Battle Ground Read online

  III

  THE COMING OF THE BOY

  The boy trudged on bravely, his stick sounding the road. Sharp pains ranthrough his feet where his shoes had worn away, and his head was swimminglike a top. The only pleasant fact of which he had consciousness was thatthe taste of the currants still lingered in his mouth.

  When he reached the maple spring, he swung himself over the stone wall andknelt down for a drink, dipping the water in his hand. The spring was lowand damp and fragrant with the breath of mint which grew in patches in thelittle stream. Overhead a wild grapevine was festooned, and he plucked aleaf and bent it into a cup from which he drank. Then he climbed the wallagain and went on his way.

  He was wondering if his mother had ever walked along this road on sobrilliant a night. There was not a tree beside it of which she had not toldhim--not a shrub of sassafras or sumach that she had not carried in herthoughts. The clump of cedars, the wild cherry, flowering in the springlike snow, the blasted oak that stood where the branch roads met, theperfume of the grape blossoms on the wall--these were as familiar to him asthe streets of the little crowded town in which he had lived. It was as ifnature had stood still here for twelve long summers, or as if he werewalking, ghostlike, amid the ever present memories of his mother's heart.

  His mother! He drew his sleeve across his eyes and went on more slowly. Shewas beside him on the road, and he saw her clearly, as he had seen herevery day until last year--a bright, dark woman, with slender, blue-veinedhands and merry eyes that all her tears had not saddened. He saw her in along, black dress, with upraised arm, putting back a crepe veil from hermerry eyes, and smiling as his father struck her. She had always smiledwhen she was hurt--even when the blow was heavier than usual, and the bloodgushed from her temple, she had fallen with a smile. And when, at last, hehad seen her lying in her coffin with her baby under her clasped hands,that same smile had been fixed upon her face, which had the brightness andthe chill repose of marble.

  Of all that she had thrown away in her foolish marriage, she had retainedone thing only--her pride. To the end she had faced her fate with all theinsolence with which she faced her husband. And yet--"the Lightfoots werenever proud, my son," she used to say; "they have no false pride, but theyknow their place, and in England, between you and me, they were moreimportant than the Washingtons. Not that the General wasn't a great man,dear, he was a very great soldier, of course--and in his youth, you know,he was an admirer of your Great-great-aunt Emmeline. But she--why, she wasthe beauty and belle of two continents--there's an ottoman at home coveredwith a piece of her wedding dress."

  And the house? Was the house still as she had left it on that ChristmasEve? "A simple gentleman's home, my child--not so imposing as Uplands, withits pillars reaching to the roof, but older, oh, much older, and built ofbrick that was brought all the way from England, and over the fireplace inthe panelled parlour you will find the Lightfoot arms.

  "It was in that parlour, dear, that grandmamma danced a minuet with GeneralLafayette; it looks out, you know, upon a white thorn planted by theGeneral himself, and one of the windows has not been opened for fiftyyears, because the spray of English ivy your Great-aunt Emmeline set outwith her own hands has grown across the sash. Now the window is quite darkwith leaves, though you can still read the words Aunt Emmeline cut with herdiamond ring in one of the tiny panes, when young Harry Fitzhugh came inupon her just as she had written a refusal to an English earl. She wassitting in the window seat with the letter in her hand, and, when yourGreat-uncle Harry--she afterwards married him, you know--fell on his kneesand cried out that others might offer her fame and wealth, but that he hadnothing except love, she turned, with a smile, and wrote upon the pane'Love is best.' You can still see the words, very faint against the ivythat she planted on her wedding day--"

  Oh, yes, he knew it all--Great-aunt Emmeline was but the abiding presenceof the place. He knew the lawn with its grove of elms that overtopped thepeaked roof, the hall, with its shining floor and detached staircase thatcrooked itself in the centre where the tall clock stood, and, best of all,the white panels of the parlour where hung the portrait of that samefascinating great-aunt, painted, in amber brocade, as Venus with the applein her hand.

  And his grandmother, herself, in her stiff black silk, with a square oflace turned back from her thin throat and a fluted cap above her corkscrewcurls--her daguerreotype, taken in all her pride and her precision, wastied up in the bundle swinging on his arm.

  He passed Aunt Ailsey's cabin, and turned into the road with the chestnuts.A mile farther he came suddenly upon the house, standing amid the grove ofelms, dwarfed by the giant trees that arched above it. A dog's bark soundedsnappily from a kennel, but he paid no heed. He went up the broad whitewalk, climbed the steps to the square front porch, and lifted the greatbrass knocker. When he let it fall, the sound echoed through the shutteredhouse.

  The Major, who was sitting in his library with a volume of Mr. Addison openbefore him and a decanter of Burgundy at his right hand, heard the knock,and started to his feet. "Something's gone wrong at Uplands," he saidaloud; "there's an illness--or the brandy is out." He closed the book,pushed aside the bedroom candle which he had been about to light, and wentout into the hall. As he unbarred the door and flung it open, he began atonce:--

  "I hope there's no ill news," he exclaimed.

  The boy came into the hall, where he stood blinking from the glare of thelamplight. His head whirled, and he reached out to steady himself againstthe door. Then he carefully laid down his bundle and looked up with hismother's smile.

  "You're my grandfather, and I'm very hungry," he said.

  The Major caught the child's shoulders and drew him, almost roughly, underthe light. As he towered there above him, he gulped down something in histhroat, and his wide nostrils twitched.

  "So you're poor Jane's boy?" he said at last.

  The boy nodded. He felt suddenly afraid of the spare old man with his longRoman nose and his fierce black eyebrows. A mist gathered before his eyesand the lamp shone like a great moon in a cloudy circle.

  The Major looked at the bundle on the floor, and again he swallowed. Thenhe stooped and picked up the thing and turned away.

  "Come in, sir, come in," he said in a knotty voice. "You are at home."

  The boy followed him, and they passed the panelled parlour, from which hecaught a glimpse of the painting of Great-aunt Emmeline, and went into thedining room, where his grandfather pulled out a chair and bade him to beseated. As the old man opened the huge mahogany sideboard and brought out ashoulder of cold lamb and a plate of bread and butter, he questioned himwith a quaint courtesy about his life in town and the details of hisjourney. "Why, bless my soul, you've walked two hundred miles," he cried,stopping on his way from the pantry, with the ham held out. "And no money!Why, bless my soul!"

  "I had fifty cents," said the boy, "that was left from my steamboat fare,you know."

  The Major put the ham on the table and attacked it grimly with thecarving-knife.

  "Fifty cents," he whistled, and then, "you begged, I reckon?"

  The boy flushed. "I asked for bread," he replied, stung to the defensive."They always gave me bread and sometimes meat, and they let me sleep in thebarns where the straw was, and once a woman took me into her house andoffered me money, but I would not take it. I--I think I'd like to send hera present, if you please, sir."

  "She shall have a dozen bottles of my best Madeira," cried the Major. Theword recalled him to himself, and he got up and raised the lid of thecellaret, lovingly running his hand over the rows of bottles.

  "A pig would be better, I think," said the boy, doubtfully, "or a cow, ifyou could afford it. She is a poor woman, you know."

  "Afford it!" chuckled the Major. "Why, I'll sell your grandmother's silver,but I'll afford it, sir."

  He took out a bottle, held it against the light, and filled a wine glass."This is the finest port in Virginia," he declared; "there is life in everydrop of it. Drink it down," an
d, when the boy had taken it, he filled hisown glass and tossed it off, not lingering, as usual, for the pricelessflavour. "Two hundred miles!" he gasped, as he looked at the child withmoist eyes over which his red lids half closed. "Ah, you're a Lightfoot,"he said slowly. "I should know you were a Lightfoot if I passed you in theroad." He carved a slice of ham and held it out on the end of the knife."It's long since you've tasted a ham like this--browned in bread crumbs,"he added temptingly, but the boy gravely shook his head.

  "I've had quite enough, thank you, sir," he answered with a quaint dignity,not unlike his grandfather's and as the Major rose, he stood up also,lifting his black head to look in the old man's face with his keen grayeyes.

  The Major took up the bundle and moved toward the door. "You must see yourgrandmother," he said as they went out, and he led the way up the crookedstair past the old clock in the bend. On the first landing he opened a doorand stopped upon the threshold. "Molly, here is poor Jane's boy," he said.

  In the centre of a big four-post bed, curtained in white dimity, a littleold lady was lying between lavender-scented sheets. On her breast stood atall silver candlestick which supported a well-worn volume of "TheMysteries of Udolpho," held open by a pair of silver snuffers. The oldlady's face was sharp and wizened, and beneath her starched white nightcaprose the knots of her red flannel curlers. Her eyes, which were very smalland black, held a flickering brightness like that in live embers.

  "Whose boy, Mr. Lightfoot?" she asked sharply.

  Holding the child by the hand, the Major went into the room.

  "It's poor Jane's boy, Molly," he repeated huskily.

  The old lady raised her head upon her high pillows, and looked at him bythe light of the candle on her breast. "Are you Jane's boy?" she questionedin suspicion, and at the child's "Yes, ma'am," she said, "Come nearer.There, stand between the curtains. Yes, you are Jane's boy, I see." Shegave the decision flatly, as if his parentage were a matter of herpleasure. "And what is your name?" she added, as she snuffed the candle.

  The boy looked from her stiff white nightcap to the "log-cabin" quilt onthe bed, and then at her steel hoops which were hanging from a chair back.He had always thought of her as in her rich black silk, with the tight graycurls about her ears, and at this revelation of her inner mysteries, hisfancy received a checkmate.

  But he met her eyes again and answered simply, "Dandridge--they call meDan--Dan Montjoy."

  "And he has walked two hundred miles, Molly," gasped the Major.

  "Then he must be tired," was the old lady's rejoinder, and she added withspirit: "Mr. Lightfoot, will you show Dan to Jane's old room, and see thathe has a blanket on his bed. He should have been asleep hours ago--goodnight, child, be sure and say your prayers," and as they crossed thethreshold, she laid aside her book and blew out her light.

  The Major led the way to "Jane's old room" at the end of the hall, andfetched a candle from somewhere outside. "I think you'll find everythingyou need," he said, stooping to feel the covering on the bed. "Yourgrandmother always keeps the rooms ready. God bless you, my son," and hewent out, softly closing the door after him.

  The boy sat down on the steps of the tester bed, and looked anxiously roundthe three-cornered room, with its sloping windows filled with small, squarepanes of glass. By the candlelight, flickering on the plain, white wallsand simple furniture, he tried to conjure back the figure of hismother,--handsome Jane Lightfoot. Over the mantel hung two crude drawingsfrom her hand, and on the table at the bedside there were several bookswith her name written in pale ink on the fly leaves. The mirror to the highold bureau seemed still to hold the outlines of her figure, very shadowyagainst the greenish glass. He saw her in her full white skirts--she hadworn nine petticoats, he knew, on grand occasions--fastening her coralnecklace about her stately throat, the bands of her black hair drawn like aveil above her merry eyes. Had she lingered on that last Christmas Eve, hewondered, when her candlestick held its sprig of mistletoe and her room wasdressed in holly? Did she look back at the cheerful walls and the statelyfurniture before she blew out her light and went downstairs to ride madlyoff, wrapped in his father's coat? And the old people drank their eggnogand watched the Virginia reel, and, when they found her gone, shut her outforever.

  Now, as he sat on the bed-steps, it seemed to him that he had come home forthe first time in his life. All this was his own by right,--the queer oldhouse, his mother's room, and beyond the sloping windows, the meadows withtheir annual yield of grain. He felt the pride of it swelling within him;he waited breathlessly for the daybreak when he might go out and lord itover the fields and the cattle and the servants that were his also. And atlast--his head big with his first day's vanity--he climbed between thedimity curtains and fell asleep.

  When he awaked next morning, the sun was shining through the small squarepanes, and outside were the waving elm boughs and a clear sky. He wasaroused by a knock on his door, and, as he jumped out of bed, Big Abel, theMajor's driver and confidential servant, came in with the warm water. Hewas a strong, finely-formed negro, black as the ace of spades (so the Majorput it), and of a singularly open countenance.

  "Hi! ain't you up yit, young Marster?" he exclaimed. "Sis Rhody, she sezshe done save you de bes' puffovers you ever tase, en ef'n you don' come'long down, dey'll fall right flat."

  "Who is Sis Rhody?" inquired the boy, as he splashed the water on his face.

  "Who she? Why, she de cook."

  "All right, tell her I'm coming," and he dressed hurriedly and ran downinto the hall where he found Champe Lightfoot, the Major's great-nephew,who lived at Chericoke.

  "Hello!" called Champe at once, plunging his hands into his pockets andpresenting an expression of eager interest. "When did you get here?"

  "Last night," Dan replied, and they stood staring at each other with twopairs of the Lightfoot gray eyes.

  "How'd you come?"

  "I walked some and I came part the way on a steamboat. Did you ever see asteamboat?"

  "Oh, shucks! A steamboat ain't anything. I've seen George Washington'ssword. Do you like to fish?"

  "I never fished. I lived in a city."

  Zeke came in with a can of worms, and Champe gave them the greater share ofhis attention. "I tell you what, you'd better learn," he said at last,returning the can to Zeke and taking up his fishing-rod. "There're a lot ofperch down yonder in the river," and he strode out, followed by the smallnegro.

  Dan looked after him a moment, and then went into the dining room, wherehis grandmother was sitting at the head of her table, washing her pinkteaset in a basin of soapsuds. She wore her stiff, black silk this morningwith its dainty undersleeves of muslin, and her gray curls fell beneath hercap of delicate yellowed lace. "Come and kiss me, child," she said as heentered. "Did you sleep well?"

  "I didn't wake once," answered the boy, kissing her wrinkled cheek.

  "Then you must eat a good breakfast and go to your grandfather in thelibrary. Your grandfather is a very learned man, Dan, he reads Latin everymorning in the library.--Cupid, has Rhody a freshly broiled chicken foryour young master?"

  She got up and rustled about the room, arranging the pink teaset behind theglass doors of the corner press. Then she slipped her key basket over herarm and fluttered in and out of the storeroom, stopping at intervals toscold the stream of servants that poured in at the dining-room door. "Ef'nyou don' min', Ole Miss, Paisley, she done got de colick f'om a hull pa'celer green apples," and "Abram he's des a-shakin' wid a chill en he say hecyarn go ter de co'n field."

  "Wait a minute and be quiet," the old lady responded briskly, for, as theboy soon learned, she prided herself upon her healing powers, and sufferedno outsider to doctor her husband or her slaves. "Hush, Silas, don't say aword until I tell you. Cupid--you are the only one with any sense--measurePaisley a dose of Jamaica ginger from the bottle on the desk in the office,and send Abram a drink of the bitters in the brown jug--why, Car'line, whatdo you mean by coming into the house with a slit in your apron?"

 
"Fo' de Lawd, Ole Miss, hit's des done cotch on de fence. All de ducks Aun'Meeley been fattenin' up fur you done got loose en gone ter water."

  "Well, you go, too, every one of you!" and she dismissed them with waves ofher withered, little hands. "Send them out, Cupid. No, Car'line, not aword. Don't 'Ole Miss' me, I tell you!" and the servants streamed out againas they had come.

  When he had finished his breakfast the boy went back into the hall whereBig Abel was taking down the Major's guns from the rack, and, as he caughtsight of the strapping figure and kindly black face, he smiled for thefirst time since his home-coming. With a lordly manner, he went over andheld out his hand.

  "I like _you_, Big Abel," he said gravely, and he followed him out into theyard.

  For the next few weeks he did not let Big Abel out of his sight. He rodewith him to the pasture, he sat with him on his doorstep of a fine evening,and he drove beside him on the box when the old coach went out. "Big Abelsays a gentleman doesn't go barefooted," he said to Champe when he foundhim without his shoes in the meadow, "and I'm a gentleman."

  "I'd like to know what Big Abel knows about it," promptly retorted Champe,and Dan grew white with rage and proceeded to roll up his sleeves. "I'llwhip any man who says Big Abel doesn't know a gentleman!" he cried, makinga lunge at his cousin. In point of truth, it was Champe who did thewhipping in such free fights; but bruises and a bleeding nose had neverscared the savage out of Dan. He would spring up from his last tumble asfrom his first, and let fly at his opponent until Big Abel rushed, intears, between them.

  From the garrulous negro, the boy soon learned the history of hisfamily--learned, indeed, much about his grandfather of which the Majorhimself was quite unconscious. He heard of that kindly, rollicking earlylife, half wild and wholly good-humoured, in which the eldest maleLightfoot had squandered his time and his fortune. Why, was not the oldcoach itself but an existing proof of Big Abel's stories? "'Twan' mo'ntwenty years back dat Ole Miss had de fines' car'ige in de county," hebegan one evening on the doorstep, and the boy drove away a brood ofhalf-fledged chickens and settled himself to listen. "Hadn't you betterlight your pipe, Big Abel?" he inquired courteously.

  Big Abel shuffled into the cabin and came back with his corncob pipe and alighted taper. "We all ain' rid in de ole coach den," he said with a sigh,as he sucked at the long stem, and threw the taper at the chickens. "De olecoach hit uz th'owed away in de out'ouse, en I 'uz des stiddyin' 'boutsplittin' it up fer kindlin' wood--en de new car'ige hit cos' mos' a minter money. Ole Miss she uz dat sot up dat she ain' let de hosses git nosleep--nor me nurr. Ef'n she spy out a speck er dus' on dem ar wheels,somebody gwine year f'om it, sho's you bo'n--en dat somebody wuz me. Yes,Lawd, Ole Miss she 'low dat dey ain' never been nuttin' like dat ar car'igein Varginny sence befo' de flood."

  "But where is it, Big Abel?"

  "You des wait, young Marster, you des wait twel I git dar. I'se gwine gitdar w'en I come ter de day me an Ole Marster rid in ter git his gol' f'omMars Tom Braxton. De car'ige hit sutney did look spick en span dat day, enI done shine up my hosses twel you could 'mos' see yo' face in dey sides.Well, we rid inter town en we got de gol' f'om Marse Braxton,--all tied upin a bag wid a string roun' de neck er it,--en we start out agin (en OleMiss she settin' up at home en plannin' w'at she gwine buy), w'en we cometer de tave'n whar we all use ter git our supper, en meet Marse PlaintainDudley right face to face. Lawd! Lawd! I'se done knowed Marse PlaintainDudley afo' den, so I des tech up my hosses en wuz a-sailin' 'long by, w'enhe shake his han' en holler out, 'Is yer wife done tied you ter 'er ap'on,Maje?' (He knowed Ole Miss don' w'ar no ap'on des es well es I knowedhit--dat's Marse Plaintain all over agin); but w'en he holler out dat, OleMarster sez, 'Stop, Abel,' en I 'bleeged ter stop, you know, I wuz w'en OleMarster tell me ter.

  "'I ain' tied, Plaintain, I'm tired,' sez Ole Marster, 'I'm tired losin'money.' Den Marse Plaintain he laugh like a devil. 'Oh, come in, suh, comein en win, den,' he sez, en Ole Marster step out en walk right in wid MarsePlaintain behint 'im--en I set dar all night,--yes, suh, I set dar allnight a-hol'n' de hosses' haids.

  "Den w'en de sun up out come Ole Marster, white es a sheet, with his han'sa-trem'lin', en de bag er gol' gone. I look at 'im fur a minute, en den Ilet right out, 'Ole Marster, whar de gol'?' en he stan' still en ketch hisbreff befo' he say, 'Hit's all gone, Abel, en de car'ige en de hosses dey'sgone, too." En w'en I bust out cryin' en ax 'im, 'My hosses gone, OleMarster?' he kinder sob en beckon me fer ter git down f'om my box, en denwe put out ter walk all de way home.

  "W'en we git yer 'bout'n dinner time, dar wuz Ole Miss at de do' wid de sunin her eyes, en soon es she ketch sight er Ole Marster, she put up her han'en holler out, 'Marse Lightfoot, whar de car'ige?' But Ole Marster, he deshang down his haid, same es a dawg dat's done been whupped fur rabbitrunnin', en he sob, 'Hit's gone, Molly en de bag er gol' en de hosses,dey's gone, too, I done loss 'em all cep'n Abel--en I'm a bad man, Molly.'Dat's w'at Ole Marster say, 'I'm a bad man, Molly,' en I stiddy 'bout myhosses en Ole Miss' car'ige en shet my mouf right tight."

  "And Grandma? Did she cry?" asked the boy, breathlessly.

  "Who cry? Ole Miss? Huh! She des th'ow up her haid en low, 'Well, MarseLightfoot, I'm glad you kep' Abel--en we'll use de ole coach agin',' sezshe--en den she tu'n en strut right in ter dinner."

  "Was that all she ever said about it, Big Abel?"

  "Dat's all I ever hyern, honey, en I b'lieve hit's all Ole Marster everhyern eeder, case w'en I tuck his gun out er de rack de nex' day, he wassettin' up des es prim in de parlour a-sippin' a julep wid Marse PeytonAmbler, en I hyern 'im kinder whisper, 'Molly, she's en angel, Peyton--' enhe ain' never call Ole Miss en angel twel he loss 'er car'ige."