Chapter XVII: A Boy at Shiloh (3)

Things, however, improved rapidly under the new incumbent, whose talent for administration was the most remarkable, perhaps, of his many gifts. Few men more richly endowed, not only in the line of pure intellect, but also in that wisdom that guides toward the best in man’s intercourse with his fellows, have figured in American history. During his brief career as governor of Mississippi he ensured the construction of a government fort near Washington, then the capital of the state; established Jefferson College at Natchez, the first institution of learning in the great Southwest; laid out roads; surveyed boundaries and mail routes; prepared the new land, in fact, for the forces of civilization on their way to enter it. His dealings with the robber bands that infested river traffic and with the disaffected Indians was prompt, decisive and thoroughly effective, compelling the order so essential to the prosperity of a young community.

When, in October, 1802, the port of New Orleans was closed, by the Intendant there, against foreign commerce and the American right of deposit, much feeling was aroused in Mississippi, since the injury thereby caused to American trade was great. Governor Claiborne, in his letters to the President and others, advocated stern measures of retaliation, which indeed would doubtless have been tried, had it not been generally known that Spain was negotiating for the sale of Louisiana. Indeed, there was more than a suspicion current as early as 1801, that the sale had been secretly consummated. In 1803, when the purchase of this territory by the United States from France was announced, it was known that no further fear of our encroaching neighbors need be cherished; they were now at our mercy.

One of the most important acts of Claiborne’s administration was the collection, at the request of James Madison, Secretary of State, of facts relative to land claims in Mississippi, and conflicting titles thereto. These included, Mr. Madison noted, not only claims grounded upon two grants of land made by Georgia to Mississippi, but also claims under the French government prior to 1763, those derived from the British and Spanish governments previous to the Spanish treaty of 1795, and those under Spanish title subsequent to this treaty. On all these items Governor Claiborne made a most exhaustive report, which became the foundation on which Congress based all future measures for the settlement of local land titles not only in Mississippi, but other Southern states as well.

November 9, 1803, Governor Claiborne received notification of his appointment as commissioner, associated with General James Wilkinson, to receive from France the Louisiana Purchase, and to succeed the Spanish governor provisionally, until a government for the new territory should be established. This transfer was received with all due ceremony, in the building known as the Cabildo at New Orleans, December 20, 1803.

Claiborne, though still nominally governor of Mississippi, exercised no further the functions of that office, these devolving on his secretary, Cato West. But he fulfilled the duties of provisional governor of the newly acquired province until October 2, 1804, when he was made governor of the “Territory of Orleans.” He served in this capacity until this territory was admitted to the Union as the State of Louisiana, when he was elected governor of the new state. He held this office for two terms, after which he was elected to the United States Senate, January 13, 1817. He did not live to take his seat in the Senate, dying November 3, following. Thus passed away, at the early age of forty-two, one who had already given a long life of active effort to his countrymen. Had he been spared for twenty years longer, his would surely have been one of the grandest national careers of America’s first century of history.

HOW OLD WASH PLAYED SANTA CLAUS

By Old Wash

“No, no, Marse John,” said the old man, as he staggered in the other night, “don’t git excited, it ain’t de kuklux done it. I ain’t seed eny o’ dem sense I tried ter be smart an’ own a few po’ white fo’ks arter de war. No, sah, it ain’t kuklux,” and he tried to sit down, but gave it up and held on to the arm of a chair.

I was horrified, for I had never seen the old man look like that. His head was bandaged in cotton batting and the eye he had left was trying to look at me through a slit in an arnica poultice.

“Sit down,” I cried, reaching for a bottle of horse-medicine I kept for him in the sideboard.

“I can’t, Marse John, I ain’t got a spot lef’ to res’ on. I’m branded on bofe hips wid de bar o’ de cannon cracker. If I tries to recumber longerturdernal I lays on de bran’ o’ de sky-rocket, an’ if I goes in fur horizontal recumbrance I gits on de spot lef’ by torpedoes. Dar ain’t but one spot lef’ for me to res’ on. If dars a iron hook in de wall jes’ hang me up on it by de coat collar. I’ve be’n playin’ Sandy Claws,” he groaned—“tryin’ to do lak white fo’ks an’ lak de mos’ of dem kerried my religgun too fur.”

I did what I could to help him.

“Ah, boss, didn’t you put a leetle too much turbentine in dat whiskey? Lord, but I’m a wrick o’ myself.

“If I had it my way,” he went on, as he adjusted himself to a soft spot on the sofa, “dar jes’ nurver would be ernuther Kris’mus. We niggers copies ev’y thing frum de white fo’ks, even borrowin’ dey religgun. But I’m blest ef it fits us eny mor’n it fits some o’ dem, an’ dis Kris’mus is jes’ a nuessence an’ a nonsense. Why, boss, de gloomes’ time o’ dey year is jes’ arter Kris’mus. When de foolishness and de fiahwucks is all over dar ain’t nuffin lef’ but tucky feathers, taxes and a tired stumic! You owe ev’ybody from de grocer’s lergitermates to de ole-skin nabur dat saunt you a cyard headed, “De Foot-paths ob Peace,” an’ spen’s de res’ ob de year scrappin’ wid you, kase you furgot to sen’ him a fat pullit in return. Yo’ taxes is due, yo’ wood is out, yo’ stumic is de only thing you knows you own, kase you kin feel dat’s in revolt, an’ you spen’s de res’ ob de year takin’ to cal’mel an’ tall timber.

“When you look ’roun’, sah, it’s jes’ awful—twixt dried holly hung around, orange peelin’, dirt, chicken feathers an’ fish bone, de home looks like a wolf-den at weanin’ time, de chillun ruint fur wuck an’ school, an’ dey cough and cut up like distempered colts. Yo’ wife’s made pincushens an’ Kris’mus gif’s till she broke you, and her constertushun an’ gone to bed, dey cows got garget when dey oughter hab milk, an’ de cat you be’n tryin’ to git rid of all de year bobs up wid a basketful o’ kittins.

“Ain’t it strange, sah, dat we celerbrates de buff-day of sech a man in sech a way? He cum to tell us to be meek, an’ we starts in fur mischief; he tells us to git religgun, an’ we all git drunk; he tells us to gib, an’ we do it wid de hope o’ gittin’ mo’ in return; he say be temprit, an’ we start in to stuff. His whole life wuz to entice us to heaven, an’ we gits so happy at de very thought dat we ’megiately starts off to hell wid a pocket full o’ fiahwucks fur fear de Debil didn’t hab enuff of his own down dar!

“Hold on, old man,” I cried, “you have expressed just what I have been wanting to say all my life, but didn’t have your flow of language! Excuse me while I go to my iron safe and get a bottle of Frank Chaffin’s twenty-year-old—that horse medicine is not good enough for such sentiments. I’ve got the other in my safe and I am the only man who knows the combination.”

“Ah, dat’s better, Marse John,” he said a moment afterwards—“I’ve jes’ be’n scorin’ now—jes’ watch me pace.

“An’ swappin’ dese Kris’mus gif’s, Lord, it do make me tired! It’s like de time ole Marster tole ole Miss he sold his fine hound fur a thousand dollars, an’ ole Miss wuz so glad, kase she hated dat hound, he sucked her eggs. But she wuz hot when she found out ole Marster had jes swapped him fur two five hundred dollar pups.

“Dat’s Kris’mus givin’ all over.

“Kris’mus gif’s now is jes’ Kris’mus gittin’, an’ ev’y man is jes tryin’ to git his piece on earth an’ de good will o’ de other man long enuff to skin him endurin’ de year.

“Now, dar’s Dinah. She starts in right after Jinuary an’ spen’s de res’ o’ de year gittin ready fur Kris’mus, an’ no heathen in Aferca spen’s a year of harder wuck, whittlin’ his god out o’ a gum-stump wid a clam shell, den my ’liggus ole ’oman does fixin’ fur Kris’mus. ‘Save it fur Kris’mus, Wash,’ is whut she chirps on frum Jinuary to Jinuary. She’s tuck down de good ole sign I useter hab up in de house, ‘_Save a nickel and own a dime_,’ an’ now all she’s got up is, ‘_Save it all fur Kris’mus!_’ She drilled dis so in our chillun dat it liketer led to a ’vorcement wid our oldes’ gal, Sally. Sally she married a nice nigger, but I soon seed sumpin’ wuz wrong. De nigger got mad an’ started for a ’vorcement, an’ when I gits to de bottom of it, he said Sally nurver had kissed him yit. I gin dat gal a strappin’ an’ she ’fessed up and sed she lubbed de nigger, but she lubbed ’im so hard she wuz savin’ de fust kiss fur Kris’mus!

“I tell you, sah, it’s jes got redikerlus de way we go on. Now heah’s de way it wucks wid me:

“We spen’s de summer an’ fall raisin’ a flock o’ tuckies es Kris’mus gif’s fur our frien’s. Fur dese we gits back a armful ob ‘Foot-paths ob Peace’ cyards, a few po’ pullits an’ a lot o’ candy made in Black Bottom an’ painted by dat Irish Dago you calls Mike Angelo. Fur de fall lambs er two we sen’s out mos’ly to de preachers, we gits back sumpin’ dat looks like wool, but it ain’t, on de painted toys de chillun can’t eat; an’ fur de good garments Dinah makes an’ distrubutes ’mong her frien’s, she gits back cobweb collars dat you can’t wear an’ hankerchefs dat you wouldn’t no mo’ think o’ blowin’ your nose in den you would in a sifter.

“An’ some fool ’oman had spent a half a year a-makin’ ’em.

“O, we gits cyards a plenty. But I’ve noticed dat de ones dat sen’s me de ‘Foot-paths ob Peace’ is allers in a scrap er fuss wid us, an’ de very nigger dat led de prayer-meetin’ an’ sent us dat framed card, ‘Our Faith is Our Fishiency,’ ’loped wid our darter an’ tuck all de blooded chickens wid him dat night. Eny way, he didn’t leab us a fishiency—no, not eben a minnery.

“But I got enuff now sense I played Sandy Claws last week.”

“You played Santa Claus after all you have said?” I asked.

“Yes, boss, I played Sandy Claws, an’ God knows I find his claws an’ his paws, an’ heah I pause,” he winked, looking toward the sideboard.

“Now, boss,” he said, after he tapped the bottle, “I didn’t wanter play dat Sandy Claws, but de church saunt a committee of one—a mighty hansum an’ hefty ’oman to see me—Sis Tilly—an’ she begged me to do it jes’ fur her sake. Now, es I sed she wuz hansum an’ Dinah wuz bizy makin’ Kris’mus gif’s outen cotton battin,’ dog hair an’ exselsor, dat I knowed she wouldn’t kno’ a side-steppin’ waltz from a breakdown, so I ’cided to he’p Sis Tilly out. Dis led to a lot o’ practicin’ twixt me an’ Sis Tilly at de church, an’ by de time dat Kris’mus night cum I wuz fitten an’ good. All de sisterin he’p fix me up wid whiskers an’ a pillar stumic an’ a big pack o’ fiah-wucks an’ things on my back, an’ when I wuz finished dey said I wuz hansumer den dey eber seed me befo’, an’ I had ’em, boss, whar I could er started a church o’ my own wid all dem sisterin es charter members. Two o’ de bes’ lookers kissed me kase dey said dey nurver had kissed Sandy Claws in dey life. When it comes to inventin’ a reason fur eatin’ furbiddin’ fruit don’t ole Eve’s gals all over de wourl’ sho’ dey pedigree? But Sis Tilly wuz de one I wuz arter, an’ she sed she wuz gwine ter kiss me arter de ball ef I acted ole Sandy well.

“De sisterin’ had spent a week on de tree an’ it looked mighty putty all lit up, new candles all ober it an’ in de house. De leetle niggers sot in de front pew waitin’ fur ole Sandy lack dey knowed him all dey life an’ de church wuz full an’ all o’ dem happy an’ me de biggest man in de bunch, prancin’ behind de stage wid Kris’mus in my bones an’ feelin’ like ole Tom Hal at de fust signs of blue grass in de spring. Brer Jones, de preacher, wuz makin’ a leetle talk an’ tellin’ de chillun de usual lies about ole Sandy, an’ what a mighty man he wuz, an’ heah I cum prancin’ out, like a blin’ horse over potato rows. I wuz so dazed when I cum out I couldn’t see nuffin but holly an’ wool all ober de house. But I seed Sis Tilly on de fus’ bench wid a big smile on reddy to vote in de affermative.

“‘Dar’s old Sandy! Dar’s ole Sandy!’ dey all shouted, an’ sech a hurow!

“It wuz up ter me to act, boss, an’ I done my bes’, but I’ve reached dat stage, like all ole men, when I thinks I wants a whole lot mo’ than I do, an’ I out-acted myself. I ripped an’ I r’ared, I pranced an’ I prared an’ shuck my head at de chillun like a billy goat, whilst ev’ybody howled an’ de organ struck up.

“I’ve heerd, boss, dat Marse Horris Greely sed dat ef our foresight wuz es good es our hin’sight we’d be better off by a dam sight, but dat is whar Marse Horris wuz wrong—it wuz my hin’sight dat went back on me, fur in prancin’ an’ backin’ aroun’ I backed dat pack o’ fiahwucks into a lighted candle an’ jes es de congregashun struck up dat good ole hymn, ‘_Shell I be kerried to de skies on flowery beds o’ ease_,’ I heerd sumpin’ goin’ off in my rear like de parked guns at Shiloh an’ I started to de skies sho’ nuff, an’ nuffin but de cealin’ kept me frum gwine on! It looked like ter me fur ten minets I rid de air on fiahwucks. Two cannon crackers tuck off my boots, my pants went out de winder actin’ as de tail ob a skyrocket, a torpedo scattered my stumic till de feathers looked like sno’ fallin’, I wuz sot afiah from my shurt to my whiskers, an’ ef I hadn’t lit in de baptismal pool when I fell, God knows I wouldn’t a bin heah to-night.

“I’d bin baptized twice befo, but I nurver seed any candidate go into de water so willing agin. I’ve allers sed emershun wuz de only way o’ salvashun’, an’ now, thank God, I kno’s it!

“But so he’p me, boss, dem fiahwucks wuz so spiteful dey eben kep’ a poppin’ under de watah. Dey sed it wuz a sight ter see dey blue balls an’ yaller balls an’ high balls cum bilin’ outen dat baptismal pool an’ sprinklin’ Baptis’ niggers wid Presbeterian dictrine.

“When I got up near ’nuff to peep ober de brim, de mos’ o’ de congregashun wuz under de benches, but Br’er Jones had be’n blowed up a-straddle de stove pipe an’ de benzine and bar’s oil dat he’d greesed his hair wid wuz a-fiah. One o’ my boots, wid a skyrocket in it, had caught Sis Tilly in de mouf jes es she opened it to lead in de singin’. She couldn’t talk, but she wuz gwine ’round makin’ signs fur sumbody to git a boot jack an’ pull it out. Nearly eber nigger dar had caught a red ball or a yaller ball an’ wuz bilin’ out o’ doors an’ winders cussin’ Sandy Claws an’ all his kin.

“By dis time I wan’t lookin’ fur yellow balls nor black balls, but I sot up to my neck in de watah beggin’ fur a high ball. Some still had sense enuff lef’ to put out de fiah wid watah frum de pool, an’ when dey pulled me out I didn’t hab on nuffin but a dough face, some burnt whiskers an’ patches o’ chicken feathers an’ a leetle skin in spots.

“No, boss, nobody b’leeves in Sandy Claws dar now, nor in de preacher dat lied to ’em, nor in me, dat tried to find Sandy an’ found his claws. De fac’ is, de plan ob salvashun is mighty nigh blowed up in dat chu’ch.”

BECAUSE

By Catherine Carr

They were preëminently suited to each other, The Bachelor and The Single Lady. All the other boarders saw that, and they marveled among themselves at the blindness of the two.

They were most excellent friends, The Bachelor and The Single Lady, their work forming community of interest. He was an instructor of mathematics at the college and she the teacher of a heterogeneous mass of foreign youth in the public school. They had the same tastes in books and pleasures—either preferred a botanizing excursion to the theater—and they were agreed on such homely but vital questions as grape fruit for breakfast, and the rareness of beef. It was an affinity of heaven’s own making, The Girl Who Sang declared.

The Girl Who Sang was particularly impatient with them. She considered that they had wasted quite enough time already. She had romantic ideals and was rather intense about things. It was this, perhaps, which gave her songs such charm.

The Bachelor and The Single Lady were indulgent toward the intensities of The Girl Who Sang, though they did not in the least understand them or her. They had no youthful memories to help them to such comprehension, for life had not been kind to the days of their youth. They had been dull and gray, and their present congenial tasks had been achieved through many struggles and much self-denial; but neither had been embittered by their trials, and The Single Lady’s brown eyes were still bright and The Bachelor was still a fine figure of a man.

Three years of placid companionship brought them to a night in May. A notable night in May. The air was soft and rich with sweet scents and the moon was at its full. The Bachelor and The Single Lady sat side by side on the gallery, talking of vacation plans with obvious matter-of-factness. The young boarders sat about also on the steps and the gallery railing, laughing and talking, and saying things with their eyes, for it was springtime and life and the world were very fair. And, by-and-by, The Girl Who Sang went into the house and seated herself at the piano.

And very soon the young people had strolled away in pairs to the summer-house and the shaded places of the yard, and only The Bachelor and The Single Lady remained on the gallery, talking still of commonplace affairs.

Then the arc-light swaying before the house flared up and flickered and went out, and the moonlight reigned supreme. On the flood of golden moonlight floated the flood of golden melody which was the singing of The Girl.

She sang of love, as was natural with one who was romantic and intense about things.

A gay _chanson_ at first, with a waltz refrain which sent even sedate pulses to beating the time. Presently The Bachelor’s geological intentions were being presented to the accompaniment of its measure tapped out by The Single Lady’s unconscious shoe-toe. And then came a little thing all about kisses and bliss. Such a silly little trifle it was, yet gradually it overcame the commonplace designs in The Bachelor’s mind with subtle suggestion of the delights it celebrated. To kiss now—might it not indeed be a pleasing experience? It had never occurred so strongly to him before. He found his imagination quite touched by the idea. His recollections furnished only kisses bestowed upon sisters and an aunt or two, and they were suddenly inadequate.

It was a lilting lay, this, where lovers kissed and were glad, and it quite got into the blood and set pictures before the eye—vague, elusive and yet of singular vividness. And now the rhythm changed and The Girl sang of love that had lost and was sad. A tender cry of heart yearning—and this, too, was very sweet. Better, far better, the grave of love to hallow the past than the lean memory-spaces of one who had never loved. The Bachelor involuntarily cast about in his mind for scraps of verse which said this very well, but he had no storehouse of such things and he could only go on feeling the spirit of it all—intangibly, still with distinct longing and desire.

And The Girl sang on—a varied repertoire. A song of home—and life in a single room and with meals at a crowded table was no longer satisfying. Home surely meant the place apart which was one’s own—small, even humble, as the heart-song of the world tells it—but one’s own, and—“cozy.” It was an admirably descriptive word, “cozy.” The early death of The Bachelor’s mother had deprived his heart of this rhythm of remembrance, too—but he knew quite well now how it should be. And he knew, too, that the center of it all should be a well-loved woman. Was not indeed the very spelling of home, woman? The Bachelor taught “math” and was not bothered by phonetics. His conviction became entire while The Girl sang a lullaby. Certainly, in the last analysis, home was the woman who was also mother. The whole picture was easily encompassed—the hearthfire and the keeper of it—a woman of tender eyes crooning to the wee bundle of life whose head rested in the hollow of her arm. It was so clear—so clearly to be seen, however strange a vision for bachelor fancy, and The Bachelor saw it in alluring detail—and—all at once—with personal application.

He turned and looked long at The Single Lady, and the sight of her filled all these places—and more.

She, too, had been silent for some time, and her face was tender with thought. Could it be that her thoughts had been of like tenor to his own? The corners of her mouth were bent into a reflective smile that was very sweet, and the light in her eyes was soft—the light o’ dreams. If it could only be that her thoughts were as his thoughts—and of him! If only it could be! The Bachelor’s blood quickened and ran toward the hope, and he knew that the worth of the world lay in this balance.

And then the honey-sweet tones of The Girl rippled out the familiar strains of “Because I Love You.” Surely it was the cause of life’s mysteries and their solution, and the delving of scientists was altogether unnecessary. All of The Bachelor’s pulses proclaimed it—and were glad.

“My only one regret—
Since then we never met,”

sang The Girl, and fear struck him chill.

Not that—not that! The mere suggestion emptied his life. The Bachelor impulsively reached out and closed his hand over his companion’s, which was resting on the bench between them.

“Dear”—he breathed rather than spoke, and The Single Lady turned her eyes from their dreamy contemplation of something far away, to his, but they did not look startled. It was easily supposed that she, too, had listened to the music which was as the music of Isolde—“strangely-gentle, love-persuading”—and had also seen visions. Yet they remained silent, harkening to the melody, which was “saying all things” so immeasurably well. It ceased, but the spell still held them. The arc-light came on and disputed the reign of the moonlight with its cold white glare, but the illumination of their world was still rose.

The Girl Who Sang came out on the gallery, a frivolous whirlwind of frills and furbelows, humming the end of her song, “Because I love you, dear, because I love you.” It was adequate phrasing of the story of life.

The Girl halted before them and swept them with comprehensive eyes.

“Oh—” she said, her tone mischievous, daring, “o-h!”

The Single Lady looked down at their clasped hands with a sudden sensing of the conventions. She made a movement of withdrawal, but The Bachelor held her slender fingers fast. She looked up and met his eyes. She saw in them a compelling force strangely mingled with pleading and question.

“Yes—why—yes,” The Single Lady said, in happy confusion.

“Yes. Of _course_!” said The Bachelor, in happy decision.

THE SOUTH WIND’S SONG

Sweet and low, upon the wings of morn I come,
And bring to you fond mem’ries of the days gone by;
The fragrance of the rose, the drowsy bee’s low hum;
All these, and more, I weave for you in lullaby.

Upon the canvas stretched by the new-born sun
I paint quaint scenes of times both sad and gay;
Of dreary days, misspent when scarce begun;
Of happier times and scenes I sing my lay.

Soft and sweet and low, I sing my lullaby,
Soothing the tired soul to slumber and repose;
And bring to it, ’mid sounds of rarest melody,
The peace of mind, the calm, that waking, no one knows.

_Susie Cornelia Connolly._

By Thornwell Jacobs]

SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS

Commenced in the April number.

Ervin McArthur, bearing the nickname of “Satan” on account of his ungovernable temper, learns printing at the office of the _Dunvegan_ (N. C.) _Democrat_ and loves Colonel Preston’s daughter. The colonel, objecting to a love affair between his aristocratic daughter and a son of “poor whites,” shifts the youth to a place on the _Charleston Chronicle_. Here, the Civil War coming on, he distinguishes himself by his journalistic ability and by his inventions of war-engines. In these last he is ably assisted by Helen Brooks, a Boston girl visiting Charleston relatives. She learns to love the inventor and his cause, and he struggles between his allegiance to Helen Preston and his newly awakened love. He returns to Dunvegan on furlough and in an altercation with his old time chum, Henry Bailey, the latter meets his death. Ervin escapes, and another friend, Ernest Lavender, is tried and convicted. Ervin confesses and is tried, but cleared on proof discovered by Helen Preston that the crime was committed by Mack Lonovan, who, wishing to marry Helen Brooks, destroys the only living witness to his secret marriage with half-witted Nance West.

Ervin returns to Charleston and invents the ironclad torpedo, destined, when copied by the Federals, to destroy the Confederate Navy. He also constructs a submarine torpedo boat, and while preparing for his initial trip has an interview with Helen Brooks.

He decides to attack the _Housatonic_ instead of the _New Ironsides_, as Helen has confessed that one whom she loves is on the latter. The _Housatonic_ is sunk, also the torpedo, Ervin alone being rescued and captured. Sent to the stockade on Morris’ Island, he finds Tait Preston, who is about to be exchanged on account of a wound. Ervin determines to escape.

After some weeks he does so, being wounded in the flight. At this time his dragoon pigeon being accidentally loosened by Mrs. Adams, returns to Dunvegan and Helen Preston leaves her father, who is at home on sick leave, to nurse her lover. Arriving at Charleston, she learns that his friends there suppose him to have been destroyed in the sinking of the _Housatonic_, but the faithful girl continues her search until she finds him on James’ Island and nurses him back to health. In the meantime Mrs. Corbin and her family have fled to Columbia, on the news of the approach of General Sherman.