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1999.
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AUNT DICE:
The Story of a Faithful Slave.
NINA HILL ROBINSON.
NASHVILLE, TENN.:
PUBLISHING HOUSE OF THE M. E. CHURCH,
SOUTH.
BARBER & SMITH, AGENTS.
1897
Page verso
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1897,
BY
NINA HILL ROBINSON, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington.
Page 5
To My Beloved.
Page 6
PREFACE.
IN this little work the author has preferred to follow the simple truth, feeling all interweaving of fiction to be out of keeping with the character of whom she has written. Beyond the use of a story-teller's license, sparingly indulged in, this story is strictly true.
As the details of everyday life would prove monotonous to the reader, the writer has given but little more than the outlines of the life of this beloved servant; and though a short work—only a recreative hour for the busy American—a simple story simply told, it is written as a tribute to the memory of one who was faithful in all her ways, with the hope that her name may be honored and remembered.
It is known that the speech of the Tennessee negro differs slightly from his extreme southern kinsman. Aunt Dice was free from many of the stumblings or more uncouth forms of the negro dialect. The word "master" she used with an "o" sound, as in "moster." Her way was her own; she borrowed no form.
In conclusion, need it be said that it is yet the hope and desire of the Family to remove the sacred dust of this honored servant to her chosen place of burial, where Cæsar sleeps and the Candlesticks bloom?
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AUNT DICE: The Story of a Faithful Slave
CHAPTER I.
THERE are large possibilities to men of advantages. Material help is a needful stepping-stone to greater things. A cultured faith in a higher life aids much toward the upbuilding of true worth and character.
But to the unlearned, whose rude surroundings hold no uplifting element, to whom all books are forever sealed—their lettering unmeaning hieroglyphics—what is the inspiration to be faithful, to live uprightly? What is the stimulus to noble living and well-doing in the kitchens of the ignorant?
Of such a one I write; nay, more than this: born a slave, she called nothing on earth her own. Untutored, save in the monotonous drudgery of work, she found only one help in her way—the simple story of the cross, sung in many a southern kitchen; the cross that uplifts wherever its blessed shadow falls.
Of her simple, rugged life no poem need be woven, though other lives of lesser merit have found a way into prose or rhyme; but from oft-repeated
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tales, the picked-up relics of her deeds and sayings, the story of her life may at least prove her memory wholesome.
Neither can be told of her any great achievement or heroic action, for she had read no Psalm of Life, no Book of Golden Deeds; but only one of humble plodding in the way of duty—the only duty she saw plainly before her, that of faithfulness.
The neighboring slave owners of South Afton were curious when it was learned that William Macy had purchased the negress Dice. Men of standing these were, in a well-to-do neighborhood; of plethoric purses, of broad acres, and crowded negro quarters; men who understood as well the requisites of negro barter, the buying and selling prices, as they were familiar with the good points of their best horses. So the surprise was great when a generous sum was paid for the negress by the owner of Riverside, known to be a wise and cautious dealer, who for once overlooked the fact of her thirty-four years, her delicate frame, her deficiency in bone, muscle, and flesh.
It was talked of at the river mills, the cotton gin, and the stillhouse among the hills, where men grouped on Saturday afternoons to discuss the latest Whig news, the prices of negroes and cotton, or the relative value of their own prime whiskies or peach brandies.
But the question was settled at last by a quiet answer: "I bought her to raise my children." Perhaps the wise owner looked farther than bone
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or muscle in the purchase of one to whom he could trust his children. Hired to him for two years previous, he had found her trustworthiness alone sufficient to uphold him in the sum paid for her.
It was in the winter of eighteen hundred and thirty-four (for she came in with the century) that Aunt Dice, with her two children, was removed from a thinly-settled district twenty miles distant, and installed as chief cook and general superintendent at Riverside plantation. Beyond her kinship to Uncle Amos, the most trusty and best beloved of the slaves at Riverside, little was known of her or hers, save that her mother was an excellent servant—a pioneer negress of Middle Tennessee, brought from Virginia to the old Nashville Fort, in the perilous days of Indian warfare. Her one other recommendation was that she was reared "in the house," an important element in the purchase or sale of a negress: a raw "field hand" occupied no enviable position beside the superior house girl; though in her case this did not greatly add to her value, as, orphaned in early infancy, she was brought up amid surroundings so rude and uncouth that the wonder was that her thirty-four years had found her true and worthy.
Concerning her own private griefs or wrongs Aunt Dice, as she was called, was strangely reticent. If a burden were hers to shoulder, she preferred to bear it proudly alone. It was only after years of intimacy that her new mistress, who delicately forbore to question her, learned that her
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former master kept an inn or hostelry noted for its drunken revelry and riotous living, where travelers passed the night on their way to the "far west"; where negroes were bought and sold, or gambled away; a home upon which civilization had hardly turned its light, or religion its morals.
"My mistis was a good 'oman," Aunt Dice had said. Perhaps the influence of this one "good 'oman" had much to do toward the shaping of her character; if so, then indeed the hard, bare existence of this "mistis" was not passed in vain.
There were few places on the river so pleasantly situated as Riverside plantation. Commanding a high and wide outlook, the farmhouse, with its painted whiteness, its airy rooms, and cool, wide galleries, looked inviting enough through the surrounding maple grove and silver poplars. A green lawn, ornamented with old-fashioned hedges of lilacs and pink crepe myrtles, sloped from the steep bluff overlooking the river to the great double gate leading to the graveled drive by the water's edge. Beyond the house, and farther up the river's side, were the negro quarters—a long row of log cabins with double chimneys, and gardens attached. There was the "loom house," where the spinning and weaving were done. The cotton house stood near the great, wide barns, and the "shop," with its charcoal forge. Across the "big branch," and still farther up the heights, was the family cemetery, solemn with its waving cedars and white marble stones.
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There were broad bottom fields skirting the river's edge; rolling uplands sweeping out to the distant hills, where the swine were fattened yearly; thence onward to the Barrens, where the cattle grazed. Lucky the farmer who owned an outlet to the Barrens—a wild, almost unsettled country, rich only in native grass and cool springs.
A fair domain it was, set like a jewel within Tennessean hills, fairer for its romantic scenery, its native wilds; dearer for its crowning grace of southern life and cheer, which, alas! is but a memory. The palmy days of Riverside have departed with the changing times; but the river that swept around the old homestead, whose blue waters silvered in the sunshine and deepened in the shade, laughing over rocky shoals and silent by the high, still cliffs—the river of "ye olden" days—is still the same beautiful, lovely South Afton.
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CHAPTER II.
IT must be said that the whole plantation prospered under the steady rule of Aunt Dice. No sooner was she domiciled by her broad cabin hearth than she began to enlarge her borders. Her two years' experience as a hired underling held her in good stead: she understood her master's needs, the merits and demerits of his slaves. Her second coming was an era of greater importance. The negroes, from venerable Uncle Amos to the smallest pickaninny, realized that she held a certain amount of power— how much, she herself did not stop to question; she only knew that she was grateful to a kind master, and she proved her gatitude with the remainder of her long life. For her, too, the change was wholesome; whether from her comfortable surroundings, or the kindly treatment of a new and much-loved master, it is hard to say, but certain it was that the frail, sickly negress gained new strength as the years passed on, until the neighboring slave owners reluctantly acknowledged her "the likeliest nigger on the whole creek." Certainly she was the hardest worker: she often said there was not a lazy bone in all her body. Not only did she help to tend and rear the children, but she was the ruling spirit of all the "hum and hustle" of each busy day. Her first
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duty was to sound the long, wild call of the hunting horn from the back gallery, and dole out to the slaves their morning "drams" from the rum barrels in the cellar before the day's work began.
It was here that she commenced her discipline. The long row of rollicking laborers filing up the path from the quarters hastened to a quickstep under her searching glance. Not that she disapproved of merriment. "Light hearts make light work" was a proverb at Riverside. But she received no laggards at her early drink offerings. Uncle Jack knew to a nicety how long to hold his inverted position, his usual obeisance to his morning dram. Aunt Dice heard complacently the rhythmic "pitapat" of merry feet, the back-steps knocked out on the graveled walk, or the jokes which were "swapped" in bantering tones and high good humor—a form of greeting that varied little from morning to morning.
"Hi, dar, nigger; stir yo' stumpers!"
"I takes no slack jaw dis mo'nin'. I walks right ober you 'reckly."
"Huh! ef yo' sasses me, I slams yo' down, chile, and puts my -foot on yo' haid. What's de kon'squence ob dat?"
"A daid nigger! Dar'll be de kon'squence," is the cheerful response, while a succession of calls, "hoorahs," and cries of "Hear dat nigger now!" "Ain't he a steppin'?" sounded clear and vibrant on the still air.
On they came, Uncle Amos quietly in the lead,
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baring his head to Aunt Dice's courteous " Good-mo'nin'," Uncle Silas following with his usual plea for a "leetle drap mo' for de mis'ry in de back," and the sharp response, "Step on, Silas; I want yo' room."
"Come, boys, be lively; daylight's burnin'." And the dusky column moved on with boisterous shouts and musical calls, startling the sleepy cocks from the barnyard roosts, and echoing across the river, which lay aflush under the eastern skies.
Aunt Dice, though supervisor, scorned an idle hour. It was she who prepared the well-cooked meals for the master's table; who ordered provisions for the quarters; overlooked the butter-making, the spinning and weaving, the cutting of garments, and the plain sewing for the numerous slaves; never resting her weary feet until the last laborer went back to the fields after the midday meal. Her master sometimes gently interfered: "Two hours' rest at noon, Dice. Man and beast should rest in the heat of the day."
So when the songs of the laborers rang out from the fields, and the music of wheel and loom went merrily on within, Aunt Dice went out to her cabin to take her well- earned rest and enjoy a quiet smoke, her only indulgence. Her clean, fragrant pipe, used in unobtrusive hours, was never offensive.
The master smiled over his purchase. He had made no mistake. Conscious of his trust, she soon assumed control of the slaves—in a way. Respectful they certainly were; man, woman, and child
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were under her imperious sway, and well she ruled. Aunt Dice believed in discipline; while one and all liked and admired her, she thought it best to instill into this liking a little of fear, to make it wholesome. A lazy negro was her special detestation. She delighted in scattering a crowd of dusky forms, basking, lizard-like, in the sun. Few of the laziest could stand the curious sidelong glance of her sharp eyes, and many a step quickened under that searching look.
How far her rule extended even the master did not question, nor the mistress, who began to lean upon her and trust to her guidance in the manifold duties of a southern matron. The rule of the house—its domestic duties—it was hers to order. Her judgment was supreme, her counsel never lost. The mistress, who as "Lady Bountiful" dispensed a wide charity, had only to say to her, "Aunt Dice, our neighbor is sick; she needs help." Aunt Dice packed a full basket and started on her errand of mercy, ministering to the poor in a way well fitted to heal a mind diseased. She fed and nursed, she cleaned and swept, until the bare, rude homes of the poor whites shone bright with the sick faces.
The master found himself referring to her wisdom: "Dicy, shall we kill hogs this week?"
"They's eatin' they heads off, Mos William, an' fat as mud."
The hogs were slaughtered.
"Is it time to plant potatoes, Dicy?"
"'Pears to me the groun's waitin' fur 'em,"
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was the busy answer; and the potatoes were planted.
But Aunt Dice was also learning. Within her wholesome surroundings she found much to edify, to help her. The nobility and upright character of her quiet master; the influence of the mistress, a woman of kind speech and gentle manner; the pure atmosphere and well-ordered household; a house whose God was the Lord, the Bible the most honored book in the quaint old bookcase; not a home of pretentious superiority, but one of comfort and solid standing, of quiet, far-reaching charity and Christian excellence—all these elements were unfolding within the stunted soul of the slave an inherent germ of rare worth and beauty. Her observant eyes lost nothing that could serve to strengthen or uplift her. Her hungry soul was feeding.
At night, within her cabin, sounds of mirth and revelry reached her from the quarters, the patter of time-keeping feet, the music of fiddle, banjo, and ringing clevis pins. But the sound which pleased her most, which reached her soul, came from the cabin of Uncle Amos, which was set apart from the quarters in the shadow of the woods; a song whose volume of sweetness and power poured its melody into every chink and crevice of the crowded quarters, hushing the ruder noise of viol and uproarious mirth:
"The mo' I pray the happier I am;
I love God, glory, halleluiah!"
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On the still night air the melody trembled, soared, and reached from glory to glory:
"This religion I believe,
Glory, halleluiah!
Soon we'll land our souls up yonder,
Glory, halleluiah!"
From Pisgah's top the venerable old patriarch sang:
"Happy people ober yonder;
Happy people ober yonder;
Soon we'll meet dem ober yonder,
On de oder bright sho'."
Aunt Dice listened, and prayed. This seed, sown in good ground, rapidly grew and bore fruit. It was shortly afterwards, as she lay on a sick bed in the early days of her invalidism, that Aunt Dice found the wondrous peace and realized the power of redeeming love. The prayer of Uncle Amos, strong in its faith, the piled-up promises before a throne of grace, the sure answer of peace, proved to the purchased slave the"glorious liberty" of the soul. Aunt Dice was "converted"; to put it plainly, she was born again. The old-time religion of Tennessee, which blazed its way with the pioneer ax, that held its own through civil strife—the conflict of brother with brother—that holds good to-day, was ever afterwards her stay and support. She received her baptism from a white minister, held her membership with a white congregation, and drank the wine in communion—an honored and trusted member.
The years passed on, and Riverside prospered.
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The negro quarters broadened and throve under the humane treatment of a kind, much-loved master. To say that Aunt Dice was a valued servant and trusted friend but faintly expressed her worth. The children were objects of her especial care. To tell of her stanch integrity, the faithful performance of a duty imposed upon her, it is well to say that the pure morals she set forth, the homely advice she gave from her great, untutored soul, live yet with the children's children.
Her cabin was a rendezvous for the little ones, which, as best remembered, was a log room neatly papered, with a wide fireplace, and a loft overhead. In front, below the bluff, ran the river, ever the friend and companion of Aunt Dice's solitary hours. From the back door a sunny garden stretched, where it was her habit to sit and smoke her pipe in summer afternoons, where she watched the broad sweep of the cotton fields, and the silver sheen of the river through the tall sycamores that fringed its winding course. The cabin was comfortably furnished. The old-fashioned "four-poster" was nearly hidden beneath a huge feather bed and drapery of the snowy counterpane. A bureau with glass handles stood under a swinging mirror. A cupboard, suggestive of tempting edibles, occupied one corner, while a swinging shelf full of quilts hung from the ceiling.
Aunt Dice, sitting in her split-bottomed chair by the broad hearth, was a conspicuous and familiar figure. She was of low stature, and, after her restored
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health, just fleshy enough to hide the waistband of her everyday apron. In her cotton gown she looked comfortable enough, but in her "Sunday" costume she was more impressive—really grand-looking—wearing her black silk gown and mantle, or black lace shawl, to advantage. Her face is more difficult to describe—a strong, homely face, which, whether severe or pleasing, seemed to have "character" written in every curve and expression. Her forehead was expansive, her eyes—not the prominent African's—were rather small, and full of fire, whether twinkling in fun or in those curious sidelong glances which reminded one to be up and doing. Her nose was slightly flattened; her broad, roomy cheeks were smooth and glossy; but her mouth—well, those great lips could drop an inch or more in a seemingly senseless stupor, or twist almost to each ear in a caricature of which the children were often unfortunate victims; yet Aunt Dice was wont to draw them up with such a majestic sweep, such grand curves, that her face was truly inspiring.
Beyond her faithfulness and upright qualities, her next distinctive characteristic was pride, not in 'herself alone, but in her surroundings—the fair possession of her beloved owners, and the children, with whom she spared no pains to uphold the family standing. The "grown-up children" she considered beyond her reach or discipline; she gave them the respect due their years, kept a shining, spotless table, laundered their linen, critically
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inspected their toilets—and their visitors. But the three youngest—two girls in long pinafores, and a toddling boy— she called her very own; an appropriation they were not slow to learn, since it involved a tutelage peculiarly Aunt Dice's.
Annie Macy, gentle and quiet, was too much her mother's counterpart to often need reproof; but long and many were the times that the merry, careless Katherine sat on the low stool by the cabin hearth—to her, in truth, the stool of repentance. Both were careful to observe their manners and bearing more closely in this humble cabin than in wider territory and greater freedom; for well they knew that this was Aunt Dice's vantage ground for a lecture. A lecture—without words—they most dreaded. If one sprawled in her chair in unfeminine negligence, Aunt Dice would festoon herself on every available one in the room; if one were unfortunate enough to let fall a silly remark or show an unwonted stupidity in Aunt Dice's presence, she would literally double herself on the low stool, showing a dull, expressionless face, her great lips dropping, quivering, until from sheer pity she would laugh suddenly, lay her black hand on the delinquent head, and say with tender emphasis: "Don't think Aunt Dice is an ole fool, chile." Now when she laughed, remember, she laughed all over; her whole body caught the enthusiasm of those short metallic sounds— quickly over; but oh, how she enjoyed it! What a light in those small,
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dark eyes! What a glow over the dark face, which was neither a yellow nor a gingerbread color, but a truly black. Her tears were something like her laugh—a quick, convulsive sobbing, short sounds of grief; then her face was its own, its cheerfulness predominant.
The boy, whom she unceremoniously dubbed Sam—or Sammy, as occasion required—was not so easily managed; though, strange to say, she loved him most—a love he returned with all his might. From his crawling age he loved the space of her broad bosom, the shelter of her arms; and many a journey did he take astride her neck to the cotton fields, whither she went on her quiet tours of inspection. As a toddler he was ever at her heels, though in her cabin he soon learned the usage of the stool, and was often put sobbing in the white bed after a wholesome spanking, when the storm in his blue eyes had burst in unusual violence. His awakening, however, found a solace and recompense sufficient even for him: the cupboard doors were as wide open as the arms of his dark monitress.
"Whar do the chile git his temper?" was her frequent query. "Not from Mos William, nur Miss Mary."
Many a lesson in manners and morals did she teach the children. Her natural instincts of true courtesy and refinement were uniformly correct . She especially detested a giggle, and never forgave a woman she knew for a rather boisterous
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sneeze in church. Indeed, her sharp eyes were ever quick to detect a breach of etiquette or a charm of personal manner.
Still, her cabin had other attractions. Aunt Dice was wise. She was careful to gloss over the irksome effect of her "preaching." Though she never tolerated a ghost story, being free from the superstition of her race, she kept in store a number of Indian tales for the appetite of the little folk, and stories of wolves which howled about her cabin in the early days of the century.
When the girls were old enough for school, Aunt Dice made them sing their "b-a ba's" to her. While she listened gravely, and thought them prodigies of learning. When their samplers, worked in gay crewels, were brought to her, she inspected them critically: "Yours'll do, Miss Anne; that's putty well done. You mus' have one now in silk, an' hang in mistis' room."
Over Katherine's sampler her long lip quivered and dropped.
"You don't like it, Aunt Dice!" cried the offender, almost in tears.
"It's sorter so, Katherine—only sorter. Them letters may do well 'nough; but I ain't neber seen yit red leaves an' blue roses."
Aunt Dice ruled. The truth was plain. She had probed her way into the very hearthstone of her mistress's household; but she never repelled or nauseated one by a close intimacy. Cleanly in speech and person, her nature was strong and
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sweet, her influence stimulating. Under her care children were safe.
The master found for her a wider field of usefulness. The cabin connecting with hers by the double chimney was set apart for her use, and it was usually filled with motherless slaves, children whom the kind master had picked up from less fortunate homes; outcasts, vagrants, with little reputation to lose and much to gain. The master stood often at her door with a new purchase: "Dicy, take this boy to your cabin. Teach him to bathe and be clean. Teach him how to live."
Stimulated by her master's confidence, Aunt Dice began to wield a powerful influence; not only among her orphaned charges, but throughout the quarters she taught in homely language the reward of virtue, the excellency of honest, upright living.
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CHAPTER III.
AUNT DICE had her own romance, however; or her sorrow, as it seems more fitting to term a negro's tale of love. Few guess the tragedy that lies buried beneath the stoical exterior of negro life: bravely bearing their domestic troubles, even cheerfully taking them up as their allotted portion.
The master was somewhat surprised when Aunt Dice came to him one Christmas eve, and asked his consent to her marriage with Cæsar, a handsome, stately negro from a neighboring plantation.
"I am sorry to hear this, Dicy," he said slowly; and perhaps this was the most lengthened advice he had ever given her. "I hardly like the negro. He is too great a beau among the women; too fond of gadding about. However, I shall do the best I can for you."
Cæsar was ambitious. The beau of the colored community, the gallant of every social gathering, he had looked about for years for a suitable helpmeet—a "quality nigger," whose position would insure him a promotion to a higher standing. His inordinate vanity suggested Aunt Dice to him—a power at Riverside, and already an aristocrat to her finger-tips—as a means to this end. As her husband he would acquire a preëminence among
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his own which would place him on a higher scale as a—gentleman. Riverside, too, was a fair field for his ambition in a business way; that is, his possible purchase and position as overseer.
It was evident in a quiet way that Aunt Dice "favored" Cæsar. She approved of his spotless linen, his polite address, his elegant manners. She was attracted. His delicate attentions pleased her. She graciously consented when he asked, with the bow of a Chesterfield: "Lady, will you hab de goodness to 'low me to 'scort you to chu'ch?"
Aunt Dice, sitting at the rear of the "white meetinghouse," could not help but notice that Cæsar led all his colored brethren in grace and deportment, a steady dignity that with all his faults never failed to command Aunt Dice's respect.
The master made good his promise by buying Cæsar; perhaps he did not tell Aunt Dice the stern talk he received from his new master, when he was promised the hand of the favorite slave.
So they were married. A great feast was spread, one that the darkies long remembered. Uncle Jack stood on his head until his strained sinews reminded him of a more convenient performance. Uncle Silas forgot his aches, and "limbered up" for the occasion. The scraping of fiddles, the tuning of banjos, the jingle of clevis pins, told of a breakdown for the late festivities.
In the mistress's own parlor they stood before the white minister while he read the beautiful formula of the marriage ceremony. Cæsar was
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resplendent in a suit of broadcloth, ruffled linen, and white satin waistcoat. From the top of his carefully carded hair to the tip of his polished boot he was immaculate. Aunt Dice, clothed in pure white, and not uncomely, was quiet and thankful for the many kindnesses conferred upon her by the white people, and for the blessing laid upon her head under the trembling hands of Uncle Amos.
Cæsar proved a kind husband in many respects; indeed, he always observed toward his wife a courteous bearing and outward show of greatest deference and respect. He executed the honors of his cabin with all the elaborate manners of an old-school gentleman, and the careful hospitality of a southern host. He himself was treated with some distinction as the husband of the princess regent: his meals were served on a white cloth in the master's kitchen, his morning drams from the family sideboard. Gifted with quick intelligence and business-like tact, he was trusted with yearly sales of produce, and never failed his master in accurate accounts and profitable transactions. Promoted to overseer, he indulged his love of pomp and display, and made a stately figure in the cotton fields astride his master's handsome black horse, or riding with conscious superiority beside the great wagons as they rolled into Nashville, laden with the generous harvestings.
This last purchase proved a remunerative one. Cæsar was a valuable slave. But the master's misgivings proved too true. Cæsar was fickle.
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His shallow nature found no rest beside the deep, still fount of his wife's love and faithfulness. Married life for him had hardly begun before he donned his tall silk hat and renewed his gadding about—a veritable flirt to the day of his death.
Aunt Dice bore her wrongs in silence. None ever heard her complain. There was only a closer application to duty; a noticeable tenderness and devotion to children; an unconscious leaning toward the gentle mistress, who answered the mute appeal with unstinted sympathy.
Cæsar was still an object of grave consideration with Aunt Dice. His wants were attended to with studied care; his silk hat and black clothes always in readiness; his snowy, ruffled shirts the wonder and admiration of his many dusky friends. But her affections settled more surely, perhaps, around her own children, a son and daughter; particularly her son, Charley, who was growing up to manhood, and who, as the unfolding years proved, brought upon her the keenest trial of her life.
Charley was a bright-skinned youth, with jetty curls, and eyes that sparkled with such changeful lights that no one could tell what lay beneath the glittering surface. "The devil is in 'em," said his playmates.
That Charley was "rapid and onsteady" Aunt Dice realized with sorrow. Moreover, his companionship with Sam, the youngest born of her beloved master, caused her constant uneasiness. How far these boys ventured into mischief or danger,
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Aunt Dice could not determine. They tamed wild colts and broke the oxen; they hunted, fished, swam, played, and scuffled. Aunt Dice detested this scuffling, which often ended seriously. Charley was ever sullen and hard to control, but Sam, her nursling, had lately begun to measure lances with her and declare his rights as the young master of Riverside. These bold declarations, however, had only ended ignominiously for Sam. She found them one day—Sam and Charley—in a hand-to-hand encounter, rolling and scuffling on her cabin floor.
"What's the cause o' this?" she demanded in a quiet, stern way, which sent Charley cowed to his corner. Sam stood up straight and faced her with his stormy, blue eyes.
"He told me a lie. If he lies, he'll steal. I told him so."
"Don't be so sho' o' that, Sammy. Come here and set down."
Again they measured lances. Sam met her keen look boldly.
"Don't call me 'Sammy.' Call me 'Mos Sam'—Aunt Dice—I—"
Aunt Dice led him by the ear with no gentle hand to the stool in the opposite corner.
"Set yo'se'f down thar, twell you fin' yo' manners. I'll call you 'Mos Sam' whenever you 'sarves it, chile—whenever you 'sarves it. O, Sam," her voice dropping suddenly, "why ain't you like Mos William?"
"I can't be like father!" cried Sam wrathfully
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from the stool which he was careful not to leave. "I never can be like him."
"It 'pears to me, Sammy," Aunt Dice continued, "that you've rode ever' calf on the place, an' lamed up the colts, an' you're jist a killin' off all ole mistis' geese. I throwed a gander in the river t' other day, an' a goose to- day. Who is it, you or Charley?"
Mos Sam caught the wicked sparkle in Charley's eyes, and was silent. Aunt Dice looked the guilty culprits over.
"You've allus tried to shiel' Charley, chile, but lis'en to me: keep way f'om him; he ain't no fit comp'ny fur you."
Mos Sam wriggled on his stool. Charley dug his toes in the ashes on the hearth and eyed his mother sullenly.
Aunt Dice picked up her knitting. Out of doors the sun shone brightly; the birds called and whistled; the river rippled on its way and silvery trout leaped up from its blue waters, gleaming in the sunlight. Farther up the bluff a crowd of negro boys plunged headlong into the cool depths of the "big hole," their laughing whoops and "dar ye's" sounding tantalizingly clear to the two captives within.
Mos Sam turned his eyes from the shining stretch of river and sought the calm glance of Aunt Dice over her busy needles: "Mammy, I'm hungry."
Aunt Dice opened wide her cupboard doors: "Here, chile, go 'long now. Stop yo' fightin' an' be a man," she said—to the flying heels which disappeared around the corner of her cabin.
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CHAPTER IV.
CORNSHUCKING! Not the New England "husking bee," famed in song and story, when stalwart youths and rosy maidens were wont to meet and dance on rude barn floors after the busy husking; when the fortunate finder of a red ear of corn tendered his prize to his lady love, the one with whom he "kept company." Oh no! but the noisy, merry cornshucking of the ante-bellum South, when negroes held high carnival amid swinging ears of corn and around the laden table of the harvest feast; when master and mistress bowed cheerfully to the grotesque rule of the merrymakers for a season—the swift-winged hours of the cornshucking night.
The negro's highest ideal of enjoyment has its necessary accompaniment of a feast. Second only to the Christmas festivities at Riverside, with the array of baked sweetmeats, the crammed stockings of "goodies," the bowls of creamy eggnog, the happy "Chris'mas gif's," was the yearly cornshucking, with its merry misrule and harvest cheer. Next in turn came the hog-killing in frosty November, where visions of sparerib pies and backbone stews were realized and enjoyed. The sugar-making in February broke the torpor of winter; and lastly, the wheat harvest in June
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brought the busy reapers, whose sickles swung amid the yellow grain to the beat and measure of their harvest song, while the "Bob Whites" called through the livelong day. Within a shady inclosure, kept cooler still by swathings of wet green leaves, was the keg of whisky, no less a feature of the summer harvest than the savory dishes served at the quarters, where the dinner horn rang a suggestive sound that the "big pot was put in the little one."
"Cornshucking, boys!" shouted to the laborers at supper in the quarters' kitchen at Riverside brought forth a slapping and beating, a whoop and call, a general stampede of broganed feet under the kitchen table.
"Dram, dram; oh, dat bottle!" rolled from a pair of lusty lungs.
"Stop dat noise; wait twell yo' time come."
"Barbecue, barbecue; ham an' turkey! Possum an' taters; chicken stew! Hustle, boys, hustle!"
Preparations began. On the next day invitations went flying across the country, up and down the river, to the colored acquaintances of neighboring plantations. On this particular occasion, Cæsar, who omitted no chance to celebrate his high position, found this a convenient time to illustrate his authority and display his wisdom as a general manager. Pigs, lambs, and a tender calf were slaughtered, and lay roasting slowly over hot coals in the trenches. The hills were scoured for game, the river dragged for fish; chickens, turkeys,
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and ducks were sacrificed, while at the quarters negro women stirred their bowls of sweetened dough, "whipped" their frosting, or tended the ovens of rich, sweet corn lightbread.
Aunt Dice suspended her rule and smiled over the merry quips and quirks of the waiting women, the antics and pranks of the pickaninnies. She spread the long tables with clean white linen, and piled them to fullness with jellies, custards, and dainty furnishings of her own handiwork—not forgetting, however, to lay by a generous store for the schoolboy Sam, who was taking his first lessons in life under the uncertain favor of a pedagogue's rule. His dinner bucket, Aunt Dice considered, was naturally his greatest consolation since he had arrived at the age of pies, tarts, and flaky pastry. She was wiser than she knew. The schoolboy's heart beat some of its truest throbs for her when he opened his well-packed dinner pail after a trying lesson in syntax.
But the cornshucking!
At nightfall the steady incoming of the invited guests crowded from over the hills and up the valleys, by twos and threes on horseback and muleback; by the dozen in heavy, lumbering wagons; by the half dozen in swift-gliding canoes. The work began. The heaps of corn, piled high in the cribs, dwindled surely under the strong hands of the shuckers. Cæsar, ever mindful of an opportune moment to display his superior excellence, stepped grandly in his best clothes from crib to crib,
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ordering his troop of busy boys in gathering the huskings, or stowing the corn into barrels. Old men passed the compliments of the day or related their experiences, replete with wisdom. Young men "swapped" their jokes, or bantered for shucking races in braggadocio-like tones. A low, monotonous chanting slowly gathered strength as the dark, smart faces swayed back and forth under the gleaming lamplight:
"Th'ow it up, shuck it up—
Corn pile, corn pile!
Shuck it up, round it up—
Corn pile!"
Louder grew the singing; musical intonations, a call, a beat, a whistle, touched the chorus into life:
"Th'ow it up, shuck it up—
Corn, corn, corn pile, corn!
Shuck it up, round it up—
Corn, corn pile, corn!"
The golden ears swung high, swung low. Dusky forms swayed to and fro, while high above the din floated the melody of the cornshucking songs, rising, falling, swelling in perfect measure.
Pickaninnies reveled in the shuck piles. Pickaninnies scampered from barn to quarters' kitchen, and stared with wide-eyed wonder at the fancifully decked tables and huge trays of smoking meats. Sounds of life and bustle at the quarters reached the workers in the cribs, while odors of juicy meats drifted to them from the dying coals in the trenches.
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Faster flew the busy bands. The yellow corn swung low, swung high. The sleepy birds- twittered from the trees. The startled king of the barnyard dunghill rang his clarion call at ten o'clock. A hundred voices flooded the air with music, widening, swelling, pouring into the homes of neighbors, far and near, rocking the babies to sleep; floods of music, in resonant bass and glorious soprano; a note, a call, a whistle filling in the measure harmoniously. The hearty cheer of the opening lines blended well with the repeating chorus:
"Work away, boys;
Heave-ho!
Sing away, boys;
Heave-ho!"
Words of their own improvising did not disturb the steady rhythm:
"Gimme dat co'n year;
Heave-ho!
Th'ow me dat co'n here;
Heave-ho!"
"Fetch up dar, nigger;
Heave-ho!
Limber up, nigger;
Heave-ho!"
Uncle Amos, though hardly in his element, worked steadily from his corner in the great barn. Duty, not inclination, called him there. He took no part in the singing: those songs were not religious ones, therefore he failed to respond to the riotous music. A song of redeeming love would
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have fired his old eyes and made nimble his fingers, which all these merry
jingles had failed to do. Nevertheless, he endured patiently, sure of a
halleluiah chorus in his honor before the carnival ended. Uncle Amos knew that
throughout the quarters his venerable white head was universally respected. One
and all did him reverence, but never more so than when in his walk among them,
as if treading the border land of another world, they sang sometimes in
smothered tones, "Ole man, ole man, yo' head's gettin' nappy,"
followed by a
burst of applause from lusty throats: "Yes, my Lord! an' my soul's gettin'
happy."
Charley was, as usual, the imp of the occasion; an imp of the evil one himself, so thought many who had more than once borne his overbearing insolence and sly trickery. He coupled his merry buffoonery with a cunning which served him well in shirking his duty. The harvest feast was his to enjoy, not his to serve. He walked the joists of the barn, swung head downward, and many a well-aimed ear of corn struck the woolly head of a busy worker.
That Charley presumed upon his honored relationship the men of the quarters felt deeply. There were none so bold as to inform Aunt Dice that with all her discipline, her moralizing and instruction, she had reared one so badly. Their well-meant sympathy and deep respect for her
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kept them silent. Perhaps Aunt Dice realized her failure more than they knew, though as usual her mantle of proud reserve shielded her from curious questions and unpleasant advice.
But little cared Charley for their liking or dislike as he swung high among the rafters, whooping, calling, or blowing his flute-like canes. He jeered at the older and bantered the younger men, and wound up his antics by stepping coolly in front of the master himself, who looked in occasionally, and executing a jig of fantastic figures with wonderful rapidity.
"Bless dat boy!" said Uncle Jack cheerfully.
"He needs a tech o' Moses' rod," snarled Silas, whose ear smarted from a recent blow.
"He sho' is a hard boy," declared Steven, whose wisdom was seldom questioned.
"Dat he is!" responded a chorus of emphatic voices.
"But you is got dat up wrong, Uncle Silas, suh," continued Steve, who considered no meeting complete without an argument. "I ain't neber hear nothin' 'tall 'bout Moses' rod; but Sol'mun do p'intedly say in fust Ginisis, when he was libin' at—"
"Normandy," interpolated Jack.
"At Jerushalem, dat ef you spar de rod you sho' spile de boy. Ain't dat so, Uncle Amos?"
"Do your own arguin'," said Uncle Amos.
"Where is Normandy, Jack?" queried Sam, an amused listener from the window.
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"Now listen at young moster!" exclaimed Jack busily. "I don't 'zackly 'member, suh, whar dat kentry is; I suttenly see it in my trabels, some'r's 'long 'bout Novy Scotia, Ontario, or de Lowlands," he concluded, with all a negro's fondness for musical names.
"Now to 'clude my disc'urse," persisted Steven, who could read laboriously: "f'om de 'casion o' Uncle Amoses last demark, it natchelly comes to min' dat to argefy we mus' hab a toler'ble knowledge of de Bible; dat is, to 'lustrate, ef we steal an' lie—I say ef—how cum us to know de wrong, les'n de Bible speshelly say so. So de kon'squence is, an' de natchel impersition mus' be, dat to be saved inter de kingdom come, de Bible mus' p'int de way. How's dat, Uncle Amos?"
"I don' know nothin' 'bout de Bible, 'cep'n what de white folks say," said Uncle Amos.
"Den, suh, de question is, how cum you know you'se bawn ag'in?"
"I wunst wus blind, but now I see," said the old slave simply.
"Das so, das so," said wise Steven.
The shuffling of feet in the cribs, the triumphant cheering, told of the last "rounding up." The tall clock in the master's dining room pealed the hour of twelve.
"Dram, dram; oh, dat bottle!" sang the workers.
Charley, from his high resting place, made a monkey spring for Silas's aching back, and bounded out the door to be first at the feast.
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Uncle Amos quietly left his corner as the last heap of corn was rapidly disappearing. He found his way to the quarters where the waiting tables stood, and Cæsar waited also to do the honors of Riverside.
"Aunt Dice, tell Mos William to hide—dey's nearly done."
On such occasions the master little relished the demonstrative affection of his slaves—a ceremonial ride three times around his dwelling on the hands of a stalwart pair of leaders. He chose to "hide" after ordering a keg of his best brandy to the feast.
"Dram, dram; oh, dat bottle!" On they came in a column of two abreast, marching to the stone steps of the back gallery; but the master's significant absence and a word from Aunt Dice turned the column with noisy cheering back to the quarters.
And such a feast! Barbecues, brown and juicy, from a rabbit to a fat porker. Fish, broiled, baked, and fried; opossum and sweet potatoes; ducks, geese, and turkeys, roasted and stuffed; enormous chicken potpies; gallons of steaming coffee; mounds of frosted cakes; piles of puddings, jellies, and elaborately trimmed pies!
The master and his household stood smiling in the background. Uncle Amos lifted his hands and praised the "good God fur de blessin' of de harvus' feas', fur de kin' ole moster an' mistis, an' de glory of His name."
The feast began. Negro wit flowed freely.
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Negro women dressed in smart clothes served from the heaped-up side tables, under the quiet orders of Aunt Dice.
Two hours afterwards the scraping fiddles and beating feet signaled the grand finale. The "halleluiah" chorus, which was not forgotten, aroused Uncle Amos from his morning nap.
The galloping horses churning the river, the swish of canoes, the soft stroke of paddles, the shouts and calls, proclaimed the hour of dawn and the departure of the guests.
With the sunrise Aunt Dice stood at her post by the rum barrel and kindly greeted the advancing row of laborers. Cæsar sat his horse like a king. The cornshucking was over.
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CHAPTER V.
THE eldest son of the house was married. The master settled him on a plantation several miles up the river, and Charley was given to him as part of his marriage portion, which was a relief to Aunt Dice, as he disturbed the quarters with a quarrelsome, dictatorial disposition.
Uncle Amos, too, though old in years, followed the nursling of his heart with the same devotion as when, in his younger days, he had followed his old master, then a tender stripling, from far-off Virginia.
Two years were spent in busy life. Aunt Dice spared no pains to uphold the open hospitality of prosperous Riverside. She spread a tasteful and bounteous table. The old-fashioned sideboard glittered with crystal goblets, bowls of white loaf sugar, and quaint decanters of wine and brandy, for the refreshing of guests and numerous callers—a time-honored custom, now happily abolished.
The elder daughters, two, were married and "settled in homes of their own," Aunt Dice said proudly. The children, Anne and Katherine, were well provided for. New lands were added to Riverside, new farms bought, and Mos Sam was known now as the young master.
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Mos Sam had earned his title at last—quite deservingly, Aunt Dice thought, though she still brought him to his senses occasionally, when his hot, imperious temper flashed from the storm of his eyes. Charley no longer urged him on. The fat steers chewed their cuds in peace; the colts frisked and played in the pastures; the geese recovered their dignity and breasted the blue waves of the river with their wonted calmness.
Mos Sam was wrestling with mightier questions. He pored over dry books of chemistry, he conned his Latin verbs, he battled with his geometry, under the threatening rod of the Yankee schoolmaster.
"Dat Yankee school-teacher! Whar he come f'om?" asked Aunt Dice suddenly, after he was duly installed at Riverside as a permanent boarder.
"From Vermont," answered Sam, shortly.
"Whar's dat?"
"Away up north."
"Furriner?"
"Oh no, Aunt Dice; he's an American."
"He talk cur'ous," she said, musingly, "an' he make too free wid de niggers. Got any niggers?" she asked quickly.
"Yankees don't believe in niggers; or rather, they don't believe in—slavery," stumbled Sam, with a southerner's reluctance for the word. "They hold for equality."
"Hub! fine ekals niggers be—fur gen'l'mun an' ladies. Who waits on 'em?"
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"The Yankees? They wait on themselves commonly, or hire white hands."
"Humph! I mistrus' him," she said, emphatically. "I'll sho' speak to Mos William 'bout him. He furgits his learnin' when he tries to beat it into you—an' his raisin'."
"I'll whip him, Aunt Dice, some day."
Aunt Dice laid her pipe on the shelf.
"Mos Sam, outside o' his whuppin' you, can't ye all see how he's a follerin' 'long o' Miss Kath'rine—totin' of her books to school, sailin' 'bout in the skyft together, an' a fillin' of her han's wid flowers an' sich like? Who can tell what's in dat chile's head; an' what would she do widout niggers to wait on her?"
But Mos William smiled over Aunt Dice's warning, and refused to part with the Yankee schoolmaster. Good schools were rare in youthful Tennessee.
Aunt Dice was comforted somewhat. Mos William was wise; he seldom made mistakes. Mos Sam was certainly on the mend—but no niggers! What sort of folks could that Yankee have? She would keep an eye upon him.
The old house echoed to the sounds of merriment and pleasant life. The quarters flourished. Swarms of negro boys fished and swam in the river; swarms of pickaninnies rolled on the grass. Uncle Jack, with his wiry subalterns, led out from the stables his master's thoroughbreds, whose sleek coats shone like burnished copper, and started
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for the Franklin and Triune races, singing the rather stirring couplet:
"De fust time she cum roun' she open de way;
De nex' time she cum roun' she bid 'um 'Good-day.
The golden harvests filled the barns. Cæsar rode pompously back and forth inspecting the daily work of busy slaves. Aunt Dice stepped to the music of wheel and loom, or quickened to the far-off melody of the workers' songs: she was happy. Then came a rude awakening. Rumors floated down the river: "Charley was quarrelsome." Aunt Dice was filled with dread. "Charley kept strife in the quarters." A season of suspense, and the news came, swift as the dancing waves of the river: Charley was to be sold. Again the waves came prattling by: "Sold to a slave dealer, to be carried south!" Then it was that Aunt Dice knelt at her master's feet; her proud reserve fled in the hour of her agony: "Mos William! Mos William! save him!"
Charley was brought in, bound, to bid his mother good-by. The master stood by and offered his worth, twice, three times his value. But the slave dealer was obdurate. He had bought him conditionally: he was not to sell him in Tennessee. Tears and entreaties were of no avail; mother and son were separated. The burden of her heart so proudly guarded, the dread and suspense of a nameless fate for her wayward son were at last revealed and realized. How she took up the broken threads of life, wove into them her
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uniform cheerfulness and steady devotion to duty, none can judge. Yet it is well to say that through all this stormy period she never lost her cheerful demeanor toward her white people; more noticeably toward the children, where her inexhaustible store of a rare, quaint humor never failed.
She passed a quiet winter. The fattened swine were killed, and the great smokehouse hung full of brown, cured meat. The cotton was picked, spun, and woven. Barrels of homemade soap were stored away in March; then—but perhaps the river could tell it best—how the floods came in the springtime and lifted a hoarse cry; how her brown waters crept over field and swamp and piled her bosom with driftwood; how she laughed again when the summer returned with its hot sunshine; how the bright blue waters danced and rippled with a cruel mirth, or gurgled softly around the gray cliffs of the cemetery, whispering of the east-lying swamps and the deadly typhoid fever.
For silence reigned at Riverside. No longer the wagon wheels creaked under heavy burdens; no longer the negroes' songs rang out from the field in wild melody. The charcoal forge had paled to ashes; the music of wheel and loom had ceased, for the silence of death was within. In the quarters dusky forms lay tossing in pain and wild delirium; stiffened bodies were carried from cabin doors to people the heights of Riverside cemetery.
Still the river laughed and sang. The east
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winds blew with the breath of a thousand flowers. Deadly white fogs crept up from the valleys and hung the rugged cliffs in ghostly drapery. It was a bright morning in August, when the birds sang aglee with life, that within the darkened home of Riverside one of the master's sons lay dead.
Aunt Dice stood the battle bravely. With her master by her side, she trod the rounds of her mission, tiring neither by day nor night. Not that the blow fell less severely on her: her only daughter was among the first to die, and left to her care three orphan children; neither did her strength fail when Cæsar fainted from the bleeding process then administered, and was put to bed to fight the fever at this fearful disadvantage.
Uncle Jack lay down with the rest—happy-hearted Uncle Jack, who never spared a kindly deed nor hoarded a kindly smile. He lay with a mute appeal in his fevered eyes until Aunt Dice closed them forever.
"Will this never end, Dicy?" the master sometimes said, as his tears fell on the stricken faces. He had borne his own sorrow quietly, but the sufferings of these helpless blacks appealed to his nature in strongest sympathy.
Still the fever raged on, and Cæsar went out one night on the wings of its wrath. Cæsar was dead. Cæsar, the gallant beau, the gay Lothario, but ever the polite and courteous Cæsar, was dead. This was a blow to Aunt Dice. He was her sorrow, but yet her pride. She would miss him
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sorely—his delicate attentions, his unfailing courtesy, his efficient help among the negroes; she would miss his shrewd management. His stately figure in the cotton fields she would see no more. His failings she remembered, but they rested lightly upon her, now that he was dead. He was laid away carefully in his black clothes and snowy linen, and looked in his narrow bed as if he needed but the tall silk hat to take up his gay life again.
The end came at last. The fever was spent. There were long days of rest at Riverside, days of calm while the summer waned, and the convalescent negroes dozed in their cabin doors, or fished lazily with hook and line under the shady sycamores. With the frost came reaction. The axes rang steadily and clear in the hills, and from the whitened fields the harvest songs told in quavering music of renewed hope and energy. There was little to tell of the fearful fever save the fresh-heaped mounds of earth and the tall marble shafts that gleamed amid the cedars at Riverside cemetery.
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CHAPTER VI.
AUNT DICE went her quiet way. It seemed as if she had taken up her mission understandingly—bearing her own troubles quietly, and assuming the burdens of others. The cabin adjoining hers was filled with orphan charges; but the three children of her daughter Fanny she kept in her own room with a faithful nurse whom the master had provided. The youngest of the three, a tiny infant taken from her dead mother's bosom, required her constant oversight.
"How is our little pet, Dicy?" was the master's daily question.
The "little pet" throve wonderfully. "Pet" she was called, and a pet she was, fortunately for her, to the end of her short life. At her crawling age she developed a fondness for the "white folks' house," and a veritable black crow she was by nature or practice—always into mischief, or into forbidden grounds, wherever her insatiable curiosity led her fat little body. The mistress indulged and petted her, and kept her often out of harm's way in the cozy sitting-room corner, or claimed her attendance when she, the mistress, went her weekly rounds among the sick and poor.
Aunt Dice returned in full measure the kindness heaped upon her during her late affliction.
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The children of her mistress—always "the children" with Aunt Dice, though they were growing to manhood and womanhood—were objects of her unsparing devotion. Her rebukes were a little more stern, perhaps; but even in this she was never tiresome, always ending a lecture with a quaint piece of drollery and inimitable grotesqueness that one must have known to understand. Aunt Dice was never loquacious. Her sentences were short, terse, and to the point. Indeed, if an expressive gesture could avail, words were not used. A shrug of her shoulders was a sign of disapproval; her dropped lip a ridicule and sufficient lecture in itself; her sidelong look a question that laid bare the heart; but one of her broad, sunshiny smiles was a sufficient recompense for all the golden deeds ever done at Riverside.
Katherine, the eldest of "the children," was thoroughly initiated into these ways; and Katherine now was uppermost in Aunt Dice's mind, for with the blooming womanhood and brilliant beauty of this "merry maiden" the question of a possible marriage forced itself upon Aunt Dice's mind. She looked with some dismay upon the prospects of her nursling. Who was her choice? Could it still be the Yankee schoolmaster, who was soon to return to his northern home? Aunt Dice only hoped he would depart in peace, and leave the child where negroes were plentiful. Or was it her Cousin Harry—handsome, good-natured Mos Harry, who had strings of negroes to be sure,
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but was much too fond of his wine cup and much too generous to "save money"?
Aunt Dice put the question plainly when Katherine next visited her cabin: "Who is you goin' to marry, chile?
"Guess, Aunt Dice," said the spoiled "chile," spreading out her dainty skirts and resting her slippered feet on the old dog iron.
"That Yankee school-teacher?" ventured the interrogator, painfully.
Katherine pulled a soft, dark curl over her sparkling eyes and smiled wickedly.
"Not yo' Cousin Harry? He's shiftless, chile, if he is a Macy."
A ringing laugh caused the questioner to stumble sadly in her guessing.
"Sho'ly not that ill- mannered upstart what brags on his money? I'd ruther 'twould be that Yankee—"
The dark curls rested in Aunt Dice's lap. A little ear showed rosy red. "Aunt Dice, you dear, blind old mammy, where are your sharp eyes?"
"The preacher!" said mammy suddenly, dropping her pipe in her surprise. "Who would a thought it? Well, well, chile, you'll never be rich, that's sho', but you'll be kin'ly keered fur all the same. You shall have some niggers to wait on ye. Thar's Harriet an' Chany, Dick an' Joel—all Amos's grandchildren. An' you've got a nice home all waitin' fur ye."
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Aunt Dice had thought little of the "preacher" as a possible suitor, though he was often at Riverside, as at other plantations, preaching at the quarters, visiting the sick, faithful in duty and earnest in action. He pleased Aunt Dice. Earnest endeavor always pleased her.
The wedding came off quietly, and very beautiful Katherine looked in her white gown and flowing veil; a new dignity on her bright young face, a graver smile on her red lips, which answered to the name of "wife."
With the following winter came a surprise which was a joy and pain to Aunt Dice. It was at the time of sugar-making in the hills, and the campers-out made merry over great kettles of boiling maple sirup, their songs and laughter floating out on the frosty air. Aunt Dice went out to the hills on her daily round of inspection; but what was her surprise to see her son Charley, the gayest of the gay, the central figure of the group by the camp fires!
Charley had "run off"; had found his way, no one knew how, through the trackless miles of forest and swamp, to "home and old moster." But the master could avail nothing, though he again tried to buy him when the slave dealer appeared. Charley was not discouraged. He bestowed a parting message, full of hope: "Sho' now, mammy, 'tain't no use to grieve a'ter me. I'se gwine to keep on runnin' off twell moster do buy me."
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He was as good as his word. When the harvest feast was spread, and the shuckers swung their corn to the measure of musical rhyme, Charley surprised them by a spring to the great barn floor, and a rapid "pitapat," executed with wonderful agility for his worn shoes and weary legs.
"Dat 'strep'rous boy'll get his 'sarts some day," commented Steven.
"A rascally scound'el," said Silas, who had survived the fever, and lived to anathematize his kind.
Charley was hardly a welcome visitor at the quarters, even under this romantic guise, though his ability as a "runaway nigger," and his varied experiences, true or imaginary, surprised and interested them. His stay was short. After the Christmas festivities, the reappearance of the slave dealer caused him to turn his face toward southern Mississippi.
Again the dreary length of miles was traversed, and again Charley arrived at Riverside, footsore and weary; after which the exasperated owner sold him—not to the master, but to a neighboring planter across the river.
Soon afterwards Aunt Dice gave evidence of a weakness that sorely puzzled her kind old master. "This is Dicy's only slip," he was wont to say. The "slip" was a second marriage, to an old half-witted negro, called Joe Cris, an overseer on the plantation to which Charley belonged. The marriage was sudden, and seemingly without reason.
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Even Charley could not understand this foolish step. The master's consent had not been asked; indeed, she had been married some weeks before the news reached him.
Joe Cris was a standing theme for a joke at Riverside quarters. He was a small, dark African—a Guinea negro, some called him—with an unusual infliction of impediments: a halting speech; an ambling, rolling gait; eyes that struggled painfully to focus an object; and a brain which served him well with its one merit—that of remaining true to its one idea, which merit alone raised him to overseer. He did as he was ordered, just that and no more. He lacked the ingenuity to go farther, the cunning to do less; so he served well in his place as second overseer.
None ever dreamed that Aunt Dice could look twice at simple Joe Cris. His Saturday night visits had been barely tolerated by her, though always accompanied by some humble offering—a string of pepper, a hen and chickens, a jug of molasses—which she accepted with a stately reserve that made his humble attention more cringing.
With "Mrs. Cris" the joke came to a sudden end. Who was bold enough to laugh at Aunt Dice? So in the quarters there was a painful silence. Aunt Dice went about quietly, very quietly, almost like one dreaming, while the pickaninnies reveled in sunshine and idle hours, disregarding her low call to duty.
Perhaps it was a "slip." The master, after his
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first sore surprise, kindly let the matter rest, understanding well Aunt Dice's proud reserve, and forbearing to question the motive, wise or unwise, of her sudden marriage. His confidence in her was not shaken. His sympathy, though unasked, was tendered in various ways. Aunt Dice was still the honored and trusty servant. Indeed, the bond between her kind master and herself seemed more closely drawn as her tender devotion upheld his approaching infirmities. His dependence upon her was great, greater than she knew. She watched him as he sat on the back gallery, the sunlight on his silvered head, an open Bible across his knees. "That Bible is jes' blistered with his tears," she said. She followed him with anxious interest as he went his quiet way among his slaves; his tenderness and care of them she never spoke of without emotion. He carried them upon his heart; their welfare was his constant study. He felt deeply the responsibility of these ignorant souls upon his own. He went to Aunt Dice one day with a message from Uncle Amos, who was done with earthly things. "Go to him, Dicy; see that he has a clean pillow to die on."
Aunt Dice departed on her mission. On a snow-white bed, the dying saint prayed his last prayer and sang his last halleluiah on earth. She returned home with an aching heart. Mos William was failing; he would soon follow. She watched him, waited upon him; she tended and served him, her stern composure almost upset at times by his kindly
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smile. A long talk they had together, after which Aunt Dice was never quite the same: there was a greater devotion; a steadier watchfulness, if possible; a tenderer interest in her master's children, as if she had thrown aside her own troubles as worthless things, and had consecrated herself wholly to her master's own.
Still, with the undiminished confidence and esteem of her dear master, Aunt Dice, though deeply grateful, could not bring herself once to explain to him the cause of her sudden marriage. Regarding her own private burdens she was, as usual, mute and noncommittal.
A year afterwards, to her unspeakable sorrow, her master sickened and died, after having at last succeeded in buying Charley and restoring him to his mother. This last act overcame her reserve—too late, indeed, for the master's ears, but around the finished grave, when the white mourners had departed, and the negroes, hitherto orderly and quiet, lifted a wail for the dead master, there was heard a sharp note of agony, and Aunt Dice knelt in passionate grief.
"O my master! my blessed master! I married him to be kind to Charley; an' ye never knowed it! ye never knowed it!"
The negroes stood with bared heads and listened. In that wild regret the mystery of the second marriage was explained. To shield the wayward Charley—the insolent, overbearing Charley—she had sacrificed herself.
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CHAPTER VII.
IN the quiet days that followed, Aunt Dice recovered her usual flow of spirits and wonted activity. The plantation throve under her wise rule and industrious example. The negroes respected, obeyed her. Charley was married, and happier than formerly in the home of his youth.
Joe Cris no longer troubled Aunt Dice, but considerately kept away, visiting her only once a year, bringing his humble offering as an apology for his presence. These visits were received with studied kindness, but great formality. Perhaps the simple old soul felt dimly that he had greatly wronged Aunt Dice; perhaps the enormity of her sacrifice dawned upon him in a clearer afterthought, for he held to the day of his death that "Miss Dicy" was as far above him as the stars.
To the mistress Aunt Dice was a trusted friend, a friend of long-tried worth and human excellence. The young heir of Riverside, who had returned from college, returned also—to rule? Oh no! to the safe covert of Aunt Dice's ample wings and to her almost idolatrous affection. Mos Sam was ever afterwards the song of her heart and burden of her prayers.
But her next care was now her young mistress, Anne, who was gentler than ever in her black
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gown, growing more and more like her honored mother, consequently more and more dear to Aunt Dice. The question of her approaching marriage was a responsible one, now that the master's wise counsel was no more. Aunt Dice smoked many a pipe over the problem; she pondered deeply, silently, as the fragrant puffs floated up the broad-throated chimney.
Would he pass—that slender, boyish-looking doctor, who was so kind to Mos William in his last illness—who had already won her mistress's gentle respect; would he pass? She learned that he had settled near a small village four miles distant, and had begun the practice of medicine; but who was he—Mos John Trevor? Mos Sam, who looked a stranger through, had received him kindly, generously; a sure sign of approval.
The "young doctor" himself had given Aunt Dice no cause for disquietude; indeed, from the beginning of his friendly footing at Riverside he had shown a fondness for her—an honest admiration, which she had unconsciously returned. How could she have felt otherwise when he had shown from the first a respect and delicate consideration for her, which she had never failed to appreciate? To her surprise he followed at her heels, talking, laughing, questioning, enthusiastic over the winding river, the high cliffs, the blue hills. He praised her cooking, her feathered brood of fowls, her neat dairy. He even found his way to her cabin, and developed a fondness for her cupboard,
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second only to Mos Sam himself. Aunt Dice soon found herself appropriated. She cleaned his gun, mended his fishing-net, and instructed him as to the "likeliest" holes in the river for fishing. He reminded her of a boy turned loose from school to a long holiday. And so it was: the fresh, green beauty of Riverside was a rest indeed from the long lecture room at the Nashville Medical College, which he had quitted, however, with no small honor, it was said.
But this "boy," hardly turning twenty-one, was to wed sweet Anne Macy, one of the children of Aunt Dice's heart. The stern experience of her own sad life admonished her. Would the boy make the man in this case? When trials came—as they surely visited all—would he pass, would he hold true? She resorted to the usual formula—a trying ordeal of questions.
"Whar his folks live, Miss Anne?"
"In Nashville, Aunt Dice," answered Anne painfully.
"Humph! city folks! Ain't they bought a place roun' here some'r's?"
"The plantation, Beechwood, near West Afton."
"I know where 'tis—a likely place, though West Afton might be called 'Mud River,' fur its color. Is they got many niggers at Beechwood?" she asked carelessly.
"I suppose so, Aunt Dice."
"I likes the boy, Miss Anne," Aunt Dice concluded, noticing Anne's flushed face; "but he's
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too young—too young. Seems ef he can't git 'nough fishin' an' huntin' 'long o' Mos Sam. He ain't took life in earnest yit, but he'll have to learn by'mby—then will he stan' by ye faithful?"
"Brother Sam speaks well of him, Aunt Dice," said patient Anne; "he says he is a man of fine morals and upright character—"
"Oh, he's been well raised, that I knows; he's well-behavin' an' p'lite, an' none too heavy-handed at the sideboard, I notice. I never 'spect to see anuther Mos William, but he may do well 'nough. I wish ye well, chile; I wish ye well. You'll have my own gran'chilluns to wait on ye; they're young, but I'll look a'ter ye."
John Trevor and sweet Anne Macy were married. Riverside looked beautiful that soft October night. The rooms shone brightly. From dining room to guest chamber, all was complete under the finishing touch of Aunt Dice's faithful fingers. The mistress, clad in a black satin gown which hung in straight lustrous folds about her, her soft muslin kerchief folded neatly over her bosom, her dark hair parted smoothly over madonna-like brows, looked every inch her real self—a sweet, old-fashioned southern woman.
John Trevor arrived from Nashville with his mother and sisters—women Aunt Dice knew at a glance to be gracious and womanly. She stood on the lawn in her best black silk as the carriage, with its stately-stepping horses, drew up through the double gate.
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"I'm glad the chile was well fixed fur clo'es," Aunt Dice said afterwards, by way of a cheerful remark to the lonely mistress. "Thar was her white dress in co'se fur the weddin'; then her lavender-sprigged mull will do well 'nough over lavender silk fur secon' mo'nin'; then thar's her bomb'zine, an' black silk, an' bonnits to match, an' all them putty chintzes made the new blouse waist. Mos John's folks is nice people. I partic'lar favored one o' them gals."
"Which one, Aunt Dice?" asked the young master, flashing a keen look upon her.
"The one that wus tall an' fair, with the sweet, proud look—Miss Helen, they calls her."
Mos Sam whistled softly, looking far out at the silver-flashing river, through the sunlit sycamores. Perhaps he "favored" her too—the tall, fair girl, with the "sweet, proud look."
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CHAPTER VIII.
DOCTOR TREVOR and his young wife were often at Riverside; a swift horse to a light buggy soon covered the five-mile distance. He was always sure of a welcome. The mistress smiled upon him. The young master greeted him cordially. Aunt Dice ministered to him, gradually unbending from her dignified demeanor and favoring him occasionally with her grotesque figures, grimaces, and caricatures, all of which conveyed a moral easily interpreted by the wise observer. Notwithstanding, she watched him closely. John Trevor was still boyish and full of fun. He climbed the hills, hunted in the Barrens, and fished for hours by the deep blue "hole" under the bluff. When called professionally, as he was now the family physician, his first greeting from the double gate was:"Quick, Aunt Dice—my pole and reel! I'll have time for an hour's fishing." Aunt Dice began to wonder if life would ever prove an earnest thing to the pleasure-loving young physician.
True to her word, she rode over to Beechwood at stated intervals on her mistress's riding horse, to look after Anne and her household. These visits John Trevor usually appropriated. To him Aunt Dice was an unfailing source of amusement. He never tired of her droll ways and quaint remarks.
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He followed her from kitchen to garden; he chatted with her, questioned her, smoked with her, ever on the alert for a new gesture or original saying. To him she was a study. He delighted in reading to her short, simple stories, content to watch her grave, puzzled face. He ransacked the library for a suitable story, one within the range of her understanding. Ah! he had it—a simple thing, giving in connection with a domestic scene a detailed account of choice eatables, cooked to a turn.
Aunt Dice listened. For once she was on a level with the story. The savor of imaginary viands on an imaginary table smote her nostrils. She interrupted him: "Stop, Mos John! stop! I'm a perishin' fur a piece o' co'nbread—I'm so hungry." Mos John laughed delightedly and—lunched with her.
Aunt Dice's intense pride, her grand air, the majestic sweep of her broad lips, interested as well as amused John Trevor. She never wore gaudy colors, nor used a head handkerchief—a style too significant of the common African type to suit her patrician fancy. Despite her color, she never termed herself a negro. She had pondered long over the problem of her lineage, contenting herself at last with the concession that she sprang from the bluest "blue blood" of far-away Africa. When suggested to her by John Trevor—by reason of gout in her great toe—that she may have descended from a long race of kings,
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for centuries used to high living and princely diet (cannibalism was omitted), she listened gravely, and must have believed herself a princess in cotton, for ever afterwards this particular toe received her tenderest consideration. In spite of her precautions, Aunt Dice found within her heart a growing fondness for Mos John. "He ain't been tried yit," she argued; but she carried home a cheerful report to the mistress. "Mos John's a good purvider—a leetle too free-handed with money, but Miss Anne's well keered fur."
Aunt Dice's services were often in demand at Beechwood. One day in the following spring Anne Trevor read in some dismay a note which her husband had laid in her hand. It ran thus:
April 15, 185-
My Boy: I shall drive out next Thursday with a party of friends to spend the day with you.
Have us a good dinner.
Affectionately,
JOHN TREVOR, SR.
"What shall we do?" asked Anne, helplessly. "Too early for vegetables—Eliza so inexperienced—"
"Send for Aunt Dice," advised John, promptly.
Aunt Dice was sent for.
"Got many aigs?" she asked, after due explanations.
"Yes, several dozen."
"Then I'll make out. Kill me a sucking pig, Mos John," she said, rising busily; "make the
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niggers seine fur fish. Tell 'em I want a sof'-shell turtle, sho', fur soup. Gimme one o' your fattes' hens, Miss Anne, an' that'll do fur meat. Git out your bes' table kiver, your gol' ban' chany, ole mistis giv' you, an' see ef your silver needs a shine."
Thus strengthened, the work progressed. Aunt Dice flitted hither and thither, retarded only by the persistent attendance of John Trevor, who enjoyed the pleasant bustle. "He's the wust sp'iled boy I knows of," she said cheerfully. "You'll have to humor him all your days, Miss Anne."
Thursday came, and with it the guests. Aunt Dice surveyed the table with some pride. The sucking pig lay roasted whole, with a rosy apple in his mouth; the fat hen, garnished with parsley and boiled eggs, was brown and juicy; the turtle soup, excellent; the salads, fish, and potatoes, perfect. Crimson jellies and amber wine gleamed rich and warm with the burnished silver and sweet spring flowers. Strong black coffee, served in tiny cups, was sent to the pleasant drawing-room.
John Trevor, Sr., recognized a good dinner. Before his departure he sought Aunt Dice, bent on the usual "tipping," a custom of the times. "Aunt Dice," he said kindly, tendering her a shining coin, "you gave us a good dinner, a good dinner, ma'am. You are an excellent cook, I see."
"Thanky, suh," said Aunt Dice, drawing up her lips; "but I never 'ceive money, suh, fur duty."
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"Take your money, madam!" roared the astonished visitor, tossing the coin on the floor and retiring somewhat discomfited. "Zounds! My son, it seems you have an aristocrat in your kitchen."
"An aristocrat indeed, father!" laughed John Trevor. "A true blue-blooded patrician."
It was ever a rule with Aunt Dice to make or earn her own living: she kept her fowls and received a steady income for her fancy cookery at the country stores. Beyond the many presents bestowed upon her, which she accepted with a grateful pride, her whole life was spent for others, "without money and without price."
During the next fall Aunt Dice was sent for on quite a different errand—to the bedside of a sick slave. Charity, the laundress of the family, was ill—stout, able-bodied Charity, who laughed and sang over her tubs and ironing table, but who never found time to consider the possible failure of strength or the ending of life. She was sick unto death, Aunt Dice knew from the first. She watched the young master keenly. He was attentive, skillful as a physician; but would he nurse a sick slave as tenderly as her kind old master had done? One night she went quietly to his room, where he sat reading: "Mos John, Charity's dyin', an' she's—afeard. Can't you send to Miss Kath'rine's fur the preacher?"
"He is not at home, Aunt Dice," he said, rising; "I will do what I can."
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"You?" She eyed him doubtfully as he took up a Bible from the table.
"Come on."
"Turn them niggers out, Mos John," she said as they entered the cabin.
John Trevor sternly ordered out a crowd of negro women, who for hours had been chanting and moaning over the wages of sin and the eternal damnation of the sinner.
Charity lay, with wild, fear-stricken eyes, tossing, turning, muttering over and over the pleading cry, "I'se 'feard to die, Mos John! I'se 'feard to die!"
John Trevor sat by her bedside, and talked to her quietly of the Saviour's love, his plenteous redemption and free grace; he knelt beside her, and poured out an earnest prayer for peace, for the seal of divine forgiveness. But the wild eyes gazed on him hopelessly; the restless head tossed over the pillow. The horror of death enveloped her. The master opened the Bible and read to her, words of life, of wonderful promises, and of sure fulfillment. He sang to her, in rich, full tones, songs of redeeming love. Still the dying negress moaned and prayed in despair. Again the master knelt, pleading, struggling, persevering, holding up the promises on which he had built his faith.
Aunt Dice, sitting quietly by the hearth, looked at him inquiringly. "Will you give it up?" the mute glance said.
"Until morning light, Aunt Dice," the master answered, turning to the bed with a firm resolve
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on his boyish face, as if he had said, as Jacob did, "I will not let thee go, except thou bless me."
Aunt Dice listened reverently, though not without an amazed surprise, as the young master held up before the dying slave a crucified Redeemer—his boundless love and mercy, his wonderful power. Could this be the gay, fun-loving young physician into whose care she had almost feared to trust the child of her rearing? Could this earnest watcher by the bedside be the boy of a short year ago, whom she had questioned so seriously? A beautiful light was shining in his eyes, grown suddenly so dear to her. Words fell from his lips in strange eloquence. Aunt Dice had a higher conception of the Wonderful One that night than she had ever had before. She listened surprisedly, and with quickened pulses, as he told of living waters—of springs in the wilderness and streams in the desert.
Through the long hours of the night the master pleaded, prayed, sang, battling against death itself for a purchased soul. The negress lay at last with her eyes upon his face, listening, feeding upon the words of life. The restless tossing ceased. The master sang, in clear, full tones—tones that since have soothed many a dying pillow:
"Are not thy mercies large and
free?
May not a sinner trust in thee?"
A look of peace stole over the dying face. He sang again, softly:
"Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are."
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There was a flash of light, a cry of joy: "Free, Mos John! I'm free—free!"
The sunlight touched the chimney tops at Beechwood, gilded the cabin walls of the quarters, as the soul of the slave, in a transport of joy, sped out on the wings of the morning.
Aunt Dice laid her rough, dark hand on the master's head: "Thar—thar—Mos John; you've done 'nough. Come up to the house, an' rest."
She entered the room where the young wife lay, listening.
"Git up f'om thar, Miss Anne!" she said sharply. "Why ain't you had Mos John a cup o' hot coffee? O, chile!" she cried, breaking into convulsive sobbing, as she noticed the tear-wet pillow, "he'll do—Mos John'll do—ye needn't never be afeard."
Mos John had "passed" with her that night.
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CHAPTER IX.
THE old conservative South had many virtues to call her own. Not the least of these was the purity of her religion. Her old aristocracy, her highborn dames and courtly men, thought it no concession to honor the world's Redeemer. In this respect the South may still be called conservative. While she fills her homes with products of northern thrift and invention, while she brightens her firesides with periodicals of northern literary excellence, her libraries, which still honor the well-worn volumes of Bacon, Shakespeare, Bunyan, and Sir Walter Scott, are subservient to and ever as things apart from the Bible, whose living truths are accepted from cover to cover.
Aunt Dice was comforted. "Mos John'll allus be faithful," she said. She felt that her young mistress was safe in his care. Her own grandchildren, the motherless ones, would still look up to a kind master. These three grandchildren, who were part of Anne Trevor's marriage portion, were contented and happy at Beechwood. Eliza, the eldest, was quiet and true, much like her honored grandmother; Julia was tall, strong, and willing; while Pet—still a spoiled pet—was very fat and saucy, very good-natured, and very delinquent in her duty sometimes.
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The years passed on. The "children" prospered. The olive branches grew. Aunt Dice shared with her mistress the honors of grandmother, and visited back and forth, always a distinguished guest, and always a welcome home-comer. The mistress, who now seldom left Riverside, leaned upon her trusted servant. The young master was still the darling of Aunt Dice's heart. The negroes were happy in the quarters. Charley's children played about her; Aunt Dice was at peace.
With her advancing years a season of rest was a grateful respite to faithful Aunt Dice. But the serenity of her old age was again to be broken by a rumor whose portentous meaning she little understood. A civil war was threatened, and the gloom that settled over the country spoke in prophecy of a darker future.
Aunt Dice had thought but little of political questions. She had lived through the days of ardent Whigism, but had failed to respond to the enthusiasm of the "hard-cider campaign," or any other campaign of political meaning. She had heard of wars, certainly. She had a childish memory of 1812, a dim report that had reached her of Indian warfare and troublous times, but the misfortunes of war she had never realized. She had seen some of her neighbors drill in cumbersome fashion for the Mexican war, and start out on the long journey westward with much military pomp and display. She had seen a remnant return
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from its questionable glory, wasted by disease or toughened in experience. Mexico was a dim, distant land to Aunt Dice—too far away to hold her sympathy. Her little world she counted within the boundary of her blue Tennessee hills, or the twenty-mile length of the sparkling, winding river, her loved South Afton.
A civil war, she was told, meant much. She pondered long over the question. She studied with a new interest the portrait of General Winfield Scott which hung over the dining-room mantel at Riverside. Would Mos Sam ever be a stern-faced soldier like this ? Her hot-blooded, imperious master, she was sure, would be among the first to take up arms; he who had known no use of arms save his unerring rifle when he followed the baying of his hounds in his famous deer hunting in the Barrens. How could she live without Mos Sam, the light of Riverside?
"We niggers is g'wine ter be free," was the whispered thought at the quarters. Aunt Dice received such comments with a sharp repimand and a sidelong look which invited no further arguement. But even her strong will could not quell the rising spirit of freedom among the slaves. The meaning of the war, so often spoken of in subdued accents throughout the quarters, dawned slowly upon her. It meant, to her at least, the ruin of Riverside.
The day came when the master, answering the call to arms, prepared to depart; a sad day to
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Aunt Dice, who summoned all her stern composure for this strange parting. He knocked at her cabin door that night, as she expected.
"Come in, Mos Sam; tak' a cheer." Her pipe trembled slightly in her hand.
The master drew up his chair to the hearth, where a small fire of "chunks" was kept smoldering the summer through. He gave her directions concerning the negroes, the growing cotton and wheat, and other details of plantation affairs.
"I un'erstan', Mos Sam," she answered.
He moved his chair restlessly. A shadow, which of late had dimmed the luster of his smile, rested sadly on his brow. Aunt Dice smoked in silence.
"Miss Mary ain't what she wus sence Mos William died."
"No?" sadly.
"This war'll go hard with her."
He turned with a quick, restless motion: "Watch after her, Aunt Dice; take care of her."
He drew a folded paper from his pocket, looked over it slowly, and handed it to Aunt Dice.
"Aunt Dice, this gives you your freedom, if you should need it. My mother's name is signed, and my own. You can use it as you choose."
Aunt Dice took the paper gingerly, between finger and thumb, and laid it promptly on the coals.
"You don't know what may happen, Aunt Dice. You are never to be sold again."
"I'll hold my own; you needn't be afeard. I
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knows my business; Mos William tole me that afore he died. I b'longs to ole mistis as long as she live—then I'm yourn, 'ceptin' I'm to look after the chillun when they's sick, or when they needs help. You needn't bother 'bout me. The wust trubble is all these nigger fam'lies you've bought in at the sale."
"You knew my father's request, Aunt Dice—they were not to be sold or divided unwillingly."
"That's so. You wus to buy in all who wus onwillin' to be 'vided out, an' more'n plenty wus onwillin' enuff to make a putty big debt—what ain't paid yit."
"Riverside will soon cancel it, Aunt Dice."
"But stop, Mos Sam. Mos William didn't know 'bout this war a-comin' on. You'd sho' be ruined if the niggers wus sot free."
"Aunt Dice," flashed the young master, "do you mean to say the South will be whipped?"
"I jes' mean—I don' know," said Aunt Dice, sorrowfully. She leaned over the coals, her head showing silvery in the faint light. There was a pathetic droop about her shoulders, an old look in her bent form.
"Cheer up, Granny Vic," said the master, turning upon her the warmth of his sunny smile. "This war will soon be over; then for a merry wedding at Riverside! You shall rule master, mistress, niggers, and all."
"Who is it, Mos Sam?" she asked, composedly.
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"The little girl who minces when she walks, who fidgets in church, and giggles incessantly."
Aunt Dice's long lip quivered, swung back and forth, and dropped with the senseless stupor of a slobbering horse, finishing with a smirk, a giggle, so successfully imitating the "little girl" in question that the cabin rang with the master's laughter.
"Oh well, Aunt Dice, the one-hundred-and-fifty-pounder, who rides neck-to-neck with Fleetfoot, and is always 'in at the death' in a fox chase."
"Too bold an' for'ard, Mos Sam—too bold an' for'ard, 'fur Mos William's son," she said, sternly. There was silence. Aunt Dice resumed her smoking.
"Why not some o' your neighbor gals—they're all likely."
"Indeed they are—and worthy," said the master.
Aunt Dice looked stolidly at the fire. Her calm indifference betrayed no hint of curiosity.
"Aunt Dice, what about the girl with the sweet, proud look?"
"Thar! I knowed it was a-comin'; I knowed it. She's a good 'oman, Mos Sam—a fine 'oman. I've seen her time an' ag'in at Beechwood. She'll make a likely mistis fur Riverside—one you'll be proud of."
Mos Sam whistled softly, a shadow chasing away the sunshine of his smile. After all, Riverside may never know the woman of his choice as its
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fair mistress. His own life may be offered up on a battlefield, his body uncoffined, his very name unknown in a strange land. "Good-night, Aunt Dice," he said, at length, turning to the door.
"Mos Sam?" Aunt Dice considered that she had always found a cheerful word to lighten a heavy heart. Her boy should not leave her door without the memory of a smile. "I've allus been ag'in your fightin' as a boy," she continued, "but ef you sees that Yankee school-teacher, you may whup him—wunst."
"All right, Granny Vic!" laughed the master. "I'll thrash him for your sake."
Next morning the master stood on the lawn with his faithful servant, ready for his departure; a bright June morning, when Riverside looked her fairest: the old home smiling from her cool galleries and shady maples; her pastures dotted with sheep and cattle, and tinkling with sounds of peace; her gardens abloom with roses, and the river shimmering and dreaming at her feet! The group of negroes in the background did not detract from the picture, though their wails mingled with the deep-mouthed baying of the master's hounds, who were soon to forget the music of his hunting horn.
But the master, whose keen eye had taken in his surroundings at a glance, now lingered under the maples with a restless tread, the strained pressure of his lips revealing only a hard white line about his mouth. He little heeded the glorious beauty of Riverside. His hounds fawned upon
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him, unnoticed. The group of friends, the grief-stricken faces of his sisters—Anne and Katherine—the kindly sympathy in John Trevor's eyes, he did not see; he only saw a delicate figure gowned in gray standing on the gallery, whose hair shone with faint gleams of silver through the soft muslin cap.
In this supreme moment the questions of state or country seemed strangely small beside the little mother who stood before him, mighty in her love; the little mother within whose arms all his childish griefs and pains had been rocked to sleep. Friend and foe were alike to him for the while—unworthy of a touch of her garments. Not even the memory of a fair, proud face intruded upon this sacred parting which tried the souls of mother and son; a parting which she mercifully shortened by turning quietly into her room without even a mother's caress, lest the action prove too strong a test of her fortitude, or weaken the courage of her soldier boy. The quick splashing of horses' feet crossing the river cut the air with a sickening sense of grief and loss.
Aunt Dice was left the central figure of the thronging group of slaves, her tears on her dusky cheeks, the sunlight on her gray head, and a new care in her heart, for the master had said at parting, "Aunt Dice, I leave to you my mother and my home."
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CHAPTER X.
A YEAR passed slowly. The mistress, who had so bravely hung up her blue chintz gowns and donned the colors of her son, seemed to falter through the long silence which brought no news of him. She followed Aunt Dice about like a shadow, which often sent the faithful watcher to her cabin in hot haste for a troubled smoke and a struggle for fortitude.
"Aunt Dice, can you bring your knitting and sit with me awhile at night?"
"To be sho' I kin. What's to hender me?"
Aunt Dice never knew how she smiled or brought herself to gossip, and tell her "silly nothings," as they sat together at night, knitting socks for "rebel" soldiers; she never knew how she changed from a decisive, short-spoken woman to a loquacious, ceaseless talker; she only knew that she had gained her end when rewarded by a patient smile. She discussed the weather, the flight of wild geese, the soap-making, the spinning and weaving, the young calves, the spring lambs; she talked of old, old times, of far-away memories—anything and everything but the children, lest the thought bring up the absent boy, whose name was never mentioned. She searched the place for an atom of news. "Ole Topknot's in
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fur anuther settin' spell. Sousin' in the river don' do no good, so I sot her on goose aigs; she'll git settin' 'nough now fur a spell, I reck'n. Topknots ain't noted fur sense. The mockin' birds is splittin' they throats; they's feelin' the springtime" —she would say, to tempt her mistress out into the soft April sunshine; or, "The dogwood's blossomin' an' the redbud in the hills—'tain't long afore spring." Still the frail, tired body faded slowly.
"Remember my poor, Aunt Dice," the mistress said one day; and then the faithful watcher knew that, with all her care, her multiplied words and cheerful encouragement had been in vain. John Trevor was her help and comfort; he gave to Riverside all the time that his growing practice and growing family would admit. But all the tenderness of faithful friends could not avail. Before the close of spring the gentle soul of the mistress went out, to know no sad to-morrow of that gloomy time. Aunt Dice stood alone—terribly alone! Shocked, amazed at the magnitude of her duty, but one thought spurred her on—the thought of her master.
"Mos Sam is ruined," Aunt Dice said, as she closed the doors of Riverside, after the sad funeral. The negroes no longer made a show of submission. Riverside was burdened with debt and crowded with rebellious slaves; a turbulent spirit had risen among them, which Aunt Dice found impossible to quell. She managed
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with difficulty to till the land and gather the crop. A new suspicion filled her with dread. Charley, her own son, whose purchase money had swelled the debt of Riverside, was dictatorial, rebellious, a disturbing element in the quarters. She upbraided him sternly; she commanded, implored, entreated, but an angry, sullen look was the only response. She pointed to a tall marble shaft which shone solemnly from the cemetery: "Fur Mos William's sake, Charley, don' leave Mos Sam."
"G'way f'om here, mammy; lemme 'lone. I'm g' wine to Nashvul, I is, an' be a free gen'l'mun. I'll tote fur no man f'om dis here on."
Her pleading was vain. Charley's cabin was empty one morning. Aunt Dice was bereft.
Thus her long watch began. She saw the negroes depart, slaves no longer, swelling day after day the number of them who had "run off to the Yankees." But the glory of Riverside had also departed. She saw the old home shorn of its beauty; the fences were burned, the barns emptied, the cattle, horses, and sheep driven off or slaughtered; the home of her beloved mistress desecrated and pillaged under the cruel ravages of war. Even the tall clock in the dining-room corner, which had ticked in and out the happy years of Riverside's prosperity, stood with a white, dismayed face, its glass doors shattered, its pendulum crushed and broken, its faithful hands ruthlessly torn from their place of duty; the old clock, which had rung in
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the births, chimed at the weddings, and tolled out the deaths at Riverside, stared now from its corner like a human thing bereft of a soul!
Aunt Dice heard nothing of the master; still her lonely watch went on, and she said to herself sometimes as a sad refrain: "Mos Sam, you're ruined—you're ruined!" The long winters passed; the dull "wash-wash" of the river sounded on her listening ears. The summers came and went; the whippoorwills called from the cemetery, the mocking birds trilled in the maples, the river murmured like a friend at her feet—still the master came not. News of him floated to her at last between the silences: Mos Sam was a brave soldier—was captain of a company—was wounded—in prison; then she heard no more.
Once only did her heart fail. A squad of Confederate soldiers passing by one day saw a pathetic figure standing over the bluff, beckoning to them.
"Whar is Mos Sam?" she quavered, thinking in her innocent soul that all the world should know "Mos Sam."
"Dead!" "killed!" "shot!" came back to her in a rude, laughing chorus.
"I jes' whooped an' hollered all night," she said to a kind neighbor, who reassured her.
Her fidelity did not go unquestioned. Her own color eyed her askance as a friend to the "rebels." Among her white neighbors some looked on her with suspicion, as possibly harboring Federals; she was accordingly visited by a company
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of blue-coated soldiers, who threatened her with fire, steel, and ugly army pistols if she did not disclose to them the hiding place of some "rebels" in the vicinity. But her stern old eyes did not quail. She knew not the meaning of "martyr"; she had never heard of a "noble Roman"; but her one lesson of faithfulness she had learned well. The soldiers passed over the river with a rousing cheer for Aunt Dice; then she realized sadly that she had been under trial.
Still she sowed her scanty seed and reaped her shattered harvests. The little worn path over the bluff by the river told of her weekly visits to the nearest store, where she sold her chickens and eggs; told also of as many visits to the cemetery, where, on these errands, it was her habit to sit and rest, alone with her dead. Years before she had planted in an oblong circle about Cæsar's grave those early harbingers of spring—golden candlesticks—which, when aflame in early March, lit up the somber cedars, and made a glorious altarpiece of the simple headstone. Here she rested on her weekly journeys.
Aunt Dice realized at last that the end of the great civil war was near—a disastrous ending for the South, but peace was none the less welcome. The golden candlesticks had bloomed again around Cæsar's grave when the blessed news came—the long war was over.
Where was Mos Sam? How she scraped and saved and hoarded! How she watched and waited
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in the silence! How she hoped and feared and prayed in the solitude of her lonely cabin!
But the master rode in quietly one night in the light of the young moon, stabled his Yankee mare, climbed the rickety fence by the deserted quarters, and looked over his desolate home. The river murmuring below, the lazy "swish-swish" of her waters against the rocks, were the only sounds that greeted him. At length a familiar figure came slowly down the path, with bowed head, and hands folded behind her. "Aunt Dice!" he called softly. She looked up quickly, knowing well the square shoulders outlined against the twilight sky; then running to him swiftly, she fell on her knees at his feet, taking up the old refrain: "Mos Sam, you're ruined—you're ruined!"
Her strength gave way at last; her strained nerves relaxed. She had bravely dared those four long years alone. Her trust was fulfilled. She continued sobbing at his feet.
"Don't grieve, Aunt Dice," the master said, sadly. "Your boy has come back to you, and he is half starved."
Aunt Dice listened. She had heard complaints of a half-starved boy before, though never so sadly as this. She dried her tears suddenly. She hoarded her sweet surprise. "Nuthin' in the house fitten' fur you to eat, Mos Sam—nuthin' but a piece o' co'n bread."
"Give me one of your good, brown corn pones, Aunt Dice," said the master, cheerfully.
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She followed him to the house, unlocked the doors, brought him cool water from the great spring under the bluff; and while he looked over the silent rooms—so strangely silent, without a mother's welcome—Aunt Dice prepared her surprise, for which she had lived on husks! She had long waited for this hour. With deft hands and springing step she flitted back and forth, from kitchen to dining room, grown young again in her great joy. Her dear old eyes, dim with watching, shone bright through happy tears.
And such a repast! Corn pones, brown enough; but such flaky biscuits, such fragrant coffee; and chicken, fried a delicate bro