Read Ebook: Gabriel Tolliver: A Story of Reconstruction by Harris Joel Chandler

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Ebook has 1936 lines and 116753 words, and 39 pages

These children had their critics, as may well be supposed, especially Nan, who did not always conform to the rules and theories which have been set up for the guidance of girls; but Uncle Plato, along with Gabriel and Cephas, accepted her as she was, with all her faults, and took as much delight in her tricksy and capricious behaviour, as if he were responsible for it all. She and her companions furnished Uncle Plato with what all story-tellers have most desired since hairy man began to shave himself with pumice-stone, and squat around a common hearth--a faithful and believing audience. Uncle AEsop, it may be, cared less for his audience than for the opportunity of lugging in a dismal and perfunctory moral. Uncle Plato, like Uncle Remus, concealed his behind text and adventure, conveying it none the less completely on that account. Not one of his vagaries was too wild for the acceptance of his small audience, and the elusiveness of his methods was a perpetual delight to Nan, as hers was to Uncle Plato, though he sometimes shook his head, and pretended to sigh over her innocent evasions.

Once when we were all riding back and forth from the Clopton Place to Shady Dale, Nan asked Uncle Plato if he could spell.

"Tooby sho I kin, honey. What you reckon I been doin' all deze long-come-shorts ef I dunner how ter spell? How you speck I kin git 'long, haulin' an' maulin', ef I dunner how ter spell? Why, I could spell long 'fo' I know'd my own name."

"Long-come-shorts, what are they?" asked Nan.

"Rainy days an' windy nights," responded Uncle Plato, throwing his head back, and closing his eyes.

"Let's hear you spell, then," said Nan.

"Dee-o-egg, dog," was the prompt response. Nan looked at Uncle Plato to see if he was joking, but he was solemnity itself. "E-double-egg, egg!" he continued.

"Now spell John A. Murrell," said Nan. Murrell, the land pirate, was one of her favourite heroes at this time.

Uncle Plato pretended to be very much shocked. "Why, honey, dat man wuz rank pizen. En spozen he wa'nt, how you speck me ter spell sump'n er somebody which I ain't never laid eyes on? How I gwineter spell Johnny Murrell, an' him done dead dis many a long year ago?"

"Well, spell goose, then," said Nan, seeing a flock of geese marching stiffly in single file across a field near the road.

Uncle Plato looked at them carefully enough to take their measure, and then shook his head solemnly. "Deyer so many un um, honey, dey'd be monstus hard fer ter spell."

"Well, just spell one of them then," Nan suggested.

"Which un, honey?"

"Any one you choose."

Uncle Plato studied over the matter a moment, and again shook his head. "Uh-uh, honey; dat ain't nigh gwine ter do. Ef you speck me fer ter spell goose, you got ter pick out de one you want me ter spell."

"Well, spell the one behind all the rest."

Again Uncle Plato shook his head. "Dat ar goose got half-grown goslin's, an' I ain't never larnt how ter spell goose wid half-grown goslin's. You ax too much, honey."

"Then spell the one next to head." Nan was inexorable.

"Dat ar ain't no goose," replied Uncle Plato, with an air of triumph; "she's a gander."

"I don't believe you know how to spell goose," said Nan, with something like scorn.

"Don't you fool yo'se'f, honey," remarked Uncle Plato in a tone of confidence. "You git me a great big fat un, not too ol', an' not too young, an' fill 'er full er stuffin', an' bake 'er brown in de big oven, an' save all de drippin's, an' put 'er on de table not fur fum whar I mought be settin' at, an' gi' me a pone er corn bread, an' don't have no talkin' an' laughin' in de game--an' ef I don't spell dat goose, I'll come mighty nigh it, I sholy will. Ef I don't spell 'er, dey won't be nuff lef' fer de nex' man ter spell. You kin 'pen' on dat, honey."

Nan suddenly called Uncle Plato's attention to the carriage horses, which were hitched to the waggon. She said she knew their names well enough when they were pulling the carriage, but now--

"Haven't you changed the horses, Uncle Plato?" she asked.

"How I gwine change um, honey?"

"I mean, haven't you changed their places?"

"No, ma'am!" he answered with considerable emphasis. "No, ma'am; ef I wuz ter put dat off hoss in de lead, you'd see some mighty high kickin'; you sho would."

"Oh, let's try it!" cried Nan, with real eagerness.

"Dem may try it what choosen ter try it," responded Uncle Plato, dryly, "but I'll ax um fer ter kindly le' me git win' er what deyer gwine ter do, an' den I'll make my 'rangerments fer ter be somers out'n sight an' hearin'."

"Well, if you haven't made the horses swap places," remarked Nan, "I'll bet you a thrip that the right-hand horse is named Waffles, and the left-hand one Battercakes."

At once Uncle Plato became very dignified. "Well-'um, I'm mighty glad fer ter hear you sesso, kaze ef dey's any one thing what I want mo' dan anudder, it's a thrip's wuff er mannyfac terbacker. Ez fer de off hoss, dat's his name--Waffles--you sho called it right. But when it comes ter de lead hoss, anybody on de plantation, er off'n it, I don't keer whar dey live at, ef dey yever so much ez hear er dat lead hoss, will be glad fer ter tell you dat he goes by de name er Muffins." He held out his hand for the thrip.

"Well, what is the difference?" said Nan, drawing back as if to prevent him from taking the thrip.

"De diffunce er what?" inquired Uncle Plato.

"And you expect me to give you money you haven't won," declared Nan. "What's the difference between Battercakes and Muffins? A muffin is a battercake if you pour three big spoonfuls in a pan and spread it out, and a battercake is a muffin if you pen it up in a tin-thing like a napkin ring. Anybody can tell you that, Uncle Plato--yes, anybody."

What reply the old negro would have made to this bit of home-made casuistry will never be known. That it would have been reasonable, if not entirely adequate, may well be supposed, but just as he had given his head a preliminary shake, the rattle of a kettle-drum was heard, and above the rattle a fife was shrilling.

The shrilling fife, and the roll and rattle of the drums! These were sounds somewhat new to Shady Dale in 1860; but presently they were to be heard all over the land.

"I can see dem niggers right now!" exclaimed Uncle Plato, as we hustled out of his waggon. "Riley playin' de fife, Green beatin' on de kittledrum, an' Ike Varner bangin' on de big drum. Ef de white folks pay much 'tention ter dem niggers, dey won't be no livin' in de same county wid um. But dey better not come struttin' 'roun' me!"

The drums were beating the signal for calling together the men whose names had been signed to the roll of a company to be called the Shady Dale Scouts, and the meeting was for the purpose of organizing and electing officers. All this was accomplished in due time; but meanwhile Nan and Gabriel and Cephas, as well as Tasma Tid and all the rest of the children in the town, went tagging after the fife and drums listening to Riley play the beautiful marching tunes that set Nan's blood to tingling. Riley was a master hand with the fife, and we had never known it, had never even suspected it! Nan thought it was very mean in Riley not to tell somebody that he could play so beautifully.

Well, in a very short time, the company was rigged out in the finest uniforms the children had even seen. All the men, even the privates, had plumes in their hats and epaulettes of gold on their shoulders; and on their coats they wore stripes of glowing red, and shiny brass buttons without number. And at least twice a week they marched through the streets and out into the Bermuda fields, where they had their drilling grounds. These were glorious days for the youngsters. Nan was so enthusiastic that she organised a company of little negroes, and insisted on being the captain. Gabriel was the first lieutenant, and Cephas was the second. When the company was ready to take the field, it was discovered that Nan would also have to be orderly sergeant and color-bearer. But she took on herself the duties and responsibilities of these positions without a murmur. She wore a paper hat of the true Napoleonic cut, and carried in one hand her famous sword-gun, and the colors in the other. The oldest private in Nan's company was nine; the youngest was four, and had as much as he could do to keep up with the rest. The uniforms of these sun-seasoned troops was the regulation plantation fatigue dress--a shirt coming to the knees. Two or three of the smaller privates had evidently fallen victims to the pot-liquor and buttermilk habits, for their bellies stuck out black and glistening from rents in their shirts.

Their accoutrements prefigured in an absurd way the resources of the Confederacy at a later date. They were armed with broomsticks, and what-not. The file-leader had an old pair of tongs, which he snapped viciously when Nan gave the word to fire. The famous sword-gun, with which Nan did such execution, had once seen service as an umbrella handle.

One afternoon, as Nan was drilling her troops, she chanced to glance down the road, and saw a waggon coming along. Deploying her company across the highway, she went forward in person to reconnoitre. She soon discovered that the waggon was driven by Uncle Plato. Running back to her veterans, she placed herself in front of them, and calmly awaited events. Slowly the fat horses dragged the waggon along, when suddenly Nan cried "Halt!" whereupon the drummer, obeying previous instructions, began to belabour his tin-pan, while Nan levelled her famous sword-gun at Uncle Plato. "Bang!" she exclaimed, and then, "Why didn't you fall off the waggon?" she cried, as Uncle Plato remained immovable. "Why, you don't know any more about real war than a baby," she said scornfully.

If the truth must be told, Uncle Plato had been dozing, and when he awoke he viewed the scene before him with astonishment. There was no need to cry "Halt!" or exclaim "Bang!" for as soon as the drummer began to beat his tin-pan, the horses stood still and craned their necks forward, with a warning snort, trying to see what this strange and unnatural proceeding meant. Uncle Plato had involuntarily tightened the reins when he was so rudely awakened, and the horses took this for a hint that they must avoid the danger, and, as the shortest way is the best way, they began to back, and had the waggon nearly turned around before Uncle Plato could tell them a different tale.

"Ef I'd 'a' fell out'n de waggon, honey, who gwine ter pick me up?" he asked, laughing.

"Why, no one is picked up in war!"

"Is dis war, honey?"

"Of course it is," Nan declared.

"Does bofe sides hafter take part in de rucus?" asked Uncle Plato, making a terrible face at the little negroes.

"Why, of course," said Nan.

Seeing the scowl, Nan's veteran troops began to edge slowly toward the nearest breach in the fence. Uncle Plato seized his whip and pretended to be clambering from the waggon. At this a panic ensued, and Nan's army dispersed in a jiffy. The seasoned troops dropped their arms and fled. The four-year-old became lost or entangled in a thick growth of jimson weed, seeing which, Uncle Plato cried out in terrible voice, "Ketch um dar! Fetch um here!"

Then and there ensued a wild scene of demoralisation and anarchy; loud shrieks and screams filled the air; the dogs barked, the hens cackled, and the neighbours began to put their heads out of the windows. Mrs. Absalom, who had charge of the Dorrington household, and who had raised Nan from a baby, came to the door--the defeat of the troops occurred right at Nan's own home--crying, "My goodness gracious! has the yeth caved in?" Then, seeing the waggon crosswise the road, and mistaking Nan's shrieks of laughter for cries of pain, she bolted from the house with a white face.

Mrs. Absalom's reactions from her daily alarms about Nan usually resulted in bringing her into open and direct war with everybody in sight or hearing, except the child; but on this occasion, her fright had been so serious that when Nan, somewhat sobered, ran to her the good woman was shaking.

"Why, Nonny!" cried Nan, hugging her, "you are all trembling."

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