The Colonel's Dream Page 3

  _Three_

  When the colonel and Phil had removed the dust and disorder of travelfrom their appearance, they went down to dinner. After they had eaten,the colonel, still accompanied by the child, left the hotel, andfollowing the main street for a short distance, turned into anotherthoroughfare bordered with ancient elms, and stopped for a momentbefore an old gray house with high steps and broad piazza--a large,square-built, two-storied house, with a roof sloping down toward thefront, broken by dormer windows and buttressed by a massive brickchimney at either end. In spite of the gray monotone to which thepaintless years had reduced the once white weatherboarding and greenVenetian blinds, the house possessed a certain stateliness of stylewhich was independent of circumstance, and a solidity of constructionthat resisted sturdily the disintegrating hand of time. Heart-pine andlive-oak, mused the colonel, like other things Southern, live longand die hard. The old house had been built of the best materials, andits woodwork dowelled and mortised and tongued and grooved by men whoknew their trade and had not learned to scamp their work. For thecolonel's grandfather had built the house as a town residence, thefamily having owned in addition thereto a handsome country place upona large plantation remote from the town.

  The colonel had stopped on the opposite side of the street and waslooking intently at the home of his ancestors and of his own youth,when a neatly dressed coloured girl came out on the piazza, seatedherself in a rocking-chair with an air of proprietorship, and openedwhat the colonel perceived to be, even across the street, a copy of awoman's magazine whose circulation, as he knew from the advertisingrates that French and Co. had paid for the use of its columns, touchedthe million mark. Not wishing to seem rude, the colonel moved slowlyon down the street. When he turned his head, after going a rod or two,and looked back over his shoulder, the girl had risen and wasre-entering the house. Her disappearance was promptly followed by thenotes of a piano, slightly out of tune, to which some one--presumablythe young woman--was singing in a high voice, which might have beenbetter had it been better trained,

  _"I dreamt that I dwe-elt in ma-arble halls With vassals and serfs at my si-i-ide."_

  The colonel had slackened his pace at the sound of the music, but,after the first few bars, started forward with quickened footstepswhich he did not relax until little Phil's weight, increasingmomentarily, brought home to him the consciousness that his stride wastoo long for the boy's short legs. Phil, who was a thoroughbred, andwould have dropped in his tracks without complaining, was neverthelessrelieved when his father's pace returned to the normal.

  Their walk led down a hill, and, very soon, to a wooden bridge whichspanned a creek some twenty feet below. The colonel paused for amoment beside the railing, and looked up and down the stream. Itseemed narrower and more sluggish than his memory had pictured it.Above him the water ran between high banks grown thick with underbrushand over-arching trees; below the bridge, to the right of the creek,lay an open meadow, and to the left, a few rods away, the ruins of theold Eureka cotton mill, which in his boyhood had harboured aflourishing industry, but which had remained, since Sherman's armylaid waste the country, the melancholy ruin the colonel had seen itlast, when twenty-five years or more before, he left Clarendon to seeka wider career in the outer world. The clear water of the creekrippled harmoniously down a gentle slope and over the site where thegreat dam at the foot had stood, while birds were nesting in the vineswith which kindly nature had sought to cloak the dismantled andcrumbling walls.

  Mounting the slope beyond the bridge, the colonel's stride nowcarefully accommodated to the child's puny step, they skirted a lowbrick wall, beyond which white headstones gleamed in a mass ofverdure. Reaching an iron gate, the colonel lifted the latch, andentered the cemetery which had been the object of their visit.

  "Is this the place, papa?" asked the little boy.

  "Yes, Phil, but it is farther on, in the older part."

  They passed slowly along, under the drooping elms and willows, pastthe monuments on either hand--here, resting on a low brick wall, aslab of marble, once white, now gray and moss-grown, from which thehand of time had well nigh erased the carved inscription; here afamily vault, built into the side of a mound of earth, from which onlythe barred iron door distinguished it; here a pedestal, with atime-worn angel holding a broken fragment of the resurrection trumpet;here a prostrate headstone, and there another bending to its fall;and among them a profusion of rose bushes, on some of which the earlyroses were already blooming--scarcely a well-kept cemetery, for inmany lots the shrubbery grew in wild unpruned luxuriance; nor yetentirely neglected, since others showed the signs of loving care, andan effort had been made to keep the walks clean and clear.

  Father and son had traversed half the width of the cemetery, when theycame to a spacious lot, surrounded by large trees and containingseveral monuments. It seemed less neglected than the lots about it,and as they drew nigh they saw among the tombs a very black andseemingly aged Negro engaged in pruning a tangled rose tree. Near himstood a dilapidated basket, partially filled with weeds and leaves,into which he was throwing the dead and superfluous limbs. He seemedvery intent upon his occupation, and had not noticed the colonel's andPhil's approach until they had paused at the side of the lot and stoodlooking at him.

  When the old man became aware of their presence, he straightenedhimself up with the slow movement of one stiff with age or rheumatismand threw them a tentatively friendly look out of a pair of fadedeyes.

  "Howdy do, uncle," said the colonel. "Will you tell me whose gravesthese are that you are caring for?"

  "Yas, suh," said the old man, removing his battered hatrespectfully--the rest of his clothing was in keeping, a picturesqueassortment of rags and patches such as only an old Negro can gettogether, or keep together--"dis hyuh lot, suh, b'longs ter de famblydat I useter b'long ter--de ol' French fambly, suh, de fines' famblyin Beaver County."

  "Why, papa!" cried little Phil, "he means----"

  "Hush, Phil! Go on, uncle."

  "Yas, suh, de fines' fambly in Cla'endon, suh. Dis hyuh headstonehyuh, suh, an' de little stone at de foot, rep'esents de grave er ol'Gin'al French, w'at fit in de Revolution' Wah, suh; and dis hyuh onenex' to it is de grave er my ol' marster, Majah French, w'at fit inde Mexican Wah, and died endyoin' de wah wid de Yankees, suh."

  "Papa," urged Phil, "that's my----"

  "Shut up, Phil! Well, uncle, did this interesting old family die out,or is it represented in the present generation?"

  "Lawd, no, suh, de fambly did n' die out--'deed dey did n' die out!dey ain't de kind er fambly ter die out! But it's mos' as bad,suh--dey's moved away. Young Mars Henry went ter de Norf, and dey sayhe's got rich; but he ain't be'n back no mo', suh, an' I don' knowwhether he's ever comin' er no."

  "You must have been very fond of them to take such good care of theirgraves," said the colonel, much moved, but giving no sign.

  "Well, suh, I b'longed ter de fambly, an' I ain' got no chick nerchile er my own, livin', an' dese hyuh dead folks 'pears mo' closerter me dan anybody e'se. De cullud folks don' was'e much time wid aole man w'at ain' got nothin', an' dese hyuh new w'ite folks wa't iscome up sence de wah, ain' got no use fer niggers, now dat dey don'b'long ter nobody no mo'; so w'en I ain' got nothin' e'se ter do, Icomes roun' hyuh, whar I knows ev'ybody and ev'ybody knows me, an'trims de rose bushes an' pulls up de weeds and keeps de grass downjes' lak I s'pose Mars Henry'd 'a' had it done ef he'd 'a' lived hyuhin de ole home, stidder 'way off yandah in de Norf, whar he so busymakin' money dat he done fergot all 'bout his own folks."

  "What is your name?" asked the colonel, who had been looking closelyat the old man.

  "Peter, suh--Peter French. Most er de niggers change' dey names afterde wah, but I kept de ole fambly name I wuz raise' by. It wuz good'nuff fer me, suh; dey ain' none better."

  "Oh, papa," said little Phil, unable to restrain himself longer, "hemust be some kin to us; he has the same name, and belongs to the samefamily, and you know you called him 'Uncle.'"

/>   The old Negro had dropped his hat, and was staring at the colonel andthe little boy, alternately, with dawning amazement, while a look ofrecognition crept slowly into his rugged old face.

  "Look a hyuh, suh," he said tremulously, "is it?--it can't be!--butdere's de eyes, an' de nose, an' de shape er de head--why, it _must_be my young Mars Henry!"

  "Yes," said the colonel, extending his hand to the old man, whograsped it with both his own and shook it up and down withunconventional but very affectionate vigour, "and you are my boyPeter; who took care of me when I was no bigger than Phil here!"

  This meeting touched a tender chord in the colonel's nature, alreadytuned to sympathy with the dead past of which Peter seemed the onlysurvival. The old man's unfeigned delight at their meeting; hisretention of the family name, a living witness of its former standing;his respect for the dead; his "family pride," which to theunsympathetic outsider might have seemed grotesque; were proofs ofloyalty that moved the colonel deeply. When he himself had been achild of five or six, his father had given him Peter as his own boy.Peter was really not many years older than the colonel, but prosperityhad preserved the one, while hard luck had aged the other prematurely.Peter had taken care of him, and taught him to paddle in the shallowwater of the creek and to avoid the suck-holes; had taught him simplewoodcraft, how to fish, and how to hunt, first with bow and arrow, andlater with a shotgun. Through the golden haze of memory the colonel'shappy childhood came back to him with a sudden rush of emotion.

  "Those were good times, Peter, when we were young," he sighedregretfully, "good times! I have seen none happier."

  "Yas, suh! yas, suh! 'Deed dem wuz good ole times! Sho' dey wuz, suh,sho' dey wuz! 'Member dem co'n-stalk fiddles we use' ter make, an' demelderberry-wood whistles?"

  "Yes, Peter, and the robins we used to shoot and the rabbits we usedto trap?"

  "An' dem watermillions, suh--um-m-m, um-m-m-m!"

  "_Y-e-s_," returned the colonel, with a shade of pensiveness. Therehad been two sides to the watermelon question. Peter and he had notalways been able to find ripe watermelons, early in the season, and attimes there had been painful consequences, the memory of which cameback to the colonel with surprising ease. Nor had they always beencareful about boundaries in those early days. There had been oneoccasion when an irate neighbour had complained, and Major French hadthrashed Henry and Peter both--Peter because he was older, and knewbetter, and Henry because it was important that he should haveimpressed upon him, early in life, that of him to whom much is given,much will be required, and that what might be lightly regarded inPeter's case would be a serious offence in his future master's. Thelesson had been well learned, for throughout the course of his lifethe colonel had never shirked responsibility, but had made theperformance of duty his criterion of conduct. To him the line of leastresistance had always seemed the refuge of the coward and theweakling. With the twenty years preceding his return to Clarendon,this story has nothing to do; but upon the quiet background of hisbusiness career he had lived an active intellectual and emotionallife, and had developed into one of those rare natures of whom it maybe truly said that they are men, and that they count nothing of whatis human foreign to themselves.

  But the serenity of Peter's retrospect was unmarred by any passingcloud. Those who dwell in darkness find it easier to remember thebright places in their lives.

  "Yas, suh, yas, suh, dem watermillions," he repeated with unction, "Ikin tas'e 'em now! Dey wuz de be's watermillions dat evuh growed,suh--dey doan raise none lack 'em dese days no mo'. An' den demchinquapin bushes down by de swamp! 'Member dem chinquapin bushes,whar we killt dat water moccasin dat day? He wuz 'bout ten footlong!"

  "Yes, Peter, he was a whopper! Then there were the bullace vines, inthe woods beyond the tanyard!"

  "Sho' 'nuff, suh! an' de minnows we use' ter ketch in de creek, an'dem perch in de mill pon'?"

  For years the colonel had belonged to a fishing club, which preservedan ice-cold stream in a Northern forest. For years the choicest fruitsof all the earth had been served daily upon his table. Yet as helooked back to-day no shining trout that had ever risen to his fly hadstirred his emotions like the diaphanous minnows, caught, with acrooked pin, in the crooked creek; no luscious fruit had ever matchedin sweetness the sour grapes and bitter nuts gathered from the nativewoods--by him and Peter in their far-off youth.

  "Yas, suh, yas, suh," Peter went on, "an' 'member dat time you an'young Mars Jim Wilson went huntin' and fishin' up de countrytergether, an' got ti'ed er waitin' on yo'se'ves an' writ back fer meter come up ter wait on yer and cook fer yer, an' ole Marster say hedid n' dare ter let me go 'way off yander wid two keerliss boys lakyou-all, wid guns an' boats fer fear I mought git shot, er drownded?"

  "It looked, Peter, as though he valued you more than me! more than hisown son!"

  "Yas, suh, yas, suh! sho' he did, sho' he did! old Marse Philip wuz amonstus keerful man, an' _I_ wuz winth somethin', suh, dem times; Iwuz wuth five hundred dollahs any day in de yeah. But nobody would n'give five hundred cents fer me now, suh. Dey'd want pay fer takin' me,mos' lakly. Dey ain' none too much room fer a young nigger no mo', let'lone a' ol' one."

  "And what have you been doing all these years, Peter?" asked thecolonel.

  Peter's story was not a thrilling one; it was no tale of inordinateambition, no Odyssey of a perilous search for the prizes of life, butthe bald recital of a mere struggle for existence. Peter had stayed byhis master until his master's death. Then he had worked for arailroad contractor, until exposure and overwork had laid him up witha fever. After his recovery, he had been employed for some years atcutting turpentine boxes in the pine woods, following the trail of theindustry southward, until one day his axe had slipped and wounded himseverely. When his wound was healed he was told that he was too oldand awkward for the turpentine, and that they needed younger and moreactive men.

  "So w'en I got my laig kyo'ed up," said the old man, concluding hisstory, "I come back hyuh whar I wuz bo'n, suh, and whar my w'ite folksuse' ter live, an' whar my frien's use' ter be. But my w'ite folks wuzall in de graveya'd, an' most er my frien's wuz dead er moved away,an' I fin's it kinder lonesome, suh. I goes out an' picks cotton in defall, an' I does arrants an' little jobs roun' de house fer folks w'at'll hire me; an' w'en I ain' got nothin' ter eat I kin gor oun' ter deole house an' wo'k in de gyahden er chop some wood, an' git a meal ervittles f'om ole Mis' Nichols, who's be'n mighty good ter me, suh.She's de barbuh's wife, suh, w'at bought ouah ole house. Dey got mo'dan any yuther colored folks roun' hyuh, but dey he'ps de po', suh,dey he'ps de po'."

  "Which speaks well for them, Peter. I'm glad that all the virtue hasnot yet gone out of the old house."

  The old man's talk rambled on, like a sluggish stream, while thecolonel's more active mind busied itself with the problem suggested bythis unforeseen meeting. Peter and he had both gone out into theworld, and they had both returned. He had come back rich andindependent. What good had freedom done for Peter? In the colonel'schildhood his father's butler, old Madison, had lived a life which,compared to that of Peter at the same age, was one of ease and luxury.How easy the conclusion that the slave's lot had been the morefortunate! But no, Peter had been better free. There were plenty ofpoor white men, and no one had suggested slavery as an improvement oftheir condition. Had Peter remained a slave, then the colonel wouldhave remained a master, which was only another form of slavery. Thecolonel had been emancipated by the same token that had made Peterfree. Peter had returned home poor and broken, not because he had beenfree, but because nature first, and society next, in distributingtheir gifts, had been niggardly with old Peter. Had he been betterequipped, or had a better chance, he might have made a better showing.The colonel had prospered because, having no Peters to work for him,he had been compelled to work for himself. He would set his ownsuccess against Peter's failure; and he would take off his hat to thememory of the immortal statesman, who in freeing one race hademancipated another and struck the shackles from a Nation's mind.
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