Watch Yourself Go By

A >> Al. G. Field >> Watch Yourself Go By

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When requested to deliver the dogs to Simpson, Alfred was dumbfounded.
He was soon on his way with the dogs. They did not have to drag the boy
as on the way to the doctor's house. When they struck the old road above
the tannery, Alfred gave the hounds a run, until Turner Simpson's house
came into view.

Their arrival brought hounds from under the old log house, the porch and
the stable. Kinky, woolly-headed, barefooted pickanninnies peeked
through broken window panes and out of half-opened doors. The baying of
the hounds brought old Simpson out to the road.

Alfred advised him that Dr. Playford had paid him one dollar to deliver
the hounds and sent instructions that they be properly cared for.

"Oh, shucks. You jes tell Bob I allus takes good keer ob his dawgs,"
spoke the old negro in a half joking way. "An' you say to de Doctor, dat
when he wants to take a pair ob houns away from yar agin he better jes
tell me. I done sarch four days fuh dem houns. I neber dream de Doctor
hed 'em. I nearly hed a fite wid John McCune's boys kase I cused dem ob
kidnapin' de houns. Now I mus' go ober an' tell John de Doctor hed de
dawgs all de time."

The six dollars were given to the mother. Lin declared Alfred the best
boy in the world and one who, "ef he had the chance, could take keer of
himself."

A few days later Cousin Charley brought Alfred a fine pair of white and
blue pigeons in a nice little box. After talking on many subjects
Charley came to the real object of his visit. He stated that he had
bought the two hounds from a man whom he did not know. He paid the man
the cash for the dogs. Now he had learned that the dogs had been stolen
from Turner Simpson and he felt it his duty to restore them to their
rightful owner.

Lin was washing dishes at the beginning of Charley's talk. She seated
herself on the table--a favorite position of Lin's--and nodded approval
at the end of every sentence Charley uttered. When _he_ concluded, Lin
began:

"I'll be tee-to-tall-y dog-goned ef this haint the mos' curious
sarcumstance thet's ever kum up. Now a man--and Lin emphasized each word
with the laying of the forefinger of her right hand into the palm of her
chubby left--stole Turner Simpson's houns. Ye say ye bought 'em--nodding
at Charley--ye didn't know they wus stole. Ye gin the houns to Alfurd.
Now ye kum after the dogs; ye has to gin the houns back to Turner
Simpson. Ye furgit who ye got the houns from an' can't git yer money
back, ye're out jus thet much. Now s'posin' Alfurd sole them air houns
to Doctor Bob Playford--Charley crimsoned--an' the Doctor says 'Yere
Alfurd, yers a dollar, carry the houns to Turner Simpson's' an' Alfurd
'ud do hit, then yer conscience 'ud be easy, wouldn't hit?'"

"Yes um," meekly answered Charley, "but I don't think Bob Playford wants
to buy any houns, he has a plenty, 'bout twenty I reckon."

Lin smiled as she informed Cousin Charley that "he hed twenty-two by
this time. An' let me tell ye sumthin' further: Ef ye're tradin' in
birds or pigins or whatever ye call 'em, ye better fin' sum other feller
to handle 'em kase Alfurd's got on a swappin' canter an' it'll be hard
to head him." Lin laughed long and heartily. Cousin Charley mumbled
something about the principle of the thing as he left the house.

It developed that Cousin Charley had been doing quite a business in
hounds. The pair Alfred had, or a similar pair, had been sold to Doctor
Playford, at least twice during the past six months. When Charley needed
a little money, he just sold the Doctor a pair of his own hounds.

The Doctor took it all good naturedly as he remarked: "Charley has
stolen more hounds for me than he has sold me, therefore, I still owe
him."

The mother, when the facts came out, forthwith sent Alfred to the Doctor
with the five dollars. The Doctor laughed and said: "Alfred, go home and
tell Mary (his mother) that I gave you the five dollars for keeping the
dogs. And say--If Charley steals them again you just grab them, come and
tell me and I'll give you five dollars more."

Alfred played spy on Charley for some time but Charley seemed to have
lost interest in the hound business.

After the old play-ground, Jeffries Commons was abandoned, Sammy
Steele's tan-yard became the favorite practicing place of the
athletically inclined boys of the town. The soft tan bark was even more
suitable for tumbling, leaping and jumping than the old saw-dust ring on
the commons.

The owner of the tan-yard, Sammy Steele--no one ever called him
Samuel--was thought, by those who did not know him intimately, to be
hard and severe. And so he was to those who fell under his displeasure.
Only a few of the boys of the town were permitted to enjoy the
practicing place. Alfred was one of them. To Alfred, the dignified, hard
working, honest tanner, was always kindly.

Alfred performed many errands and did many chores with quickness and
willingness for the owner of the tan-yard. The willingness of the boy
caught the fancy of the industrious man. One day he called Alfred up to
his office.

The big, earnest man began by saying, (he always repeated his words)--:
"Little Hatfield boy, little Hatfield boy, you are not big enough to do
much work, much work, but you are willing, you are willing, to do all
you can. You are here a greater part of your time, the greater part of
your time. The bark is thrown down, thrown down, from the loft to the
mill, to the mill, where they grind it; I say grind it, little bits of
bark fly off, fly off on the ground bark. I want the ground bark kept
clear of the unground, of the unground bark. You are spry, I say you are
spry. It will take you but a little while morning and afternoon to clear
the ground bark pile of the unground pieces, of the unground pieces. For
this I will pay you twenty-five cents a day, twenty-five cents a day."

Alfred wended his way home in high glee. The prospect of earning money
was pleasing to the boy. Long before the family arose in the morning he
was up and waiting for his breakfast. Although it was but a few moment's
walk to his place of employment, he insisted that he had best carry his
noonday lunch. This the mother would not permit.

[Illustration: The Bark Mill]

Active as a squirrel the boy scampered over the bark pile picking up the
bits of unground bark. The work was but play.

The noon hour found him on the tan bark pile practicing. As the bell
rang calling the men to work he was at his place with the most
industrious of them.

During the many years that have begun and ended since he worked in Sammy
Steele's tannery, Alfred has received some pretty fair weeks' salaries,
but no pay ever brought the happiness the one dollar and fifty cents he
received for that week's work in the old bark mill when he presented it
to his mother.

Not many days elapsed before his industry was rewarded by an increase of
wages to three times the amount he had previously received. His work
took wider range, upstairs to the big finishing room and the office
where he came in constant contact with the owner of the tannery. He made
himself more useful to the man higher up, and when his pay was increased
to one dollar a day, it seemed a fortune was in sight.

The illusion still clung. The present was but the means to an end and
beyond lay his hopes. To become a great clown in the circus was the
goal. Nor were the little band of minstrels, whose rehearsals had been
checked by the fire and the loss of the melodeon, lost sight of. The big
finishing room found the little band of amateur minstrels rehearsing
almost every night, strange to say, the straight laced old tanner did
not object. When several of the nearby neighbors complained of the noise
and din, he simply gave orders to limit the rehearsals to 10 p. m.

Lin said: "Huh! ef enybody but Alfurd was at the head of it, Sammy
Steele would a histed every one on 'em long ago."

Lin was peeved. She could not imagine how the singing could be anything
without her voice and the melodeon. A tan-yard hand who played the
violin by ear had supplanted Lin. She declared he could only "fiddle fer
dancin', he couldn't foller singin'. Ye can't foller a fiddle an' sing,
ye got to hev a melodeon or accordion. A fiddle wus never made to sing
with, hit's all right fer dancin'. Lor', ye never hear any real music
less ye got a lead. That's the reason ye never hear any good singin' in
Baptus meetin'. They're agin manufactured music, they haven't got
enythin' to go by."

Lin had joined the Campbellite Church for the reason that it was the
furthest from the Baptist belief, so she claimed. Alfred always believed
down deep in his heart that Lin had allied herself with that particular
denomination for the reason that her vocal abilities were appreciated in
the little congregation and for the further reason that the church had
an organ.

Lin felt her exclusion from the minstrel rehearsals more than she cared
to reveal. Alfred did all he could to comfort her. He assured her that
Charley Wagner, the violin player, was not nearly so satisfactory as
she.

"But s'pose I had saved the melodeon"--(Lin always attributed her
rejection by the minstrel band to the loss of the melodeon)--"you
couldn't a-used it in the tan-yard, it's too damp there and it would
spoil the tune of it. Why, it's most ruined my tambourine. Beside,"
concluded Alfred, "regular minstrels are all men, they don't have any
women folks in 'em."

His explanation was plausible but it did not satisfy Lin. "Huh! I wasn't
good enuf fur yer ole tan-yard pack. I s'pose when ye got a lot of
patchin' and sewin' to do, ye'll be callin' on me but ye won't fin' me
in. Good bye, Mr. Clown, minstrel. Next time ye try to ak out afore
folks I hope ye'll do better en ye did the nite uv the big party."

This was a home thrust, it pierced to the quick. Alfred was over
sensitive. Often, when the remembrance of the failure alluded to by Lin
troubled his mind, he had soothed himself with the hope that few had
noticed his failure. But Lin's remark forced the awful feeling upon him
that, like Cousin Charley's potato deal, it was known and talked of by
the whole town.

Unexpected happenings brought the rehearsals of the minstrels in the old
tan-yard to an abrupt ending.

It was during the dark days of the reconstruction period, immediately
following the war. Only those of the south can fully realize what those
days meant to a people already impoverished by the _most gigantic war of
Christendom_.

Colonel Charlotte, once wealthy, now reduced to almost want, (we will
place his residence, oh anywhere, in Virginia, Georgia or Alabama); his
once productive plantation neglected for want of tenants and help to
cultivate it, stock and products confiscated. Many and earnest were the
conferences held by the Colonel and his unfortunate neighbors, to devise
ways and means to recuperate their lost fortunes. After each conference
with his friends the Colonel would wend his way homeward to confer with
his good wife, who was a most sensible and therefore a lovable woman.

When the Colonel was most despondent the wife was most buoyant, cheering
him as best she could. After the Colonel had given vent to his feelings,
recounting for the hundredth time his helplessness in the face of the
oppressive laws rigidly enforced by the carpet-bag officers; after he
had delivered himself of a tirade against those who were responsible for
the condition of affairs, the good wife said: "Colonel, I know if the
Christian people of the North were aware of the sufferings of our
people, we would get relief. I pity you in your troubles and do hope we
may see a way to help ourselves. We are out of corn, the meal is almost
gone and we have very little bacon left. Our children should be in
school but I cannot bear to send them with the toes out of their shoes
and their shabby clothes."

The Colonel would compress his lips, cussing every Yankee on earth. He
would find his way to the country store to while away another day in
useless conference with his neighbors. The same persons met daily and
dispersed nightly to carry their woes to their homes. Time and again
Colonel Charlotte informed the patient little wife that he was without
hope.

"Don't give up," encouraged the wife, "I know it looks dark but it is
always darkest before dawn; let us look toward the east and pray for
light. I know something will come to us, but for my part, I would not
care. I can stand it, but the children, poor innocents, should not be
made to suffer; no shoes or clothes fit to go to school or church in.
The winter is coming on and our provisions are scant. I worry only on
account of the children. Colonel, do the best you can; that is all
mortal can do, the Lord will do the rest."

The Colonel left his fireside early the next morning resolved to find
something to relieve the wants of his family. Returning home later than
usual he was in a towering rage. The good wife was alarmed.

"Why, Colonel, what has disturbed you so?"

"Wife, I'm mad clar through and if Captain Barbour warn't an old friend
of the family, I declar' to God I'd assaulted him today."

"Heaven forbid," pleaded the wife, "I know Captain Barbour surely would
not wound your feelings intentionally."

The Colonel explained that they were talking over their troubles,
bewailing their helplessness, when Captain Barbour said: "Why Colonel
Charlotte, you're better off than any of us, you have the means at your
command to not only make a living but to lay a little money by."

"And wife, when I asked him how, what do you think he said? That I had a
carriage and horses and I could open a livery stable. Open a livery
stable!" And the hot blood of the Charlottes' reddened his temples again
as he clinched his fists and walked up and down in his anger. "Me, a
Charlotte, engage in the livery business. Why, wife, I could scarcely
keep my hands off him. Me, a Charlotte, in the livery business. Pollute
that old family carriage that bears on its panels the crest of the
Charlotte family, whose blood runs back to the men of Cromwell."

The facts are the old family carriage was about the only relic of the
Charlotte family's former greatness; imported from England years before,
held as almost sacred by succeeding generations of the Charlotte family.
To have one intimate that the sacred old vehicle should be used to
convey the common herd was a heavy blow to the pride of the Colonel.

"Well, Colonel," soothingly spoke the wife, "I know your pride has
been hurt, I know just how badly you feel. I know you are proud and
I really fear that Captain Barbour in his zeal to assist you was
indiscreet. He should not have spoken so abruptly but should have
given you time to consider the motive that prompted him. I
know--he--he--meant--well--and--and--perhaps--you--should--consider
his advice. Can't we talk it over?" As she approached him, looking
up into his face with a half smile and a half cry, she pleaded:
"I would hate to say one word that would humble your pride,
but--but those children--you know they ought to have schooling.
And I declare, Colonel--I do not know--what we're going to do for
something to--to--eat." And here the wife broke down.

The Colonel folded her in his arms as he soothed her, stroking her hair.
He declared he would sacrifice all the pride of the Charlottes that she
and his did not suffer.

The negroes were sent to the corn patch to fetch the old horses, pluck
the burrs out of manes and tails, smooth them up by currying the long
hair off their shaggy coats. The old family carriage was hauled out of
the shed, washed, the brass mountings brightened, the coat of arms, the
panels scoured until they shone again.

The sting was somewhat removed from the Colonel's feelings by the
painter making the sign read "Liberty Stable." The word "Livery" was
not in the painter's vocabulary. When he assured the Colonel that the
sign was proper the Colonel was more satisfied.

Four or five days wore away. The Colonel, from his seat in front of the
store, like Enoch Arden patiently watching for a sail, grew more
despondent each day.

One November evening, the rain gently falling from the weeping clouds
seemingly in sympathy with the Colonel's dismal feelings, a young negro
was seen coming towards him. Colonel Charlotte recognized Sam, a former
slave, the son of an old house servant.

The Colonel returning the salutation in a manner none the less cheery
said: "Why, Sam, how you all has growed up. I declare I wouldn't knowed
you only your voice is so much like your father's. How's all? Whar you
livin' and what you a-doin' for yourself? Come on boy, tell me about
you eh?"

Sam explained to the Colonel that "he was working on de new railroad
buildin' down Raleigh way an' wus doin' tolerable well. A dollar a day,
not countin' Sundays an' I gits my fodder."

"Well, Sam, if you can stow vittles away like you all done when I fed
you, you're gettin' well paid."

The Colonel laughed at his own joke, the first laugh he had indulged in
for days. Sam was encouraged by the Colonel's good humor. Doffing his
hat, he addressed the Colonel in a sort of patronizing manner:

"Cunnel, I dun heard you all gone into the liberty business."

This flattered the Colonel slightly and he straightened up, replying:

"Yes, Sam, I just got tired of seeing my horses and vehicles around
doing nothing and I wanted something to occupy my time. I don't count
much on what I'll make but it will keep me from rusting out."

"Well, Cunnel, I'se jus come all de way down yar to see you. Dar's gwine
to be a dance down to Townsley's tonight an' me an' my company an' my
friend an' his gal wants to go, an' I kum to ask you all how much you
gwine fur to ax us to carry us all to de dance an'----"

Like a flash the Colonel jumped to his feet, the old rickety,
split-bottom chair was hurled after Sam with the words:

"You dam black scoundrel, I'll break every bone in your black body if I
get hold of you."

This speech was hurled after the thoroughly frightened Sam as the
Colonel pursued him. Giving up the chase the Colonel stalked home. His
wife observed his anger as he entered.

"Wife, I've never in my life sustained a worse shock than today. To
think of it after all these days of waitin', after I have been in the
liberty business all these days, the first human being to come to
me"--and the Colonel choked with rage--"the first human being to come to
me to hire that old family carriage, was a dam nigger."

Then the Colonel in more moderate language described the scene between
himself and Sam. The good wife listened to the Colonel until he
concluded. Then in a conciliatory tone, she said: "Well, Colonel, it
does seem as though fate is cruel to you. I do hope you will bear up
bravely. I think it just awful that the first customer should have been
a nigger. I do hope we will have others soon."

Then after a pause, she resumed, "Insofar as I am concerned I would
willingly die before I'd ask you, a Charlotte, to sacrifice your pride
further. But when I think of our children I don't know what to say.
Colonel," and she trembled as she spoke, "do you--do--you think--Sam had
money to pay for the hire of the carriage?"

"I done heard the money jingle in his pocket when he run."

"Well, Colonel, I wouldn't even suggest that--that--you carry those
niggers to the ball, but if--if we only had the money--it would do us so
much good. Those children--."

The Colonel waited to hear no more. Out into the chilly autumn evening,
more briskly than he had moved in weeks, stalked the Colonel. Reaching
the Liberty Stable, he ordered one of the boys to locate Sam. "Make
haste," was his parting order.

The boy soon returned escorting Sam who seemed somewhat afraid to get
too near the livery stable proprietor. The Colonel assured Sam that he
desired to talk with him. Leading the way he walked until well out of
hearing of his stable boy.

He began inquiringly, "So there's a big ball at Townsley's tonight. It's
the fust I've heard of it, an' you an' your company wants to go. Well
Sam, you work hard fur your money an' you ought not to spend it too
freely because winter's coming on and these reconstruction laws the
Yankees have put on us will make it hard on all of us."

"About how much do you reckon it will cost you all to go to the ball in
a first class livery turn out?"

"I dunno sah," meekly answered Sam.

"How much you got?" was the Colonel's next question.

"Five dollars," and Sam jingled the coin in his pocket, showing a set of
ivories that would have been the envy of any society belle in the land.

"Give it to me," and the Colonel reached his long arm out towards Sam,
the palm of his hand up. Sam placed the five dollars in it.

"Sam, I want to see you have your pleasure. Five dollars is less than I
ever charged for a carriage to a ball before. Being's it's you I'll let
it go fer that figure providin' you never mention to any person on earth
that you hired a conveyance from Colonel Charlotte."

"Yes, sah. I'll promise an' I'll neber tell airy livin' soul 'bout it,"
answered Sam, showing signs of fright.

The Colonel looked about to assure himself that there were no witnesses
and commanded Sam to raise his right hand and kneel on the ground. Sam
hesitated, the ground was wet and he had on his new store pants, but
down he knelt.

"Now swear by all the laws of reconstruction that if you ever tell you
rid in Colonel Charlotte's kerrige, you will be whipped by the Ku-Klux,
haunted by ghosts and burned by witches until you are dead and buried in
a grave as deep as hell."

The thoroughly frightened boy assented to the oath. The Colonel ordered
him to arise, get his company together, "mosey" down to where the big
road crossed the branch and wait until the carriage arrived.

The Colonel never entered the livery stable, content to leave the
conducting of the same to his help. However, he was not content to trust
the old family carriage to them. Ordering the horses hitched to the
sacred vehicle, the Colonel hastened to the house, "to plant the tin,
afore some dam Yankee carpet-bagger grabbed it," as he expressed it.

He returned to find the carriage ready for him. Two tallow dips burning
dimly in the big, old-fashioned lamps on either side of the driver's
seat were the admiration of the boys who lighted them. The Colonel
ordered them to "blow them thar candles out," saying that they only
blinded him. The real reason was that the Colonel did not desire any
light shed on the transaction that would disclose his part in it.

Once down the hill he halted the team under the big oak tree where four
dusky figures, two males and two females, stood. In a voice he intended
to sound other than his own, the Colonel ordered the waiting group to
"git in quick, pull down the curtains and don't airy dam niggers poke
your heads out till we git to Townsley's."

The horses moved off, the Colonel soliloquizing as they trotted along
the sandy road: "S'pose I meet a white man an' he asks me where I'm
goin', what will I tell him? Was there ever a white man, was there ever
a Charlotte put to this test before. If ever a Charlotte knew that I
engaged in this business what would I say to him? Did I ever think I'd
come to this? Me, Colonel Charlotte, hauling niggers to a ball." And he
again cussed the reconstruction laws.

Arriving at the country store the dance was already under full headway.
The fiddles and scraping of feet could be plainly heard.

The voice of the caller, "Swing your partners; all hands around; first
gent lead off to the right," floated out on the damp air.

"Git out," was the Colonel's orders to his fares. "Now, don't stay all
night or you'll walk back," were his last words to Sam and his company
as they ran upstairs to the ball room.

Tying the horses to the fence, the Colonel lighted his pipe, walking to
and fro to warm his chilled blood, he gave way to his gloomy thoughts
again. "What would Captain Barbour, Colonel Woodburn and Major Hinkle
say if they found out that he, Colonel Charlotte, was engaged in
carrying niggers to a ball. Ef I was to be ketched yar by a white man,
what explanation could I make that would protect the honor of my
family?"

For himself the Colonel felt that he was eternally disgraced and had
reached the point where he was willing to be ostracized but hoped to
protect the family name.

Sam returned to the carriage to find a wrap or other article the women
had forgotten. The air was very chilly. "Sam, have you all got any fire
upstairs," asked the Colonel.

"Yes, sah, dars a roarin' fire up yander Colonel. Jus walk up sah an'
warm yoself."

Pulling his hat down over his eyes, turning his coat collar up to
disguise himself, the Colonel climbed the narrow stairs. Peeping
through the door at the whisking dancers he skulked along the side of
the room until he reached the big, open wood fireplace. The warmth was
very grateful to his benumbed frame. He had not the assurance to look
around at the dancers; while his front side was thoroughly warmed, the
rear of his anatomy was still numb. About the time he had determined to
about face, the dance ceased. He heard several remarks not intended for
his ears:

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