Books: The Man in Gray

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The young school-teacher had no scruples on applying the rod. He
selected his switches with care, and tested their strength and
flexibility while he gave the bunch a piece of his mind.

"What do you think I'm coming down here every night for, anyhow?" he
stormed.

"Lordy, Marse Rooney," Sam pleaded, "doan we all pay you fur our
schoolin'?"

"Yes, you do when I can manage to choke it out of you. One dozen eggs a
month or one pullet every two months. And I don't even ask you where you
got the eggs or the pullet."

"Marse Rooney!" protested Sam. "Yer know we gets 'em outen our own yards
er buys 'em from de servants."

"I hope you do. Though my mother says she don't know how we eat so many
chickens and eggs at the house. Anyhow I'm not here because I'm going to
get rich on the tuition you pay me. I'm not here for my health. I'm here
from a sense of duty to you boys--"

"Yassah, we know dat, sah!"

"Give us annuder chance an' we sho' study dem lessons--"

"I gave you another chance the last time. I'll try a little hickory tea
this time."

He began at the end of the line and belabored each one faithfully. They
shouted in mockery and roared with laughter, scampered over the room and
dodged behind chairs and tables.

Phil fairly split his sides laughing.

When the fun was over, they drew close to their teacher and promised
faithfully to have every word of the next lesson. They nudged each other
and whispered their jokes about the beating.

"Must er bin er flea bitin' me!"

"I felt sumfin. Don't 'zactly know what it wuz. Mebbe a chigger!"

"Must er been a flea. Hit bit me, too!"

Sam tried to redeem himself for failing on his lessons in arithmetic.
He had long ago learned to read and write and had asked for a course in
history. The young teacher had given him a copy of _Gulliver's Travels_.

"Look a here, Marse Rooney, I been a readin' dat book yer gimme--"

"Well, that's good."

"Yer say dat book's history?"

"Well, it's what we call fiction, but I think fiction's the very best
history we can read. It may not have happened just that way but it's
true all the same."

"Well, ef hit nebber happened, I dunno 'bout dat," Sam objected. "I been
suspicionin' fer a long time dat some o' dem things that Gulliver say
nebber happen nohow."

"You read it," the teacher ordered.

"Yassah, I sho gwine ter read it, happen er no happen. Glory be ter God.
Just 'cause yer tells me, sah!"

CHAPTER VI

The next morning found Phil walking again between the white, clean rows
of the quarter houses. He was always finding something to interest him.
Every yard had its gorgeous red autumn flowers. Some of them had
roses in bloom. The walks from the gate to the door were edged with
white-washed bricks or conch shells. The conch shells were souvenirs of
summer outings at the seashore.

In the corner of the back yard there was the tall pole on which were
hung five or six dried gourds with tiny holes cut in the sides for the
martins. And every gourd had its black family. The martins were the
guardians of the servants' chicken yards. The hawks were numerous and
the woods close to the quarters. Few chickens were lost by hawks. The
martins circled the skies in battalions, watching, chattering, guarding,
basking in the southern sun.

At noon the assembly bell rang at the end of the Broadway of the
quarters. From every cottage, from field and stable, blacksmith shop,
carpenter's shop, the house of the spinners, the weavers, the dairy, the
negroes poured toward the shed beside the bell tower.

"What is it?" Phil asked of Custis.

"Saturday noon. All work stops."

"My Lord, it's been raining nearly all morning. The field hands haven't
worked a lick all day. Do they stop, too?"

"It's the unwritten law of the South. We would no more think of working
on Saturday afternoon than on Sunday."

"What are they gathering under that shed for?" Phil inquired.

Custis led him to the shed where Ike, the foreman, stood with Mrs. Lee
beside a long table on which were piled the provisions for the week to
follow.

The negroes laughed and chattered like a flock of blackbirds picking
grain in a wheat field. To each head of a family was given six pounds
of meat for each person. A father, mother and two children received
twenty-four pounds. Their bread was never rationed. The barrel in each
cottage was filled from the grist mill, a bag full at a time. They had
their own garden and flocks of chickens. Sugar, coffee and molasses were
given on the first of each month.

"Come right back here now all ob you!" Ike shouted, "des ez quick ez yer
put yo vittles away. De Missis gwine gib ye yo' winter close now, case
she gwine ter Wes' Pint next week."

The provisions were swept from the long table. Out of the storehouse
came huge piles of clothing and blankets. Each package was marked with
the owner's name.

To each pair, man and wife, or two children, was given a new wool
blanket. This was, of course, added to the stock each house had already.
A woolen blanket was good for ten years' wear. Many a servant's house
had a dozen blankets for each bed. Besides the blankets, to every woman
with a baby was given a quilted comfort.

To each man, woman and child were allotted two complete woolen suits for
the winter, a new pair of shoes and three pairs of stockings. In the
spring two suits of cotton would be given for summer. The thrifty ones
had their cedar chests piled with clothes. Many had not worn the suits
given out a year ago.

The heads of large families trudged away with six or seven blankets,
a comfort, and twenty suits of clothes. It sometimes took the father,
mother and two of the children to carry the load.

But the most amazing thing which Phil saw was the sudden transformation
of the shed into a market for the sale of slave produce to the mistress
of Arlington.

Mrs. Lee had watched the distribution of clothes, blankets, quilts,
shoes and stockings for the winter and then became the purchaser of all
sorts of little luxuries which the slave had made in his leisure hours
on Saturday afternoons and at night. The little boys and girls sold
her dried wild fruits. The women had made fine jellies. They all had
chickens and eggs to sell to the big house. Some had become experts in
making peanut brittle and fudge.

They not only sold their wares here, but they also sold them in the
market in Washington. The old men were expert basket and broom makers.
The slaves made so much extra money on their chickens, peanuts, popcorn,
fudge, brittle, molasses cakes, baskets, brooms, mats and taking in
sewing, that they were able to buy many personal luxuries. Phil observed
one dusky belle already arrayed in a silk dress for the Saturday
afternoon outing with her beau. A few of them had their Sunday dresses
made by fashionable mantua makers in Washington.

In addition to the regular distribution of clothing, the household
supplied to the servants in rapid succession everything worn by master,
mistress, son or daughter. Knowing that their clothes were being watched
and guarded by longing eyes, they never wore them very long. Mary Lee
was distributing a dozen dresses now to the girls. They had been made
within the past year.

Phil observed Sam arrayed in a swallowtail coat of immaculate cut stroll
by with his best girl. She was dressed in silk with full hoop-skirts,
ruffles, ribbons and flowers.

Sid annoyed Sam by calling loudly:

"Doan yer stay too late ter dat party. Ef ye do I'll hatter sing fur
ye--

"Run, nigger, run, de patterole ketch you.
Nigger run, de nigger flew,
De nigger loss his best ole shoe!
Run, nigger, run. Run, nigger, run. Run, nigger, run."

Sam waved his arm in a long laugh.

"Dey won't git me, chile. I'se er conjur man, I is!"

Phil had supposed the patrol of the mysterious mounted police of the
South--the men who rode at night--were to the slave always a tragic
terror.

It seemed a thing for joke and ribald song.

After lunch, the negroes entered on the afternoon's fun or work. The
industrious ones plied their trades to earn money for luxuries. The boys
who loved to fish and hunt rabbits hurried to the river and the fields.
There was always a hound at their service for a rabbit hunt on Saturday
afternoons. Some were pitching horse shoes. Two groups began to play
marbles.

The marketing done for the house, the mistress of Arlington, with
medicine case in hand, started on her round of healing for body and
mind. Mary offered to go with her but the mother saw Stuart hovering
about and quietly answered:

"No. You can comfort poor Jeb. He looks disconsolate."

Into every cottage she moved, a quiet, ministering angel. Every hope and
fear of ailing young or old found in her an ear to hear, a heart to pity
and an arm to save.

If she found a case of serious illness, a doctor was called and a nurse
set to watch by the bedside. Every delicacy and luxury the big house
held was at the command of the sufferer and that without stint.

In all these clean flower-set cottages there was not a single crippled
servant maimed in the service of his master. No black man or woman was
allowed to do dangerous work. All dangerous tasks were done by hired
white laborers. They were hired by the day under contract through their
boss. Even ditches on the farm if they ran through swamp lands infested
by malaria, were dug by white hired labor. The master would not permit
his slave to take such risks.

But the most important ministry of the mistress of Arlington was in the
medicine for the soul which she brought to the life and character of
each servant for whose training she had accepted responsibility.

To her even the master proudly and loyally yielded authority. Her sway
over the servants was absolute in its spiritual power. Into their souls
in hours of trial she poured the healing and inspiration of a beautiful
spirit. The mistress of Arlington was delicate and frail in body. But
out of her physical suffering the spirit rose to greater heights with
each day's duty and service.

This mysterious power caught the warm imagination of the negroes. They
were "servants" to others. They were her _slaves_ and they rejoiced
in the bond that bound them. They knew that her body had no rest from
morning until far into the hours of the night if one of her own needed
care. The master could shift his responsibility to a trained foreman.
No forewoman could take her place. To the whole scheme of life she gave
strength and beauty. The beat of her heart made its wheels go round.

The young Westerner studied her with growing admiration and pity. She
was the mistress of an historic house. She was the manager of an estate.
She was the counselor of every man, woman and child in happiness or in
sorrow. She was an accomplished doctor. She was a trained nurse. She
taught the hearts of men and women with a wisdom more profound and
searching than any preacher or philosopher from his rostrum. She had
mastered the art of dressmaking and the tailor's trade. She was an
expert housekeeper. She lived at the beck and call of all. She was
idolized by her husband. Her life was a supreme act of worship--a
devotion to husband, children, friends, the poor, the slave that made
her a high-priestess of humanity.

The thing that struck Phil with terrific force was that this beautiful
delicate woman was the slave of slaves.

As a rule, they died young.

He began to wonder how a people of the intelligence of these proud
white Southerners could endure such a thing as Slavery. Its waste, its
extravagance, its burdens were beyond belief.

He laughed when he thought of his mother crying over _Uncle Tom's
Cabin_. Yet a new edition of a hundred thousand copies had just come
from the press.

Early Sunday morning Custis asked him to go down to the quarters to see
Uncle Ben, the butler, who had not yet resumed his duties. He had sent
an urgent message to his young master asking him to be kind enough to
call on Sunday. The message was so formal and reserved Custis knew it
was of more than usual importance.

They found the old man superintending a special breakfast of fried fish
for two little boys, neatly served at a table with spotless cloth.
Robbie and his friend, John Doyle, were eating the fish they had caught
with Uncle Ben the day before. They were as happy as kings and talked of
fish and fishing with the unction of veteran sportsmen.

The greeting to Custis was profound in its courtesy and reverence.
He was the first born of the great house. He was, therefore, the
prospective head of the estate. Jeffersonian Democrats had long ago
abolished the old English law of primogeniture. But the idea was in the
blood of the Virginia planter. The servants caught it as quickly as they
caught the other English traits of love of home, family, kin, the cult
of leisure, the habit of Church, the love of country. It was not an
accident that the decisions of the courts of the Old South were quoted
by English barristers and accepted by English judges as law. The Common
Law of England was the law of Southern Seaboard States. It always had
been and it is to-day.

"How is you dis mornin', Marse Custis?" Ben asked with a stately bow.

"Fine, Uncle Ben. I hope you're better?"

"Des tolerble, sah, des tolerble--" he paused and bowed to Phil. "An'
dis is you' school-mate at Wes' Pint, dey tells me about?"

"Yes, Uncle," Phil answered.

"I'se glad ter welcome yer ter Arlington, sah. And I'se powerful sorry
I ain't able ter be in de big house ter see dat yer git ebry thing ter
make yer happy, sah. Dese here young niggers lak Sam do pooty well. But
dey ain't got much sense, sah. And dey ain't got no unction'tall. Dey do
de best dey kin an' dat ain't much."

"Oh, I'm having a fine time, Uncle Ben," Phil assured him.

"Praise de Lord, sah."

"Sam told me you wanted to see me, Uncle Ben," Custis said.

"'Bout sumfin mos' particular, sah--"

"At your service."

The old man waved to his wife to look after the boys' breakfast.

"Pile dem fish up on der plates, Hannah. Fill 'em up--fill'em up!"

"We're mos' full now!" Robbie shouted.

"No we ain't," John protested. "I jis begun."

Ben led the young master and his friend out the back door, past the long
pile of cord wood, past the chicken yard to a strong box which he had
built on tall legs under a mulberry tree. It was constructed of oak and
the neatly turned gable roof was covered with old tin carefully painted
with three coats of red. A heavy hasp, staple and padlock held the solid
door.

Ben fumbled in his pocket, drew forth his keys and opened it. The box
was his fireproof and ratproof safe in which the old man kept his
valuables. His money, his trinkets, his hammer and nails, augur and
bits, screwdriver and monkeywrench. From the top shelf he drew a tin
can. A heavy piece of linen tied with a string served as a cover.

He carefully untied the string in silence. He shook the can. The boys
saw that it was filled with salt of the coarse kind used to preserve
meats.

Ben felt carefully in the salt, drew forth a shriveled piece of dark
gristle, and held it up before his young master.

"Yer know what dat is, Marse Custis?"

Custis shook his head.

From the old man's tones of deep emotion he knew the matter was serious.
He thought at once of the Hoodoo. But he could make out no meaning to
this bit of preserved flesh.

"Never saw anything like it."

"Nasah. I spec yer didn't."

Ben pushed the gray hair back from his left ear. He wore his hair drawn
low over the tips of his ears. It was a fad of his, which he never
allowed to lapse.

"See anything funny 'bout de top o' dat year, sah?"

Custis looked carefully.

"It looks shorter--"

"Hit's er lot shorter. De top ob hit's clean gone, sah. Dat's why I
allus combs my ha'r down close over my years--"

He paused and held up the piece of dried flesh.

"An' dat's hit, sah."

"A piece of your ear?"

"Hit sho is. Ye see, sah, a long time ergo when I wuz young an' strong
ez er bull, one er dese here uppish niggers come ter our house drivin'
a carriage frum Westover on de James, an' 'gin ter brag 'bout his folks
bein' de bes' blood er ole Virginia. An' man I tells him sumfin. I tells
dat fool nigger dat de folks at Westover wuz des fair ter midlin. Dat
_our_ folks wuz, an' allus wuz, de very fust fambly o' Virginy! I tells
him, dat Marse Robert's father was General Light Horse Harry Lee dat
help General Washington wid de Revolution. Dat he wuz de Govenor o' ole
Virginy. Dat he speak de piece at de funeral o' George Washington, dat
we all knows by heart, now--

"'Fust in war, fust in peace and fust in de hearts o' his countrymen.'

"I tells him dat Marse Robert's mother wuz a Carter. I tells him dat he
could count more dan one hundred gemmen his kin. Dat his folks allus had
been de very fust fambly in Virginy. I tells him dat he marry my Missis,
de gran' daughter o' ole Gineral Washington his-salf--an' en--"

He paused.

"An' den, what ye reckon dat fool nigger say ter me?"

"Couldn't guess."

"He say General Washington nebber had no children. And den man, man,
when he insult me lak dat, I jump on him lak a wil' cat. We fought an'
we fit. We fit an' we fought. I got him down an' bit one o' his years
clean off smooth wid his head. In de las' clinch he git hol' er my lef
year a'fo' I could shake him, he bit de top of hit off, sah. I got him
by the froat an' choke hit outen his mouf. And dar hit is, sah."

He held up the dried piece of his ear reverently.

"And what do you want me to do with it, Uncle Ben?" Custis asked
seriously.

"Nuttin right now, sah. But I ain't got long ter live--"

"Oh, you'll be well in a few days, Uncle Ben."

"I mought an' den agin I moughtent. I been lyin' awake at night worryin'
'bout dat year o' mine. Ye see hit wouldn't do tall fur me ter go
walkin' dem golden streets up dar in Heben wid one o' my years lopped
off lake a shoat er a calf dat's been branded. Some o' dem niggers
standin' on dat gol' sidewalk would laugh at me. An' dat would hurt my
feelin's. Some smart Aleck would be sho ter holler, 'Dar come ole Ben.
But he ain't got but one year!' Dat wouldn't do, tall, sah."

Phil bit his lips to keep from laughing. He saw the thing was no joke
for the old man. It was a grim tragedy.

"What I wants ter axe, Marse Custis, is dat you promise me faithful, ez
my young master, dat when I die you come to me, get dis year o' mine
outen dis salt box an' stick hit back right whar it b'long 'fore dey
nail me up in de coffin. I des can't 'ford ter walk down dem golden
streets, 'fore all dat company, wid a piece er my year missin'. Will ye
promise me, sah?"

Custis grasped the outstretched hand and clasped it.

"I promise you, Uncle Ben, faithfully."

"Den hit's all right, sah. When a Lee make a promise, hit's des ez good
ez done. I know dat case I know who I'se er talkin' to."

He placed the piece of gristle back into the tin can, covered it with
salt, tied the linen cover over it carefully, put it back on the shelf,
locked the heavy oak door and handed Custis the key.

"I got annudder key. You keep dat one, please, sah."

Custis and Phil left the old man more cheerful than he had been for
days.

CHAPTER VII

As the sun was sinking across the gray waters of the river, reflecting
in its silver surface a riot of purple and scarlet, the master of
Arlington sat in thoughtful silence holding the fateful Book of the
Slave in his hand. He had promised his friend, Edmund Ruffin, to give
him an answer early next week as to a public statement.

He was puzzled as to his duty. To his ready protest that he was not a
politician his friend had instantly replied that his word would have ten
times the weight for that reason. So deep was his brooding he did not
notice the two boys in a heated argument at the corner of the house.

Robbie Lee had drawn his barefoot friend, John, thus far. He had balked
and refused to go farther.

"Come on, John," Robbie pleaded.

"I'm skeered."

"Scared of what?"

"Colonel Lee."

"Didn't you come to see him?"

"I thought I did."

"Well, didn't ye?"

"Yes."

"Come on, then!"

"No--"

"What you scared of him for?"

"He's a great man."

"But he's my Papa."

"He don't want to be bothered with little boys."

"Yes, he does, too. He hears everything I've got to say to him."

"Ain't you skeered of him?"

"No!"

Robbie seized John's hand again and before he could draw back dragged
him to his father's side.

Lee turned the friendliest smile on John's flushed face and won his
confidence before a word was spoken.

"Well, Robbie, what's your handsome little friend's name?"

"John Doyle, Papa."

"Your father lives on the farm just outside our gate, doesn't he?"

"Yessir," the boy answered eagerly.

His embarrassment had gone. But it was hard to begin his story. It had
seemed easy at first, the need was so great. Now it seemed that he had
no right to make the request he had in his heart.

He hung his head and dug his big toe in the gravel.

Robbie hastened to his rescue.

"John wants to tell you something, Papa," he began tenderly.

"All right," Lee cheerfully answered as he drew one boy within each arm
and hugged them both. "What can I do for you, Johnnie?"

"I dunno, sir. I hope you can do somethin'."

"I will, if I can. I like to do things for boys. I was a little boy once
myself and I know exactly how it feels. What is it?"

Again the child hesitated.

Lee studied the lines of his finely molded face and neck and throat. A
handsomer boy of ten he had never seen. He pressed his arm closer and
held him a moment until he looked up with a tear glistening in his blue
eyes.

"Tell me, sonny--"

"My Ma's been cryin' all day, sir, and I want to do somethin' to help
her--"

He paused and his voice failed.

"What has she been crying about?"

"We've lost our home, sir, and my daddy's drunk."

"You've lost your home?"

"Yessir. The sheriff come this mornin'. And he's goin' to put us out.
Ma's most crazy. I ain't been a very good boy here lately--"

"No?"

"No, sir. I've been runnin' away and goin' fishin' and hurtin' my Ma's
feelin's and now I wish I hadn't done it. I heard her sayin' this
mornin' while she wuz cryin', that you wuz the only man she knowed on
earth who could help us. She was afeared to come to see you. And I
slipped out to tell ye. I thought if I could get you to come to see us,
maybe you could tell Ma what to do and that would make up for my hurtin'
her so when I run away from my lessons this week."

The Colonel gently pressed the boys away and rose with quick decision.

"I'll ride right up, sonny, and see your mother."

"Will you, Colonel Lee?" the child asked with pathetic eagerness.

"Just as soon as I can have my horse saddled."

Lee turned abruptly into the house and left the boy dazed. He threw his
arms around Robbie, hugged him in a flash and was gone. Up the dusty way
to the gate the little bare feet flew to tell glad tidings to a lonely
woman.

She stood beside the window looking out on the wreck of her life in a
stupor of wordless pain. She saw her boy leap the fence as a hound and
rushed from the house in alarm to meet him.

He was breathless, but he managed to gasp his message.

"Ma--Ma--Colonel Lee's comin' to see you!"

"To see me?"

"Yes'm. I told him we'd lost our home and he said he'd come right up.
And he's comin', too--"

The mother looked into the child's flushed face, saw the love light in
his eyes and caught him to her heart.

"Oh, boy, boy, you're such a fine young one--my baby--as smart as a
whip. You'll beat 'em all some day and make your poor old mother proud
and happy."

"I'm going to try now, Ma--you see if I don't."

"I know you will, my son."

"I'll never run away again. You see if I do."

The boy stopped suddenly at the sight of Colonel Lee swiftly
approaching.

"Run and wash your face," the mother whispered, "and tell your brothers
to put on clean shirts. I want them to see the Colonel, too."

The boy darted into the house.

The woman looked about the yard to see if there were any evidences of
carelessness. She had tried to keep it clean. The row of flowers that
flamed in the beds beside the door was the finest in the county. She
knew that. She was an expert in the culture of the prolific tall cosmos
that blooms so beautifully in the Indian summers of Old Virginia.

A cur dog barked.

"Get under the house, sir!" she commanded.

The dog continued to look down the road at the coming horseman.

"Get under the house, I say--" she repeated and the dog slowly obeyed.

She advanced to meet her visitor. He hitched his horse to a swinging
limb outside the gate and hurried in.

No introduction was necessary. The Colonel had known her husband for
years and he had often lifted his hat to his wife in passing.

He extended his hand and grasped hers in quick sympathy.

"I'm sorry to learn of your great misfortune from your fine boy, Mrs.
Doyle."

The woman's eyes filled with tears in spite of her firm resolution to be
dignified.

"He _is_ a fine--boy--isn't he, Colonel?"

"One of the handsomest little chaps I ever saw. You should be proud of
him."

"I am, sir."

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