By Joel Chandler Harris
This was duly sealed and dropped in the Hillsborough post-office, and Little Compton received it the same afternoon. He smiled as he broke the seal, but ceased to smile when he read the note. It happened to fit a certain vague feeling of uneasiness that possessed him. He laid it down on his desk, walked up and down behind his counter, and then returned and read it again. The sprawling words seemed to possess a fascination for him. He read them again and again, and turned them over and over in his mind. It was characteristic of his simple nature, that he never once attributed the origin of the note to the humor of the young men with whom he was so familiar. He regarded it seriously. Looking up from the note, he could see in the corner of his store the brush and pot that had been used as arguments on the Vermont abolitionist. He vividly recalled the time when that unfortunate person was brought up before the self-constituted tribunal that assembled in his store.
Little Compton thought he had gauged accurately the temper of the people about him; and he had, but his modesty prevented him from accurately gauging, or even thinking about, the impression he had made on them. The note troubled him a good deal more than he would at first confess to himself. He seated himself on a low box behind his counter to think it over, resting his face in his hands. A little boy who wanted to buy a thrip’s worth of candy went slowly out again after trying in vain to attract the attention of the hitherto prompt and friendly store-keeper. Tommy Tinktums, the cat, seeing that his master was sitting- down, came forward with the expectation of being told to perform his famous “bouncing” trick, a feat that was at once the wonder and delight of the youngsters around Hillsborough. But Tommy Tinktums was not commanded to bounce; and so he contented himself with washing his face, pausing every now and then to watch his master with half-closed eyes.
While sitting thus reflecting, it suddenly occurred to Little Compton that he had had very few customers during the past several days; and it seemed to him, as he continued to think the matter over, that the people; especially the young men, had been less cordial lately than they had ever been before. It never occurred to him that the threatened war, and the excitement of the period, occupied their entire attention. He simply remembered that the young men who had made his modest little store their headquarters met there no more. Little Compton sat behind his counter a long time thinking. The sun went down, and the dusk fell, and the night came on and found him there.
After a while he lit a candle, spread the communication out on his desk, and read it again. To his mind, there was no mistaking its meaning. It meant that he must either fight against the Union, or array against himself all the bitter and aggressive suspicion of the period. He sighed heavily, closed his store, and went out into the darkness. He made his way to the residence of Major Jimmy Bass, where Miss Lizzie Fairleigh boarded. The major himself was sitting on the veranda; and he welcomed Little Compton with effusive hospitality, – a hospitality that possessed an old-fashioned flavor.
“I’m mighty glad you come, – yes, sir, I am. It looks like the whole world’s out at the camps, and it makes me feel sorter lonesome. Yes, sir; it does that. If I wasn’t so plump I’d be out there too. It’s a mighty good place to be about this time of the year. I tell you what, sir, them boys is got the devil in ‘em. Yes, sir; there ain’t no two ways about that. When they turn themselves loose, somebody or something will git hurt. Now, you mark what I tell you. It’s a tough lot, – a mighty tough lot. Lord! wouldn’t I hate to be a Yankee, and fall in their hands! I’d be glad if I had time for to say my prayers. Yes, sir; I would that.”
Thus spoke the cheerful Major Bass; and every word he said seemed to rhyme with Little Compton’s own thoughts, and to confirm the fears that had been aroused by the note. After he had listened to the major a while, Little Compton asked for Miss Fairleigh.
“Oho!” said the Major. Then he called to a negro who happened to be passing through the hall, “Jesse, tell Miss Lizzie that Mr. Compton is in the parlor.” Then he turned to Compton. “I tell you what, sir, that gal looks mighty puny. She’s from the North, and I reckon she’s homesick. And then there’s all this talk about war. She knows our boys’ll eat the Yankees plum up, and I don’t blame her for being sorter down-hearted. I wish you’d try to cheer her up. She’s a good gal if there ever was one on the face of the earth.”
Little Compton went into the parlor, where he was presently joined by Miss Fairleigh. They talked a long time together, but what they said no one ever knew. They conversed in low tones; and once or twice the hospitable major, sitting on the veranda, detected himself trying, to hear what they said. He could see them from where he sat, and he observed that both appeared to be profoundly dejected. Not once did they laugh, or, so far as the major could see, even smile. Occasionally Little Compton arose and walked the length of the parlor, but Miss Fairleigh sat with bowed head. It may have been a trick of the lamp, but it seemed to the major that they were both very pale.
Finally Little Compton rose to go. The major observed with a chuckle that he held Miss Fairleigh’s hand a little longer than was strictly necessary under the circumstances. He held it so long, indeed, that Miss Fairleigh half averted her face, but the major noted that she was still pale. “We shall have a wedding, in this house before the war opens,” he thought to himself; and his mind was dwelling on such a contingency when Little Compton came out on the veranda.
“Don’t tear yourself away in the heat of the day,” said Major Bass jocularly.
“I must go,” replied Compton. “Good-by!” He seized the major’s hand and wrung it.
“Good-night,” said the major, “and God bless you!”
The next day was Sunday. But on Monday it was observed that Compton’s store was closed. Nothing was said and little thought of it. People’s minds were busy with other matters. The drums were beating, the flags flying, and the citizen soldiery parading. It was a noisy and an exciting time, and a larger store than Little Compton’s might have remained closed for several days without attracting attention. But one day, when the young men from the camp were in the village, it occurred to them to inquire what effect the anonymous note had had on Little Compton; whereupon they went in a body to his store but the door was closed, and they found it had been closed a week or more. They also discovered that Compton had disappeared.
This had a very peculiar effect upon Capt. Jack Walthall. He took off his uniform, put on his citizen’s clothes, and proceeded to investigate Compton’s disappearance. He sought in vain for a clew. He interested others to such an extent that a great many people in Hillsborough forgot all about the military situation. But there was no trace of Little Compton. His store was entered from a rear window, and every thing found to be intact. Nothing had been removed. The jars of striped candy that had proved so attractive to the youngsters of Hillsborough stood in long rows on the shelves, flanked by the thousand and one notions that make up the stock of a country grocery store. Little Compton’s disappearance was a mysterious one, and under ordinary circumstances would have created intense excitement in the community; but at that particular time the most sensational event would have seemed tame and commonplace alongside the preparations for war.
Owing probably to a lack of the faculty of organization at Richmond, – a lack which, if we are to believe the various historians who have tried to describe and account for some of the results of that period, was the cause of many bitter controversies, and of many disastrous failures in the field, – a month or more passed away before the Hillsborough company received orders to go to the front. Fort Sumter had been fired on, troops from all parts of the South had gathered in Virginia, and the war was beginning in earnest. Capt. Jack Walthall of the Hillsborough Guards chafed at the delay that kept his men resting on their arms, so to speak; but he had ample opportunity, meanwhile, to wonder what had become of Little Compton. In his leisure moments he often found himself sitting on the dry-goods boxes in the neighborhood of Little Compton’s store. Sitting thus one day, he was approached by his body-servant. Jake had his hat in his hand, and showed by his manner that he had something to say. He shuffled around, looked first one way and then another, and scratched his head.
“Marse Jack,” he began.
“Well, what is it?” said the other, somewhat sharply.
“Marse Jack, I hope ter de Lord you ain’t gwine ter git mad wid me; yit I mos’ knows you is, kaze I oughter done tole you a long time ago.”
“You ought to have told me what?”
“Bout my drivin’ yo’ hoss en buggy over ter Rockville dat time, – dat time what I ain’t never tole you ‘bout. But I ‘uz mos’ ‘blige’ ter do it. I ‘low ter myse’f, I did, dat I oughter come tell you right den, but I ‘uz skeer’d you mought git mad, en den you wuz out dar at de camps, ‘long wid dem milliumterry folks.”
“What have you got to tell?”
“Well, Marse Jack, des ‘bout takin’ yo’ hoss en buggy. Marse Compton ‘lowed you wouldn’t keer, en w’en he say dat, I des went en hitch up de hoss en kyar’d ‘im over ter Rockville.”
“What under heaven did you want to go to Rockville for?”
“Who? me, Marse Jack? ‘Twa’n’t me wanter go. Hit ‘uz Marse Compton.”
“Little Compton?” exclaimed Walthall.
“Yes, sir, dat ve’y same man.”
“What did you carry Little Compton to Rockville for?”
“Fo’ de Lord, Marse Jack, I dunno w’at Marsh Compton wanter go fer. I des know’d I ‘uz doin’ wrong, but he tuck’n ‘low’ dat hit’d be all right wid you, kaze you bin knowin’ him so monst’us well. En den he up’n ax me not to tell you twell he done plum out’n yearin’.”
“Didn’t he say any thing? Didn’t he tell you where he was going? Didn’t he send any word back?”
This seemed to remind Jake of something. He clapped his hand to his head, and exclaimed, –
“Well, de Lord he’p my soul! Ef I ain’t de beatenest nigger on de top side er de yeth! Marse Compton gun me a letter, en I tuck’n shove it un’ de buggy seat, en it’s right dar yit ef somebody ain’t tored it up.”
By certain well-known signs Jake knew that his Marse Jack was very mad, and he was hurrying out. But Walthall called him.
“Come here, sir!” The tone made Jake tremble. “Do you stand up there, sir, and tell me all this, and think I am going to put up with it?”
“I’m gwine after dat note, Marse Jack, des ez hard ez ever I kin.”
Jake managed to find the note after some little search, and carried it to Jack Walthall. It was crumpled and soiled. It had evidently seen rough service under the buggy seat. Walthall took it from the negro, turned it over and looked at it. It was sealed, and addressed to Miss Lizzie Fairleigh.
Jack Walthall arrayed himself in his best, and made his way to Major Jimmy Bass’s, where he inquired for Miss Fairleigh. That young lady promptly made her appearance. She was pale and seemed to be troubled. Walthall explained his errand, and handed her the note. He thought her hand trembled, but he may have been mistaken, as he afterward confessed. She read it, and handed it to Capt. Walthall with a vague little smile that would have told him volumes if he had been able to read the feminine mind.
Major Jimmy Bass was a wiser man than Walthall, and he remarked long afterward that he knew by the way the poor girl looked that she was in trouble, and it is not to be denied, at least, it is not to be denied in Hillsborough, where he was known and respected – that Major Bass’s impressions were as important as the average man’s convictions. This is what Capt. Jack Walthall read: –
“DEAR MISS FAIRLEIGH, – When you see this I shall be on my way home. My eyes have recently been opened to the fact that there is to be a war for and against the Union. I have strong friendships here, but I feel that I owe a duty to the old flag. When I bade you good-by last night, it was good-by forever. I had hoped – I had desired – to say more than I did; but perhaps it is better so. Perhaps it is better that I should carry with me a fond dream of what might have been, than to have been told by you that such a dream could never come true. I had intended to give you the highest evidence of my respect and esteem that man can give to woman, but I have been over-ruled by fate or circumstance. I shall love you as long as I live. One thing more: should you ever find yourself in need of the services of a friend, – a friend in whom you may place the most implicit confidence, – send for Mr. Jack Walthall. Say to him that Little Compton commended you to his care and attention, and give him my love.”
Walthall drew a long breath and threw his head back as he finished reading this. Whatever emotion he may have felt, he managed to conceal, but there was a little color in his usually pale face, and his dark eyes shone with a new light.
“This is a very unfortunate mistake,” he exclaimed. “What is to be done?”
Miss Fairleigh smiled.
“There is no mistake, Mr. Walthall,” she replied.
“Mr. Compton is a Northern man, and he has gone to join the Northern army. I think he is right.”
“Well,” said Walthall, “he will do what he thinks is right, but I wish he was here to-night.”
“Oh, so do I!” exclaimed Miss Fairleigh, and then she blushed; seeing which, Mr. Jack Walthall drew his own conclusions.
“If I could get through the lines,” she went on, “I would go home.” Whereupon Walthall offered her all the assistance in his power, and offered to escort her to the Potomac. But before arrangements for the journey could be made, there came the news of the first battle of Manassas, and the conflict was begun in earnest; so earnest, indeed, that it changed the course of a great many lives, and gave even a new direction to American history.
Miss Fairleigh’s friends in Hillsborough would not permit her to risk the journey through the lines; and Capt. Walthall’s company was ordered to the front, where the young men composing it entered headlong into the hurly-burly that goes by the name of war.
There was one little episode growing out of Jack Walthall’s visit to Miss Fairleigh that ought to be told. When that young gentleman bade her good-evening, and passed out of the parlor, Miss Fairleigh placed her hands to her face and fell to weeping, as women will.
Major Bass, sitting on the veranda, had been an interested spectator of the conference in the parlor, but it was in the nature of a pantomine. He could hear nothing that was said, but he could see that Miss Fairleigh and Walthall were both laboring under some strong excitement. When, therefore, he saw Walthall pass hurriedly out, leaving Miss Fairleigh in tears in the parlor, it occurred to him that, as the head of the household and the natural protector of the women under his roof, he was bound to take some action. He called Jesse, the negro house-servant, who was on duty in the dining-room.
“Jess! Jess! Oh, Jess!” There was an insinuating sweetness in his voice, as it echoed through the hall. Jesse, doubtless recognizing the velvety quality of the tone, made his appearance promptly. “Jess,” said the major softly, “I wish you’d please fetch me my shot-gun. Make ‘aste, Jess, and don’t make no furse.”
Jesse went after the shot-gun, and the major waddled into the parlor. He cleared his throat at the door, and Miss Fairleigh looked up.
Miss Lizzie, did Jack Walthall insult you here in my house?”
“Insult me, sir! Why, he’s the noblest gentleman alive.”
The major drew a deep breath of relief, and smiled.
“Well, I’m mighty glad to hear you say so!” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t tell, to save my life, what put it into my mind. Why, I might ‘a’ know’d that Jack Walthall ain’t that kind of a chap. Lord! I reckon I must be getting old and weak-minded. Don’t cry no more, honey. Go right along and go to bed.” As he turned to go out of the parlor, he was confronted by Jesse with the shot-gun. “Oh, go put her up, Jess,” he said apologetically; “go put her up, boy. I wanted to blaze away at a dog out there trying to scratch under the palings; but the dog’s done gone. Go put her up, Jess.”
When Jess carried the gun back, he remarked casually to his mistress, –
“Miss Sa’h, you better keep yo’ eye on Marse Maje. He talkin’ mighty funny, en he doin’ mighty quare.”
Thereafter, for many a long day, the genial major sat in his cool veranda, and thought of Jack Walthall and the boys in Virginia. Sometimes between dozes he would make his way to Perdue’s Corner, and discuss the various campaigns. How many desperate campaigns were fought on that Corner! All the older citizens, who found it convenient or necessary to stay at home, had in them the instinct and emotions of great commanders. They knew how victory could be wrung from defeat, and how success could be made more overwhelming. At Perdue’s Corner, Washington City was taken not less than a dozen times a week, and occasionally both New York and Boston were captured and sacked. Of all the generals who fought their battles at the Corner, Major Jimmy Bass was the most energetic, the most daring, and the most skilful. As a strategist he had no superior. He had a way of illustrating the feasibility of his plans by drawing them in the sand with his cane. Fat as he was, the major had a way of “surroundering” the enemy so that no avenue was left for his escape. At Perdue’s Corner he captured Scott, and McClellan, and Joe Hooker, and John Pope, and held their entire forces as prisoners of war.
In spite of all this, however, the war went on. Sometimes word would come that one of the Hillsborough boys had been shot to death. Now and then one would come home with an arm or a leg missing; so that, before many months had passed, even the generals conducting their campaigns at Perdue’s Corner managed to discover that war was a very serious business.
It happened that one day in July, Capt. Jack Walthall and his men, together with quite an imposing array of comrades, were called upon to breast the sultry thunder of Gettysburg. They bore themselves like men; they went forward with a shout and a rush, facing the deadly slaughter of the guns; they ran up the hill and to the rock wall. With others, Capt. Walthall leaped over the wall. They were met by a murderous fire that mowed down the men like grass. The line in the rear wavered, fell back, and went forward again. Capt. Walthall heard his name called in his front, and then some one cried, “Don’t shoot!” and Little Compton, his face blackened with powder, and his eyes glistening with excitement, rushed into Walthall’s arms. The order not to shoot – if it was an order – came too late. There was another volley. As the Confederates rushed forward, the Federal line retreated a little way, and Walthall found himself surrounded by the small remnant of his men. The Confederates made one more effort to advance, but it was useless. The line was borne back, and finally retreated; but when it went down the slope, Walthall and Lieut. Ransome had Little Compton between them. He was a prisoner. Just how it all happened, no one of the three could describe, but Little Compton was carried into the Confederate lines. He was wounded in the shoulder and in the arm, and the ball that shattered his arm shattered Walthall’s arm.
They were carried to the field hospital, where Walthall insisted that Little Compton’s wounds should be looked after first. The result was, that Walthall lost his left arm and Compton his right; and then, when by some special interposition of Providence they escaped gangrene and other results of imperfect surgery and bad nursing, they went to Richmond, where Walthall’s money and influence secured them comfortable quarters.
Hillsborough had heard of all this in a vague way, – indeed, a rumor of it had been printed in the Rockville “Vade Mecum,” – but the generals and commanders in consultation at Perdue’s Corner were astonished one day when the stage-coach set down at the door of the tavern a tall, one-armed gentleman in gray, and a short, one-armed gentleman in blue.
“By the livin’ Lord!” exclaimed Major Jimmy Bass, “if that ain’t Jack Walthall! And you may put out my two eyes if that ain’t Little Compton! Why, shucks, boys!” he exclaimed, as he waddled across the street, “I’d ‘a’ know’d you anywheres. I’m a little short-sighted, and I’m mighty nigh took off wi’ the dropsy, but I’d ‘a’ know’d you anywheres.”
There were handshakings and congratulations from everybody in the town. The clerks and the merchants deserted their stores to greet the new-comers, and there seemed to be a general jubilee. For weeks Capt. Jack Walthall was compelled to tell his Gettysburg story over and over again, frequently to the same hearers; and, curiously enough, there was never a murmur of dissent when he told how Little Compton had insisted on wearing his Federal uniform.
“Greet Jiminy Craminy!” Major Jimmy Bass would exclaim; “don’t we all know Little Compton like a book? And ain’t he got a right to wear his own duds?”
Rockville, like every other railroad town in the South at that period, had become the site of a Confederate hospital; and sometimes the hangers-on and convalescents paid brief visits of inspection to the neighboring villages. On one occasion a little squad of them made their appearance on the streets of Hillsborough, and made a good-natured attempt to fraternize with the honest citizens who gathered daily at Perdue s Corner. While they were thus engaged, Little Compton, arrayed in his blue uniform, passed down the street. The visitors made some inquiries, and Major Bass gave them a very sympathetic history of Little Compton. Evidently they failed to appreciate the situation; for one of them, a tall Mississippian, stretched himself and remarked to his companions, –
“Boys, when we go, we’ll just about lift that feller and take him along. He belongs in Andersonville, that’s where he belongs.”
Major Bass looked at the tall Mississippian and smiled.
“I reckon you must ‘a’ been mighty sick over yander,” said the major, indicating Rockville.
“Well, yes,” said the Mississippian; “I’ve had a pretty tough time.”
“And you ain’t strong yet,” the major went on.
“Well, I’m able to get about right lively,” said the other.
“Strong enough to go to war?”
“Oh, well, not – not just yet.”
“Well, then,” said the major in his bluntest tone, “you better be mighty keerful of yourself in this town. If you ain’t strong enough to go to war, you better let Little Compton alone.”
The tall Mississippian and his friends took the hint, and Little Cornpton continued to wear his blue uniform unmolested. About this time Atlanta fell; and there were vague rumors in the air, chiefly among the negroes, that Sherman’s army would march down and capture Hillsborough, which, by the assembly of generals at Perdue’s Corner, was regarded as a strategic point. These vague rumors proved to be correct; and by the time the first frosts fell, Perdue’s Corner had reason to believe that Gen. Sherman was marching down on Hillsborough. Dire rumors of fire, rapine, and pillage preceded the approach of the Federal army, and it may well be supposed that these rumors spread consternation in the air. Major Bass professed to believe that Gen. Sherman would be “surroundered” and captured before his troops reached Middle Georgia; but the three columns, miles apart, continued their march unopposed.
It was observed that during this period of doubt, anxiety, and terror, Little Compton was on the alert. He appeared to be nervous and restless. His conduct was so peculiar that some of the more suspicious citizens of the region predicted that he had been playing the part of a spy, and that he was merely waiting for the advent of Sherman’s army in order to point out where his acquaintances had concealed their treasures.
One fine morning a company of Federal troopers rode into Hillsborough. They were met by Little Compton who had borrowed one of Jack Walthall’s horses for just such an occasion. The cavalcade paused in the public square, and, after a somewhat prolonged consultation with Little Compton, rode on in the direction of Rockville. During the day small parties of foragers made their appearance. Little Compton had some trouble with these; but, by hurrying hither and thither, he managed to prevent any depredations. He even succeeded in convincing the majority of them that they owed some sort of respect to that small town. There was one obstinate fellow, however, who seemed determined to prosecute his search for valuables. He was a German who evidently did not understand English.
In the confusion Little Compton lost sight of the German, though he had determined to keep an eye on him. It was not long before he heard of him again; for one of the Walthall negroes came running across the public square, showing by voice and gesture that he was very much alarmed.
“Marse Compton! Marse Compton!” he cried, “you better run up ter Marse Jack’s, kaze one er dem mens is gwine in dar whar ole Miss is, en ef he do dat he gwine ter git hurted!”
Little Compton hurried to the Walthall place, and he was just in time to see Jack rushing the German down the wide flight of steps that led to the veranda. What might have happened, no one can say; what did happen may be briefly told. The German, his face inflamed with passion, had seized his gun, which had been left outside, and was aiming at Jack Walthall, who stood on the steps, cool and erect. An exclamation of mingled horror and indignation from Little Compton attracted the German’s attention, and caused him to turn his head. This delay probably saved Jack Walthall’s life; for the German, thinking that a comrade was coming to his aid, levelled his gun again and fired. But Little Compton had seized the weapon near the muzzle and wrested it around. The bullet, instead of reaching its target, tore its way through Compton’s empty sleeve. In another instant the German was covered by Compton’s revolver. The hand that held it was steady, and the eyes that glanced along its shining barrel fairly blazed. The German dropped his gun. All trace of passion disappeared from his face; and presently seeing that the crisis had passed, so far as he was concerned, he wheeled in his tracks, gravely saluted Little Compton, and made off at a double-quick.
“You musn’t think hard of the boys, Jack, on account of that chap. They understand the whole business, and they are going to take care of this town.”
And they did. The army came marching along presently, and the stragglers found Hillsborough patrolled by a detachment of cavalry. Walthall and Little Compton stood on the wide steps, and reviewed this imposing array as it passed before them. The tall Confederate, in his uniform of gray, rested his one hand affectionately on the shoulder of the stout little man in blue, and on the bosom of each was pinned an empty sleeve. Unconsciously, they made an impressive picture. The Commander, grim, gray, and resolute, observed it with sparkling eyes. The spectacle was so unusual – so utterly opposed to the logic of events – that he stopped with his staff long enough to hear Little Compton tell his story. He was a grizzled, aggressive man, this Commander, but his face lighted up wonderfully at the recital.
“Well, you know this sort of thing doesn’t end the war, boys,” he said, as he shook hands with Walthall and Little Compton; “but I shall sleep better to-night.”
Perhaps he did. Perhaps he dreamed that what he had seen and heard was prophetic of the days to come, when peace and fraternity should seize upon the land, and bring unity, happiness, and prosperity to the people.
