Governor Joe Brown for some attacks he had made on the Confederate Government, without understanding them fully; and he left Mr. Wall, the hatter, who was a violent secessionist, to discuss the situation with Mr. Bonner, the overseer, who was a Whig, and something of a Union man. Late one afternoon, after listening to a heated dispute between Mr. Wall and Mr. Bonner, Joe concluded that he would take a run in the fields with the harriers. So he called and whistled for them, but they failed to come. Harbert thought they had followed some of the plantation hands, but, as this rarely happened, Joe was of the opinion that they had gone hunting on their own account. They were very busy and restless little dogs, and it was not uncommon for them to go rabbit-hunting for themselves. Going toward Mr. Snelson’s, Joe thought he could hear them running a rabbit on the farther side of the plantation. He went in that direction, but found, after a while, that they were running in the Jack Adams place, and as he went nearer they seemed to get farther away. Finally, when he did come up with the dogs, he found that they were not the harriers at all, but a lot of curs and “fices.” And then—how it happened he was never able to explain—Joe suddenly discovered that he was lost. Perhaps if the idea had never occurred to him he would never have been lost, but the thought flashed in his mind and stayed there. He stood still in his tracks and looked all around, but the idea that he was really lost confused him. He was not frightened—he was not even uneasy. But he knew he was lost. Everything was strange and confusing. Even the sun, which was preparing to go to bed, was in the wrong place. Joe laughed at himself. Certainly he could return the way he came, so he faced about, as he thought, and started home. Walking and running he went forward rapidly, and he had need to, for the sun had gone behind a cloud, and the cloud, black and threatening, was rising and filling the sky. How long he had been going Joe did not know, but suddenly he found himself near an old cabin. It was built of logs, and the chimney, which had been made of sticks and red clay, had nearly fallen down. The lad knew that this cabin was neither on the Turner plantation nor on the Jack Adams place. He had never heard any of the negroes allude to it, and he realized the fact that he had been running away from home. Near the deserted house were the remnants of an orchard. A pear-tree, jagged and unshapely, grew not far from the door, while an apple-tree, with a part of its trunk rotted away, stood near a corner of the cabin. A growth of pines and scrub-oak showed that the place had been deserted for many a long year. A quarter of a mile away, through the gathering darkness, Joe could see a white fringe gleaming against the horizon. He knew that this was a fog, and that it rose from the river. Following the line of the fog, he could see that the cabin was in a bend of the river—the Horseshoe, as he had heard it called—and he knew that he was at least four miles from home. By this time the cloud had covered all the heavens. Away off in the woods he could hear the storm coming, sounding like a long-drawn sigh at first, and then falling with a sweeping rush and roar. Joe had no choice but to seek shelter in the old house. He was a stout-hearted youngster, and yet he could not resist the feeling of uneasiness and dread that came over him at the thought of spending the night in that lonely place. But there was no help for it. He could never find his way home in the darkness, and so he made the best of what seemed to him a very bad matter. The cabin was almost a wreck, but it served to keep off the rain. Joe went in and explored the inside as carefully as he could in the darkness. A wood-rat or flying-squirrel rattled along the rafters as he entered, and the loose puncheons of which the floor was made bumped up and down as he walked across them. In one corner, as he went groping about, he found a pile of shucks—corn-husks—and straw, and he judged that the old cabin had sometimes been used as a temporary barn. After satisfying himself that no other person or creature had taken shelter there, Joe tried to close the door. He found this to be a difficult matter. The sill of the house had settled so that the door was on the floor. He pushed it as far as it would go, and then groped his way back to the shucks and quickly made a bed of them. He was fagged out, and the shucks and straw made a comfortable pallet—so comfortable, indeed, that by the time he had made up his mind that it was a pleasant thing to lie there and listen to the rain rushing down on the weather-beaten roof, he was fast asleep. How long he slept he did not know, but suddenly he awoke to discover that he was not the only person who had sought shelter in the cabin. The rain was still falling on the roof, but he could hear some one talking in a low tone. He lay quite still and listened with all his ears. He soon discovered that the new-comers were negroes, whether two or three he could not tell. Presently he could distinguish what they said. The storm had ceased so that it no longer drowned their voices. “I tell you what, mon,” said one, “ole Injun Bill kin run ef he is chunky.” “Lor’! I had ter run ef I gwine fer keep up wid old Mink.” said the other. “Bless you!” responded the first voice, “I kin run when I git de invertation, else ole Bill Locke an’ his nigger dogs would a done cotch me long ago.” “Dey ain’t been atter me,” said the second voice, “but I’m a spectin’ un um eve’y day, an’ when dey does—gentermen! I’m a-gwine ter scratch gravel! You hear what I tell you!” “I come so fas’,” remarked the first voice, “dat all dem ar buckeyes what I had done bounce outer my pocket.” “What you gwine fer do wid so many buckeyes?” asked the second voice. “Who? Me! Oh, I wuz des savin’ um up fer dat ar white boy what stay ’long wid de printin’ machine,” said the first voice. “He holp me ’long one time. Harbert, he say dat white boy is des ez good ter niggers ez ef dey all b’long ter im, an’ he say he got a head on ’im. Dat what Harbert say.” “I bin see ’im,” said the second voice. “I don’t like white folks myse’f, but I speck dat boy got good in ’im. He come fum town.” Joe Maxwell knew at once that one of the voices belonged to Mink, the runaway, and he judged that the other belonged to Injun Bill, whose reputation was very bad. He knew also that the two negroes were talking about him, and he was not only gratified at the compliments paid him, but felt safer than if he had been alone in the cabin. In a spirit of mischief he called out in a sepulchral tone of voice: “Where’s Mink? I want Mink!” He tried to imitate the tone that he had heard mothers sometimes employ when they are trying to frighten crying children into silence with the bogie man. There was no reply from Mink, but Joe could hear the two negroes breathing hard. Then, imitating the voice of a woman, he cried out: “Where’s Injun Bill? I want Injun Bill!” Imagining how horrified the negroes were, and how they looked as they sat on the floor quaking with terror, Joe could not restrain himself. He fell into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that caused him to scatter the shucks all over the floor. This proceeding, wholly unaccountable, added to the terror of the negroes. Injun Bill, as it afterward appeared, made a wild leap for the door, but his foot caught in a crack in the floor and he fell headlong. On top of him fell Mink, and each thought he had been caught by the thing that had frightened him. They had a terrific scuffle on the floor, writhing over and under each other in their efforts to escape. Finally, Mink, who was the more powerful of the two, pinned Injun Bill to the floor. “Who dis?” he cried, breathing hard with fear and excitement. “Me! Dat who ’tis!” said Injun Bill, angrily. “What you doin’ ’pon top er me?” This complication caused Joe Maxwell to laugh until he could scarcely catch his breath. But at last he managed to control his voice. “What in the name of goodness are you two trying to do?” “Name er de Lord!” exclaimed Mink, “who is you, anyhow?” “Dat what I like ter know,” said Injun Bill, in a surly tone. “Why, you’ve just been talking about me,” replied Joe. “I lay there on the shucks and heard you give me a great name.” “Is dat you, little marster?” cried Mink. “Well, suh! Ef dat don’t beat my time! How come you sech a fur ways fum yo’ surroundin’s?” Joe explained as briefly as possible that he was lost. “Well, well, well!” said Mink, by way of comment. “You sholy gimme a turn dat time. Little mo’ an’ I’d a thought de ole boy had me. Ef I’d a bin by myse’f when I hear dat callin’ I lay I’d’a to’ down de whole side er de house. Dish yer nigger ’long wid me, little marster, he name Injun Bill. He say—” “’Sh—sh!” said Injun Bill, softly. Then in a whisper—“watch out!” Joe was about to say something, but suddenly he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The negroes by a noiseless movement stepped close against the wall. Joe lay still. The new-comers entered the door without hesitation. They had evidently been there before. “I’ll take an’ put my gun in the corner here,” said one. “Now, don’t go blunderin’ aroun’ an’ knock it over; it might go off.” “All right,” said the other. “Where is it? I’ll put mine by it.” Then they seemed to be unfastening their belts. “Hain’t you got a match?” said one. “I’m as wet as a drownded rat. I’ve got some kindlin’ somewheres about my cloze. My will, ef I had it fried,” he went on, “would be to be set down in front of a great big fireplace adryin’ myse’f, an’ a knowin’ all the time that a great big tray of hot biscuit an’ ’leven pounds of butter was a waitin’ for me in the kitchen.” “Thunderation!” exclaimed the other, “don’t talk that way. You make me so nervous I can’t find the matches.” “Oh, well,” said the first, “I was jist a think-in’ about eatin’. I wish Mink’ud come on ef he’s a-comin’.” “I done come, Mars John,” said Mink. “Confound your black hide!” exclaimed the man; “if I had my gun I’d shoot a hole spang throo you! Whadder you want to skeer me outn a year’s growth for? If you’re here, whyn’t you sesso befo’ you spoke?” “Kaze I got comp’ny,” said Mink. The man gave a long whistle, denoting surprise. “Who’ve you got?” he asked, almost savagely. “Injun Bill.” “Who else?” “A white boy.” “Well, the great snakes! What sort of game is you up to? Who is the white boy?” “He stay on the Turner plantation at de printin’-office,” explained Mink. “You hear that, don’t you?” said the man to his companion. “And now it’ll all be in the paper.” “Bosh!” exclaimed Joe. “I don’t know you from a side of sole-leather. I got lost while rabbit-hunting, and came in here out of the rain.” “He’s a peart-talkin’ chap,” said the man who wanted to eat a trayful of hot biscuits and eleven pounds of butter. “He came fum town,” said Mink, by way of explaining Joe’s “peartness.” “How long since?” asked one of the men. “Two years ago,” said Joe. After a little, one of the men succeeded in finding a match, and making a light with the pine kindlings that one of the two had brought. In a corner Mink found some pieces of dry wood and the small company soon had a fire burning. The weather was not cold, but the fire must have been very agreeable to the white men, who, as one of them expressed it, was “wringin, wet.” These men took advantage of the first opportunity to examine Joe Maxwell very closely. They had evidently expected to find a much more formidable-looking person than he appeared to be, for one of them remarked to the other: “Why, he hain’t bigger’n a pound er soap arter a hard day’s washin’.” “Naw!” said the other. “I’ve saw ’im be-fo’. He’s that little rooster that useter be runnin’ roun’ town gittin’ in all sorts er devilment. I reckon he’s sorter out er his element here in the country.” “I’ve seen you, too,” said Joe. “I’ve seen both of you. I used to see you drilling in the Hillsborough Rifles. I was at the depot when the company went off to the war.” The two men looked at each other in a peculiar way, and busied themselves trying to dry their clothes by the fire, standing close to the flickering flames. They were not handsome men, and yet they were not ill looking. One was short and stout, with black hair. He had a scar under one of his eyes that did not improve his appearance. But the expression of his face was pleasant in spite of this defect. The other was thin, tall, and stoop-shouldered. His beard was scanty and red, and his upper teeth protruded to such an extent that when his face was in repose they were exposed to view. But there was a humorous twinkle in his eyes that found an echo in his talk. Both men were growing gray. The dark man was Jim Wimberly, the other John Pruitt, and both had evidently seen hard times. Soldier-fashion, they made seats for themselves by sticking the ends of loose boards through the cracks, and allowing the other ends to rest on the floor. Thus they could sit or lie at full length as they chose. Joe fixed a seat for himself in the same way, while Mink and Injun Bill sat on the floor on each side of the fireplace. “What do you call those here fellers,” asked Mr. Pruitt, lighting his pipe with a splinter, and turning to Joe—“these here fellers what jines inter the army an’ then comes home arter awhile without lief or license?” “Deserters,” replied Joe, simply. “So fur, so good.” said Mr. Pruitt. “Now, then, what do you call the fellers what jines inter the army arter they’er been told that their families’ll be took keer of an’ provided fer by the rich folks at home; an’ then, arter they’er been in a right smart whet, they gits word that their wives an’ children is a lookin’ starvation in the face, an’ stedder gittin’ better it gets wuss, an’ bimeby they breaks loose an’ comes home? Now what sort er fellers do you call them? Hold on!” exclaimed Mr. Pruitt, as Joe was about to reply. “Wait! They hain’t got no money an’ no niggers; they hain’t got nothin’ but a little piece er lan’. They goes off expectin’ their wives’ll be took keer of, an’ they comes home an’ fines ’em in the last stages. What sorter fellers do you call them?” “Well,” Joe replied, “I’ve never heard of such a thing before.” “No,” said Mr. Pruitt, “an’ I’m mighty sorry you’ve heard about it now. It ain’t a purty tale.” “Who are the men?” Joe asked. “Yours, respectfully, John Pruitt an’ Jeems Wimberly, Ashbank deestrict, Hillsborough Post-Office, State of Georgia,” said Mr. Pruitt, solemnly. Joe had heard it hinted and rumored that in some cases, especially where they lived remote from the relief committees, the families of the soldiers were not so well provided for as they had a right to expect. He had even set up some editorials in The Countryman which hinted that there was suffering among the soldiers’ wives and children; but he never dreamed that it was serious enough to create discontent among the soldiers. The story that Mr. Pruitt and his companion told amazed Joe Maxwell, but it need not be repeated here in detail. It amounted to this, that the two soldiers had deserted because their wives and children were suffering for food and clothing, and now they were fugitives.

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