The Bondwoman

The doctors were correct as to the beneficial results of the home coming of Loring. It acted like a tonic and the thought of outwitting the Yankees of that blockade pleased him immensely. He never gave a thought to the girl who watched with pale face and sleepless eyes through that dash for the shore. Delaven mentally called him a selfish brute.

The visit of Judge Clarkson was partially an affair of business, but after a private interview with Delaven he decided to dismiss all idea of business settlements until later. Nothing of an annoying or irritating nature must be broached to the convalescent just yet.

The Judge confessed that it was an affair over which Mr. Loring had been deeply chagrined–a clear loss of a large sum of money, and perhaps it would be safer, under the circumstances, to await Col. McVeigh’s return. Col. McVeigh was equally interested, and neither he nor the Judge would consent to risk an attack similar to that experienced by Mr. Loring during the bombardment of Port Royal entrance. He was at that time on his Beaufort plantation, where the blue coats overran his place after they landed, and it was known to have been nothing else than a fit of rage at their victory, and rage at the planters who fled on all sides of him, which finally ended in the prostration for which the local physicians could find no remedy. Then it was that Gertrude took him abroad, with the result described. It was understood the prostration had taught him one useful lesson–he no longer cultivated the rages for which he had been locally famous. As he was unable to stamp and roar, he compromised on sneers and caustic retorts, from which he appeared to derive an amount of satisfaction tonical in its effects.

The Judge was giving Delaven the details of the Beaufort affair when Ben wheeled his master into the room. There was an awkward pause, a slight embarrassment, but he had caught the words “Port Royal entrance,” and comprehended.

“Huh! Talking over that disaster, Judge?” he remarked. “I tell you what it is, you can’t convey to a foreigner anything of the feeling of the South over those misfortunes; to have Sherman’s tramps go rough-shod over your lawns and rest themselves with braggadocio at your tables–the most infernal riff-raff–”

“One moment,” interposed the Judge, blandly, with a view to check the unpleasant reminiscences. “Did I not hear you actually praise one of those Yankees?–in fact, assert that he was a very fine fellow?”

“Yes, yes; I had forgotten him. A Yankee captain; ordered the blue-coats to the right-about when he found there was only a sick man and a girl there; and more than that, so long as those scavengers were ashore and parading around Beaufort he kept men stationed at my gates for safeguard duty. A fine fellow, for a Yankee. I can only account for it by the fact that he was a West Point graduate, and was thus thrown, to a certain extent, into the society and under the influences of our own men. Kenneth, Col. McVeigh, had known Monroe there–his name was Monroe–Captain John Monroe–at Beaufort his own men called him Captain Jack.”

“Just as she was stepping on ship board:‘Your name I’d like to know?’And with a smile she answered him,‘My name is Jack Monroe!’”

sang a fresh voice outside the window, and then the curtain was pushed aside and Evilena’s brown head appeared.

“I really could not help that, Mr. Loring,” she said, laughingly. “The temptation was too great. Did you never whistle ‘Jack Monroe’ when you were a boy?”

“No, I can’t say I ever did,” he replied, testily.

“It’s intensely interesting,” she continued, seating herself on the window sill and regarding him with smiling interest, made bold by the presence of her champion, the Judge. “Aunt Sajane taught it to me, an old, old sailor song. It’s all about her sweetheart, Jack, not Aunt Sajane’s sweetheart, but the girl’s. Her wealthy relatives separate them by banishing him to the wars somewhere, and she dressed up in boy’s clothes to follow him.

“‘She went unto a tailorAnd dressed in men’s array,And thence unto a sailorAnd paid her fare away.’”

recited Evilena, with uplifted finger punctuating the sentences. “Wasn’t she brave? Well, she found him, and they were married. There are seven verses of it.”

“I–I should think that quite enough,” he remarked, dropping his head forward and looking at her from under the overhanging brows. “Do you mean to sing them all to me?”

“Perhaps, some day,” she promised, showing all her teeth and dropping the curtain.

“So now this couple’s married,Despite their bitter foe,And she’s back again in EnglandWith her darling, Jack Monroe.”

The two visitors laughed outright as this information was wafted to them from the veranda, the old song growing more faint as the singer circled the house in search of Gertrude.

“A true daughter of the South, Dr. Delaven,” said the Judge, with a tender cadence betraying how close to his heart was his pride in all Southern excellence–“child and woman in one, sir–a charming combination.”

“Right you are, Judge, in that; may their numbers never be less.”

Evilena had found Gertrude and at once confessed her daring.

“Don’t know how I ever did have courage to pop my head in there. Aunt Sajane–but he talked of Jack Monroe just as I passed the window, and I pretended I thought he meant the old song (I do wonder if he ever–ever sang or whistled?) Then I told him what it was all about, and promised to sing it to him some day, and I know by the sort of smile he had that he wanted to order me out of the room as he used to when I was little.”

“Lena, Lena!” and Gertrude shook her head admonishingly at the girl, though she smiled at the recital.

“Oh, you are an angel, Gertrude; so you never have temptations to do things for pure mischief. But I wish you’d tell me who this Jack Monroe is.”

“A Federal officer who was of service to us when Beaufort was taken.”

“A Yankee!”–and her horror was absolute. “Well, I should not think you’d accept service from such a person.”

“Honey!” said Aunt Sajane, in mild chiding.

“We had no choice,” said Gertrude, quietly; “afterwards we learned he and Kenneth had been friends at West Point; so he was really a gentleman.”

“And in the Yankee Army?” queried the irrepressible. “Good-bye, Jack Monroe, I shan’t sing you again.”

“You might be faithful to one verse for Gertrude’s sake,” ventured Aunt Sajane.

“Gertrude’s sake?”

“Why, yes; he protected them from the intrusion of the Yankees.”

“Oh–h! Aunt Sajane, I really thought you were going to ferret out a romance–a Romeo and Juliet affair–their families at war, and themselves–”

“Evilena!”

“When Gertrude says ‘Evilena’ in that tone I know it is time to stop,” said the girl, letting go the kitten she was patting, and putting her arm around Gertrude. “You dear, sensible Gertrude, don’t mind one word I say; of course I did not mean it. Just as if we did not have enough Romeos in our own army to go around.”

The significant glance accompanying her words made Gertrude look slightly conscious.

“You are a wildly romantic child,” she said, smoothing the chestnut tinted waves of the girl’s hair, “and pray, tell us how many of our military Romeos are singing ‘Sweet Evilena,’ and wearing your colors?”

Dr. Delaven passed along the hall in time to hear this bantering query, and came opposite the door when this true daughter of the South was counting all the fingers of one pretty hand.

“Just make it a half dozen,” he suggested, “for I’m wearing yet the sunflower you gave me,” and he pointed to the large daisy in his buttonhole.

“No, I’m always honest with Gertrude, and she must have the true number. We are talking of military men, and all others are barred out.”

“So you informed me the first day of our acquaintance,” he assented, arranging the daisy more to his liking.

“And I’ve never forgiven you for that first day,” she retorted, nodding her head in a way suggestive of some dire punishment waiting for him in the future. “It was dreadful, the way he led me on to say things, Aunt Sajane, for how was I to guess he was the doctor? I was expecting a man like–well, like Dr. Allison, only more so; very learned, very severe, with eye glasses through which he would examine us as though we were new specimens discovered in the wilds of America. I certainly did not expect to find a frivolous person who wore daisies, and–oh!” as she caught a glimpse of some one coming up the path from the landing–“there comes Nelse. Gertrude, can’t I have him in here?”

“May I ask if Nelse is one of the five distinguished by your colors?” asked Delaven.

“Nelse is distinguished by his own colors, which is a fine mahogany, and he is the most interesting old reprobate in Carolina–a wizard, if you please–a sure enough voodoo doctor, and the black historian of the Salkahatchie. May I call him?”

“I really do not think uncle likes to have him around,” said Gertrude, dubiously; “still–oh, yes, call him if you like. Don’t let him tire you with his stories; and keep him out of uncle’s way. He would be sure to tell him about those late runaways.”

“I promise to stand guard in that case myself, Miss Loring; for I have a prejudice against allowing witch-doctors access to my patients.”

Mrs. Nesbitt arose as if to follow Gertrude from the room, hesitated, and resumed her chair.

“When I was a girl we young folks were all half afraid of Nelse–not that he ever harmed any one,” she confessed. “The colored folks said he was a wizard, but I never did give credit to that.”

“Aunt Chloe, she says he is!”

“Oh, yes; and Aunt Chloe sees ghosts, and talks with goblins, to hear her tell the story; but that old humbug is just as much afraid of a mouse as–as I am.”

“Nelse is a free nigger,” explained Evilena, turning from the window after having motioned him to enter. “He was made free by his old master, Marmaduke Loring, and the old rascal–I mean Nelse, bought himself a wife, paid for her out of his jockey earnings, and when she proved a disappointment what do you think he did?”

Delaven could not get beyond a guess, as the subject of her discourse had just then appeared in the door.

He was a small, black man, quite old, but with a curious attempt at jauntiness, as he made his three bows with his one hand on his breast, the other holding his cane and a jockey cap of ancient fashion. It contrasted oddly with the swallow-tailed coat he wore, which had evidently been made for a much larger man; the sleeves came to his finger tips, and the tails touched his heels. The cloth of which it was made was very fine dark blue, with buttons of brass. His waistcoat of maroon brocade came half way to his knees. Warm as the day was he wore a broad tie of plaid silk arranged in a bow, above which a white muslin collar rose to his ears. He was evidently an ancient beau of the plantations in court dress.

“Yo’ servant, Miss Sajane, Miss Lena; yo’ servant, Mahstah,” he said with a bow to each. “I done come pay my respects to the family what got back. I’m powerful glad to heah they got safe ovah that ocean.”

“Oh, yes; you’re very thankful when you wait two whole weeks before you come around to say ‘howdy.’ Have you moved so far into the swamp you can’t even hear when the family comes home? Sit down, you’re tired likely. Tell us all the news from your alligator pasture.”

“My king! Miss Lena, you jest the same tant’lizin’ little lady. Yo’ growen’ up don’t make you outgrow nothen’ but yo’ clothes. My ’gatah pasture? I show yo’ my little patch some o’ these days–show yo’ what kind ’gatahs pasture theah; why, why, I got ’nigh as many hogs as Mahs Matt has niggahs these days.”

“Yes, and he hasn’t so many as he did have,” remarked Mrs. Nesbitt, significantly. “You know anything about where Scip and Aleck are gone?”

“Who–me? Miss Sajane? You think I keep time on all the runaway boys these days? They too many for me. It sutenly do beat all how they scatter. Yo’ all hear tell how one o’ Cynthy’s boys done run away, too? Suah as I tell you–that second boy, Steve! Ole Mahs Masterson got him dogs out fo’ him–tain’t no use; nevah touched the track once. He’ll nevah stop runnen’ till he reach the Nawth an’ freeze to death. I alles tole Cynthy that Steve boy a bawn fool.”

“Do you mean your son Steve, or your grandson?” queried Mrs. Nesbitt.

“No’m, ’taint little Steve; his mammy got too much sense to let him go; but that gal, Cynthy–humph!” and his disdain of her perceptive powers was very apparent.

“But, Uncle Nelse, just remember Aunt Cynthy must be upwards of seventy. Steve is fifty if he is a day. How do you suppose she could control him, even if she knew of his intention, which is doubtful.”

“She nevah would trounce that rascal, even in his youngest days,” asserted Nelse, earnestly; “and as the ’bush is bent the tree’s declined.’ I use to kote that scripper to her many’s the day, but how much good it do to plant cotton seed on stony groun’ or sow rice on the high lan’? Jes’ that much good scripper words done Cynthy, an’ no more.”

His tone betrayed a sorrowful but impersonal regret over the refractory Cynthia, and their joint offspring. Evilena laughed.

“Where did you get so well acquainted with the scripture, Nelse?” she asked. “I know you never did learn it from your beloved old Mahs Duke Loring. I want you to tell this gentleman all about the old racing days. This is Dr. Delaven (Nelse made a profound bow). He has seen great races abroad and hunted foxes in Ireland. I want you to tell him of the bear hunts, and the horses you used to ride, and how you rode for freedom. The race was so important, Dr. Delaven, that Marmaduke Loring promised Nelse his freedom if he won it, and he had been offered three thousand, five hundred dollars for Nelse, more than once.”

“Nevah was worth as much to myself as I was to Mahs Duke,” said Nelse, shaking his head. “I tell yo’ true, freedom was a sure enough hoodoo, far as I was concerned; nevah seemed to get so much out o’ the horses after I was my own man; nevah seemed to see so much money as I owned befo’, an’ every plum thing I ’vested in was a failure from the start; there was that gal o’ Mahs Masterson’s–that there Cynthy–”

The old man’s garrulity was checked by the noiseless entrance of Margeret. He gave a distinct start as he saw her.

“I–I s’lute yo’, Miss Retta,” he said, sweeping his cap along the floor and bowing from where he sat. She glanced at him, bent her head slightly in acknowledgment, but did not address him.

“Miss Loring asks to see you in the dining room, Mistress Nesbitt,” she said softly; then drawing a blind where the sun was too glaring, and opening another that the breeze might be more apparent, she passed silently out.

The old man never spoke until she disappeared.

“My king!–she get mo’ ghost-like every yeah, that Retta,” he said, while Evilena gathered up the ball of stocking yard and wound it for Mrs. Nesbitt; “only the eyes o’ that woman would tell a body who she is, these days; seems like the very shape o’ her face been changed sence she–”

“Nelse,” said Mrs. Nesbitt, a trifle sharply, “whatever you do you are not to let Mr. Loring know about those runaways; maybe you better keep out of his sight altogether this visit, for he’s sure to ask questions about everything, and the doctor’s orders are that he is not to see folks or have any business talks–you understand? and nothing ever does excite him so much as a runaway.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Sajane, I un’stan’; I’ll keep out. Hearen’ how things was I jes’ come down to see if Miss Gertrude needs any mo’ help looken’ after them field niggahs. They nevah run away from me.”

“Well”–and she halted doubtfully at the door–“I’ll tell her. And if you want Dr. Delaven to hear about the old racing days, honey, hadn’t you better take him into the library where the portraits are? I’m a trifle uneasy lest Mr. Loring should take a notion to come in here. Since he’s commenced to walk a little he is likely to appear anywhere but in the library. He never does seem to like the library corner.”

Delaven glanced at the library walls as the three advanced thereto–walls paneled in natural cedar, and hung with large gilt frames here and there between the cases of books. “I should think any man would like a room like this,” he remarked, “especially when it holds one’s own family portraits. There is a picture most attractive–a fine make of a man.”

“That Mahs Tom Loring, Miss Gertrude’s father,” explained Nelse. “Jest as fine as he looks theah, Mahs Tom was, and ride!–king in heaven! but he could ride. ’Taint but a little while back since he was killed, twenty yeahs maybe–no, eighteen yeahs come Christmas. He was followen’ the houn’s, close on, when his horse went down an’ Mahs Tom picked up dead, his naik broke. His wife, Miss Leo Masterson, she was, she died some yeahs befo’, when Miss Gertrude jest a little missy. So they carried him home from Larue plantation–that wheah he get killed–an’ bury him back yonder beside her,” and he pointed to a group of pines across the field to the north; “so, after that–”

“Oh, Nelse, tell about live things–not dead ones,” suggested Evilena, “tell about the races and your Mahs Duke, how he used to go horseback all the way to Virginia, to the races, and even to Philadelphia, and how all the planters gathered for hundreds of miles, some of the old ones wearing small clothes and buckled shoes, and how–”

“Seems like you done mind them things so well ’taint no use tryen’ to rake up the buried reck’lections o’ the pas’ times,” said the old man, rebukingly, and with a certain pomposity. “I reckon now you ’member all the high quality gentlemen. The New Market Jockey Club, an’ how they use to meet reg’lar as clock-work the second Tuesday in May and October; an’ how my Mahs Duke, with all the fine ruffles down his shirt front, an’ his proud walk, an’ his voice soft as music, an’ his grip hard as steel, was the kingpin o’ all the sports–the grandest gentleman out o’ Calliny, an’ carried his head high as a king ovah all Jerusalem–I reckon you done mind all that theah, Miss Lena.”

“I will, next time,” laughed the girl, “go on, Nelse, we would rather hear what you remember.”

“I don’t reckon the names o’ the ole time sportin’ gentlemen, an’ old time jockeys, an’ old time stock, would count much with a gentleman from foreign lan’s,” said the old man, with a deprecating bow to Delaven. “But my Mahs Duke Loring nevah had less than six horses in trainen’ at once. I was stable-boy, an’ jes’ trained up with the colts till Mahs Duke saw I could ride. I sartainly had luck with racin’ stock, seein’ which he gave me clean charge o’ the whole racin’ stable; ’sides which, keepen’ my weight down to eighty pounds let me in for the jockey work–them was days. I was sent ovah into Kaintucky, an’ up Nawth far as Long Island, to ride races fo’ otha gentlemen–friends o’ Mahs Duke’s, an’ every big race I run put nigh onto a hundred dollar plump into my own pocket. Money?–my king! I couldn’t see cleah how I evah could spend all the money I got them days, cause I didn’t have to spend a cent fo’ clothes or feed, an’ I had mo’ presents give to me by the quality folks what I trained horses fer than I could count or reck’lect.

“The ride Miss Lena done tole yo’ of–that happen the yeah Mahs Duke imported Lawd Chester, half brother to Bonnie Bell, that won the sweepstakes at Petersburg, an’ sire o’ Glenalven out o’ Lady Clare, who was owned by Mahs Hampton ovah in Kaintucky. Well, sah, the yeah he imported Chester was the yeah he an’ Mr. Enos Jackson had the set-to ’bout their two-yeah-olds–leastwise the colts seemed to be the cause; but I don’t mind tellen’, now, that I nevah did take stock in that notion, my own self. Women folks get mixed up even in race fights an’ I mind one o’ the han’some high steppers o’ Philadelphia way down theah that time, an’ Mistah Jackson he got a notion his chances mighty good, till long come Mahs Duke an’ glance out corner of his eye, make some fine speeches, an’–farwell, Mistah Jackson! Mistah Jackson wa’nt jes’ what you’d call the highest quality, though he did own powerful stretches o’ lan’–three plantations in Nawth Calliny, ’sides lots o’ other property. He had a colt called Darker he ’lowed nothen’ could keep in sight of, an’ he was good stuff–that colt. Mistah Jackson would a had easy riden’ fo’ the stakes if me an’ Mahs Duke hadn’t fetch Betty Pride up to show ’em what we could do. Well, the upshot of it was that part on account o’ that Nawthen flirtatious young pusson what liked Mahs Duke the best, an’ part on account o’ Betty Pride, Mistah Jackson act mighty mischievous-like, an’ twenty minutes afo’ time was called I ’scovered that boy, Jim Peters, what was to ride Betty Pride, had been drugged–jest a trifle, not enough to leave him stupid–but too much to leave him ride, bright as he need be that day. He said Mistah Jackson’s stable boss had give him a swallow o’ apple jack, an’ king heaven!–but Mahs Duke turn white mad when I tole him. He say to Jim’s brother Mose–Mose was his body servant–‘Moses, fetch me my pistols,’ jest quiet like that; ‘Moses, fetch me my pistols.’ Whew!–but I was scared, an’ I says, ‘No, sah,’ I says, ‘Mahs Duke, fo’ heaven’s sake, don’t stop the race, an’ I’ll win it fo’ you yet. Mistah Jackson betten nigh bout all he own on Darker; get yo’ frien’s to take all bets fo’ you, an’ egg him on. Betty Pride ain’t been tampered with!–take my word fo’ it, she’ll win even with my extra weight–now, Mahs Duke, fo’ God’s sake,’ says I, ‘go out theah an’ fool them rascals; don’t let on you know ’bout their trick; take all theah bets, an’ trust me. I trained that colt, an’ we’ll win, Mahs Duke–if we don’t–well, sah, you can jest use them pistols on me.’ I mos’ got down on my knees a’ beggen’ him, an’ his blue eyes, like steel, measuren’ me an’ weighen’ my words, then he said: ‘I’ll risk it, Nelse, but–heaven help yo’ if yo’ fail me!’

“I knew good enough I’d need some powerful help if I come in second, fo’ he had a monstrous temper, but kindest man you evah met when things went his way. Well, jest as I was jumpen’ into my clothes, an’ Mahs Duke had started to the ring, I called out, half joken: ‘Oh, Mahs Duke, I’m a dead niggah if I come in second, but what yo’ gwine to give me if I come in first?’

“He turned at that an’ said, sharp an’ quick an’ decided–‘Yo’ freedom, Nelse.’ My king!–that made me shaky, I could scarce get into my clothes. I knew he been offered big money fo’ me, many’s the time, an’ now I was gwine to get it all my own self.

“Mahs Duke done jes’ like I begged him–kep’ steady an’ cool an’ take up all Mistah Jackson’s bets, and he was jest betten wild till he saw who was on Betty Pride, an’ I heah tell he come a nigh fainten’ when he got sight o’ me; but Mahs Duke’s look at ’im must a jes’ propped him up an’ sort o’ fo’ced him to brave it out till we come aroun’. It was a sweepstakes an’ repeat, an’ Betty Pride come in eighteen inches ahead, an’ that Nawthen lady what conjure Mistah Jackson so, she fastened roses in Betty Pride’s bridle, an’ gave me a whole bouquet–with one eye on Mahs Duke all the time, of course, but Lordy!–he wan’t thinken’ much about ladies jes’ that minute. He won ovah thousand dollars in money, ’sides two plantations off Mistah Jackson, who nevah dared enter the jockey club aftah that day. An’ Mahs Duke was good as his word ’bout the freedom–he give it to me right theah; that’s my Mahs Duke.”

“And a fine sort of a man he was, then,” commented Delaven, looking more closely at the strong, fine pictured face, and the bushy, leonine shock of tawny hair and the eyes that smiled down with a twinkle of humor in their blue depths. There was a slight likeness to Matthew Loring in the heavy brows and square chin, but the smile of the father was genial–that of the son, sardonic.

“Yes, sah,” agreed Nelse, when comment was made upon the likeness, “Mahs Matt favor him a mite, but none to speak of. Mahs Tom more like him in natur’. Mahs Matt he done take mo’ likeness to his gran’ma’s folks, who was French, from L’weesiana. A mighty sharp eye she got, an’ all my Mahs Duke’s niggahs walk straight, I tell yo’, when she come a visiten’ to we all. I heard tell how her mother was some sort o’ great lady from French court, packed off to L’weesiana ’cause o’ some politics like they have ovah theah; an’ in her own country she was a princess or some high mightiness, an’ most o’ her family was killed in some rebeloution–woman, too! All saved her was getten to Orleans, an’ her daughter, she married ole Matthew Loring, the daddy o’ them all, so far back as I know.”