By Joel Chandşer Harris
VERY few Southern country towns have been more profitably influenced by the new order of things than Hillsborough in Middle Georgia. At various intervals since the war it has had what the local weekly calls “a business boom.” The old tavern has been torn down, and in its place stands a new three-story brick hotel, managed by a very brisk young man, who is shrewd enough to advertise in the newspapers of the neighboring towns that he has “special accommodations and special rates for commercial travellers.” Although Hillsborough is comparatively a small town, it is the centre of a very productive region, and its trade is somewhat important. Consequently, the commercial travellers, with characteristic energy, lose no opportunity of taking advantage of the hospitable invitation of the landlord of the Hillsborough hotel.
Not many years ago a representative of this class visited the old town. He was from the North, and, being much interested in what he saw, was duly inquisitive. Among other things that attracted his attention was a little one-armed man who seemed to be the life of the place. He was here, there, an everywhere; and wherever he went the atmosphere seemed to lighten and brighten. Sometimes he was flying around town in a buggy; at such times he was driven by a sweet-faced lady, whose smiling air of proprietorship proclaimed her to be his wife: but more often he was on foot. His cheerfulness and good humor were infectious. The old men sitting at Perdue’s Corner, where they had been gathering for forty years and more, looked up and laughed as he passed; the ladies shopping in the streets paused to chat with him; and even the dry-goods clerks and lawyers, playing chess or draughts under the China-trees that shaded the sidewalks, were willing to be interrupted long enough to exchange jokes with him.
“Rather a lively chap that,” said the observant commercial traveller.
“Well, I reckon you won’t find no livelier in these diggin’s,” replied the landlord, to whom the remark was addressed. There was a suggestion of suppressed local pride in his tones. “He’s a little chunk of a man, but he’s monst’us peart.”
“A colonel, I guess,” said the stranger, smiling.
“Oh, no,” the other rejoined. “He ain’t no colonel, but he’d ‘a’ made a prime one. It’s mighty curious to me,” he went on, “that them Yankees up there didn’t make him one.”
“The Yankees?” inquired the commercial traveller.
“Why, yes,” said the landlord. “He’s a Yankee; and that lady you seen drivin’ him around, she’s a Yankee. He courted her here and he married her here. Major Jimmy Bass wanted him to marry her in his house, but Capt. Jack Walthall put his foot down and said the weddin’ had to be in his house; and there’s where it was, in that big white house over yander with the hip roof. Yes, sir.”
“Oh,” said the commercial traveller, with a cynical smile, “he staid down here to keep out of the army. He was a lucky fellow.”
“Well, I reckon he was lucky not to get killed,” said the landlord, laughing. “He fought with the Yankees, and they do say that Little Compton was a rattler.”
The commercial traveller gave a long, low whistle, expressive of his profound astonishment. And yet, under all the circumstances, there was nothing to create astonishment. The lively little man had a history.
Among the genial and popular citizens of Hillsborough, in the days before the war, none were more genial or more popular than Little Compton. He was popular with all classes, with old and with young, with whites and with blacks. He was sober, discreet, sympathetic, and generous. He was neither handsome nor magnetic. He was awkward and somewhat bashful, but his manners and his conversation had the rare merit of spontaneity. His sallow face was unrelieved by either mustache or whiskers, and his eyes were black and very small, but they listened with good-humor and sociability. He was somewhat small in stature, and for that reason the young men about Hillsborough had given him the name of Little Compton.
Little Compton’s introduction to Hillsborough was not wholly without suggestive incidents. He made his appearance there in 1850, and opened a small grocery store. Thereupon the young men of the town, with nothing better to do than to seek such amusement as they could find in so small a community, promptly proceeded to make him the victim of their pranks and practical jokes. Little Compton’s forbearance was wonderful. He laughed heartily when he found his modest signboard hanging over an adjacent bar-room, and smiled good-humoredly when he found the sidewalk in front of his door barricaded with barrels and dry-goods boxes. An impatient man would have looked on these things as in the nature of indignities, but Little Compton was not an impatient man.
This went on at odd intervals, until at last the fun-loving young men began to appreciate Little Compton’s admirable temper; and then for a season they played their jokes on other citizens, leaving Little Compton entirely unmolested. These young men were boisterous, but good-natured, and they had their own ideas of what constituted fair play. They were ready to fight or to have fun, but in neither case would they willingly take what they considered a mean advantage of a man.
By degrees they warmed to Little Compton. His gentleness won upon them; his patient good-humor attracted them. Without taking account of the matter, the most of them became his friends. This was demonstrated one day when one of the Pulliam boys, from Jasper County, made some slurring remark about “the little Yankee.” As Pulliam was somewhat in his cups, no attention was paid to his remark; whereupon he followed it up with others of a more seriously abusive character. Little Compton was waiting on a customer; but Pulliam was standing in front of his door, and he could not fail to hear the abuse. Young Jack Walthall was sitting in a chair near the door, whittling a piece of white pine. He put his knife in his pocket, and, whistling softly, looked at Little Compton curiously. Then he walked to where Pulliam was standing.
“If I were you, Pulliam,” he said, “and wanted to abuse anybody, I’d pick out a bigger man than that.”
“I don’t see anybody,” said Pulliam.
“Well, d- you!” exclaimed Walthall, “if you are that blind, I’ll open your eyes for you!”
Whereupon he knocked Pulliam down. At this Little Compton ran out excitedly, and it was the impression of the spectators that he intended to attack the man who had been abusing him; but, instead of that, he knelt over the prostrate bully, wiped the blood from his eyes, and finally succeeded in getting him to his feet. Then Little Compton assisted him into the store, placed him in a chair, and proceeded to bandage his wounded eye. Walthall, looking on with an air of supreme indifference, uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and sauntered carelessly away.
Sauntering back an hour or so afterward, he found that Pulliam was still in Little Compton’s store. He would have passed on, but Little Compton called to him. He went in prepared to be attacked, for he knew Pulliam to be one of the most dangerous men in that region, and the most revengeful; but, instead of making an attack, Pulliam offered his hand.
“Let’s call it square, Jack. Your mother and my father are blood cousins, and I don’t want any bad feelings to grow out of this racket. I’ve apologized to Mr. Compton here, and now I’m ready to apologize to you.”
Walthall looked at Pulliam and at his proffered hand, and then looked at Little Compton. The latter was smiling pleasantly. This appeared to be satisfactory, and Walthall seized his kinsman’s hand, and exclaimed, –
“Well, by George, Miles Pulliam! if you’ve apologized to Little Compton, then it’s my turn to apologize to you. Maybe I was too quick with my hands, but that chap there is such a d- clever little rascal, that it works me up to see anybody pester him.”
“Why, Jack,” said Compton, his little eyes glistening, “I’m not such a scrap as you make out. It’s just your temper, Jack. Your temper runs clean away with your judgment.”
“My temper! Why, good Lord, man! don’t I just sit right down, and let folks run over me whenever they want to? Would I have done any thing if Miles Pulliam had abused me?”
“Why, the gilded Queen of Sheba!” exclaimed Miles Pulliam, laughing loudly, in spite of his bruises; “only last sale-day you mighty nigh jolted the life out of Bill-Tom Saunders, with the big end of a hickory stick.”
“That’s so,” said Walthall reflectively; “but did I follow him up to do it? Wasn’t he dogging after me all day, and strutting around bragging about what he was going to do? Didn’t I play the little stray lamb till he rubbed his fist in my face?”
The others laughed. They knew that Jack Walthall wasn’t at all lamblike in his disposition. He was tall and strong and handsome, with pale classic features, jet-black curling hair, and beautiful white hands that never knew what labor was. He was something of a dandy in Hillsborough, but in a large, manly generous way. With his perfect manners, stately and stiff, or genial and engaging, as occasion might demand, Mr. Walthall was just such a romantic figure as one reads about in books, or as one expects to see step from behind the wings of the stage with a guitar or a long dagger. Indeed, he was the veritable original of Cyrille Brandon, the hero of Miss Amelia Baxter’s elegant novel entitled “The Haunted Manor; or, Souvenirs of the Sunny Southland.” If those who are fortunate enough to possess a copy of this graphic book, which was printed in Charleston for the author, will turn to the description of Cyrille Brandon, they will get a much better idea of Mr. Walthall than they can hope to get in this brief and imperfect chronicle. It is true, the picture there drawn is somewhat exaggerated to suit the purposes of fictive art, but it shows perfectly the serious impression Mr. Walthall made on the ladies who were his contemporaries.
It is only fair to say, however, that the real Mr. Walthall was altogether different from the ideal Cyrille Brandon of Miss Baxter’s powerfully written book. He was by no means ignorant of the impression he made on the fair sex, and he was somewhat proud of it; but he had no romantic ideas of his own. He was, in fact, a very practical young man. When the Walthall estate, composed of thousands of acres of land and several hundred healthy, well-fed negroes, was divided up, he chose to take his portion in money; and this he loaned out at a fair interest to those who were in need of ready cash. This gave him large leisure; and, as was the custom among the young men of leisure, he gambled a little when the humor was on him, having the judgment and the nerve to make the game of poker exceedingly interesting to those who sat with him at table.
No one could ever explain why the handsome and gallant Jack Walthall should go so far as to stand between his own cousin and Little Compton; indeed, no one tried to explain it. The fact was accepted for what it was worth, and it was a great deal to Little Compton in a social and business way. After the row which has just been described, Mr. Walthall was usually to be found at Compton’s store, – in the summer sitting in front of the door under the grateful shade of the China-trees, and in the winter sitting by the comfortable fire that Compton kept burning in his back room. As Mr. Walthall was the recognized leader of the young men, Little Compton’s store soon became the headquarters for all of them. They met there, and they made themselves at home there, introducing their affable host to many queer antics and capers peculiar to the youth of that day and time, and to the social organism of which that youth was the outcome.
That Little Compton enjoyed their company, is certain; but it is doubtful if he entered heartily into the plans of their escapades, which they freely discussed around his hearth. Perhaps it was because he had outlived the folly of youth. Though his face was smooth and round, and his eye bright,Little Compton bore the marks of maturity and experience. He used to laugh, and say that he was born in New Jersey, and died there when he was young. What significance this statement possessed, no one ever knew; probably no one in Hillsborough cared to know. The people of that town had their own notions and their own opinions. They were not unduly inquisitive, save when their inquisitiveness seemed to take a political shape; and then it was somewhat aggressive.
There were a great many things in Hillsborough likely to puzzle a stranger. Little Compton observed that the young men, no matter how young they might be, were absorbed in politics. They had the political history of the country at their tongues’ ends, and the discussions they carried on were interminable. This interest extended to all classes: the planters discussed politics with their overseers; and lawyers, merchants, tradesmen, and gentlemen of elegant leisure, discussed politics with each other. Schoolboys knew all about the Missouri Compromise, the fugitive-slave law, and States rights. Sometimes the arguments used were more substantial than mere words, but this was only when some old feud was back of the discussion. There was one question, as Little Compton discovered, in regard to which there was no discussion. That question was slavery. It loomed up everywhere and in every thing, and was the basis of all the arguments, and yet it was not discussed: there was no room for discussion. There was but one idea, and that was that slavery must be defended at all hazards, and against all enemies. That was the temper of the time, and Little Compton was not long in discovering that of all dangerous issues slavery was the most dangerous.
The young men, in their free-and-easy way, told him the story of a wayfarer who once came through that region preaching abolitionism to the negroes. The negroes themselves betrayed him, and he was promptly taken in charge. His body was found afterward hanging in the woods, and he was buried at the expense of the county. Even his name had been forgotten, and his grave was all but obliterated. All these things made an impression on Little Compton’s mind. The tragedy itself was recalled by one of the pranks of the young men, that was conceived and carried out under his eyes. It happened after he had become well used to the ways of Hillsborough. There came a stranger to the town, whose queer acts excited the suspicions of a naturally suspicious community. Professedly he was a colporteur; but, instead of trying to dispose of books and tracts, of which he had a visible supply, he devoted himself to arguing with the village politicians under the shade of the trees. It was observed, also, that he would frequently note down observations in a memorandum-book. Just about that time the controversy between the slaveholders and the abolitionists was at its height. John Brown had made his raid on Harper’s Ferry, and there was a good deal of excitement throughout the South. It was rumored that Brown had emissaries travelling from State to State, preparing the negroes for insurrection; and every community, even Hillsborough, was on the alert, watching, waiting, suspecting.
The time assuredly was not auspicious for the stranger with the ready memorandum-book. Sitting in front of Compton’s store, he fell into conversation one day with Uncle Abner Lazenberry, a patriarch who lived in the country, and who had a habit of coming to Hillsborough at least once a week to “talk with the boys.” Uncle Abner belonged to the poorer class of planters; that is to say, he had a small farm and not more than half a dozen negroes. But he was decidedly popular, and his conversation – somewhat caustic at times – was thoroughly enjoyed by the younger generation. On this occasion he had been talking to Jack Walthall, when the stranger drew a chair within hearing distance.
“You take all your men,” Uncle Abner was saying – “take all un ‘em, but gimme Hennery Clay. Them abolishioners, they may come an’ git all six er my niggers, if they’ll jess but lemme keep the ginny-wine ole Whig docterin’. That’s me up an’ down – that’s wher’ your Uncle Abner Lazenberry stan’s, boys.” By this time the stranger had taken out his inevitable note-book, and Uncle Abner went on: “Yes, siree! You may jess mark me down that away.’Come,’ sez I, ‘an’ take all my niggers an’ the ole gray mar’,’ sez I, ‘but lemme keep my Whig docterin’,’ sez I. Lord, I’ve seed sights wi’ them niggers. They hain’t no manner account. They won’t work, an’ I’m ablidge to feed ‘em, else they’d whirl in an’ steal from the neighbors. Hit’s in-about broke me for to maintain ‘em in the’r laziness. Bless your soul, little childern! I’m in a turrible fix – a turrible fix. I’m that bankruptured that when I come to town, ef I fine a thrip in my britches-pocket for to buy me a dram I’m the happiest mortal in the county. Yes, siree! hit’s got down to that.”
Here Uncle Abner Lazenberry paused and eyed the stranger shrewdly, to whom, presently, he addressed himself in a very insinuating tone: –
“What mought be your name, mister?”
“Oh,” said the stranger, taken somewhat aback by the suddenness of the question, “my name might be Jones, but it happens to be Davies.”
Uncle Abner Lazenberry stared at Davies a moment as if amazed, and then exclaimed, –
“Jesso! Well, dog my cats of times hain’t a-changin’ an’ a-changin’ tell bimeby the natchul world an’ all the hummysp’eres ‘ll make the’r disappearance een’-uppermost. Yit, whiles they er changin’ an’ a-disappearin’, I hope they’ll leave me my ole Whig docterin’, an’ my name, which the fust an’ last un it is Abner Lazenberry. An’ more’n that,” the old man went on, with severe emphasis, – “an’ more’n that, they hain’t never been a day sence the creation of the world an’ the hummysp’eres when my name mought er been any thing else under the shinin’ sun but Abner Lazenberry; an’ ef the time’s done come when any mortal name mought er been any thing but what hit reely is, then we jess better turn the nation an’ the federation over to demockeracy an’ giner’l damnation. Now that’s me, right pine-plank.”
By way of emphasizing his remarks, Uncle Abner brought the end of his hickory cane down upon the ground with a tremendous thump. The stranger reddened a little at the unexpected criticism, and was evidently ill at ease, but he remarked politely, –
“This is just a saying I’ve picked up somewhere in my travels. My name is Davies, and I am traveling through the country selling a few choice books, and picking up information as I go.”
“I know a mighty heap of Davises,” said Uncle Abner, “but I disremember of anybody name Davies.”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Davies, “the name is not uncommon in my part of the country. I am from Vermont.”
“Well, well!” said Uncle Abner, tapping the ground thoughtfully with his cane. “A mighty fur ways Vermont is, tooby shore. In my day an’ time I’ve seed as many as three men folks from Vermont, en’ one un ‘em, he wuz a wheelwright, an’ one wuz a tin-peddler, an’ the yuther one wuz a clock-maker. But that wuz a long time ago. How is the abolishioners gittin’ on up that away, an’ when in the name er patience is they a-comin’ arter my niggers? Lord! if them niggers wuz free, I wouldn’t have to slave for ‘em.”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Davies, “I take little or no interest in those things. I have to make a humble living, and I leave political questions to the politicians.”
The conversation was carried on at some length, the younger men joining in occasionally to ask questions; and nothing could have been friendlier than their attitude toward Mr. Davies. They treated him with the greatest consideration. His manner and speech were those of an educated man, and he seemed to make himself thoroughly agreeable. But that night, as Mr. Jack Walthall was about to go to bed, his body-servant, a negro named Jake, began to question him about the abolitionists.
“What do you know about abolitionists?” Mr Walthall asked with some degree of severity.
“Nothin’ ‘tall, Marse Jack, ‘cep’in’ w’at dish yer new w’ite man down dar at de tavern say.”
“And what did he say?” Mr. Walthall inquired.
“ I ax ‘im, I say, ‘Marse Boss, is dese yer bobolitionists got horns en huffs?’ en he ‘low, he did, dat dey ain’t no bobolitionists, kaze dey er babolitionists, an’ dey ain’t got needer horns ner huffs.”
“What else did he say?”
Jake laughed. It was a hearty and humorous laugh.
“Well, sir,” he replied, “dat man des preached. He sholy did. He ax me ef de riggers ‘roun’ yer wouldn’ all like ter be free, en I tole ‘im I don’t speck dey would, kase all de free niggers w’at I ever seed is de mos’ no-’countes’ niggers in de lan’.”
Mr. Walthall dismissed the negro somewhat curtly. He had prepared to retire for the night, but apparently thought better of it, for he resumed his coat and vest, and went out into the cool moonlight. He walked around the public square, and finally perched himself on the stile that led over the court-house enclosure. He sat there a long time. Little Compton passed by, escorting Miss Lizzie Fairleigh, the schoolmistress, home from some social gathering; and finally the lights in the village went out one by one – all save the one that shone in the window of the room occupied by Mr. Davies. Watching this window somewhat closely, Mr. Jack Walthall observed that there was movement in the room. Shadows played on the white window-curtains – human shadows passing to and fro. The curtains, quivering in the night wind, distorted these shadows, and made confusion of them; but the wind died away for a moment, and, outlined on the curtains, the patient watcher saw a silhouette of Jake, his body-servant. Mr. Walthall beheld the spectacle with amazement. It never occurred to him that the picture he saw was part – the beginning indeed – of a tremendous panorama which would shortly engage the attention of the civilized world, but he gazed at it with a feeling of vague uneasiness.
The next morning Little Compton was somewhat surprised at the absence of the young men who were in the habit of gathering in front of his store. Even Mr. Jack Walthall, who could be depended on to tilt his chair against the China-tree and sit there for an hour or more after breakfast, failed to put in an appearance. After putting his store to rights, and posting up some accounts left over from the day before, Little Compton came out on the sidewalk, and walked up and down in front of the door. He was in excellent humor, and as he walked he hummed a tune. He did not lack for companionship, for his cat, Tommy Tinktums, an extraordinarily large one, followed him back and forth, rubbing against him and running between his legs; but somehow he felt lonely. The town was very quiet. It was quiet at all times, but on this particular morning it seemed to Little Compton that there was less stir than usual. There was no sign of life anywhere around the public square save at Perdue’s Corner. Shading his eyes with his hand, Little Compton observed a group of citizens apparently engaged in a very interesting discussion. Among them he recognized the tall form of Mr. Jack Walthall and the somewhat ponderous presence of Major Jimmy Bass. Little Compton watched the group because he had nothing better to do. He saw Major Jimmy Bass bring the end of his cane down upon the ground with a tremendous thump, and gesticulate like a man laboring under strong excitement; but this was nothing out of the ordinary, for Major Jimmy had been known to get excited over the most trivial discussion; on one occasion, indeed, he had even mounted a dry-goods box, and, as the boys expressed it, “cussed out the town.”
Still watching the group, Little Compton saw Mr. Jack Walthall take Buck Ransome by the arm, and walk across the public square in the direction of the court-house. They were followed by Mr. Alvin Cozart, Major Jimmy Bass, and young Rowan Wornum. They went to the court-house stile, and formed a little group, while Mr. Walthall appeared to be explaining something, pointing frequently in the direction of the tavern. In a little while they returned to those they had left at Perdue’s Corner, where they were presently joined by a number of other citizens. Once Little Compton thought he would lock his door and join them, but by the time he had made up his mind the group had dispersed.
A little later on, Compton’s curiosity was more than satisfied. One of the young men, Buck Ransome, came into Compton’s store, bringing a queer-looking bundle. Unwrapping it, Mr. Ransom brought to view two large pillows. Whistling a gay tune, he ran his keen knife into one of these, and felt of the feathers. His manner was that of an expert. The examination seemed to satisfy him; for he rolled the pillows into a bundle again, and deposited them in the back part of the store.
“You’d be a nice housekeeper, Buck, if you did all your pillows that way,” said Compton.
“Why, bless your great big soul, Compy,” said Mr. Ransome, striking an attitude, “I’m the finest in the land.”
Just then Mr. Alvin Cozart came in, bearing a small bucket, which he handled very carefully. Little Compton thought he detected the odor of tar.
“Stick her in the back room there,” said Mr. Ransome; “she’ll keep.”
Compton was somewhat mystified by these proceedings; but every thing was made clear when, an hour later, the young men of the town, re-enforced by Major Jimmy Bass, marched into his store, bringing with them Mr. Davies, the Vermont colporteur, who had been flourishing his note-book in the faces of the inhabitants. Jake, Mr. Walthall’s body-servant, was prominent in the crowd by reason of his color and his frightened appearance. The colporteur was very pale, but he seemed to be cool. As the last one filed in, Mr. Walthall stepped to the front door and shut and locked it. Compton was too amazed to say any thing. The faces before him, always so full of humor and fun, were serious enough now. As the key turned in the lock, the colporteur found his voice.
“Gentlemen!” he exclaimed with some show of indignation, “what is the meaning of this? What would you do?”
“You know mighty well, sir, what we ought to do,” cried Major Bass. “We ought to hang you, you imperdent scounderl! A-comin’ down here a-pesterin’ an’ a-meddlin’ with t’other people’s business.”
“Why, gentlemen,” said Davies, “I’m a peaceable citizen; I trouble nobody. I am simply travelling through the country selling books to those who are able to buy, and giving them away to those who are not.”
“Mr. Davies,” said Mr. Jack Walthall, leaning gracefullyy against the counter, “what kind of books are you selling?”
“Religious books, sir.”
“Jake!” exclaimed Mr. Walthall somewhat sharply, so sharply, indeed, that the negro jumped as though he had been shot. “Jake! stand out there. Hold up your head, sir! – Mr. Davies, how many religious books did you sell to that nigger there last night?”
“I sold him none, sir; I” –
“How many did ou try to sell him?”
“I made no attempt to sell him any books; I knew he couldn’t read. I merely asked him to give me some information.”
Major Jimmy Bass scowled dreadfully, but Mr. Jack Walthall smiled pleasantly, and turned to the negro.
“Jake! do you know this man?”
“I seed ‘im, Marse Jack; I des seed ‘im; dat’s all I know ‘bout ‘im.”
“What were you doing sasshaying around in his room last night?”
Jake scratched his head, dropped his eyes, and shuffled about on the floor with his feet. All eyes were turned on him. He made so long a pause that Alvin Cozart remarked in his drawling tone, –
“Jack, hadn’t we better take this nigger over to the calaboose?”
“Not yet,” said Mr. Walthall pleasantly. “If I have to take him over there I’ll not bring him back in a hurry.”
“I wuz des up in his room kaze he tole me fer ter come back en see ‘im. Name er God, Marse Jack, w’at ail’ you all w’ite folks now?”
“What did he say to you?” asked Mr. Walthall.
“He ax me w’at make de niggers stay in slave’y,” said the frightened negro; “he ax me w’at de reason dey don’t git free deyse’f.”
“He was warm after information,” Mr. Walthall suggested.
“Call it what you please,” said the Vermont colporteur. “I asked him those questions and more.” He was pale, but he no longer acted like a man troubled with fear.
“Oh, we know that, mister,” said Buck Ransome. “We know what you come for, and we know what you’re goin’ away for. We’ll excuse you if you’ll excuse us, and then there’ll be no hard feelin’s – that is, not many; none to growl about. – Jake, hand me that bundle there on the barrel, and fetch that tar-bucket. – You’ve got the makin’ of a mighty fine bird in you, mister,” Ransome went on, addressing the colporteur; “all you lack’s the feathers, and we’ve got oodles of ‘em right here. Now, will you shuck them duds?”
For the first time the fact dawned on Little Compton’s mind, that the young men were about to administer a coat of tar and feathers to the stranger from Vermont; and he immediately began to protest.
“Why, Jack,” said he, “what has the man done?”
“Well,” replied Mr. Walthall, “you heard what the nigger said. We can’t afford to have these abolitionists preaching insurrection right in our back yards. We just can’t afford it, that’s the long and short of it. Maybe you don’t understand it; maybe you don’t feel as we do; but that’s the way the matter stands. We are in a sort of a corner, and we are compelled to protect ourselves.”
“I don’t believe in no tar and feathers for this chap,” remarked Major Jimmy Bass, assuming a judicial air. “He’ll just go out here to the town branch and wash ‘em off, and then he’ll go on through the plantations raising h- among the niggers. That’ll be the upshot of it – now, you mark my words. He ought to be hung.”
“Now, boys,” said Little Compton, still protesting, “what is the use? This man hasn’t done any real harm. He might preach insurrection around here for a thousand years, and the niggers wouldn’t listen to him. Now, you know that yourselves. Turn the poor devil loose, and let him get out of town. Why, haven’t you got any confidence in the niggers you’ve raised yourselves?”
“My dear sir,” said Rowan Wornum, in his most insinuating tone, “we’ve got all the confidence in the world in the niggers, but we can’t afford to take any risks. Why, my dear sir,” he went on, “if we let this chap go, it won’t be six months before the whole country’ll be full of this kind. Look at that Harper’s Ferry business.”
“Well,” said Compton somewhat hotly, “look at it. What harm has been done? Has there been any nigger insurrection?”
Jack Walthall laughed good-naturedly. “Little Compton is a quick talker, boys. Let’s give the man the benefit of all the arguments.”
“Great God! You don’t mean to let this d- rascal go, do you, Jack?” exclaimed Major Jimmy Bass.
“No, no, sweet uncle; but I’ve got a nicer dose than tar and feathers.”
The result was that the stranger’s face and hands were given a coat of lampblack, his arms were tied to his body, and a large placard was fastened to his back. The placard bore this inscription:
ABOLITIONIST!
PASS HIM ON, BOYS.
Mr. Davies was a pitiful-looking object after the young men had plastered his face and hands with lampblack and oil, and yet his appearance bore a certain queer relation to the humorous exhibitions one sees on the negro minstrel stage. Particularly was this the case when he smiled at Compton.
“By George, boys!” exclaimed Mr. Buck Ransome, “this chap could play Old Bob Ridley at the circus.”
When every thing was arranged to suit them, the young men formed a procession, and marched the blackened stranger from Little Compton’s door into the public street. Little Compton seemed to be very much interested in the proceeding. It was remarked afterward, that he seemed to be very much agitated, and that he took a position very near the placarded abolitionist. The procession, as it moved up the street, attracted considerable attention. Rumors that an abolitionist was to be dealt with had apparently been circulated, and a majority of the male inhabitants of the town were out to view the spectacle. The procession passed entirely around the public square, of which the court-house was the centre, and then across the square to the park-like enclosure that surrounded the temple of justice.
As the young men and their prisoner crossed this open space, Major Jimmy Bass, fat as he was, grew so hilarious that he straddled his cane as children do broomsticks, and pretended that he had as much as he could do to hold his fiery wooden steed. He waddled and pranced out in front of the abolitionist, and turned and faced him, whereat his steed showed the most violent symptoms of running away. The young men roared with laughter, and the spectators roared with them, and even the abolitionist laughed. All laughed but Little Compton. The procession was marched to the court-house enclosure, and there the prisoner was made to stand on the sale-block so that all might have a fair view of him. He was kept there until the stage was ready to go; and then he was given a seat on that swaying vehicle, and forwarded to Rockville, where, presumably, the “boys” placed him on the train and “passed him on” to the “boys” in other towns.
For months thereafter there was peace in Hillsborough, so far as the abolitionists were concerned; and then came the secession movement. A majority of the citizens of the little town were strong Union men; but the secession movement seemed to take even the oldest off their feet, and by the time the Republican President was inaugurated, the Union sentiment that had marked Hillsborough had practically disappeared. In South Carolina companies of minute-men had been formed, and the entire white male population was wearing blue cockades. With some modifications, these symptoms were reproduced in Hillsborough. The modifications were that a few of the old men still stood up for the Union, and that some of the young men, though they wore the blue cockade, did not align themselves with the minute-men.
Little Compton took no part in these proceedings. He was discreetly quiet. He tended his store, and smoked his pipe, and watched events. One morning he was aroused from his slumbers by a tremendous crash, – a crash that rattled the windows of his store and shook its very walls. He lay quiet a while, thinking that a small earthquake had been turned loose on the town. Then the crash was repeated; and he knew that Hillsborough was firing a salute from its little six-pounder, a relic of the Revolution, that had often served the purpose of celebrating the nation’s birthday in a noisily becoming manner.
Little Compton arose, and dressed himself, and prepared to put his store in order. Issuing forth into the street, he saw that the town was in considerable commotion. A citizen who had been in attendance on the convention at Milledgeville had arrived during the night, bringing the information that the ordinance of secession had been adopted, and that Georgia was now a sovereign and independent government. The original secessionists were in high feather, and their hilarious enthusiasm had its effect on all save a few of the Union men.
Early as it was, Little Compton saw two flags floating from an improvised flagstaff on top of the court-house. One was the flag of the State, with its pillars, its sentinel, and its legend of “Wisdom, Justice, and Moderation.” The design of the other was entirely new to Little Compton. It was a pine-tree on a field of white, with a rattlesnake coiled at its roots, and the inscription, “DON’T TREAD ON ME!” A few hours later Uncle Abner Lazenberry made his appearance in front of Compton’s store. He had just hitched his horse to the rack near the court-house.
“Merciful heavens!” he exclaimed, wiping his red face with a red handkerchief, “is the Ole Boy done gone an’ turned hisself loose? I hearn the racket, an’ I sez to the ole woman, sez I, ‘I’ll fling the saddle on the gray mar’ an’ canter to town an’ see what in the dingnation the matter is. An’ ef the worl’s about to fetch a lurch, I’ll git me another dram an’ die happy,’ sez I. Whar’s Jack Walthall? He can tell his Uncle Abner all about it.”
“Well, sir,” said Little Compton. “the State has seceded, and the boys are celebrating.”
“I know’d it,” cried the old man angrily. “My min’ tole me so.” Then he turned and looked at the flags flying from the top of the court-house. “Is them rags the things they er gwine to fly out’n the Union with?” he exclaimed scornfully. “Why, bless your soul an’ body, hit’ll take bigger wings than them! Well, sir, I’m sick; I am that away. I wuz born in the Union, an’ I’d like mighty well to die thar. Ain’t it mine? ain’t it our’n? Jess as shore as you’re born, thar’s trouble ahead – big trouble. You’re from the North, ain’t you?” Uncle Abner asked, looking curiously at Little Compton.
“Yes, sir, I am,” Compton replied; “that is, I am from New Jersey, but they say New Jersey is out of the Union.”
Uncle Abner did not respond to Compton’s smile. He continued to gaze at him significantly.
“Well,” the old man remarked somewhat bluntly, “you better go back where you come from. You ain’t got nothin’ in the roun’ worl’ to do with all this hellabaloo. When the pinch comes, as come it must, I’m jes gwine to swap a nigger for a sack er flour an’ settle down; but you had better go back where you come from.”
Little Compton knew the old man was friendly; but his words, so solemnly and significantly uttered, made a deep impression. The words recalled to Compton’s mind the spectacle of the man from Vermont who had been paraded through the streets of Hillsborough, with his face blackened and a placard on his back. The little Jerseyman also recalled other incidents, some of them trifling enough, but all of them together going to show the hot temper of the people around him; and for a day or two he brooded rather seriously over the situation. He knew that the times were critical.
For several weeks the excitement in Hillsborough, as elsewhere in the South, continued to run high. The blood of the people was at fever heat. The air was full of the portents and premonitions of war. Drums were beating, flags were flying, and military companies were parading. Jack Walthall had raised a company, and it had gone into camp in an old field near the town. The tents shone snowy white in the sun, the uniforms of the men were bright and gay, and the boys thought this was war. But, instead of that, they were merely enjoying a holiday. The ladies of the town sent them wagon-loads of provisions every day, and the occasion was a veritable picnic, – a picnic that some of the young men remembered a year or two later when they were trudging ragged, barefooted, and hungry, through the snow and slush of a Virginian winter.
But, with all their drilling and parading in the peaceful camp at Hillsborough, the young men had many idle hours, and they devoted these to various forms of amusements. On one occasion, after they had exhausted their ingenuity in search of entertainment, one of them, Lieut. Buck Ransome, suggested that it might be interesting to get up a joke on Little Compton.
“But how?” asked Lieut. Cozart.
“Why, the easiest in the world,” said Lieut. Ransome. “Write him a note, and tell him that the time has come for an English-speaking people to take sides, and fling in a kind of side-wiper about New Jersey.”
Capt. Jack Walthall, leaning comfortably against a huge box that was supposed to bear some relation to a camp-chest, blew a cloud of smoke through his sensitive nostrils and laughed. “Why stuff, boys!” he exclaimed somewhat impatiently, “you can’t scare Little Compton. He’s got grit, and it’s the right kind of grit. Why, I’ll tell you what’s a fact, – the sand in that man’s gizzard would make enough mortar to build a fort.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Lieut. Ransome. “We’ll sling him a line or two, and if it don’t stir him up, all right; but if it does, we’ll have some tall fun.”
Whereupon, Lieut. Ransome fished around in the chest, and drew forth pen and ink and paper. With some aid from his brother officers he managed to compose the following: –
“LITTLE MR. COMPTON. Dear Sir, -The time has arrived when every man should show his colors. Those who are not for us are against us. Your best friends, when asked where you stand, do not know what to say. If you are for the North in this struggle, your place is at the North. If you are for the South, your place is with those who are preparing to defend the rights and liberties of the South. A word to the wise is sufficient. You will hear from me again in due time.
