'."€ 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 *' 
 
 
 ^ 
 % 
 
 
 . ^^-^K 
 
 
 i^ 
 
 V^v 
 
 .••♦ 
 
 *•'"•' y' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
OLD PLANTATION DAYS 
 
3H||H^^^^BS3!fjJiiii'!^U9^H^V 
 
 g-W;*:: ^Li^^^ts: . 
 
 
 ^^1 ^^^B^^Sni^'^H 
 
 1 ^' } 
 
 B^.4l|^ 
 
 1^1 
 
 1 *! 
 
 
 1 .'^1 
 
 ^ 
 
 ••^ 
 
 WISM^m 
 
 .^^ 
 
 
 ""^ ^|f •:■ 
 
 '' '^jf^MHS* 
 
 rr- • 
 
 ■iii> i;i.AKi.\(; WAS SI I'l-.Ki;' /«,;, 
 
OLD 
 PLANTATION DAYS 
 
 BY 
 
 ARCHIBALD RUTLEDGE 
 
 Author of "Under the Pines," "The Banners oj the Coatt^'* 
 
 "Tom and I on the Old Plantation," 
 
 "Plantation Game Trails," etc. 
 
 WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
^'^' 
 
 
 .^\.'^' 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY 
 THB OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY 
 FIELD AND STREAM PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1918 
 SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 191S, 1919, BY 
 THE SPRAGUK PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1908, 1909, 1910, 
 
 1911, 1913, 1915, 1918, 1919, BY 
 
 PERRY MASON COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1921, by 
 Frederick A. Stokes Company 
 
 All rights reser'ved 
 
 SEP-3'Z; 
 
 ©CI.A624275 
 
TO 
 WILLIAM MANN IRVINE 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 
 
 He is not like another one 
 
 Of all my friends. He stands alone. 
 
 Beyond the field and bounding wood. 
 
 Far on the seashore's solitude, 
 
 A Tree behind a rugged Rock 
 
 Has long withstood the breakers shock. 
 
 The Rock is bold and clean and hard; 
 
 Its face by tempests old is scarred. 
 
 It changes not in sun or rain. 
 
 In calm, or raging hurricane. 
 
 It has an aspect nobly grand. 
 
 Interpreting for sea and land 
 
 The grandeur of the gales that break. 
 
 But cannot once this Titan shake. 
 
 It has a beauty fine and grave, 
 
 A beauty wrought by wind and wave. 
 
 Sometimes in maelstroms it is drowned; 
 
 Sometimes by wild foam-flowers crowned 
 
 As if the mad Gale understood 
 
 The Rock's calm-couraged hardihood. 
 
 And gave, the harrying waves among, 
 
 A tribute to a champion strong. . . . 
 
 No storm this outpost has escaped; 
 
 Its strength by hardship has been shaped; 
 
 By it, in nights of fear and gloom. 
 
 The Terrible was overcome. 
 
 It won in conflict, not in ease. 
 
 Its power of tremendous peace. 
 
 Such shelter as it gives the Tree, 
 
 My steadfast friend has given me. 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 For permission to reprint certain of the chap- 
 ters in this book the author makes grateful 
 acknowledgment to the editors of The Youth's 
 Companion, Field and Stream, The Black Cat, 
 The Boys' Magazine, and Outing. 
 
 The pubhshers are also indebted to the 
 Youth's Co?npanion for permission to use the 
 illustrations. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 I Judge Napier's Sentence . 
 
 II What Scared Kitty 
 
 III The Aim of the Hunterman 
 
 IV My Colonel 
 
 ""V The Whitehorn Buck 
 
 VI O Ringing Bells! . 
 
 VII Any One's Turkey . 
 
 -—VIII The Golden Robber 
 
 IX The Haunted Oak 
 
 ■~- X A Monarch of the Sky . 
 
 XI The Duel in Cummings . 
 
 ■*»XII At Low Tide 
 
 XIII The Strategy of Galboa . 
 
 XIV The Romney Spectre . 
 — XV The Lone Bull of Maybank 
 
 XVI The Token Flood . 
 
 '^ XVII Joel's Christmas Turkey . 
 
 XVIII The Banded Death 
 
 XIX The Black Mallard . 
 
 XX A Fox and a Conscience . 
 
 — XXI The Fawn 
 
 XXII The Secret Killer 
 
 "^ XXIII SciPio Makes a Shot . 
 
 --• XXIV A Pair of Mallards . . 
 
 —'XXV Ghost Point 
 
 XXVI The Silent Champion . 
 
 XXVII Shadrach and the Fiery Furnace 316 
 
 XXVIII Margie Has a Man 334 
 
 13 
 25 
 37 
 46 
 60 
 
 75 
 
 84 
 
 93 
 
 115 
 
 125 
 
 134 
 142 
 156 
 170 
 180 
 198 
 213 
 221 
 
 235 
 246 
 259 
 271 
 282 
 292 
 306 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "His bearing was superb" .... Frontispiece 
 
 FAOINa 
 rAGB 
 
 "Broderick called back faintly, 'Here, Jason ! But 
 
 I'm done for. Save yourself " . . . . 8 
 
 "It was a monstrous reptile — a diamond-backed 
 
 rattler of the swamp" 22 
 
 "But the golden eagle was not to be baffled by a 
 
 young doe's defiance" 86 
 
 "The mother was struggling wildly but vainly in 
 
 the sucking mud" 178 
 
 "In a moment he saw a great gray form clear a 
 
 bush and leap at the child" 268 
 
 "It was a twelve-mile paddle down from the plan- 
 tation" 282 
 
 "Two flashing bodies wrapped in gorgeous battle" 314 
 
OLD PLANTATION 
 DAYS 
 
 JUDGE NAPIER S SENTENCE 
 
 IT was only after a desperate struggle that 
 Julian Broderick, a state policeman, had 
 mastered the fugitive. Broderick could 
 not remember having ever had so stern and 
 prolonged a chase and so sudden and fierce an 
 encounter. The affair happened, too, on a pe- 
 culiarly lonely stretch of beach between the 
 solitary pinelands and the waste sea marshes. 
 Broderick knew that had the struggle ended 
 differently many a day would have passed be- 
 fore his friends learned of his fate — if they 
 ever learned of it. After the posse had aban- 
 doned the pursuit, Broderick had dogged his 
 man through swamps and across rivers until at 
 last he had come upon him just as the fellow 
 was about to cross a deep tidal estuary. In 
 the clash that followed the law had triumphed, 
 
2 Old Plantation Days 
 
 and as soon as Broderick had handcuffed his 
 man the two began the toilsome march to Sell- 
 ers, the nearest settlement. 
 
 The prisoner was Jason Jones, a powerful 
 negro, whose reputation in his community at 
 Rosemary up to the time when he robbed Ash- 
 ton, the storekeeper, had been good. Jones 
 had fled on the night of the crime. The deed 
 had been done on a Friday. It was not until 
 the following Tuesday that the robber was 
 caught; in all that time, Broderick felt sure, 
 the silent man who now marched before him 
 had had hardly a mouthful to eat. Compared 
 with Broderick, Jason Jones was a giant; and 
 the state policeman felt that he should have 
 had small chance against so formidable an an- 
 tagonist if the man had not been exhausted 
 by the pitiless and protracted pursuit. Brod- 
 erick was sorry for the fellow, and he intended 
 when they reached Sellers to see to it imme- 
 diately that the man was decently cared for. 
 
 The two men arrived in the seacoast village 
 at sunset, but a strange sort of darkness had 
 already set in. A sharp misty rain, driven by 
 an insistent east wind, had been falling for an 
 hour. The huddled houses of the small settle- 
 ment showed lights in them. It was an eve- 
 ning to be indoors. Broderick, weary phys- 
 
Judge Napier's Sentence 3 
 
 ically and mentally, at last brought his captive 
 to the post office. Sellers was the kind of vil- 
 lage that has only one officer of the law, who 
 serves as constable, storekeeper and postmaster, 
 and Broderick was an old friend of this man, 
 whose name was Jim Laws. 
 
 "Jim," he said, "I've got a man here with 
 me. Guess I'll have to ask you to let me keep 
 him here to-night." 
 
 "Right, Julian," the other answered, gazing 
 with interest on the powerful form of Jason 
 Jones. "Tell me what you need, Julian." 
 
 "I must take this man on the truck to the 
 city the first thing in the morning. We've had 
 nothing to eat, Jim, for a good while." 
 
 The postmaster busied himself behind the 
 counter; and soon cheese, crackers, canned sal- 
 mon and ancient gingerbreads were forthcom- 
 ing. These he set before Broderick. 
 
 "Jason," said his captor, not without kind- 
 ness, "I'll take the cuffs off now for a while so 
 that you can eat your supper." The negro 
 muttered thanks. 
 
 The postmaster, who had been about to close 
 up shop when the two men arrived, slouched 
 into his overcoat. 
 
 "Stormy wind coming up," he remarked; "if 
 it doesn't get too bad, Julian, I'll have my wife 
 
4 Old Plantation Days 
 
 send you up a pot of hot coffee, I'll tell Dave 
 Janney about stopping for you in the morning." 
 In a lower voice he added, "Come to the door." 
 And when Broderick had complied, the post- 
 master whispered, "Julian, do you want any 
 help with this fellow to-night? I can come 
 back if you think you might need me." 
 
 "No, I can manage him," Broderick replied. 
 "There's no reason for you to come back." 
 
 The door, which the storekeeper now opened, 
 was blown violently against the wall. The two 
 smoky lamps in the room flared convulsively. 
 Broderick shot an apprehensive glance toward 
 his prisoner. 
 
 "Regular storm," he said by way of fare- 
 well to the postmaster, who stepped forth into 
 the rain and the night. 
 
 To be left alone for a night with a prisoner 
 was no new experience for Broderick; he took 
 the situation as a matter of course. 
 
 "Jason," he said, raising his voice somewhat 
 in order to make himself heard above the wind, 
 "there's a bench over there, where you can 
 get some sleep. I'll put the cuffs back on you, 
 that being according to orders and regula- 
 tions." 
 
 The negro made no protest. In his silent 
 way he seemed to be sensible of the kindness 
 
Judge Napier's Sentence 5 
 
 that Broderick had shown him. When the 
 handcuffs had been adjusted, the fellow went 
 obediently to the rude couch and lay down. 
 There was something resigned about his man- 
 ner, as if he had realized that there was no use 
 trying to escape the hand of the law. 
 
 Jason soon slept, though the night was no 
 night for sleeping. In a chair tilted against 
 the counter sat Broderick, trying to read by the 
 dim lamplight a week-old paper. Outside the 
 wind had slowly Increased until now it was al- 
 most a cyclone. The watcher was sure that he 
 heard a great tree go down. The frame build- 
 ing began to creak and groan. 
 
 "No chance for Jim to send that coffee," he 
 kept saying to himself. As the hours wore on 
 toward midnight, the violence of the gale in- 
 creased. Jim Laws' store was especially ex- 
 posed to the force of the blast. The storm 
 was coming from the east. There was nothing 
 in the village of Sellers between the sea marshes 
 and the post office. A small lumber yard was 
 to the north. The few scattered dwellings 
 were a considerable distance away on the land- 
 ward side. The post office had to take the 
 full fury of the tempest. 
 
 About an hour before midnight Broderick, 
 now thoroughly alarmed, went to the window 
 
6 Old Plantation Days 
 
 on the leeward side of the building. In the 
 darkness a storm-lashed tide was raging before 
 a seventy-mile gale. The salt water was al- 
 ready under the building. Knowing the ways 
 of coastal storms, Broderick realized that this 
 was a hurricane out of the West Indies. At 
 any moment the rising tide might sweep from 
 its foundations 'the rickety structure in which 
 he and his prisoner were sheltered. Crossing 
 the room to the windward side, he saw that 
 water was already on the floor, and that salt 
 spume was driving in through the cracks in the 
 building. 
 
 Broderick hurriedly set three mail sacks and 
 certain boxes of store goods on the counter. 
 He would try to keep what he could out of the 
 wet for Jim Laws. There was no chance that 
 the postmaster would get back, for he and his 
 neighbors, too, would be fully occupied In get- 
 ting their families out of their endangered 
 houses to places of safety. Broderick and his 
 prisoner would have to shift for themselves. 
 
 With Jason, exhaustion had had its way; he 
 was sleeping through the storm. His huge 
 form lay cramped on the small couch. Brod- 
 erick was glad that the man should rest, but 
 the time had come to awaken him. His deci- 
 sion to arouse him was hastened by a grinding 
 
Judge Napier's Sentence 7 
 
 crash, which was followed by a heavy down- 
 pour through the roof. A live-oak tree had 
 fallen on the building. 
 
 "When live oaks go," Broderick muttered, 
 "it's time for us to leave!" 
 
 Even after the fall of the tree through the 
 roof the negro slept; Broderick had some diffi- 
 culty in awakening him. 
 
 "Jason, sit up and listen to what I have to 
 say." 
 
 Broderick waited until he was sure that his 
 prisoner had full possession of his senses. 
 
 "Jason, we are caught in a storm — you un- 
 derstand? You and I have to leave this place. 
 Now, I want to give you the best chance I can 
 to get away. I am therefore going to take the 
 cuffs off. You are to stay with me as long as 
 you can, Jason. If things get so bad that you 
 have to save yourself from drowning, look out 
 for yourself. But when the storm is over, you 
 are to come back to me. Is it a fair deal and 
 agreement?" 
 
 "Yes, cap'n, more than fair," the towering 
 black man replied, evidently impressed by 
 Broderick's quiet manner, which was in high 
 contrast to the howling gale. 
 
 At that moment there came a heavy thud- 
 ding against the windward side of the build- 
 
8 Old Plantation Days 
 
 ing, then a smashing, splintering blow. A 
 heavy stick of pine timber, drifting from the 
 sawmill near by, had been driven like a ram 
 through the side of the building. The waves 
 drove it farther in, and twisted it, so that now 
 through the gaping hole the sea water rushed. 
 The spumy salt tide rushed also through the 
 door that Broderick opened. On the thresh- 
 old the two men stood for a moment. The 
 white man was afraid that the negro might not 
 be willing to venture forth. He turned to call 
 to Jason, and at the same time took a step 
 downward into the wild tide-race. 
 
 "Take my hand, Jason; let's try to get 
 through this together." 
 
 Even while he was speaking, he was thrown 
 violently against the building, and the hand 
 that had reached out for Jason's was clutching 
 the air. With a groan, Broderick sank into 
 the seething black waters. A heavy timber, 
 companion to the one that had rammed the 
 building, had been driven against him. His 
 leg was broken near the thigh; he could neither 
 swim nor stand; he would surely drown. 
 
 Into the wailing darkness came the huge 
 form of Jason. His bulk loomed monstrous 
 in the doorway. 
 
 "Cap'n, where is you?" he shouted. 
 
"P.RODERICK CAr.LEl) I!.\CK lAIXTEV, 'IlKRE, JASON! 
 DONE l"OK. SAVE Vol' KSl'LEF' "— Pn(/c 9 
 
 BUT I'M 
 
Judge Napier's Sentence 9 
 
 With his feeble fingers trailing idly against 
 the side of the building, with his breath almost 
 gone from another savage thrust of the cruel 
 timber, Broderick called back faintly, "Here, 
 Jason ! But I'm done for. Save yourself. 
 Keep the wind at your back, and you'll get into 
 the woods. Save yourself." 
 
 In the oblivion that surged down upon him, 
 the doomed man in the water was hardly aware 
 of the giant form that towered above him in 
 the storm. But great arms were under him, 
 lifting him. A voice of hope spoke to him. 
 A strength to master the strength of the storm 
 had come to shield him. 
 
 It was noon of the following day; and though 
 the wind was still high, the clouds were break- 
 ing. What had been the village of Sellers was 
 now 'a desolation. Three miles inland, in a 
 pinelander's stout cabin, lay Broderick. Jason 
 had brought him there through the storm, and 
 the first object the aching eyes of the state po- 
 liceman caught as he opened them was the 
 huge form of the negro, seated near the fire- 
 place. 
 
 "You've come back, Jason," said Broderick, 
 "as you promised. You are a man of your 
 word." 
 
10 Old Plantation Days 
 
 "I didn't never gone, cap'n," the negro re- 
 sponded simply. 
 
 Then the owner of the cabin told of the ex- 
 ploit of Jason, In ending he said with some 
 show of feeling, "He carried you just like a 
 woman would a baby, Julian; and he would not 
 rest till he had you as comfortable as you could 
 be made. He must be a mighty faithful man 
 of yours." 
 
 "He is," said Julian Broderick. 
 
 That was a strange trial which, two weeks 
 later, was called in the courtroom of Judge 
 Trevelyan Napier in Charleston. Jason Jones, 
 accused of robbing the Ashton store in Rose- 
 mary, was at the bar of justice. The judge had 
 heard the evidence; and in his charge to the 
 jury he had suggested that, if the twelve gen- 
 tlemen found a verdict of guilty, he would see 
 to it that the punishment met the offense. He 
 intimated that the robbing of country stores 
 was a practice that, so far as he could effect 
 it, would have to cease in Charleston County. 
 
 "Jason Jones," said Judge Napier, address- 
 ing the prisoner, "the law gives you the right 
 to make any statement you may wish to make; 
 do you wish to say anything for yourself?" 
 
 "Please, sah," the negro replied, "make my 
 
Judge Napier's Sentence 11 
 
 fine as light as you can. Fse mighty sorry I 
 done broke in the store. My wife is dead, and 
 I has seven head of chillun. I broke in the 
 store 'caze they been hongry." 
 
 At that moment there was a stir in the court- 
 room. Broderick, lying on a cot, was brought 
 in. The doctors at the hospital had not yet 
 permitted him even to use crutches. From his 
 bed of pain he told with evident effort the story 
 of the storm. Through it all the listeners were 
 spellbound. Judge Napier cleared his throat 
 suspiciously. 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury," he said at the con- 
 clusion of the policeman's story, "retire for 
 your verdict. Find according to the evidence." 
 
 In a few minutes the men returned with the 
 verdict of guilty. 
 
 "Jason Jones, stand up and hear your sen- 
 tence," said Judge Napier. "We find you 
 guilty of robbing the Ashton store. But we 
 also find you guilty of saving your captor's life 
 at the great risk of your own, and you stayed 
 by him as you had promised to do. The 
 amount of damage that you did the store is 
 about five dollars, which I, in an unofllicial ca- 
 pacity, will make good. The account of the 
 law against you is cleared by your late conduct. 
 Jason, you are a free man. May you be a good 
 
12 Old Plantation Days 
 
 one. Return home now and work hard for 
 those seven children. Mr. Broderick, here, 
 and certain other gentlemen in the room have 
 thrown together and now hand you this little 
 gift of a hundred dollars. Jason, I am con- 
 vinced that you are naturally a brave and good 
 man. Be brave and good always. You may 
 go. You are free." 
 
II 
 
 WHAT SCARED KITTY 
 
 THE very first intimation Maj. Meri- 
 wether Bohun had that anything was 
 wrong was the tremendous bound that 
 his mare, Kitty, gave. Had he not been an 
 expert horseman, the little thoroughbred's sud- 
 den dash would surely have unseated him; but 
 he managed to keep his saddle and to pull in 
 the mare. 
 
 "Whoa, girl!" he said gently, gathering in 
 the lines with his left hand and patting his 
 mount soothingly with his right. "What is it 
 that scared you, little one? There's nothing 
 on this old swamp road to frighten any one, 
 Kitty." 
 
 But there evidently was; for the mare was 
 trembling and blowing her breath spasmod- 
 ically through her wide, quivering nos<-rils. 
 Maj. Bohun knew from those signs that Kitty's 
 keen senses had detected some danger on that 
 narrow, dark, lonely pathway. 
 
 It happened on the old road leading from 
 Maj. Bohun's plantation in the Santee country 
 
 13 
 
14 Old Plantation Days 
 
 to the neighboring plantation of Wedgewood, 
 which, except for a few negro tenants, had 
 long since been deserted. Moreover, it hap- 
 pened at night. The major was sure that his 
 mare had scented danger of some kind. Her 
 nervousness was increasing every moment; she 
 kept fidgeting, and then began to give unmis- 
 takable signs of intending to bolt. 
 
 "One of the girth buckles may be jamming 
 her," the major said to himself. " I'll get off 
 a minute to feel if everything is all right." 
 
 He dismounted and led the frightened mare 
 forward a few paces; then he stopped her and 
 his hands began to fumble over the buckles 
 of the girth. For the moment, he let the lines 
 fall loose on the horse's neck. In that moment, 
 whether the mare realized that her master was 
 off his guard or whether some stray wind had 
 wafted to her another scent of her peril, she 
 whirled suddenly and, snorting loudly, gal- 
 loped back down the black passage of the road 
 along which she had come. 
 
 There the major was left standing, three 
 miles from home and three miles from Wedge- 
 wood. He was on an elevated part of the 
 road, on what had once been a causeway; and 
 that particular point was near the heart of the 
 swamp that separated his own plantation from 
 
What Scared Kitty 15 
 
 Wedgewood. Yet, strange as it may seem, 
 Maj, Bohun's presence in such a place at such 
 a time had come about in a perfectly natural 
 way. 
 
 That afternoon he had promised to go over 
 to Wedgewood to see a sick negro. The day 
 had been hot; a thunderstorm had come up 
 just as the major was about to start on his 
 ride, and for more than an hour a wild tem- 
 pest had shaken the tall magnolias and swayed 
 the great live oaks that stood round the major's 
 house. The sun was setting when at last the 
 rain ceased. 
 
 With the major a promise was a promise. 
 He had sent word to the negro that he was 
 coming, and nothing would have kept him from 
 fulfilling his obligation. The major was a 
 proud man; yet his pride was productive of 
 the highest virtues — generosity, courage, hos- 
 pitality, and gallant adherence to a fine code of 
 honor. There was no man of his county who 
 had suffered more or who complained less, who 
 had had more cause for tears yet who had pre- 
 served more genuinely his light heart, his merry 
 smile, and his ringing laughter. 
 
 Behind his rambling old plantation house, 
 many parts of which had acknowledged the 
 triumph of time to the extent of leaning de- 
 
16 Old Plantation Days 
 
 jectedly, stood a little brick building. It had 
 been a smoke-house, but the major had fitted 
 it with benches and a fireplace. There the 
 many negroes who came to see him could have 
 a warm and sheltered waiting place. From 
 there, as soon as the storm had abated, Major 
 Bohun had called Will, his ancient negro serv- 
 ant. At the foot of the steps Will had stood, 
 with his battered cap in his hand, and with 
 the last fine drops of the heavy shower falling 
 upon his gray head. 
 
 "Will," the major had said, *'I want you to 
 saddle Kitty for me. It's stopped raining, and 
 I'm going over to Wedgewood to see poor Joe 
 Wilson." 
 
 Maj. Bohun made his tone final. He knew 
 very well that Will would be sure to object to 
 his plan. Long, faithful service had given the 
 negro the privilege of advising his master on 
 all matters. 
 
 "You gwine there to-night, Mas' Meri- 
 wether?" he had asked, with strong disapproval 
 in his tone. "Dat road is so bery slippery 
 after dis rain, sah, and Wedgewood is a long, 
 lonely way off, sah." 
 
 Although the objection was dutifully made, 
 the negro would really have been disappointed 
 if the major had not kept to his word. It 
 
What Scared Kitty 17 
 
 would have been the first time it had ever 
 happened; and the dusky servitor was not at 
 all beneath appreciating a delicate point of 
 honor, and of considering it as his own as well 
 as his master's. 
 
 "No; I must go, Will," the major had an- 
 swered at once. "I shall be ready as soon as 
 you get the horse here." 
 
 Down at the stable, while Will was adjust- 
 ing the bridle and saddle on Kitty, he kept 
 muttering proudly to himself, *"Cose he gwine! 
 I done know he wouldn't bruk his wud ! No, 
 sah, not eben to a sick nigger ! Bruk his wud ?" 
 he asked himself with scornful incredulity, to 
 afford himself the satisfaction of stoutly deny- 
 ing such an absurdity. "Not him! Dat's 
 about all we got left on dis ole place now; but 
 we ain't gwine to lose dat! No, sah, not so 
 long as me and Mas' Meriwether libes. You 
 hear dat, Kitty?" 
 
 Meanwhile Maj. Bohun had been taking 
 stock of what he could spare for the sick man 
 at Wedgewood. The bundle that he finally 
 tied up consisted of sundry little packages of 
 groceries, the waistcoat of an old suit of eve- 
 ning clothes, a flaming red tie of antique de- 
 sign and a woolen muffler. It was an odd as- 
 sortment of gifts for an invalid; but the major 
 
18 Old rianlalion Days 
 
 did not trouble himself about that. The gifts 
 would carry his affection; and that was the most 
 that any gift could carry. 
 
 It was an hour later, when he was riding 
 along the lonely swamp road, that something 
 had frightened Kitty. 
 
 After his mount had galloped off in the dark- 
 ness, Maj. Hohun stooii doubtfully in the black 
 gulch of the roatl. The package for the sick 
 man he had stuffed into one of his greatcoat 
 pockets, and he now put his hand on it rem- 
 iniscently. 
 
 There was everything to take him back home, 
 it seemed: this danger, whatever it was, should 
 take him back; the fact that he was now on 
 foot should make him turn rather than go on; 
 it would take him more than an hour to walk 
 to the negro cabin at Wcdgewood, and he well 
 knew how uncomfortable he would be when 
 he arrived. But in spite of all that Maj. Bo- 
 hun did not hesitate. Mis mind had made 
 him pause, but his heart had had only a single 
 purpose. He would go on. 
 
 All the dark and lonely way to Wedgewood 
 the major puzzled over Kitty's fright. There 
 were several things that might have caused it. 
 Out of the lonely vastness of the monstrous 
 swamp might have come a roaming black bear; 
 
What Scared Kitty 19 
 
 it might have been a negro fugitive from one 
 of the county chain gangs; it might have been 
 a rattlesnake, the sinister and penetrating odor 
 of which will make even the best horse un- 
 manageable. 
 
 Before the major started forward he had 
 listened intently for a sound that might betray 
 the identity of the creature that had frightened 
 his mare; but except for the lonely wind griev- 
 ing through the towering pines the silence of 
 the moldering swamp was unbroken. 
 
 Once, indeed, he heard the far-off and mel- 
 ancholy note of a great horned owl; but it was 
 so weird and remote that it seemed a tone of 
 the deep woodland wilderness itself rather than 
 the voice of a living creature. 
 
 "I don't know what it could have been; I 
 give up," Maj. Bohun muttered to himself; 
 " but it certainly gave Kitty a bad scare. She'll 
 go into the stable lot at home. I hope Will 
 doesn't find her to-night; he would worry a 
 good deal about me." 
 
 An hour's walk through the silent, cavernous 
 woods brought the major to the borders of 
 Wedgcwood, and soon afterwards he came to 
 Joe Wilson's cabin. 
 
 Matters were worse than Maj. Bohun had 
 anticipated, and he was heartily glad that he 
 
20 Old Plantation Days 
 
 had come. From the dim couch beside the 
 dark fireplace where he lay, the sick negro 
 looked up at him with grateful eyes. 
 
 "I knowed you would come, sah," he said, 
 rousing himself to make the effort of speaking. 
 He tried to sit up in the light of the smoking 
 lamp, but he had not the strength. 
 
 The major busied himself to make Joe com- 
 fortable. The invalid was alone in the cabin, 
 and was too weak to help himself; but Maj. 
 Bohun knew what to do. First he conferred 
 his gifts, and that lightened the negro's heart. 
 Next he made the fire blaze brightly. He then 
 unwrapped the groceries he had brought, and 
 used the paper to stuff up a drafty crack above 
 the negro's bed; then he put on a few old pans 
 and began to cook some of the food. And all 
 the while he kept talking cheerfully to the 
 stricken man, whose only reply was a reiteration 
 of the solemn statement: 
 
 "I sholy would 'a' died dis night, Mas' Meri- 
 wether, if you hadn't 'a' come." 
 
 When the sick man had had his supper, the 
 major began to prepare to return; but there 
 was such a dumb appeal in the negro's eyes that 
 he speedily came to a different decision. 
 
 "Joe," he said, "I believe I'll just stay here 
 for the night. Kitty got away from me, and I 
 
What Scared Kitty 21 
 
 don't want to walk all the way home in the 
 dark. I'll just sit in this chair by the fire. 
 You go to sleep now, Joe, and I'll be right here 
 when you wake." 
 
 The negro could not thank him, but he sighed 
 with deep content and closed his eyes peace- 
 fully. The depth of his gratitude became ar- 
 ticulate in his dreams; for once he cried out 
 poignantly, as if in protest, "No! No! He 
 done say he would come!" and then subsided 
 into deep slumber. 
 
 When morning came, Maj. Bohun was still 
 sitting beside Joe; and when the negro woke, 
 refreshed and much better, he saw the old 
 planter's kindly face. 
 
 Joe's fever was gone, and his brain, he said, 
 was clear. 
 
 "You had a good night, Joe," said the ma- 
 jor. "You are going to get well now. I'll 
 send Will over with some things for you this 
 afternoon; and to-morrow I'll come again my- 
 self." 
 
 Into the radiant dawn of a golden September 
 day the major stepped; and as he walked 
 briskly down the plantation road, he squared 
 his shoulders and hummed blithely an old love 
 melody. He loved the woods; and this walk 
 home through the dewy freshness and glim- 
 
22 Old Plantation Days 
 
 mering beauty filled him with pure joy. On all 
 sides the marvelous beauty of the Southern 
 forest withdrew into rare beauty; the vistas, 
 in ending, suggested a diviner loveliness beyond 
 them. 
 
 It was, indeed, so beautiful that Maj. Bohun 
 did not think of the sinister experience of the 
 night before until he came almost to the place 
 where Kitty had deserted him. Then he re- 
 membered; and he was not at all surprised to 
 see the faithful Will coming down the narrow 
 causeway to meet him. 
 
 "He's found Kitty with the saddle and bridle 
 on her," said the major to himself, "and has 
 come over to see what has happened to me." 
 
 But suddenly Will stopped abruptly in the 
 road; then he gave a shout and jumped back. 
 Maj. Bohun came up quickly; Will was calling 
 to him to be careful, and was pointing to what 
 lay on the causeway. 
 
 Spanning the road between him and the ne- 
 gro, Maj. Bohun saw the thing that had fright- 
 ened Kitty. It was a monstrous reptile — a 
 diamond-backed rattler of the swamp. Its 
 massive body could not have been less than 
 nine feet long. 
 
 It lay at a peculiar, awkward angle; but 
 its broad, malignant, spade-shaped head was 
 
Whc{t Scared Kitty 23 
 
 alertly raised, and its cold, yellow eyes glit- 
 tered ominously. About the grim and terrible 
 mouth there was an expression of savage 
 cruelty. The lips were pallid, drawn, deadly; 
 but the huge rattlesnake seemed to have con- 
 trol of the forward part of its body only. It 
 could strike, but it could not coil. Its back had 
 evidently been injured. Yet, partly because of 
 that very injury, it was the most dangerous 
 and formidable monster of the lonely Southern 
 swamp. 
 
 The negro made a detour through the bushes, 
 and now stood beside Maj. Bohun, who told 
 him of Kitty's breaking away. 
 
 "And there's what scared her," he added, 
 as they gazed at the hideous rattler; "no won- 
 der she bolted from me." 
 
 "But dat snake ain't been lyin' here all 
 night?" the negro asked, staring, fascinated, 
 at the dread reptile in the roadway before 
 them. 
 
 "I believe I know what happened," the ma- 
 jor replied, "Kitty shied when we passed the 
 snake. She winded him, but she did not know 
 where he was. Then, when she broke and 
 galloped back, she ran over him and injured 
 him. Yes, he has lain there all night. What 
 a monster!" 
 
24 Old Plantation Days 
 
 It took the two men the better part of half 
 an hour to cut long poles in the swamp and to 
 kill the powerful rattlesnake. The major then 
 counted the rattles; there were twenty-nine. 
 He also saw where the mare's hoofs had 
 crushed the back of the reptile. 
 
 "See here, Will," he said, pointing to the 
 deep wound, "here's where Kitty scored. This 
 snake must have been maddened by such tram- 
 pling," he went on, half to himself, "and would 
 have been wild to strike after such an injury. 
 Now if I hadn't gone on to Wedgewood," he 
 mused aloud; "if I had turned back. The road 
 is so narrow here, and it was so dark — " 
 
 Maj. Bohun cleared his throat slightly. The 
 negro, whose eyes were wet, said hurriedly 
 and in a tone of assumed assurance, "But you 
 didn't been in no danger, sah, 'cause you had 
 done promised Joe to come to see him. And 
 we don't neber bruk dat Bohun wud, sah." 
 
ni 
 
 THE AIM OF THE HUNTERMAN 
 
 THE negroes in the golden-wide ricefield, 
 as they reaped rhythmically, were sing- 
 ing melodiously; their steady advance 
 bowed before it the tall ripe grain; the mellow 
 sunshine steeped the scene; there was the 
 glamour of autumn and harvest-time in the air. 
 It was cool for September in South Carolina, 
 and there were hints of fall in the air; though 
 that radiant, reddening, ripening time had as 
 yet been stayed from the heavy-foliaged trees 
 that fringed the ricefield. Toward Ned Als- 
 ton, the planter, who was watching the happy 
 workers with delight, there now advanced the 
 smiling Scipio, the grandson of the old profes- 
 sional slave hunter of Eldorado; and, much to 
 the pride of this unique character Alston al- 
 ways addressed him as "My Hunterman." 
 
 Scipio well deserved the title. No Cherokee 
 Indian who ever ranged the pine forests and 
 the cypress swamps of the South had under- 
 stood them better than he. He possessed a 
 certain untamed element in his nature which 
 
 25 
 
26 Old Plantation Days 
 
 served to ally Iiim to all wild things and their 
 ways. His occupation was never fixed, unless 
 roaming can be considered an occupation; real 
 work he disdained. But Scipio was full of pic- 
 turesque accomplishments. He could pick the 
 guitar, pray with much emotion at revival meet- 
 ings, arbitrate differences among the negroes, 
 and prescribe medicines in cases of sickness; 
 and these remedies, being gathered from plan- 
 tation woods and fields, could be recommended 
 in that they were without money and without 
 price. But by birth and breeding Scipio was 
 a hunter. He alone could, after night, make 
 a direct road home out of the most desolate 
 and trackless swamp; he alone knew where the 
 wariest old buck of the branches would lie, and 
 at just what point in the vast level pinewoods 
 a running deer could be cut off. In all such 
 matters, Alston had been accustomed to defer 
 to him. The planter had to confess, however, 
 that Scipio was hardly to be accounted an eco- 
 nomic asset of Eldorado plantation; but he cer- 
 tainly made for sentiment and romance, and 
 was as fine a figure of the black man as the 
 Santee country had produced. 
 
 Tall and sparse, he had the power of endur- 
 ance written in the movements of his limbs and 
 in his easy attitudes of repose. All his actions 
 
The Aim of the Huntcrman 27 
 
 appeared to be without effort, and he did things 
 without appearing to strive. In feature, he 
 was more like an Indian than a negro. His 
 eyes were deep-set and keen, with a masked 
 ghtter of forest-wildness in them. The expres- 
 sion of his face was quiet but indescribably 
 wary, while the gleam of his ready smile al- 
 most constantly lighted his cheerful counte- 
 nance. 
 
 And now, as Scipio approached Alston, who 
 stood under a gnarled live-oak on the ricefield- 
 bank, the planter eyed the negro's musket with 
 mock disapproval. 
 
 "Well, Hunterman," he said, "and what are 
 you loaded for this summer day?" 
 
 "Cap'n," the negro returned, "I come from 
 Laurel Hill swamp. Two big bear done take 
 up there, but I couldn't find them to-day. I hab 
 a ball-bullet in my musket, sah," he went on, 
 stroking the long barrel of his formidable 
 weapon. 
 
 The eye of the planter rested with amuse- 
 ment yet with admiration on Scipio's gun. 
 
 This musket was of an age unknown and of 
 a fashion long forgotten. Short in the stock 
 but marvelously long in the barrel, it was 
 throughout so pitted with rust-spots and pow- 
 der-scalds that it frequently, when fired, emitted 
 
28 Old Plantation Days 
 
 spurts of angry flame. The misshapen ham- 
 mer looked ancestral, almost prehistoric, while 
 the nipple was nothing but a worn stub. But in 
 the hands of the redoubtable Hunterman, and 
 charged with the double load which he was ac- 
 customed to using, it was a deadly weapon. 
 The sound it made was unlike that produced 
 by any other kind of gun. Scipio's musket 
 blared, and it did so alarmingly. This fear- 
 some roar was known to all dwellers in the 
 Santee country, and what it meant filled every 
 one who heard it with deep pride in Scipio's 
 daring and prowess. On stormy twilights, 
 when the wild-ducks would be pouring into the 
 old ricefields, a sound like the crack of doom 
 would crash the stillness of the plantation re- 
 gions, and would reverberate for miles up and 
 down the misty river. Then the negroes, hug- 
 ging their cabin fires, would say, "Eh, brudder, 
 what chance is a duck got 'gainst a noise like 
 dat?" Again, when the roar of the musket 
 would come from the pine woods, there would 
 always be some negroes who would hear it and 
 would remark, "Deer can jump and run, but 
 he can't jump powder and he can't outrun shot, 
 — not when brudder Scipio opens fire on him." 
 So now, when Scipio laid this extraordinary 
 weapon down on the dewberry vines that had 
 
Tlie Aim of the Hunterman 29 
 
 matted themselves on the slope of the ricefield 
 bank, Alston eyed it with affectionate fun. 
 
 "Time you were getting a new gun, Hunter- 
 man," he said; "some day she's going to blow 
 up and scatter you over a ten-acre field." 
 
 But Ned Alston's admiration for Scipio's 
 skill as a woodsman now suffered a certain 
 eclipse and depreciation, as, looking across the 
 brown stiff stubble, over which the heat-waves 
 shimmered and swam, he saw the Hunterman's 
 wife toiling faithfully with the men and with the 
 stronger women, though her own child was but 
 a few weeks old. Yet it was hard to get angry 
 with the picturesque Scipio; one might blame 
 a domestic nature for such neglect, but not a 
 nature which was essentially wild, restless, un- 
 tamed. Yet the planter could not help saying: 
 
 "Scipio, you know this is no season for you 
 to hunt bear. Why aren't you in that field 
 reaping rice? You know Amy ought not work 
 as she is working yonder, while her baby is so 
 young. She had to bring him down here with 
 her to-day; he's down the bank there, under 
 the wahwoo bush. Amy ought to be at home 
 with the child, and you ought to be in the field." 
 
 But the Hunterman ignored the planter's 
 cogent reasoning. 
 
 "I done seen him yonder," he smilingly said, 
 
30 Old Plantation Days 
 
 the light of a deep, shy, wild, woodland affec- 
 tion for his one baby coming into his eyes; 
 "he done been asleep," he added softly, and 
 still smiling, as if such a performance on the 
 part of his baby was both wonderful and amus- 
 ing. 
 
 The disagreeable subject of work was not 
 again referred to; for Scipio, taking advantage 
 of its temporary diversion, straightway began 
 to tell Alston of a family of black fox-squirrels 
 near the northern bound of the plantation that 
 had been marked for the winter's pastime of 
 the planter. The talk continued to be of things 
 woodland until Alston moved out from under 
 the little oak. thinking he would step down the 
 bank to see what progress the harvesting would 
 show from a diflterent angle. Like every 
 planter, the world over, when he emerged from 
 the shelter which had cut oft his view of the 
 sky, with its tokens of fair or stormy weather, 
 he glanced upward. Scipio, equally solicitous 
 about such matters, but from far difterent rea- 
 sons, also looked up. Both men saw at a 
 glance the same dread apparition. 
 
 With wide and powerful wings outspread in 
 the heavens, in one of those last lowering cir- 
 cles ere he should fall, a great bald eagle was 
 w^heeling. Unconscious of the presence of the 
 
The Aim of the Hunterman 31 
 
 two men standing beneath the oak, he had been 
 circling above them, they knew not for how 
 long. And the moment they discerned him, 
 certain at last of his reconnaissance and of the 
 exact position of his prey, he eagerly arched 
 his mighty wings and volplaned roaring out 
 of the sky. His snowy head, with its cruel 
 beak partly open in the heat of the hunt, was 
 slightly outstretched. His stocky legs were let- 
 ting down their talons to grip their prey. The 
 fall of the eagle was terrible, a fearfully beau- 
 tiful spectacle; impressive, but most sinister in 
 its splendor. 
 
 Alston cried, "What an eagle, Scipio!" 
 
 But the dusky Hunterman, like lightning to 
 think when wild life was in sight, had Instantly 
 discerned the goal of the great harrier's fall. 
 He marked the tragedy in an instant. 
 
 "My lir baby," he cried brokenly; — "dat big 
 eagle's gwine to get him !" 
 
 The negroes in the ricefield, who were work- 
 ing at a distance of some acres from the bank, 
 were unaware of the impending disaster. They 
 were reaping happily, laughing and singing. 
 Even if they had seen and had realized what 
 was taking place, they were far too distant to 
 help. The eagle might have heard their 
 shouts, but he would not have released his prey. 
 
32 Old Plantation Days 
 
 Always bold, the bald eagle Is amazingly so 
 when a coveted victim, almost within his 
 clutches, seems about to be taken from him. 
 In the waving field, the little child's mother 
 was singing with the rest, swinging the flashing 
 sickle rhythmically and laying the golden reaped 
 grain in rich windrows on the brown stubble. 
 
 At first, only the planter and Sclpio were 
 aware of the terrible scene now being enacted 
 before their very eyes. If the child was to be 
 saved, they alone must do it. Yet what hope 
 had they of succeeding? 
 
 The plumed wahwoo bush beside which Amy 
 had laid her child was more than a hundred 
 yards from them down the grass-grown, briar- 
 matted bank. It would take the men fifteen 
 seconds to reach the place; and by then the 
 eagle, bearing his prey, might be far beyond 
 the cypresses on the river-bank, or even beating 
 his powerful way over the broad river itself. 
 It was a desperate moment. 
 
 From his great height In the sky, the eagle 
 had detected a movement of life near the bank; 
 and the colorless cloth In which the baby was 
 wrapped had not given him reason for any 
 suspicions. He saw prey before him, far from 
 the workers in the wide field. 
 
 He wheeled lower, gaging the distance and 
 
The Aim of the Hunterman 33 
 
 marking his victim with the piercing sight of 
 fierce clairvoyant eyes. Whether it was a 
 fawn or the young of some other animal, he 
 knew not; It mattered not to the great bird of 
 prey. The little creature was alive and de- 
 fenseless; therefore he would fall upon It. 
 With his curved talons wide, he dropped like a 
 black thunderbolt out of the blue sky. The 
 wind roared through the hollow arches of his 
 wings. His talons ached for the fatal grip. 
 His steady eyes were aflame with cruel hunger 
 and the anticipation of its Instant satisfaction. 
 
 The moment that Ned Alston realized the 
 terrible import of Sclplo's words, he sprang 
 forward with a shout, and would have raced 
 down the bank, almost beside himself as he 
 was with pity and horror. But the Hunter- 
 man, with a touch on his arm, stayed him. 
 
 "If you shout, Cap'n, he will fly faster," said 
 Sclplo. "We couldn't get him now no how. 
 But wait a minute, please, suh." 
 
 The huge eagle, whose fall had been com- 
 pleted, and which had for a moment been bur- 
 ied in the grass beside the bush, now rose heav- 
 ily above the bank. Gripped in his talons and 
 held close to his great body was Sclplo's baby. 
 
 But the Hunterman was going to have some- 
 thing to say in the matter. He was kneeling 
 
34 Old Plantation Days 
 
 on the bank, his old musket at his shoulder. 
 
 "Scipio!" the planter cried out poignantly, 
 "what are you going to do?" 
 
 "I'se gwine to shot him," the negro returned, 
 in tones that betrayed not a tremor. 
 
 Alston suppressed a wild desire to protest 
 against what he felt sure would be a peril as 
 grave to the child as the eagle's attack. But 
 instinct told him it was better not to speak. 
 The Hunterman was taking aim. The shot 
 would be most difficult as well as dangerous. 
 It was at a small moving target, and the negro 
 had told Alston that his musket was loaded with 
 one ball — "a ball bullet," meant for bear in 
 the Laurel Hill swamp. 
 
 In the fleeting second while the planter 
 crouched breathless beside the kneeling negro, 
 he caught the expression on Scipio's face. It 
 was tense but not nervous, and flint-like in its 
 determination. The eyes gleamed steadily. 
 There was not a quiver in the statuesque black 
 figure, immovable as marble. 
 
 The workers in the ricefield had heard Als- 
 ton's first shout, and the nature of the tragedy 
 was borne in on them by one of their number, 
 who, being a hunter, cried out the danger. 
 The big eagle caught their gaze at once. Now 
 they could see the child, wrapped in the drab 
 
The Aim of the Hunter man 35 
 
 cloth, struggling feebly. They could not hear 
 the pitiful little cry that came to the ears of 
 Alston and Scipio. Amy, the mother, had be- 
 gun to run wildly across the stubble, waving 
 her arms, shouting, and weeping impotently. 
 But the great eagle had nothing to fear from 
 those far-away pursuers. 
 
 Then on the air the musket of Scipio blared. 
 The giant marauding bird collapsed in his sky- 
 ward flight and fell heavily in the marsh on 
 the edge of the field. The aim of the Hunter- 
 man, even in such a crisis, had been true; and 
 the ball-bullet of the Hunterman had gone 
 home. 
 
 In a few moments. Amy had her child in her 
 arms. And then something happened which 
 pleased the planter even more than the wonder- 
 ful shot Scipio had just made. "Give me yo' 
 sickle, Amy," he said; "as long as we'se got a 
 lir baby, I will never let you wuk no mo'." 
 
 That eagle, the largest ever taken in the 
 Santee country, now stuffed and mounted, is 
 one of Ned Alston's treasured trophies. 
 Though he cannot look at it without something 
 akin to a shudder, yet it always vividly recalls 
 one of the most thrilling moments of his life, 
 when an innocent child was saved, without 
 
36 Old Plantation Days 
 
 scath, from a terrible death. When he and 
 Scipio look at the eagle together, they under- 
 stand each other with a perfect affection. And 
 the planter is wont to say : — 
 
 "Scipio, to this day I don't know how you 
 did it." 
 
 And Scipio answers, as if the feat had been 
 simple enough : — 
 
 "How, Cap'n, ain't I is yo' Hunterman?" 
 
IV 
 
 MY COLONEL 
 
 HE lives on one of the great rice plan- 
 tations that lie along the Santee 
 River in the coast country of South 
 Carolina. His home was the headquarters of 
 the Swamp Fox, the dauntless Francis Marion. 
 On his visit to the far South, after the Revolu- 
 tion, the first gentleman in America, Gen. 
 George Washington, breakfasted there. It has 
 been the home of one of the most famous of 
 Colonial Governors, and a second home to two 
 signers of the Declaration. The noble old 
 house itself looks like history. It has that 
 alien yet generous majesty that is indefinably 
 associated with the traditions of refinement. 
 And because of this same spirit, which is in 
 perfect harmony with the temper of its master, 
 its hospitable doors are open wide to all com- 
 ers. The old stage coach road from Charles- 
 ton to Georgetown runs through the planta- 
 tion; and even of late years, when travel on 
 that route has been infrequent, my Colonel's 
 old home has given welcome and shelter to 
 
 37 
 
38 Old Plantation Days 
 
 half a score of belated travelers at one time. 
 It has been known to have gathered under its 
 kindly roof during a single evening such a list 
 as this: a horse doctor, a wandering spiritualist, 
 a bishop, a whiskey drummer, a Presbyterian 
 minister of the old school, an insurance agent, 
 and a bibulous hunter. (No sequence is fol- 
 lowed in this list save that which its very in- 
 congruity suggests.) And all of these my 
 Colonel delights to entertain. 
 
 That he is six feet tall; that one shoulder 
 droops because of two wounds, one from Mal- 
 vern Hill and one from Gettysburg; that his 
 head is regal in its carriage, with its thin aqui- 
 line nose, its eyes the color of the blue morn- 
 ing sky, its strong and tender mouth, half hid- 
 den under the heavy white mustache; that the 
 cast of his countenance is noble and proud — all 
 these are in a way descriptive; but it is by sug- 
 gestion that you come to know the real char- 
 acter of the man. 
 
 Every negro in the county knows and loves 
 my Colonel. In his dealings with them he is 
 not as other men; he is unique and picturesque 
 to a high degree. At 8 o'clock in the morn- 
 ing he will exhaust his nerves and his expletives 
 on the old reprobate, Wash Green. (Once a 
 
My Colonel 39 
 
 year, when he votes, he is known by his full 
 name: George Washington Alexander Burn- 
 sides Green.) He will stalk back and forth 
 in a black rage, cursing the stupidity of the 
 ragged negro who stands the fire well, and who 
 keeps a cunning and humble silence. He will 
 pause anon to pull a flower and to look over 
 his beloved river and pine woods, while his eyes 
 soften momentarily and his face is Illumined by 
 tender memories. But his reverie Is as short 
 as It Is romantic. With double vehemence he 
 descends on the lazy miscreant; then finally he 
 will stride Into the house, fumble in the harness- 
 room over old buckles and broken chains, in 
 the hall over tattered gloves and an outworn 
 rifle, wondering the while, with growing con- 
 trition, whether he has not been too hard on 
 poor Wash. At length he will be drawn — 
 and It is chivalric to consider this appeal in- 
 voluntary — to the great mahogany sideboard 
 In the dining-room. Here he takes what he 
 calls a precaution. (Sometimes he styles It a 
 mild Interjection.) This he accompanies with 
 a silent toast: perchance to some visionary mem- 
 ory, perchance to some fair lost face out of 
 the haunted past that lives in his heart. Then 
 he will stretch himself In the huge arm-chair, 
 where the Swamp Fox once dozed, and soon 
 
40 Old Plantation Days 
 
 will be deep in a cherished copy of Kipling — 
 the only modern poet with whom he is familiar, 
 although he used to be thoroughly versed in 
 the works of Burns, Byron, and Tennyson. 
 He reads Fuzzy Wuzzy, Gunga Din, and the 
 Recessional. He knows this last by heart, and 
 he cannot sit still under its powerful influence. 
 So he walks out on the front piazza and down 
 the steps, chanting the solemn and tremendous 
 lines. There, under a big live oak, with its 
 gray, sighing banners of moss, he comes 
 abruptly upon Wash Green, who has been bid- 
 ing his time. And now, indeed, the former 
 things are passed away. For an hour they 
 stand under the great oak and talk of the old 
 times (being oblivious of the immediate and 
 painful past). Then my Colonel, with a cer- 
 tain air of mystery about him, goes back into 
 the house. Presently he reappears with his 
 arm full of plunder. On closer inspection this 
 would be seen to consist of a coat, two shirts, an 
 old pair of leggins, and a plug of tobacco. His 
 exit from the doorway is made somewhat sur- 
 reptitiously, for more practical members of the 
 family are apt to keep a hard eye on his gener- 
 osity. But he reaches Wash in safety, and 
 bestows his gifts with the old love in his eyes. 
 
My Colonel 41 
 
 "Were iz I gwine see my Boss again?" 
 queries Wash as he turns to go. 
 
 My Colonel's answer Is a singular one; with 
 the face of one reading the commination serv- 
 ice he holds his right arm horizontal, with the 
 thumb pointing dismally downward. Wash 
 comprehends, and is convulsed; and as he 
 crosses the field he breaks into shouts of laugh- 
 ter. Meanwhile, his master, humming hap- 
 pily the chorus of a love song, popular long 
 before the War, returns to the dining-room and 
 takes a double precaution. 
 
 As it is with Wash, so it is with all the ne- 
 groes. My Colonel knows by name, character, 
 parentage and proclivities every little picka- 
 ninny on the nearby plantations. And as a rule 
 they make splendid pigmy workmen. One of 
 my Colonel's right-hand men is Three Cents, 
 who is only eight years old. His mother called 
 him that the day he was born, "Caze," she 
 said, with more justice than mercy, "he made 
 such a po' showin'." Another one of his di- 
 minutive proteges is Monk. After this fash- 
 ion he got his name: his mother, casting about 
 vainly for something to call him, was at length 
 persuaded to wait until some marked proclivity 
 of her child should give her a clue as to an 
 
42 Old Plantation Days 
 
 appropriate appellation. When he was three 
 years old he began to practise prehensile traits 
 with his toes; he picked switches with them, 
 and in climbing used them with remarkable 
 skill; whereupon he was promptly christened 
 Monk. 
 
 My Colonel is a lover of wild flowers; and 
 the Santee woods are a paradise for them. On 
 every hand in my Colonel's country Nature is 
 riotous with her beauty and abundance. She 
 is eager to retake what man has abandoned; 
 and one by one the great plantations are faUing 
 to decay and desolation. Well she knows how 
 to clothe a ruin, how to veil a cemetery, how 
 to drape a tomb. And in this sweet silent land 
 her flowers make lovely what were otherwise 
 touched with the sadness of spiritual loneliness 
 and pain. Yet, of these subconscious elements, 
 my Colonel is hardly aware. He rides into 
 the bay-branch and breaks a great fragrant 
 cluster of snowy blooms for his wife; he reins 
 in his horse to watch the humming birds at 
 work and play; and he drenches his soul in the 
 beauty of the pines, of the flowering thickets, 
 and of the tender radiance of the blossoming 
 fields. Of the flowers in the garden, he loves 
 the red rose best; for half a century ago his 
 
My Colonel 43 
 
 mother used to wear one in her hair. He even 
 went so far in sentiment once as to write a little 
 verse about a red rose; but he never showed it 
 to any one, having always a deep regard for 
 the sanctity of personal emotions. 
 
 My Colonel is the truest sportsman in the 
 world. It is fifteen years since his youngest 
 son, then but twelve years old, was so forget- 
 ful of his breeding one day as to shoot a quail 
 on the ground. And to this hour his father 
 cannot think of the incident without a profound 
 feeling that the family has suffered shame and 
 disgrace. One summer a neighboring rice 
 planter shot a doe that had been destroying his 
 pea field. Two days later a negro who worked 
 in the turpentine woods found the fawn starv- 
 ing and brought it to my Colonel. The negro 
 said that the old gentleman nearly cried when 
 he saw the poor little creature; and he fed it 
 himself with a bottle, covered it from the dew 
 at night, and so saved its life. It finally grew 
 into a three-prong buck that ate all the gerani- 
 ums and kept the lawn shaggy; but my Colonel 
 never regretted playing the Samaritan. 
 
 Touching matters of a religious nature, he 
 Is not self-conscious. He is reverent. He has 
 nothing in common with those who say in their 
 
44 Old Plantation Days 
 
 hearts that there is no God; for he has passed 
 through many waters, and has found Him in 
 their depths. He always says his prayers, 
 though on cold nights he is apt to cut them 
 short. His favorite prayer is that of the Pub- 
 lican, and he often repeats it with comforting 
 contrition. 
 
 With very little persuasion he will tell you 
 about the War — and, of course, there is but 
 one War to him. Though he bears two 
 wounds, he is free from any taint of bitterness 
 of self-pity. "To the brave men on both 
 sides," he will say, lifting his glass for a toast, 
 *' to the brave men who fought and the braver 
 women who waited." And to him Gettysburg 
 will always be the greatest disaster in history. 
 
 But best of all you will love my Colonel be- 
 cause of his genuine heart. He will meet you 
 in a dugout cypress canoe, ten miles from the 
 plantation; and at midnight in a pouring rain 
 will take you off the stranded tug-boat. Be- 
 fore long he will tell you of the time when, 
 running his Kentucky mare at full speed, he 
 killed the two giant bucks as they jumped the 
 road. It is his way of crowning you with his 
 love and confidence. 
 
 His eyes will fill when he tells you good-by. 
 But as he stands waving to you from the deso- 
 
My Colonel 45 
 
 late ricefield banks, you will catch the gleam 
 of his eyes and the light of his smile. And you 
 will remember him as a rare and true type of 
 the Southern gentleman. 
 
H 
 
 V 
 
 THE WHITEHORN BUCK 
 
 E Stood with his head above the gall- 
 berry-bushes, his antlers gleaming 
 softly in the white winter sunlight. 
 Near-by a wild sow, of gaunt frame and thin 
 gray bristles that made a horror of her spine, 
 was searching for her breakfast in the black 
 rooty mud of the pine-barren swamp. In the 
 tangled thicket of myrtle, water-brier and 
 sweet-bay, birds were hopping about and sing- 
 ing. On all sides the great pine woods 
 stretched away into a silence that held a deep 
 rapture and a perfect peace. The sun, deli- 
 ciously warm, filtered down through the fra- 
 grant pine-crests, shone on the tall brown 
 broom-grass and the dewy swamp, and rested 
 tenderly on the pale blue flowers that starred 
 the sheltered places. The sun shone on the 
 whitehorn buck, and he stood still, drinking in 
 the comfort and beauty of the scene. 
 
 He carried the largest and handsomest horns 
 of any deer in the Santee woods; their spread 
 
 46 
 
The Whiiehorn Buck 47 
 
 was thirty inches, and there were six tines on 
 each branch. His eyes, like those of all white- 
 tail deer, were singularly full, wild and liquid. 
 His deep chest was covered with a rough 
 growth of shaggy black hair that seemed to 
 increase the appearance of his size and strength. 
 His legs tapered until it became marvelous 
 how they could support his weight. His whole 
 body was shapely, muscular, beautiful; and his 
 bearing was that of a monarch. 
 
 Aside from his size, the one feature that 
 would distinguish him from his fellows was the 
 color of his antlers. They were almost pure 
 white. And instead of giving him a freakish 
 appearance, they seemed but in keeping with 
 his carriage, and adorned his noble head. 
 
 The normal color of the horns of the South- 
 ern deer is a brownish amber, with a few white 
 knobs here and there near the bases of the 
 forks. Of the two varieties, the swamp- and 
 the hill-deer, the swamp-buck's antlers are of a 
 richer, darker brown, and their spread is more 
 basket-shaped than those of his highland broth- 
 ers. 
 
 Now the whitehorn buck was a swamp-deer, 
 and just how he came to have antlers whiter 
 than any hill-deer's will perhaps never be 
 
48 Old Plantation Days 
 
 known. But why they were white makes very 
 little difference. The fact is that they were, 
 and that he carried them. And for many years 
 before this story begins he had become a living 
 tradition on Santee, a breathing evidence of 
 "the biggest old buck," the kind that always 
 gets away. 
 
 For he was known to all the hunters on that 
 section of the South Carolina coast. His horns 
 were "yarned" about and coveted. And as 
 with each succeeding year they increased in 
 size and symmetry, the sportsmen, poachers and 
 market hunters all longed with increasing de- 
 sire to drop their gun-sights on him. 
 
 One February a negro turpentine hand 
 picked up a branch of his antlers on the edge 
 of the swamp and brought it to the Santee Club- 
 house, where were gathered many hunters. 
 Men who had killed moose in Maine, elk in 
 Wyoming, and blacktail in the Dakotas, broke 
 off in the midst of memorable yarns to gather 
 in a circle, to handle the glorious antler, to ad- 
 mire it, and to resolve silently but vehemently 
 to take back North as trophies the new and 
 full set of horns when another season should 
 have developed them. 
 
 But they had set their hearts on no ordinary 
 game. They were no match for the white- 
 
Tlie Whitehorn Buck 49 
 
 horn buck. Tliey might surround a branch, — 
 as a small swamp or thicket is called, — and put 
 the best pack of hounds in the country on his 
 trail; but the wary old buck would always slip 
 out. When startled from his haunts among 
 the bay-bushes, he had a habit of throwing his 
 head back on his broad shoulders and racing 
 down the drive, with the pack in full cry after 
 him; but when he had drawn the hunters to 
 that end of the swamp, he would double, and 
 before he could be cut off, would be "stretch- 
 ing forward free and far" through the open 
 woods. Then the only thing left for the cha- 
 grined hunters to do would be to stop the dogs 
 and put them in other swamps after inferior 
 deer. 
 
 Times past number the whitehorn buck 
 eluded his pursuers. Nor was it because of 
 his wildness. On the contrary, he was fre- 
 quently seen. Negroes in the turpentine woods 
 continually brought home stories of him. 
 
 One had seen him peacefully feeding on the 
 edge of a bay thicket. One had seen him lop- 
 ing gracefully along under the pines. Again, 
 his wide, deep track would be marked in the 
 white sand of the road just outside the plan- 
 tation gates. Up to the settlements he would 
 roam in the night, browsing on the tender ferns 
 
50 Old Plantation Days 
 
 and grasses and rubbing himself in the scrub- 
 oak and sparkleberry copses. Many times he 
 had been shot at, and if stories were to be 
 believed, he had received mortal wounds on 
 numerous occasions. But no hunter ever had 
 a hair or a drop of blood from the monarch 
 that bore the gleaming antlers to substantiate 
 his story or prove the fatality of his aim. 
 
 There were not a few sportsmen who would 
 have gladly taken the trip from the North to 
 Santee just to get a shot at the buck, but most 
 of them realized that their desire was a vain 
 thing. There were grizzled old hunters, na- 
 tives of the deep swamp, who knew the lure 
 and magic of the woods, who thought nothing 
 of bringing home six wild turkeys and a black 
 bear in a single day, desperate men, too, they 
 were, who knew more than one use for the 
 hunting-knife. But even they failed to get 
 more than a sight or perhaps a hopeless shot 
 at the whitehorn buck. 
 
 There were pale business men from the city, 
 come up to spend a week under the pines, on 
 the ample, sweet bosom of nature, and they 
 secretly determined to give the old hunters a 
 surprise. They had often heard of the buck, 
 and wished in a vaguely spectacular way to 
 kill him, although they would probably have 
 
The WhiteJiorn Buck 51 
 
 fainted away had he so much as given them a 
 sight of himself. 
 
 Then there were the wealthy, wholesome 
 sportsmen of the Northern Club, robust, good- 
 natured, and fair shots, who longed for a chance 
 at the whitehorn buck. But one and all were 
 foredoomed to disappointment. If hunted too 
 frequently, he would disappear entirely for a 
 month, and all the whooping of drivers and 
 trailing of dogs through his favorite haunts 
 and cover would fail to rouse him. He had 
 gone no one knew where. 
 
 So, year after year, the whitehorn buck was 
 hunted, mortally wounded, storied about, and 
 despaired over until, through the whole length 
 and breadth of the Santee country he became 
 a myth, a proverb, a spirit of elusion. And 
 as he stood that winter morning in the gall- 
 berry bushes on the edge of the swamp known 
 as the Rattlesnake Drive, he was indeed a fit 
 subject for imaginative stories. 
 
 His bearing was superb. The wide, thin- 
 edged nostrils, breathing in the damp and fra- 
 grant morning air, the proud defiance of the 
 regal head, the soft, liquid eyes, expressive of 
 so much grace and pride, and the glistening 
 sheen of his dun coat — all made him past de- 
 scription, as his cunning and speed made him 
 
52 Old Plantation Days 
 
 beyond the power of men to capture or to kill. 
 
 Yet in that coast country there was one hun- 
 ter whom the lordly whitehorn buck, would 
 have to reckon with. He was the negro 
 poacher, Scipio Lightning. 
 
 Scipio was built for the woods. His phys- 
 ical senses were developed like those of a wild 
 animal. His eyesight was that of a harrier 
 hawk; his sense of smell that of the ravens that 
 sun themselves on the lone cypresses along the 
 river; his hearing was as keen as that of a 
 wary old gobbler. 
 
 As the years passed, he had seen the woods 
 and the fields over which he had once roamed 
 and hunted at will taken up and posted by rich 
 clubmen. Not that the posting made any par- 
 ticular difference to Scipio; he still hunted about 
 where he pleased, for because of his good na- 
 ture he was on terms of smiling tolerance with 
 all the watchmen of the game-preserves. And 
 there w^s not a man on Santee who did not love 
 him for his woodcraft, his strength and endur- 
 ance, and the stories that he could tell of hunt- 
 ing. From sand-chickens to swamp-bear, there 
 was nothing about the Santee woods or river 
 with which he was not thoroughly conversant. 
 
 Yet for all his prowess as a hunter, and for 
 all his matchless skill as a woodsman, Scipio 
 
The Whitehorn Buck 53 
 
 was weak enough to be superstitious. He said 
 once that he knew where a wahwoo-cat lived. 
 Now a wahwoo-cat is a creature that is supposed 
 to be invisible, and which whimpers and snarls 
 at you out of the darkness. Scipio looked 
 askance at rabbits, and no one ever found him 
 eager to kill a mink. He had his superstitions 
 about them all. And this weakness had a great 
 deal to do with his relations with the whitehorn 
 buck. 
 
 He knew almost all that there was to be 
 known about the whitehorn buck. He could 
 show you the warm, sunshiny bed between the 
 green tussocks of broom-grass where he had 
 been dropped as a fawn. He knew in what 
 clump of myrtle-bushes his mother used to leave 
 him when she went far away through the lonely 
 forest to feed. And as for his habits and his 
 haunts, Scipio had them by heart. 
 
 He knew that the Rattlesnake Drive was his 
 home; but that when he was hunted hard he 
 went back four or five miles in the woods, and 
 there took refuge in a great swamp known as 
 the Ocean, a vast, impenetrable morass, silent, 
 dreary, haunted. 
 
 Yet Scipio took little stock in all the glory 
 and glamour that were gathered about the 
 name and fame of the whitehorn buck. To the 
 
54 Old Plantation Days 
 
 unromantic negro hunter he was only a wary 
 old deer that no white man would be likely to 
 kill. He knew that he himself could shoot 
 him, for Scipio knew how. He would take no 
 dog with him, no horn, no turmoil of gallop- 
 ing horses and loud-mouthed men. He would 
 take only his old musket, loaded with thirty 
 buckshot. Such a charge would stop a dozen 
 deer; but Scipio never made the mistake of 
 undercharging his gun. 
 
 So it came about that after the whitehorn 
 buck had been made famous by the sportsmen 
 who had missed him, and after rumors of the 
 great price which would be paid for the horns 
 had been in circulation for some time, Scipio 
 decided to go after the monarch of the pines. 
 
 Therefore it happened that on the very same 
 day on which we saw the buck standing so 
 proudly on the edge of the branch, Scipio be- 
 gan his preparations. He gave his musket a 
 thorough overhauling. In the mellow sunlight 
 behind his cabin he cleaned it, washed it inside 
 and out with warm water and soap, dried it, 
 oiled it and loaded it. He primed the nipple 
 carefully, and chose from the shiny box the 
 brightest-looking percussion-cap that he could 
 find. Then he lay down on a bench in the sun 
 and slept till the late afternoon. 
 
The Whitehorn Buck 55 
 
 The sun was setting in a fire of glory behind 
 the tall, somber pines when Scipio left his cabin. 
 The Rattlesnake Drive was only a mile away, 
 and an easy walk. The negro's long strides 
 would take him there in fifteen minutes, for 
 what he would see on the way — and there 
 would be much to see — would not deter him, 
 now that he had a fixed purpose in mind. All 
 the beauty of the sunset, of the twilight, of the 
 soft coming of the dewy stars, of the mysterious 
 rising of the ghostly mist — these meant noth- 
 ing to the negro. A single purpose reigned In 
 his heart: he was going to kill the whitehorn 
 buck. 
 
 As he walked swiftly down the narrow path 
 that led through the high broom-grass under 
 the pines, he saw the wild life of the night be- 
 gin to come forth. Once a gray fox came 
 trotting up the path towards him, and seeing 
 him suddenly, almost turned a somersault, and 
 dashed wildly away with his fluffy tail bobbing 
 over the fallen timber. Once a great horned 
 owl on velvet wings floated softly over him: 
 
 "Not with a loudly whirring wing, 
 But like a lady's sigh." 
 
 Once, too, an old raccoon paced sedately down 
 
56 Old Plantation Days 
 
 the length of a hurricane-thrown log without 
 seeing the negro. 
 
 Scipio soon came to the Rattlesnake Drive, 
 and entered the thicket. The gallberry-bushes, 
 cold with the dew, wet him up to his knees. 
 He made his way carefully and knowingly to 
 a little strip of high ground in the middle of 
 the branch, a little white, sandy hillock that on 
 the coast would be called a hummock, where 
 stood a few giant pines and a little gathering 
 of scrub-oaks. It was near the plantation end 
 of the drive, and here, he knew, some time dur- 
 ing the night, the whitehorn buck would surely 
 come. It was a habit of his, and all his habits 
 were known to Scipio. 
 
 So Scipio waded through the swampy thicket, 
 where the sweet-bay bushes brushed him fra- 
 grantly, where the huge green water-briers, 
 with their poisonous thorns, caught at him out 
 of the shadows, until he came up on the warm, 
 dry hillock. Here he found two pines fallen 
 across each other. Gathering some of the soft 
 pine needles, he heaped them in one of the 
 corners against the logs, and sat down to wait. 
 
 He knew that the buck, after feeding on 
 the deep edges of the branch, would come up 
 on the hill to walk about, to rub himself, and 
 
The Whitehorn Buck 57 
 
 to dry his legs. Scipio knew that he would be 
 able to hear him far down the swamp, and 
 could see him, too, after moonrise, which was 
 not now more than an hour away. 
 
 The negro settled back for his long wait. 
 Across his knees, and grasped by his gaunt and 
 powerful hands, was his musket, the lock cov- 
 ered with the edge of his coat to keep the cap 
 and the powder perfectly dry. About him the 
 great pine woods stretched away in unbroken 
 beauty and stateliness. Mile after mile, like 
 the solemn aisles of some fabulous cathedral, 
 the dark shafts and luminous corridors with- 
 drew into the night. And the music there was 
 the rolling anthem of the pines that softly rose 
 and triumphed and fell, like the waves of some 
 mighty, dreaming ocean, to break at last in far, 
 melodious foam. 
 
 After a while the moon rose, and the woods 
 for half a mile in each direction were as clear 
 as day. Once a doe came feeding up to where 
 Scipio sat; he could have touched her with his 
 musket-barrel, but he did not stir. Once a 
 gaunt old red fox trotted swiftly over the hill, 
 urgently bent on business of his own, and Scipio 
 let him pass unmolested. 
 
 The radiant moon climbed higher, and the 
 stars wheeled up and by. The infinity of the 
 
58 Old Plantation Days 
 
 night grew vaster. Midnight, with its mys- 
 tery, came and went. Scipio was growing chill. 
 So far there had been no signs of the great 
 personage whom he awaited. 
 
 It would soon be too late for him to feed. 
 Scipio grew anxious. But he need not have 
 been, for when the negro entered one end of the 
 drive, the buck had come in the other, and had 
 been browsing up toward the sand-hill. 
 
 When he was still two hundred yards away, 
 Scipio heard a bay-bush crack. Ten minutes 
 later he heard the petulant rap of horns against 
 a young tupelo-tree. Five minutes more, and 
 Scipio saw clearly, not more than fifty yards 
 away, the gleam of snowy antlers. 
 
 He ran no risk with a long shot, for after 
 forty yards buckshot are very uncertain. He 
 waited. The whitehorn buck came up to the 
 edge of the sand-hill, quartering to the negro. 
 Scipio, who at the first sound had rested his 
 musket on the log before him, now tilted it 
 gently until he saw the brass sight shine against 
 the white patch behind the buck's fore leg. 
 The gun tightened against his shoulder; he 
 steadied it with all the strength of his powerful 
 arms; he pressed the trigger! 
 
 "Ti-a-a-rr!" echoed the cap, derisively, and 
 the buck, seeming to jump seven ways at once, 
 
The Whitehorn Buck 59 
 
 and fifteen feet in each direction, straightened 
 out at a tremendous speed down the branch. 
 The powder had slipped down in the nipple, 
 the cap had popped, and the whitehorn buck 
 was getting away! 
 
 Yet Scipio held his sight on him, hoping that 
 the charge might still ignite. But all in vain. 
 The great buck thundered on down the edge of 
 the drive, and was soon lost to sight among 
 the glimmering pines. Scipio lowered his mus- 
 ket in disgust. Yet there was more than dis- 
 appointment and chagrin on his face ; there was 
 superstition and downright fear. He looked 
 furtively about him, and then struck off in a 
 fox-trot toward home. Nor did he slacken his 
 pace until he was in sight of his lonely little 
 cabin that slept in the peaceful moonlight. 
 
 If one might read Scipio's heart, one would 
 find that the negro believes that he was trying 
 to shoot at a spirit, or that some strange power 
 was working against him. Never before and 
 never since that night can he remember his mus- 
 ket's failing him. So he goes no more to stalk 
 the whitehorn buck. And that old monarch 
 who bears the glorious antlers should be thank- 
 ful in the thought that the best hunter in that 
 country is superstitious. 
 
VI 
 
 O RINGING bells! 
 
 WHEN Dave Mordaunt rose to the 
 surface of those raving waters, in- 
 stead of striking out for the sandy 
 mound that jutted oddly out of the murky 
 tumult of waves, he paused to look about him. 
 
 "Here, Bells!" he called. Though his eyes 
 were anxious his voice was not excited. It was 
 clear and well pitched. 
 
 For reply the rain slashed him savagely in 
 the face, and the wind shrilled derisively in his 
 ears. But his determination was resolute. 
 He would not start for safety without Bells. 
 Once more, treading the storm water, he called 
 with shrewd clearness across the waves. Then 
 a tousled white form appeared, baffled by the 
 roaring elements. It struggled incontinently. 
 But when she heard Dave's voice, the setter 
 turned to him as the trembling needle sets 
 steady and true toward the north. There 
 came a happy yelp from the swimming dog. 
 Ringing Bells was calling to her master. 
 
 "Come on, dog," shouted Dave. "It's 
 
 60 
 
O Ringing Bells! 61 
 
 pretty near time we were going," he added 
 grimly. 
 
 Another glad yelp answered this; and In a 
 moment the delicately molded head was swim- 
 ming beside the grizzled face of her owner. 
 Bells did not know where they were going. 
 It was enough that she was with Dave, and 
 that he spoke to her kindly though command- 
 Ingly. And when, ten minutes later, the two 
 came ashore on the only refuge on the storm- 
 swept delta, the little English setter appeared 
 ready for further adventures if Dave would 
 but say the word. And Dave knew that there 
 would be no trouble on that score; if Bells 
 wished adventures, they were sure to be throng- 
 ing in soon. As he sat down on the packed 
 wet sand with his back to the tearing wind, he 
 called her to him. 
 
 "Bells," he said, as she laid her head be- 
 tween his knees and looked up at him with 
 reverent and adoring eyes, " do you know, 
 girl, what's done gone and happened to us? 
 We never had no business a-leavin' home when 
 we saw them clouds making up in the north- 
 east. Now we have done capsized, and that 
 case of duckshot shells has done helped to sink 
 our canoe. My gun's down there under that 
 water somewheres. We got to this place all 
 
62 Old Plantation Days 
 
 right; but how long the wind and tide are go- 
 ing to let us stay here is more than I know. 
 We're a far ways from any other high land, 
 and that I'm tellin' you." 
 
 The shrieking wind continued to drive in 
 across the dim expanse of delta marsh, now al- 
 most topped by the vast tide that, sweeping in 
 from the near-by ocean, was fast flooding the 
 low-lying country adjacent to the river's mouth. 
 The wind was full of gusty flaws that spat sharp 
 raindrops keenly. Over Cedar Island, which 
 stood as a dark coastal barrier between the 
 waste delta and the sea, a strange yellowish 
 light brooded in the dreadful heart of the on- 
 rushing storm. A West Indian cyclone was 
 coming up the Carolina coast in all its original 
 and elemental fury and it boded frightful men- 
 ace to all things in its path. 
 
 It lacked two hours to sundown; but a hurri- 
 cane such as this one can merge day and night 
 into swift blackness. To east and west of the 
 wide delta, the mainland, where stood stately 
 forests of pine, was first misted, then dimmed, 
 then darkened, and at last extinguished. The 
 wild tide, the dreadful cloud, the insane wind 
 had their way with the delta. And the bleak 
 rain connived to hide the desolation wrought. 
 But as yet the mound on which the man and his 
 
O Rwging Bells! 63 
 
 dog had taken refuge remained above the wa- 
 ters. 
 
 This strange tiny island was a place little 
 known even to the inhabitants of the country 
 bordering on the delta. But Dave Mordaunt, 
 having for a lifetime ranged those lonely re- 
 gions of the river, knew it; and when the storm 
 had cut him off from the mainland, he had 
 straightway headed his canoe for the mound. 
 Dave not only knew of the existence of it; he 
 knew its origin as well. A half century before, 
 when rice growing had been a flourishing indus- 
 try of the delta country, there had existed the 
 same menace from cyclones; and this great 
 mound of earth had been erected near the cen- 
 ter of the delta by a league of planters. The 
 long years of erosion had worn it down to only 
 a fraction of its original height; but it still re- 
 mained the highest point in all that vast marshy 
 region. When Dave Mordaunt and his dog 
 reached it in this storm it was still about three 
 feet above the water line, and the area of the 
 part as yet uncovered was nearly half an acre. 
 
 "I'm glad to get on this place," said Dave, 
 stroking thoughtfully the head of Bells, "but 
 I'll be durn glad to get off here, too. She 
 shouldn't rise no more than another foot; but," 
 he added with grave uncertainty, "that's the 
 
64 Old Plantation Days 
 
 yallerest cloud over Cedar Island that ever I 
 seen." 
 
 It was not the first time he had lost his boat 
 and his gun. But somehow this experience was 
 going to be different from all the others. He 
 felt sure of it. 
 
 "This thing," he mused sternly, "is gwine to 
 be a hurricane. I smell it." 
 
 But as long as he continued to stroke the 
 white setter's head, a legion of hurricanes could 
 not perturb her. 
 
 Dave Mordaunt could never have been called 
 an excitable man. He had sometimes found 
 inaction better than action. Wherefore it was 
 his nature thus to sit on the sodden mound of 
 sand, barely rising above a waste of tossing 
 waters, calmly stroking the head of his beloved 
 dog while the rain drove like sharp shrapnel 
 against his broad back and the fiendish wind 
 whipped him cruelly. 
 
 Having fought wind and weather for forty 
 years, Dave knew the danger of his position; 
 # but he also had learned what is the graduating 
 lesson in common sense — not to worry. He 
 realized that he could hardly hope for some one 
 to save him. The only escape lay less in the 
 man's exertions than in an abating of the fury 
 of the storm. And for this letting up of the 
 
O Ringing Bells! 65 
 
 hurricane, Dave Mordaunt, making Ringing 
 Bells crouch between his knees for shelter, 
 waited with a grim patience. 
 
 But that waiting was vain. What brought 
 Dave to a realization of this was a certain wild 
 and eerie sight, more like a vision than a view 
 of real things, that, during a strange lull in the 
 rain, he saw to the southward. A sharp veer- 
 ing away of the cyclone between his refuge and 
 Cedar Island had caused a dark line of trees 
 to reappear on the seaward horizon — tall war- 
 riors they were, in black armor and in single 
 file marching riverward. The man's eyes were 
 now upon them, for they seemed like strong 
 friends, bringing to him reassurance. But even 
 as Dave looked, the tall pines that had tow- 
 ered against the storms of a century, and that 
 now seemed symbolic of a mastering strength, 
 suddenly went down like a whisper. Through 
 the seaward gap thus vividly made Dave could 
 see the utter wildness of the ocean. All that 
 savage and conquering wildness was moving 
 resistlessly northward across the delta toward 
 Dave's precarious place of refuge. 
 
 Already the man noted with a hardening 
 light in his eyes that the sandy mound, which 
 had been three feet out of water on his arrival, 
 was now scarce one foot up. Though he had 
 
66 Old riantation Bays 
 
 sat down with Bells on the highest point of the 
 hillock, the waters were now upon them. Dave 
 had to draw in his feet. The feathered tail 
 of Ringing Bells was awash. Strangely, and it 
 seemed to the doomed man very suddenly, he 
 was left in a wilderness of waters. The pines 
 of Cedar Islands, drifting logs, floating sedge, 
 had all vanished. 
 
 Standing in a crouched and braced position 
 with his back to the howling storm, and with 
 Bells standing with her forefeet on his shoul- 
 ders and her head within the shelter of his 
 breast, he made up his mind what to do. 
 
 "Bells," he said, "you have always been a 
 good dog, and I've tried to be a good master 
 to you, using you right. You have always 
 minded me, and you will mind me now, I know. 
 Now, listen, girl. Across the river yonder is 
 home. You can make it. It's hard going, but 
 you can do it. If you stay here, you sure will 
 have to take drownin'. There ain't no use of 
 your bein' drowned. Bells. I reckon I'll have 
 to stay here and take what is comin' to me; but 
 when I say, 'Go home !' I want you to go and 
 go straight. . . . Understand me, little girl?" 
 
 More from the tone of the soft command- 
 ing voice than from the bitter driving of the 
 wind and rain that whipped her flanks, Ringing 
 
O Ringing Bells! 67 
 
 Bells began to shiver. She always knew when 
 Dave wanted her to carry out some plan of his. 
 Dave Mordaunt lifted her weight from his 
 breast and crouched low with her on the crest 
 of the mound. 
 
 "Yonder's home," he said, pointing away to 
 the westward. "Go, Bells I Go home, girl!" 
 
 The snowy little setter gave a yelp of qn- 
 derstanding. A moment more and she had en- 
 tered the wild waters. She knew the direction. 
 She knew what Dave had told her to do; and 
 since the time when she had played as a little, 
 white, innocent puppy at his feet, there in the 
 humble home under the live oaks overlooking 
 the river, she had learned implicitly to trust 
 and to obey the quiet hunter of the delta. He 
 had never fooled her. He had taught her all 
 she knew; and the greatest thing she had 
 learned was obedience. 
 
 The man crouched on his desolate refuge, 
 trying to follow with his weary eyes the swim- 
 ming white form. But she had gotten away 
 quickly; and now the scudding of the rain and 
 the wild spume that was lashed up by the 
 wind hid that desperate stretch of waters. 
 Once, indeed, far off he thought he saw a white 
 form suddenly glimmer and flash. But it might 
 have been a breaking wave. Dave knew, how- 
 
68 Old Plantation Days 
 
 ever, that Bells would reach home. For one 
 thing, her long and arduous training as a duck- 
 ing dog had made her an excellent, hardy swim- 
 mer; for another, he had told her to go. And 
 despite the apparent hopelessness of his own 
 position, Dave Mordaunt had a gladness warm- 
 ing his heart. At least. Bells would be safe. 
 
 Though the larger waves were now break- 
 ing freely over the mound, the marooned man 
 gave small heed to them. He was not afraid. 
 The time had not come for him to think of 
 himself; he was too busily thinking of little 
 Ringing Bells and her valiant obedience. 
 
 It was in no foolish hope that her going 
 might help him, that he had sent her home; 
 for Dave Mordaunt was a lonely man, having 
 neither wife nor parents, neither son nor daugh- 
 ter. His only relative was his brother Ben, 
 a man much like him, who lived some two miles 
 down the river from Dave's place. 
 
 "She'll get home," the man kept saying, "but 
 I want her to get nigh there before I start; 
 for if she knows I'm comin', she'll turn back. 
 It looks mightily like drownin' for me; but 
 leastways I can drown a little nearer home 
 than this, and I can go down fightin'. I think 
 the water will treat me better than this here 
 crazy wind. When she ketches me to knees, 
 
O Ringing Bells! 69 
 
 I'll pull out; and though mayhap I'll founder 
 right off there where my boat went down, it 
 will not be just like standin' still and lettin' the 
 tide come in and take me. It's a man's busi- 
 ness, I reckon, to fight till he's done for. Any- 
 way, the little one, she's safe. . . . And I'm 
 coming after you, Bells." 
 
 It was not now a question of Dave's taking 
 the water, for the water took him. Already 
 the waves were breaking about his waist, and 
 vehement currents were tugging at his knees, 
 when he stepped down into the surging water. 
 
 There was now no gleam in the northern 
 sky; and the only light was the disastrous and 
 lurid glow that the hurricane cast. But this 
 was as inconstant as the raving wind itself; 
 for when Dave began to swim, it actually af- 
 forded him a glimpse of the farther shore; yet 
 ere he had gone a rod a sudden darkness closed 
 down upon the scene. He had a sense, though 
 he had no sight, of the distant shore. 
 
 The lone swimmer, laboring on, rolled by the 
 hurrying waves, smitten sharply by wind and 
 driven spume, had one thought that glowed in 
 his heart: he knew that Ringing Bells would 
 have reached home by now. Even as he 
 blindly swam he seemed to see the white setter 
 making the shore, shaking her draggled coat 
 
70 Old Plnrifation Days 
 
 in the shelter of one of the huge live oaks, and 
 then crawling into the snug bed of straw that 
 her master had made for her under the cabin's 
 high porch. Then another thought came to 
 Dave. 
 
 What would become of Bells when he did 
 not come ashore? His mind flashed to a cabin 
 like his own down the river — his brother Ben's. 
 
 "He'll take her," he thought; "and he'll be 
 good to her, though nobody will ever under- 
 stand her same as I do. . . . He'll keep her 
 to 'member me by." 
 
 Such were the swimmer's thoughts. He was 
 a strong swimmer, to whom the breadth of the 
 river would ordinarily have meant nothing. 
 But now his attempt was to cross both it and 
 the delta, and to do it in a storm. Not for a 
 moment did he let himself think that the thing 
 could not be done; but Dave Mordaunt was 
 sane enough to realize, even in the unabating 
 excitement of such an experience, that the odds 
 were vastly against him. Yet that was the 
 very reason he hardened his heart to do the 
 desperate thing that had been forced upon him 
 by the coming of the hurricane. He swam 
 steadily with all his skill and with not more 
 strength than he needed to exert; but what he 
 needed was almost all he had. 
 
O Ringing Bells! 71 
 
 There was no way for him to know of the 
 progress he was making. He feared, indeed, 
 that he had lost his sense of direction. The 
 dim bulk of the sea islands, the blur to west- 
 ward that had marked the river bank, the faint 
 light in the sky over the delta to the north — 
 all these were now shut out. But despite the 
 fact that, for all he knew, he might be headed 
 back for the mound, or northward up the river, 
 or seaward under a blinding veer of the wind, 
 Dave kept steadily on. . . . But not even a 
 strong man can perform the impossible. . . . 
 It was a half hour after he had left the inun- 
 dated hillock that the swimmer felt himself 
 going. 
 
 Though realizing the desperate nature of the 
 battle he was waging, Dave Mordaunt would 
 not admit to himself that he was drowning. 
 
 "Not yet!" he gasped, as, out of the black 
 depths of the waters into which he had sunk, 
 he rose to their stormy surface. 
 
 "Sink! Sin-k-k-k-k!" sobbed a great white 
 wave, submerging him. 
 
 "Now! Now!" shrilled the mad wind in 
 his ears as he went down. 
 
 "Not yet," muttered Dave. But his heart 
 was sick, and his voice was no more than a wet 
 "roan. 
 
72 Old Plantation Days 
 
 "Soon ! Soon I" shouted the crazy wind ex- 
 ultantly. And Dave knew that It was so. His 
 thoughts went again to his dog. 
 
 "Bells," he gasped— "little Bells— Ben, he'll 
 care for you." 
 
 The man's gnarled brown arms that had 
 been wide for swimming, now swept convul- 
 sively together on the surface. The rude 
 fingers met in a handclasp. Dave Mordaunt 
 gave his soul over to God. 
 
 "For the sea is His," his heart said, "and 
 He made it." 
 
 A moment thus he lay strangely on the sur- 
 face, with waves rocking him not ungently; but 
 then their forward rolling divulged his form 
 no more. Dave had gone down; but his fight 
 had been a brave one. 
 
 But the drowning man, far under the deep 
 river's tide, felt a last hot rebellion against his 
 fate. With terrible strength he beat his way 
 upward out of the murk. He came to the 
 surface all but unconscious. 
 
 Dave's unutterably weary eyes, heavy with 
 the importunate summons of death's long sleep, 
 opened dimly to the storm. But they opened 
 wider as a strange object bulked in the gray- 
 ness. It was portentous and black. There 
 was something white on it. The man was not 
 
O Ringing Bells! 73 
 
 without superstition. He believed this to be 
 the end. 
 
 Suddenly a sharp glad bark thrilled him, 
 shocking him out of oblivion. Then a snowy 
 form leaped from the black hulk. It swam 
 toward Dave. Swiftly it came alongside, and 
 over Its warm strength the man dragged a dead 
 arm. 
 
 " O God!" he gasped, "you done sent Bells 
 for me!" 
 
 An hour later he was at home, lying on a 
 rude couch before a crackling fire. On one 
 side sat his brother Ben; and on the other, with 
 her eyes never taken from her master's face, 
 crouched Ringing Bells. Ben, a woodsman, 
 bronzed until he was almost black, was a man 
 of few words; but he could make his meaning 
 clear enough. 
 
 "In the middle of the storm," he was saying 
 to his brother, "Bells, she come to my house. 
 And she made it plain that I must come to the 
 river. Something was wrong, I knew. I come 
 by here through the rain; and not finding you, 
 I says to myself, 'More than likely he's over 
 on yon mound, but he can't stay there.' By 
 that time Bells, she was down at the river, 
 barking. Three times she swam off, but I got 
 her back. Then I took the 12-foot oars and 
 
74 Old Plantation Days 
 
 the big sturgeon boat — 'tain't another craft 
 could haye come across that river — and we 
 found you. Bells, she saw you afore I did," 
 he added. 
 
 In the silence that followed, the snowy setter 
 crept closer to the couch. Her eyes of utter 
 faithfulness sought Dave's face. Dave's eyes 
 were closed; but by instinct his hand moved 
 toward her, searching. Ben understood his 
 brother; for he took Dave's hand gently and 
 laid it on the head of Ringing Bells. 
 
VII 
 
 ANY one's turkey 
 
 THE turkey-blind was a simple affair, 
 made of green boughs leaning against 
 two pines which stood almost together. 
 Beyond the blind was a thin trail of peas and 
 rice tailings on a strip of open ground, skilfully 
 sprinkled with pine trash. All around the 
 blind was a knee-high growth of dark-green 
 gallberry bushes; then came the sweet myrtles 
 with their cool and fragrant foliage; then the 
 deep swamp where the turkeys roosted, with 
 its tall gum trees, its shadowy tupelos, its tow- 
 ering elms, and its whispering poplars; beyond 
 the swamp lay the wide, mysterious pinewoods, 
 lonely, baffling. This spot was on Colonel 
 Jocelyn's plantation, not far from the Great 
 House and almost too near the negro cabins. 
 But the Colonel's code of honor was rigid, 
 even to the point that he stooped not to sus- 
 pecting even the lowest of his fellow creatures. 
 And he was more than this. He carried his 
 trust to the point of temptation. He proved 
 this when he got Scipio to build the turkey- 
 
 76 
 
76 Old Plantation Days 
 
 blind for him, in spite of the fact that rumors 
 with regard to Scipio's persistent poaching and 
 unrehabiHty had come to his ears. Colonel 
 Jocelyn did not believe it. He had known 
 Scipio too long; there was not a better negro on 
 his plantation or any other. The Colonel ex- 
 pressed this judgment with some explosive em- 
 phasis to his frail, quiet-eyed little wife; and 
 so, when on his way home from a deer hunt, 
 he saw the turkeys go to roost one twilight, 
 he sent for Scipio the next day and told him 
 with great secrecy, in a sportsman's whisper, 
 of the turkeys. Insamuch as Scipio had found 
 the nest in the summer, he had every turkey in 
 the brood marked from the time when they 
 came out of the speckled eggs; and inasmuch 
 as, out of the twenty, he had already killed and 
 sold seven, it required not a little diplomacy 
 to express surprise at their discovery. Yet 
 Scipio's praise and admiration of the Colonel's 
 acuteness was in no wise failing. He listened 
 with great attentiveness, and gravely assented 
 to the Colonel's plan. Yes, he would build it 
 right away; and he would get the rice tailings 
 from the barnyard that very morning; oh, yes, 
 he knew the very spot where his boss wanted 
 the blind put. Did he think the turkeys would 
 take the feed? There was no doubt of it. 
 
Any One's Turkey 77 
 
 Had Scipio seen them before? Not Scip'io; 
 he had not seen a wild turkey on the plantation 
 for years; it was a miracle to him how his boss 
 was so keen as to mark them down; his boss 
 seemed a younger and a better woodsman every 
 day. And, yes, Scipio would surely let him 
 know the first time the turkeys took the feed. 
 
 After this conversation the Colonel walked 
 briskly into the house, kissed his little wife affec- 
 tionately, whistled a catch of an old love song, 
 popular long before the War, and then went 
 out to see the rice-thrashing in the barnyard. 
 And wherever he went. Secret was written on 
 every feature and found expression in every 
 movement. 
 
 Meanwhile Scipio had, in all faith, built and 
 baited the blind. He knew very well that the 
 Colonel would forget all about it; that all his 
 enthusiasm and spirit were as transient as a 
 flash of sunlight through some dark door; that 
 the turkeys were his if he could but keep up his 
 cunning and his courage. 
 
 The very next day after the blind had been 
 completed, Wash Green, returning from an in- 
 timate and friendly visit to some one else's po- 
 tato bank on the neighboring plantation, and 
 having in his possession that which was not 
 intended for public inspection, took a short cut 
 
78 Old Plantation Days 
 
 through the swamp and ahnost walked into the 
 turkey-blind. He saw that it was freshly made 
 and that no hogs had touched the bait; he no- 
 ticed its location and guessed its purpose with 
 self-applauding cunning. When he got home 
 he brought his old smooth-bore musket down 
 from the loft over his parlor and, drawing the 
 buckshot, poured half a handful of No. 3's 
 into the barrel and wadded it down with some 
 black moss. Now, he thought, he would steal 
 a march on that sly Scipio who had, time and 
 again, thwarted him, and made him a subject 
 of jest and laughter. Now if he. Wash Green, 
 could slip into that turkey-blind early the next 
 morning and bring home a fine gobbler, the 
 chagrin of Scipio, who was always so proud 
 about his hunting, would be acute and his de- 
 feat most mortifying. Wash always relished 
 his victories before they came; he was wise in 
 this where It was a question of getting the bet- 
 ter of Scipio, for such victories never actually 
 arrived. 
 
 And Scipio, while down in his heart he hated 
 to deceive the Colonel, who had always been 
 so fair and just to him, was fully prepared to 
 make the blind a success. He, too, loaded his 
 musket with big buckshot, and went to bed with 
 his mind on the "moondown" as the time for 
 
Amj One's Turkey 79 
 
 him to be stirring. And when the moon, al- 
 most full — which all night long had sailed in 
 lonely splendor over the purple pine woods, 
 flooding the plantation fields and the great 
 river, which moved slowly seaward, with her 
 mysterious light — began to sink on the bosom 
 of the pine forest, Scipio awoke and, stretching 
 his arms, shuffled to the door. Yes, it was 
 time for him to start. At "day-clean" turkeys 
 flew down. He would be on hand if they came 
 to the blind, but he hardly thought they would 
 take the feed the first morning. 
 
 All night Scipio had been dozing in front of 
 the fire with his clothes on ; so, by merely reach- 
 ing for his cap and musket he was ready to 
 start. When he got outside of the cabin the 
 morning air was chill and he buttoned his coat 
 more closely about him. In doing so he felt 
 in the pocket for his box of percussion caps. 
 They were not there. He felt himself with 
 growing and anxious excitement, but the caps 
 were not to be found. Scipio swore softly. 
 There was no use for him to go without the 
 caps. He leaned his musket against the pal- 
 ings of his little garden and went back into the 
 cabin. He must have been gone twenty min- 
 utes, and when he reappeared he had the caps 
 but had lost his temper. He plunged out of 
 
80 Old Pla7itation Days 
 
 the door, grasped his musket and disappeared 
 in a fox-trot down the narrow path which led 
 through the broom grass from his cabin to the 
 pine woods. But the day had already come; 
 in the east the pale colors were brightening and 
 the sky overhead had its day-blue. The blind 
 was half a mile away, and he would be for- 
 tunate if he got there before the turkeys flew 
 down. 
 
 His gait took him through the woods swiftly. 
 He was unconscious of their cool and dewy 
 sweetness, their delicious freshness, their serene 
 beauty and tranquillity; he knew only that be- 
 fore him, beyond a certain blind, a dozen wild 
 turkeys might be at their breakfast, and that 
 he might be too late to surprise them. As he 
 got near the place, his anger was replaced by 
 caution; his vehement pace slackened, and he 
 bent low as he crept behind the blind. He 
 slunk from pine to pine, keeping his sight on 
 the clump of green bushes before him; as he 
 came nearer and nearer he disappeared almost 
 entirely in the gallberry bushes. And then, 
 when he was thirty feet away, he was transfixed 
 by something which caught his eye suddenly. 
 He saw a movement in the blind before him. 
 Scipio fell flat in the bushes, bewildered and 
 amazed. Could it be Colonel Jocelyn? If 
 
Any Okie's Turkey 81 
 
 so, he was keener than Scipio had imagined. If 
 it was the Colonel, the presence of Scipio's 
 musket would be embarrassing. Slowly, and 
 with infinite caution, Scipio, without bending 
 his knees, raised himself on his hands and 
 peered over the bushes. He could see noth- 
 ing. A loose branch had fallen over the en- 
 trance of the blind and hidden its occupant. 
 Even while Scipio peered there came a mighty 
 roar from the blind, and every aperture seemed 
 to belch forth smoke. Then Scipio sprang up 
 and, flattening himself behind a big pine, peered 
 forth. What he saw filled him with surprise, 
 anger, and the spirit of vengeance. He saw 
 Wash Green plunge out of the blind, hat in 
 hand, and rush out on the open space where 
 the bait lay. He saw him run down toward 
 the edge of the swamp, stoop down, and rise 
 with a magnificent bronze gobbler held in his 
 hand. Scipio gulped hard, and his thoughts 
 • crowded fast. His mind was already made up 
 when Wash, twenty yards away, turned his 
 back and again looked toward the swamp. He 
 had swung the gobbler over his shoulder and 
 had replaced his old, creased black-felt hat 
 jauntily on the side of his head. And so he 
 stood for a moment, a picture of satisfaction 
 and of debonair content. 
 
82 Old Plmitation Days 
 
 Scipio had sometimes had occasion to call to 
 him many wild animals which had thereby fallen 
 before his musket. He knew, too, how to imi- 
 tate the voices of men. With sudden decision 
 he jerked his musket to his shoulder: 
 
 "Ha, nigger!" cried Colonel Jocelyn's irate 
 voice, and as it reached the ears of Wash, 
 Scipio's musket roared forth. Wash's black- 
 felt hat flew off and lodged in a myrtle bush; 
 Wash himself sprang into the air as if prepara- 
 tory to aerial flight; the gobbler fell to the 
 earth, and the terrified negro crashed through 
 the bushes, screaming and rubbing his head with 
 both hands. He did not look back, but ran 
 on and on, screaming louder and louder as he 
 found the shot had not hurt him. And so he 
 disappeared. 
 
 After a few minutes Scipio came out from 
 the shelter of his pine. He fixed up the blind 
 and then walked down to the gobbler and the 
 felt hat. He took the latter out of the bush 
 and grinned as he looked at it. There were 
 five tiny holes through the top of it, front and 
 back. He stuffed it into his pocket, picked up 
 the gobbler and, stopping at the blind to get 
 Wash's musket, was soon on the path home- 
 ward. 
 
 It was some time before Wash returned 
 
'Any One's Turkey 83 
 
 home, and as Sciplo's cabin was near his, 
 Scipio sat on his steps and watched for the re- 
 turn of the wanderer. They were far enough 
 apart to make it safe for Scipio to grin, as he 
 had ample reason to when he saw the dejected 
 form of Wash Green emerge from the pines 
 and slink along to his cabin. The next morn- 
 ing Scipio's rival found his musket with his cap 
 on the end of it leaning up against his door. 
 And to this day he has not had the courage to 
 thank Colonel Jocelyn for returning them. 
 
VIII 
 
 THE GOLDEN ROBBER 
 
 WITH that directness of purpose 
 characteristic of the flight of his 
 kind, the great golden eagle beat 
 his way powerfully up the waste delta of the 
 Santee. It was in June; and the wild fowl 
 that had wintered along the Southern coast had 
 long since departed, although here and there 
 in the marshes that fringed the wide yellow 
 river there still lurked crippled ducks that 
 would have to spend the summer in the South. 
 As the lordly eagle swept onward, over sen- 
 tinel cypresses and silent lagoons, over cane- 
 brakes and fields of wild wampee, he was a 
 veritable king of the air, and he surveyed with 
 the eye of a monarch the rich rice-fields and 
 the dreamy plantations beneath him. But from 
 the mouth of the river upward his quest had 
 brought him nothing; so he turned from the 
 delta to the vast tracts of pine, at that season 
 of the year the abode of more forms of life 
 legitimately the eagle's prey than the delta. 
 
 Crossing the Santee opposite Mazyck's Cut, 
 
 84 
 
The ^Golden Robber 85 
 
 and driving on over Hampton Place, he passed 
 high above the great white house in its grove 
 of live-oaks, and over the group of negro cab- 
 ins beyond the corn-fields. Lower over the 
 pines he swept, while his round, unlidded eyes 
 searched the thickets, the shimmering green 
 savannas, and the sunny spaces of broom-sedge 
 beneath him. Swerving suddenly, he checked 
 himself in his great flight, circled twice as 
 swiftly as a simitar cuts the air, and dropped 
 like a plummet through the pines. 
 
 Beneath the terrible falling body of this 
 golden robber, a tiny fawn drowsing between 
 matted tufts of broom-sedge, lay, unaware of 
 the enemy descending upon it. With its deli- 
 cate coat glistening in the sun, its white star 
 spots softly aglow, and its diminutive, deli- 
 cately modeled hoofs, the fawn was an object of 
 beauty. It seemed strange that so frail and 
 delicate a creature should be lying there alone 
 in the wild pine forest. And it was not really 
 alone; for at the edge of the near-by myrtle 
 thicket the mother, a slim young doe, was feed- 
 ing, alert to every sound or shadow that broke 
 the stillness of the great woods or that dark- 
 ened the sky above her. 
 
 She saw the eagle when the eagle spied her 
 fawn, and the effort of each to reach the little 
 
86 Old Plantation Days 
 
 creature first became a mad rush. And be- 
 cause the huge bird saw the doe coming to 
 the protection of her baby, and because the 
 fawn itself, becoming aware of the black 
 shadow above it, struggled unsteadily to its 
 feet, swaying on its delicate legs, the eagle 
 missed the goal of his first savage rush. His 
 wide wings swept the fawn, but his curved tal- 
 ons closed on air; and as he beat his way up 
 ponderously, the mother, bounding over the 
 grass, reached the fawn, nuzzled it until it 
 stood under her; then, palpitating but defiant, 
 she turned to face the great eagle circling above 
 her, and awaiting a favorable chance for an- 
 other attack. 
 
 There was silence in the solitary woods — 
 the deep silence of a summer mid-afternoon. 
 The squirrels were all drowsing in their holes; 
 the lurking coveys of bob-white were dusting 
 themselves on the sandy hillocks where black- 
 jack grew; in the thickets the towhees and 
 brown thrashers for once were not rustling the 
 dry leaves; even the assiduous nuthatches had 
 ceased their acrobatic performances in the pines, 
 and here and there peered plaintively over the 
 edges of the stout limbs on which they were 
 crouched. Brightly the sun gleamed on the 
 hushed thickets, the motionless pines, the sleep- 
 
'BUT THE GOLDEN EAGLE WAS NOT TO P.K BAFFLED BY A 
 YOUNG DOE'S DEFL\NCE"— Pa(/e S; 
 
The Golden Robber 87 
 
 ing glades; and In the brightness and silence 
 this tragedy of the wild was going forward; 
 the primeval savage hunger of the eagle pitted 
 against the wonderful love of the mother doe. 
 
 Although this was the doe's first fawn, she 
 seemed to understand fully the nature of Its 
 peril; but the fawn apparently considered it 
 some strange new game that Its mother had 
 arranged for Its benefit. Every few seconds 
 it would frisk its little fluffy tail, take pert 
 and jerky steps here and there, and peer out 
 from its shelter with mischief gleaming In its 
 great brown eyes. But the mother never 
 doubted the reality of the danger from the 
 circling bird above her; she never relaxed her 
 vigilance. Knowing that in a constant watch- 
 fulness lay the only chance of safety for her 
 fawn, her watch became a feverish Insistence of 
 alertness. 
 
 But the golden eagle was not to be baffled 
 by a young doe's defiance. He circled more 
 swiftly, and drew nearer; he whirled above 
 her head with marvelous agility for so great a 
 body, swerved suddenly, and dashed his grip- 
 ping talons toward the playful fawn. The 
 mother reared and struck out fiercely with her 
 hoofs. The fawn, whose tender flank had been 
 gashed by one of the eagle's long curved talons, 
 
88 Old Plantation Days 
 
 was frightened and cowering now. The eagle 
 swept over the back of the doe, and alighted 
 on a pine log lying near. In another moment 
 he rose oddly on curved wings and threw him- 
 self at the bewildered mother. 
 
 There was a frantic struggle, in which the 
 bleating of the fawn sounded piteously; there 
 was the rasp of hoofs against tough feathers, 
 and the panting of the doe. And when at last 
 she did beat off the winged robber, her tongue 
 was out, her flanks heaved, and from her glossy 
 sides the blood steadily dripped until the grass 
 beneath her, and the little fawn, now huddled 
 up in terror, were flecked with red. 
 
 The eagle had not risen from the ground, 
 but was perched grimly on a heavy tussock of 
 broom-sedge, whence he watched with cold eyes 
 the distress of his victims. 
 
 And now in the forest sounds began to awake. 
 A soft wind breathed through the pines, and 
 they murmured and waved; a towhee whistled 
 in the myrtle thicket; a bob-white, standing on 
 the burned base of an old pine stump, gave his 
 mellow, ringing call; and somewhere far off 
 a crow was cawing in his careless fashion. The 
 nuthatches, too, like traveling mountebanks, 
 resumed their topsy-turvy performances. 
 
 But the sounds were quite as unavailing as 
 
The Golden Robber 89 
 
 the silence had been to end happily the grim 
 siege that had set in. One more attack like 
 the former might so weaken and bewilder the 
 doe that she could no longer defend her darling 
 from the powerful eagle. She dared not lead 
 her fawn to the friendly shelter of the thicket; 
 for the grass tussocks were difficult to cross, 
 the little fawn unsteady on its legs, and the 
 exposure of even a moment might be fatal. It 
 was wonderful that the doe knew that she 
 must stay where she was and finish the fight 
 where she had begun it. Nor had she been so 
 far entirely worsted, for the ground at her feet 
 was strewn with feathers that her sharp hoofs 
 had torn from the eagle in her frantic efforts 
 to keep him away from her precious little one. 
 There were flecks of blood also on her black 
 hoofs. 
 
 But her stand had not dismayed the king of 
 the air. Even now he gripped the tussock 
 more firmly, leaned over calmly and wiped his 
 shining beak on the grass; then, crouching with 
 lowered head and lifted wings, he launched 
 himself savagely at the head of the doe. 
 
 He cleared her forefeet as she beat out at 
 him, and sank his long talons in her neck, 
 only to release them and hurl himself over her 
 back and down her side, beneath which the 
 
90 Old Plantation Days 
 
 fawn, somehow reconciled to the extraordinary 
 events, but looking up now and then with great 
 eyes full of sorrowful wonder, lay licking his 
 hurts. 
 
 The wary doe divined the eagle's purpose, 
 and whirled in time to thwart him, and to 
 receive in her own flank the hot grip of the 
 talons. Bleating sorrowfully, she shook the 
 great creature off. She turned, staggered on 
 her legs, and sank back on her haunches; her 
 wonderful liquid eyes were full of that dread 
 question that looks from the eyes of hunted 
 innocence. 
 
 The eagle was now close to her on the 
 ground, but she did not have the assurance to 
 strike at him. Moreover, her fawn lay only 
 partly in shelter, and she was afraid that any 
 movement of hers away from the spot might 
 expose the little one. From her wide eyes of 
 grief, she seemed to know that the golden rob- 
 ber would get her baby, her first-born; but like 
 a true mother she would defend it to the death. 
 From a score of wounds she was now bleeding, 
 and her convulsive gasps of fear and exhaus- 
 tion told only too well the story of her suffer- 
 ing. 
 
 The eagle was apparently unharmed. Per- 
 haps he had grown a bit warier, but he was 
 
The Golden Robber 91 
 
 still relentless. Crouching once again low to 
 the ground, he summoned his energy and his 
 craftiness for the final attack. His keen eyes 
 glistened, his great beak was thrust forward, 
 and his talons were tingling for the fatal grip. 
 
 But he did not launch himself on the bleed- 
 ing and helpless doe, for out of the thicket 
 came the sound of a step, then a shadow, then 
 the uncouth figure of a negro turpentine hand, 
 returning from his long day's work in the pine 
 forest. His coat and his dinner-bucket were 
 swung on a black-jack stick over his shoulder; 
 his tattered trousers hung in ribbons about his 
 bare feet. On his head was what had once 
 been a derby hat, of which the rim alone now 
 remained. He was softly humming an old 
 negro melody as he plodded homeward, think- 
 ing of the dinner that awaited him in his cabin. 
 
 Suddenly emerging from the bay bushes, he 
 came face to face with the strange, dramatic 
 scene. 
 
 "Kingdom come," he ejaculated, "dat is a 
 pow'ful eagle!" 
 
 The eagle heard and saw and hesitated. 
 But the great bird knew his ancient enemy too 
 well. Rising on labored pinions, he beat his 
 way up through the pines, and went soaring 
 off toward the delta of the Santee. 
 
92 Old Plantation Days 
 
 The poor doe, freed from one peril, faced, 
 as she thought, a worse one. But the ragged 
 negro had a good heart. Far off through the 
 lonely pine woods there was a cabin and a 
 little brown baby, who would toddle up the 
 sandy road to meet him and crow at his coming. 
 So he merely stood there quietly, not wishing 
 to frighten the mother further, yet wanting to 
 make sure that the eagle did not return. Trem- 
 ulously and cautiously, then, nosing the fawn 
 before her with every furtive step, the wounded 
 doe made her way slowly toward the fastness 
 of the deep thicket, into which she and her 
 little one disappeared. 
 
 When they were out of sight, the negro 
 walked over to where the combat had been 
 fought. There he picked up a big wing- 
 feather, a feather torn by the frantic mother 
 from the golden robber. An hour later, when 
 the doe and fawn were in safety, the feather 
 was delighting a little brown baby, who rolled 
 with it on the cabin floor while he tickled his 
 toes and gurgled his infant joy. 
 
IX 
 
 THE HAUNTED OAK 
 
 GENERAL WILLIAM TECUMSEH 
 SHERMAN has much to do with this 
 story; indeed, he is the real author; 
 for if he had not marched so perilously close 
 to the Rivers plantation, certain incidents would 
 not have occurred. The faithful negroes would 
 never have ransacked the house so frantically 
 and carried off so much furniture into places of 
 safety. But particularly the Rivers family 
 silver and the great tea service of gold, which 
 had been presented in Revolutionary days to 
 Randolph Rivers by the colony he had so con- 
 spicuously served, would never have been con- 
 cealed with such fatal security. In the graves 
 behind Sherman's march, bodies were buried; 
 hut stranger were the things buried in the 
 graves that were hastily digged in front of the 
 invading army's advance. 
 
 The Rivers family was absent when the plan- 
 tation was menaced with the invasion of the 
 Northern army. All the men were at the 
 front. Roxane Rivers and her daughter were 
 
 93 
 
94 Old Plantation Days 
 
 in Charleston. They had come down from 
 the plantation some weeks before, and they 
 had left orders that, if any peril approached, 
 Old Jason was to direct the disposal of the 
 valuables of the house. Old Jason was the 
 dusky autocrat who ruled all things and all 
 people in the Plantation home, even the Rivers 
 family itself, every member of which was will- 
 ing to defer to the wise old negro's judgment 
 on certain matters. When a friend in the city 
 asked Roxane Rivers how she could leave her 
 home in the country open, she replied that with 
 Old Jason there it was safer than if she her- 
 self were there, for he would take much better 
 care of everything than she could. For all 
 things belonging to the Rivers family. Old Ja- 
 son's was a jealous love; and of its apprehend- 
 ing ear and penetrating eye all the other ne- 
 groes stood in awe. Not one of them would 
 have dared to sleep in the Great House at 
 night; but Old Jason slept there at night and 
 stayed there all day, a faithful guardian of his 
 master's possessions. 
 
 But when strange, wild rumors, such as war 
 alone can bring, began to travel up into the 
 peaceful plantation regions; when some of the 
 younger negroes began to leave the places and 
 to straggle off to follow the alluring wake of 
 
The Haunted Oak 95 
 
 the victorious army; and Avhen, distinctly borne 
 on the western wind, came the dull throb of 
 distant firing, Old Jason knew that the crisis 
 had come. He therefore sent for twelve of 
 the strongest negroes, apportioned to each 
 some valuables of which they were to take 
 charge, and despatched them into the gloomy 
 recesses of Spencer's Swamp, a vast and mel- 
 ancholy woodland wilderness that bordered the 
 Rivers' lands. This strange procession made 
 its way slowly down the sandy road and out 
 of the plantation gateway. There were some 
 astonishing feats done in that march. Tall 
 Samson, true to his name, gathered to himself 
 the huge mahogany sideboard and bore it off 
 with amazing ease; Jehu carried the stately 
 andirons from the fireplace of the ballroom, 
 and they glinted in the sun as far as eye could 
 follow him; Tony bore away five great mirrors 
 that shot dazzling beams of reflected sunlight 
 from the fields to the crests of the pines and 
 back again; Esau, the plantation "hunterman," 
 was appropriately charged with the care of the 
 guns and pistols in the house, and he was loaded 
 down with old duelling-pieces and silver-chased 
 English fowling-guns. 
 
 It was not until the last of these negroes 
 had disappeared into the forest that Old Ja- 
 
96 Old Plantation Days 
 
 son, with trembling hands, took the huge iron 
 key that he kept hidden on his person and 
 opened the deep closet where, he knew, the 
 family silver and the gorgeous gold tea serv- 
 ice were kept. In the shadowy recesses they 
 glimmered from the shelves. Hanging near 
 by were silk cases, some of which had come 
 with the set; others, Jason's mistress, with the 
 patient skill of a woman's hands of the old 
 days, had made. The negro knew every piece 
 of silver and gold, and he knew in which bag 
 each one belonged. Had it not been his espe- 
 cial pride for almost a lifetime to rub them 
 with chamois skin until they glowed in the shade 
 or glittered in the sunlight? 
 
 Gently now he lifted down each piece with 
 a care that only fidelity can bestow. The 
 smaller ones he took first, until he felt sure 
 of himself. Then followed the massy pieces, 
 solid and marvelously chased. Each was 
 slipped carefully into its bag. No one knew 
 so well as Old Jason how to do this. Roxane 
 Rivers had often said that in forty years he 
 had never dented a piece of silver. Nor did 
 the old man dent one piece now, although he 
 was alone and excited, and the greatest respon- 
 sibility of his life was upon him. 
 
 He had brought to the closet a large sack 
 
The Haunted Oak 97 
 
 full of rice straw. This he emptied on the 
 floor of the closet. Now, as each piece of 
 silver or gold was slipped into its silk case, Old 
 Jason placed it gently in the big sack, packing 
 about it snugly soft layers of the straw that he 
 crushed in his strong hands. At length the 
 task was done. The ancient servitor felt far 
 back on each shelf, but there was nothing more. 
 The large sack was nearly full. Old Jason 
 tied it up; then he backed out of the closet, 
 locked the door, shouldered the heavy sack 
 gingerly, and made his way stealthily out of 
 the house. He had sent all the other negroes 
 toward Spencer's Swamp; when he reached the 
 foot of the steps, he started in exactly the op- 
 posite direction. 
 
 In not meeting a soul in the course that he 
 had taken. Old Jason succeeded in carrying out 
 the first part of his plan. And when once he 
 had passed through the shrubbery and across 
 the pasture field, entering forthwith a primeval 
 wood, he knew that he would not be followed. 
 Of this he was positive; for he had determined 
 to secrete the Rivers' treasure in the negro 
 burying ground, into the mournful beauty of 
 whose shades he had now come. No one on 
 the whole plantation would follow him into 
 that dread abode; and nothing but love and 
 
98 Old Plantation Days 
 
 utter faithfulness ever induced Old Jason so 
 to master his natural aversions to such a region 
 as to enter it himself. 
 
 In the gloomy fastness of that sanctuary, 
 nearer the rice fields than the road, there stood 
 a great live oak; a vast tree whose huge, tol- 
 erant limbs spread far out over the sweet- 
 smelling jungles of myrtle and jasmine vines. 
 It was more than a century old, and the gray 
 moss that draped its limbs with melancholy 
 grace enhanced its ancient and venerable ap- 
 pearance. So stately was the tree that about 
 it brooded a spirit, and this spirit seemed to 
 interpret the mystery and the awfulness of the 
 woodland graveyard. 
 
 In this oak, near the ground, was a huge 
 hollow; and there was no negro on the Rivers 
 plantation who did not believe, and who did not 
 derive a certain fearsome pleasure from his 
 belief, that it was the home of a graveyard 
 "hant." Now, to the negro mind, a hant is 
 not merely a spirit or a ghost; it is a ghost, a 
 fiend, a loupgarou, all in one. In that word is 
 conjured all the terrors of night, of silence, 
 and of the grave. So it was that this oak, 
 whose presence was known by every one within 
 miles of the plantation, was seldom looked 
 upon, even from afar, by human eyes. When 
 
The Haunted Oak 99 
 
 there were 'coon and possum hunts at night, 
 and the dogs happened to take a trail toward 
 the great oak, the dusky hunters would pause, 
 turn aside, and if peculiarly sensitive, would 
 consider it an opportune time to go home. 
 Once in the distant past a dog which had trailed 
 toward the oak had not returned; but no ne- 
 gro would believe the plausible thing — that he 
 had been caught by an alligator in the rice- 
 fields — but insisted that a "hant" had made way 
 with the unfortunate creature. Even at times 
 of funerals, when large groups of negroes 
 would enter the dread sanctuary, they avoided 
 approaching the haunted oak; and the glances 
 which they cast in its direction through the 
 woodland were wary and furtive. Once when 
 one of these solemn processions had inadver- 
 tently headed for the oak, it had, upon per- 
 ceiving its fatal course, retraced its steps with 
 too much speed for dignity. 
 
 To this ancient tree Old Jason now bore his 
 treasure. As he went deeper and deeper into 
 the thickets approaching the oak, he began to 
 talk to himself, knowing well that no human 
 ear could hear him. Moreover, the sound of 
 his voice broke the ghostly stillness suspended 
 eerily about him, giving him a sense of human 
 reassurance. 
 
100 Old Plantation Days 
 
 "I is safe now," he said, meaning that his 
 treasure was safe, as he felt anything but safe. 
 "This is the grabeyaad. I done do the thing 
 I was to do. Thank God for thatl I'se so 
 glad that the silber and the gole is safe. I 
 have every piece in this sack — yes, sah. And 
 when Ole Missis done come home, I jest have 
 to say, 'Yes, Ma'am; yes, Miss Roxane, I done 
 hide it safe till Mr. Sherman done gone on his 
 way 'bout his business. I done hide it all in 
 the hant oak in the grabeyaad.' " 
 
 Old Jason had now come to the mighty tree, 
 towering portentously. Cautiously he slipped 
 the sack from his shoulder until it rested softly 
 on the ground. Leaving it there, he began to 
 examine the hollow. It was at a convenient 
 height above the ground, and the aperture was 
 sufficiently large to admit the sack. Mastering 
 his trepidation, Jason thrust his hand in; he 
 could feel the bottom of the hollow. Though 
 the thought had little to do with his errand, 
 he reasoned that if the hollow were really the 
 abode of a hant, the fearsome creature was not 
 at home. Old Jason found the hollow dry, 
 and the soft, rotten wood yielded to his touch. 
 It seemed an ideal place in which his precious 
 burden might repose. Jason turned, lifted the 
 sack, slipped it into the hollow, and settled it 
 
The Hamited Oak 101 
 
 tenderly into its place. It rested well below 
 the aperture; no one not actually looking into 
 the hollow would see it; and there was no one 
 left in that part of the country, save Old Jason 
 himself, who would dare to look into that 
 haunted place. 
 
 His task completed, the ancient negro made 
 his way by another route out of the burying 
 ground. At some distance from the oak he 
 turned into a path, which led him at length 
 to a road that skirted the cemetery. Jason 
 reached this with a sigh of relief; for now if 
 any one saw him, there could be no suspicion 
 attached to his walking in an open, pineland 
 road. On his old face was a glow of happi- 
 ness as he turned in the direction of the planta- 
 tion gateway. He would return now to the 
 Great House, there to await whatever dangers 
 might come, until the return of the family he 
 had so faithfully served. But he felt, with 
 thanksgiving in his heart, that his greatest dan- 
 ger was past, the possibility of the loss of the 
 treasure entrusted to his keeping. 
 
 Old Jason had almost reached the gateway, 
 beyond which the plantation home glimmered 
 beneath its live oaks, when he was aware of 
 soft foot-falls in the sandy roadway behind 
 him. He turned quickly, to face two young 
 
102 Old Plantation Days 
 
 negroes. Jason knew them; they were from 
 another plantation down the coast. And his 
 first glance at them gave him the feeling that 
 they were away from home for no good rea- 
 son. This suspicion became certainty when 
 the two newcomers spoke to him. They as- 
 sumed an air of nonchalant friendliness that 
 Old Jason knew to be feigned. He realized 
 that they, like all others of their kind, were 
 aware of his position of responsibility, and 
 that therefore they would not follow him and 
 stop him on the plantation road unless they had 
 business with him. And what business save 
 that of a sinister nature could these wanderers 
 have with him? Yet Jason granted them 
 guardedly the benefit of a huge doubt. 
 
 "You boys is a long way from home," he 
 said gravely. "Is you gwine spend the night 
 to the settlement?" 
 
 "Maybe," said the older man evasively, "but 
 we got a little business on hand first. Uncle Ja- 
 son." 
 
 Old Jason felt his heart begin to throb. 
 Had they seen him emerge from the burying- 
 ground? If so, could they have guessed his 
 mission there? The two negroes drew up 
 very close to the old plantation servitor. The 
 
The Haunted Oak 103 
 
 ancient regime was face to face with the new 
 and the strange and the lawless. 
 
 "You say we Is a long way from home," the 
 younger negro said In an Insinuating voice, 
 "but we ain't got no home. You Is free. We 
 Is free. And all that did belong to others, we 
 can take It now, 'caze we Is free." 
 
 Old Jason understood what was meant. 
 This kind of talk, he dimly surmised, must be 
 the fruit of war and of sudden emancipation. 
 He experienced a feeling of anger that these 
 two upstarts should attempt to try any new 
 doctrines on him, especially such doctrines. He 
 had been an autocrat too long to hear with any 
 feeling but one of hatred and scorn the wild 
 ideas of adjusted relationships that a too sud- 
 den and violent democracy brings abortively 
 forth. Jason did not withhold his feelings. 
 
 "If you ain't got no home," he said, "that 
 is because you won't work. And If you think 
 anything on this Rivers place belongs to you," 
 he added, with rising Indignation, "you better 
 change your mind. You Is free," he went on 
 with trenchant emphasis, "but you ain't free 
 to steal." 
 
 With this Old Jason turned toward the gate- 
 way. He had no time to spend on such men 
 
104 Old Plantation Days 
 
 and he meant his actions to show It. But as 
 he turned, the younger of the two negroes 
 stepped quickly forward and placed himself 
 between Jason and the gate. The older man 
 moved up to close It on the old servant. 
 
 "Now, Uncle Jason," one said, "there ain't 
 no hurry for you to go. Is you gwine kill 
 yourself working for the white folks? 'Sides, 
 we ain't done with this little business yet." 
 
 "What you want?" asked Jason abruptly 
 and with resentful heat. 
 
 "We want what you done hide," said the 
 older negro. "These white folks," he added 
 depreciatingly, his eye falling before Jason's 
 stern one, "ain't neber coming back nohow. 
 We will neber see them no more." 
 
 "Where is you gwine that you will neber 
 see them no more?" asked Old Jason with fine 
 sarcasm. But the negroes were not in the 
 least touched by this. They felt, perhaps, that 
 they were abreast of the times, whereas Old 
 Jason could never be brought to understand 
 and to take advantage of new conditions. But 
 they felt that he and what he stood for and 
 what he had secreted In the woods were now in 
 their power. By a concert of action they sidled 
 up to the old negro, each one taking him by 
 an arm. 
 
The Haunted Oak 105 
 
 "We ain't gwine to hurt you," said the 
 younger in his whining voice, "but you is to 
 lead us to where the white folks' valu'bles is. 
 You know the way," he added, stepping for- 
 ward down the road and bringing Old Jason 
 with him. 
 
 There was a brief struggle. Jason freed 
 his right arm and struck one of his assailants, 
 who, with a sinister swiftness, whipped a heavy 
 pistol from his bosom, clubbed it, and dealt the 
 old negro a vicious blow on the back of the 
 head. Jason's knees quavered. His eyes 
 opened wide, then closed; his hands clenched 
 convulsively. He sank to the ground and lay 
 still. 
 
 "You done kill the ole grandpa," said the 
 older negro. The two looked furtively about. 
 Their eyes dwelt for a guilty moment on the 
 unconscious Jason. Then silently, fearfully, 
 they slunk off into the deep woods, leaving the 
 Rivers' champion prone in the plantation road. 
 
 It was quite dark when Old Jason recovered 
 consciousness. He was sadly bewildered, seem- 
 ing to be able to recall nothing. All recollec- 
 tion of his late encounter had passed from him; 
 he could not remember how he happened to 
 be there in the twilight by the gateway. But 
 he knew well enough who he was, and that his 
 
106 Old Plantation Days 
 
 post of duty was at the Great House. The 
 nature of his fidelity was such that his first 
 movement was in the direction of the Rivers 
 home. 
 
 It was only after a long and bewildered strug- 
 gle that Old Jason reached the house; and 
 there he went to sleep in the small back room 
 that had been apportioned to him. He lapsed 
 into sleep's unconscious state without being 
 aware that a deeper unconsciousness had come 
 over his memory. 
 
 His awakening on the morrow was an awak- 
 ening to his old duties; and he went about the 
 house as usual, assiduously busy about the same 
 tasks that had engaged his strength and his 
 faithfulness every day for forty years. 
 
 During the days that succeeded, cheering 
 news came from the west. The great army 
 had passed northward, leaving the melancholy, 
 blackened ruins of many stately homes, but pass- 
 ing untouched the Rivers plantation. Old Ja- 
 son began to feel that it would be safe to have 
 his henchmen bring from the swamp the hidden 
 pieces of furniture. Indeed, he had fully made 
 up his mind to it one day, when the sun shone 
 brightly and peacefully, and when there seemed 
 to be in the atmosphere no hint of the reced- 
 ing alarms of war. But as Jason was about 
 
The Haunted Oak 107 
 
 to start for the negro settlement to carry 
 through his plan, he saw a carriage driving up 
 through the avenue. His heart almost stopped 
 beating for the moment, for he imagined it 
 might be General Sherman himself, of whose 
 personality Old Jason had conjured a fear- 
 some image. But as it drew up to the steps, 
 from it alighted Roxane Rivers, whom the old 
 negro welcomed with an affectionate gladness 
 that was ample proof of how he had kept the 
 faith. 
 
 "I knew you would be here to meet me, Ja- 
 son," she said, "you have never failed us. You 
 are always at your post of duty. . . . No Ro- 
 man soldier was ever more faithful," she added 
 to herself as the loyal old servant with rever- 
 ent pride bowed her into the house. "Is every 
 one safe, Jason?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am; yes, Miss Roxane; and every- 
 thing you give me to keep is same how you 
 left him. We done beared the shootin' but no- 
 body done come this side. I know. Ma'am, 
 'caze I been here all the time." 
 
 On entering the dining-room, the appraising 
 eye of the mistress fell on the vacant spaces 
 whence the massive pieces of furniture had been 
 taken. Jason quickly explained. "I wuz 
 gwine to have them brought back to-day," he 
 
108 Old Plantation l)ai/s 
 
 added, "when I done see your carri:i<;c coniin' 
 up the avenue." 
 
 Roxane Rivers was so eager to restore the 
 order and tl\e arrangement of the home that 
 she despatched Old Jason immediately to the 
 settlement to have the other negroes bring 
 in the furniture. In an hour's time the order 
 had been executed, and through the plantation 
 gateway entered a strange procession. It 
 looked like moving day, a funeral, and a re- 
 turning picnic party all in one. And it was 
 with amusement and astonishment and pride 
 that Roxane Rivers viewed the approaching 
 multitude. Her pride was due to the fact that 
 some negroes, who had always been consid- 
 ered the most shiftless and unreliable, the very 
 ones she might have expected to be into mis- 
 chief, were now doing their share. She saw 
 the crafty Tall Samson bearing, as if in tri- 
 umph, the massy sideboard. And there was 
 Jehu, laboring with the huge andirons. Tom 
 and Tony, two former incorrigiblcs. were man- 
 fully bringing in the great divan belonging in 
 the living-room. Along the fringes of the pro- 
 cession were little children, running excitedly 
 and laughing at the efforts of their elders. 
 
 In due time all the furniture had been re- 
 placed; and then followed a dinner in the big 
 
The Haunted Oak 109 
 
 plantation kitchen for the workers. Only Old 
 Jason was absent. He was reporting in detail 
 on the things which had been taken from the 
 house, checking off those that had been re- 
 turned. At last Roxane Rivers asked him 
 about the family silver and the gold tea serv- 
 ice. 
 
 "Of course you looked after those yourself, 
 Jason," she said. "I know you wouldn't have 
 let any one else touch them." 
 
 Jason looked curiously puzzled, and he shook 
 his gray head slowly. "No, Ma'am," he an- 
 swered, "I didn't take the silber and the gole. 
 The silber and the gole," he repeated musingly, 
 *'they must be in the closet, same how they al- 
 ways been." 
 
 Together they went to the closet door. 
 There the ancient servitor produced the mas- 
 sive key, turned it in the lock, and held the door 
 wide for the mistress of the plantation to enter. 
 The sun was sloping westward, and certain 
 dim beams of it shone palely into the dark 
 recess. Roxane Rivers stepped forward and 
 looked about. She had had no premonition 
 that anything was wrong; her faith in Jason 
 would never have permitted it. But her sur- 
 prise swiftly became fear as she viewed the 
 empty closet, felt vainly on the shelves, and 
 
110 Old Plantation Days 
 
 saw that even the silk, cases were gone from 
 their places along the wall. 
 
 "Why, Jason," she said, "there is nothing 
 here." 
 
 The old negro shuffled forward, a look of 
 incredulity on his face. 
 
 *'Ain't here, Miss Roxanc ? But he must be 
 here. I done shine him last week. I done — " 
 
 "But haven't you had the key all the time, 
 Jason?" 
 
 "Miss Roxane," he answered, "you know I 
 wouldn't 'low nobody to touch that key. No, 
 sah," he added mutteringly, "that is my key, 
 and 1 have it by me day and night." 
 
 "But the silver, and the beautiful service set 
 — don't you know where they are, Jason? 
 Surely you must have taken them out and hid- 
 den them in some safer place." 
 
 A strange light came into Old Jason's eyes. 
 He seemed to be gazing upon a scene that was 
 no longer visible. But then, not without a 
 struggle on Jason's part to keep it alive, the 
 light faded. 
 
 "1 don't 'member," the old man said, brok- 
 enly, pitifully. "Miss Roxane, the gole and 
 the silber been here, but I don't know where 
 he is now. I don't 'member." And to all 
 her queries. Old Jason had but one sad and 
 
The Haunted Oak 111 
 
 Inconclusive rejoinder: "I don't 'member." 
 The days passed into weeks, and these weeks 
 into months. Slowly the work of the planta- 
 tion adjusted itself to the new and strange con- 
 ditions. Few negroes had left the Rivers 
 place, and those who did so were of a restless 
 and uncertain sort. Though Roxane Rivers 
 could not escape the haunting thought that Old 
 Jason knew of the hiding place of the lost treas- 
 ure, she ceased to question him on the matter, 
 and she retained him In his high position of 
 trust and honor. Indirectly, when the loss of 
 the silver would be felt on those regular days 
 when the old negro had been wont to clean it, 
 the question of Its fate arose. But always the 
 pathetic "I don't 'member" closed the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 The time approached when the men of the 
 Rivers family turned their faces homeward; 
 one, indeed, would not return; but his mother 
 felt a solemn pride in the sacrifice which he 
 had made of himself and that she made of him. 
 Hers was a just pride, too, In the fact that the 
 old plantation home would be ready to wel- 
 come the soldiers back. There was hardly a 
 thing gone. Nearly all the negroes had been 
 faithful. Old Jason — but there the haunting 
 suspicion would return. If he had but kept 
 
112 Old Plantation Bays 
 
 his trust, what a record of fidelity would she 
 have to show her husband and her sons! Yet 
 she could not convince herself that the old serv- 
 ant had betrayed that trust. 
 
 One day the mistress of the plantation went 
 down to the gateway to tie the gate open. 
 There was no stock to wander in and out, and 
 she wanted the gate wide when her men re- 
 turned, which might be at any hour of the day 
 or night. It was late in the afternoon; and, 
 her task accomplished, she stood looking back 
 at the Great House, dreaming in its shelter of 
 oaks. Suddenly down the road she saw Old 
 Jason coming. He was going home to the 
 settlement. As he came up he paused with his 
 hat in his hand. 
 
 "We must keep looking for them, Jason," 
 she said, "for we must be found watching when 
 they come. They will be as glad to see you 
 as if you were one of the family, Jason. How 
 I wish," she added musingly, "that we had not 
 lost the silver, and the gold tea service. . . ." 
 
 Old Jason looked back at the woods; then 
 his gaze turned toward the house. His dim 
 eyes welled with tears. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Roxane," he said tremulously, "if 
 I could 'member, — if I only could 'member!" 
 
 A moment later he had passed on down the 
 
The Haunted Oak 113 
 
 lonely road, shaking his head and muttering. 
 
 Roxane Rivers turned back thoughtfully to- 
 ward the house; but a sudden call from the 
 dusky road down which Jason had disappeared 
 arrested her steps. She paused to listen. She 
 heard the cry repeated, and she knew it to be 
 one for help. Though fully aware of the dan- 
 ger she might be facing, she hurried in the di- 
 rection whence the cry had come. 
 
 In the shadowy road not far from the gate- 
 way she came in sight of two forms bending 
 over some one prostrate in the road. On her 
 approach these two rushed away into the dark- 
 ening woods. The fear that guilt alone can 
 give was upon them. But Old Jason lay as he 
 had fallen. He was lying at a peculiar angle, 
 and his body looked crumpled. 
 
 Kneeling beside him in the twilight road, 
 Roxane Rivers spoke to him, chafed his rough 
 old hands, laid her hand over his heart, to feel 
 but a faint beating there. But her voice roused 
 him. His eyes looked into hers; and the light 
 therein was the peace that passeth understand- 
 ing. 
 
 "Miss Roxane" — the words came feebly and 
 slowly, yet with a great hushed gladness — "I 
 done hide it in the hant oak. I done 'member 
 now. Them men you see jest now, they done 
 
114 Old Plantation Days 
 
 fight me once before to make me tell them 
 where I hide it. I 'member it all now. We 
 been in a fight by the gate, and one hit me, here 
 in my head, Miss Roxane, and I done forget 
 everything. But this time, when they done 
 jump on me at the same place, it all come 
 back." 
 
 The old negro's eyes closed; his body 
 seemed to relax. But Roxane Rivers heard 
 faintly, as if from a voice in another land and 
 life, *'I 'member; I 'member." 
 
 By the haunted oak in the burying ground 
 on the Rivers plantation is a grave surrounded 
 by a little iron railing. And the brief inscrip- 
 tion on the plain white stone is a part of the 
 heritage of the Rivers family. It reads: "Ja- 
 son: Faithful unto death." And to that hum- 
 ble grave generations yet unborn of the Rivers 
 family shall go in reverence. 
 
X 
 
 A MONARCH OF THE SKY 
 
 FROM the lonely shores of Cedar Island 
 the tall palmettoes with the blasted 
 tops gazed gauntly out to sea. The 
 wind was eerie through the withered sedge, 
 murmuring mysteriously over the black marsh- 
 circled beach-pools. The red moon, hanging 
 low above the heaving ocean, seemed lost in 
 moody contemplation of the spectral scene that 
 her own light enchanted. From the northeast 
 and the southwest flashed the beacons of soli- 
 tary light-houses, answering each other across 
 the miles. To the east lay the lordly Atlantic. 
 To the northward, fringing the Carolina coast 
 to a depth of fifty miles, loomed, shadowy and 
 vast, the great long-leaf pine forest. And 
 through the scented woods and out into the 
 spacious delta-country, moving in beauty and 
 power by plantation, swamp, and wide ricefield, 
 the great Santee River rolled on majestic to- 
 ward the sunrise seas. And over the land and 
 the water, bending its bow of beauty from 
 horizon to horizon, the day-sky, with her light 
 
 115 
 
116 Old Plantation Days 
 
 and her colors and her joy; and the night-sky, 
 with her stars and her splendor and her peace, 
 — over the land and the water this sky was 
 lovely. And the Monarch of the Sky above 
 the stormy river-mouth was a great bald-eagle, 
 noble, wise, and — hunted. 
 
 It was now well on toward daylight, and the 
 eagle, lone on his roost in a shadowy pine on 
 Cedar Island, awaited with the dignified pa- 
 tience that befits true royalty the coming of 
 the light. 
 
 To him the day would bring his beautiful 
 bright kingdom of the sky. It would bring him 
 the fierce delight of swooping down upon his 
 prey, and the rapture of a triumph over the 
 wary mallards that flocked in the warm, marsh- 
 sheltered ditches in the old abandoned rice- 
 fields. It would bring him the calm joy of 
 bathing in the blue sea of the air, sunning him- 
 self as he circled in the far sky. The day 
 would lead him forth to conquer, to triumph, 
 and to reign. But, ah me, it would never more 
 lead him forth to companionship and love. It 
 had been three years since London, the negro 
 poacher and duck-hunter, had killed his mate; 
 and since then the fierce old eagle had become 
 solitary. Lone was the flight that bore him 
 
A Monarch of the Sky 117 
 
 above riccfield and river, lone was his outgoing 
 and his homecoming; lone stood he on his perch 
 in the ancient pine, the wise inscrutable mon- 
 arch; and lonely was his stormy scream, haunt- 
 ing the remote solitudes of the coast. From 
 day to day he beat his splendid way from ocean 
 to cypress-swamp, far up the river, and back 
 again, taking his fair toll of the rice-fed mal- 
 lards. But by his side, neither in the bare and 
 brooding winter, nor in the shimmering days 
 of spring, nor in the crimson and the golden 
 of the autumn was there to be found a com- 
 panion for him. And the proud old heart be- 
 neath the tawny brown breast knew that for 
 him love would never come again. 
 
 It is not well to be lonely, not even for an 
 eagle; but to be lonely and fearful is terrible. 
 Not that the Monarch of the Sky bore the 
 heart of a coward; not so. But it was a heart 
 that held its life and dominion by strategy as 
 well as by strength; and it had been taught the 
 bitterest lesson of its life by a negro with a 
 gun. Five times had the white duckers shot 
 at him, and one of them had driven a charge 
 of shot under his wing, but the distance had 
 been too great and the lead had not pierced 
 him. Yet he had seen the dread London kill 
 his beautiful mate; had heard the hollow re- 
 
118 Old Plantation Bays 
 
 verberation of his musket, and had seen his 
 companion, who was saiHng at his side, shud- 
 der, crumple up sickly, and drop limply into the 
 edge of the marsh. And the Monarch knew 
 full well that the day he came within range of 
 London's musket would be his last. It seemed 
 shameful that so lordly a bird should live in 
 fear, passing his days as it were with a price 
 on his head. And always he was apprehensive; 
 always, except when, lost in the light of the 
 towering skies, he ranged beyond the vision of 
 man and beyond his power. 
 
 Each morning the eagle left his roost with 
 the sunrise, and now the sun was glowing just 
 below the horizon. Over the crested seas of 
 the glimmering inlet the long lances of light 
 rose steadily. All the trees along the coast 
 stood motionless in the rosy bath of dawn, and 
 even the melancholy cedars, driven into agon- 
 ized postures by fierce autumnal gales, took on 
 a soft light of beautiful fading. And the se- 
 date old Santee, shrouded in filmy mist, blushed 
 beneath the sunlight as a bride beneath her veil. 
 And when the sun cleared the ocean, the gaunt 
 eagle launched himself forth upon the soft and 
 fragrant sea of the heavens. The Monarch 
 was once again the master of his beloved king- 
 dom. 
 
A Monarch of the Sky 119 
 
 As he left the deep shadow of the dewy 
 woods, his flight took an upward angle, so that 
 when he came soaring out over the bare 
 beaches, he was out of gunshot. His superb 
 flight betrayed sadly by these and similar tactics 
 that he was a confirmed fugitive. 
 
 The Monarch swept over Cedar Island 
 beach, headed across the tawny inlet toward 
 Ford's Point, raised a black cloud of mallards, 
 sporting in the shallow water to leeward of 
 the point, and then turned up the broad reaches 
 of the Santee. Beneath him a tiny tug-boat 
 pushed her way slowly out to the inlet for a 
 tow. Beneath him, too, flock after flock of sea- 
 ward-going ducks hurried, veering low when 
 they made out the Monarch far above them. 
 Off a high blufi^ where a creek split an island 
 in the river, the eagle saw a flock of about 
 sixty mallards, close in shore. His wings 
 curved downward, and with the wind roaring 
 behind him he dropped through the sky to- 
 ward his prey. Yet long before he came 
 within striking distance, his keen eyes caught 
 the sight of twinkling barrels of steel in the 
 marsh on the bluff, and a second sight at the 
 ducks showed them to be decoys. The eagle 
 towered In flight, changed his course, and came 
 not near the earth again until he alighted on 
 
120 Old Plantation Days 
 
 the bleached and craggy top of a dead cypress, 
 far up in tlie lonely Laurel Hill Swamp, ten 
 miles from Cedar Island. 
 
 There the Monarch brooded over his ancient 
 wrongs; over the loss of his mate, over his 
 hunted life, brooding over these with a savage 
 loneliness. Toward noon he foraged through 
 Wampce Creek, that wound its silent and tor- 
 tuous way far up into the heart of the swamp. 
 But he did not find any wood-ducks there. The 
 tide was low, and the day very calm. Doubt- 
 less they were in the ricefields far down the 
 river. Once he struck fiercely at a mild bit- 
 tern, ambushed in the muddy marsh, only to 
 swerve away from the terrified, cowering ob- 
 ject of his attack with regal scorn. 
 
 All day long he alternated between the dry 
 cypress and the nearby creek, hoping to pick 
 up a summer duck or a stray mallard. But 
 the whole region seemed deserted, save for a 
 few little pitiful happy song-birds, warbling in 
 the mellow sunlight under the protection of 
 friendly thickets. 
 
 Toward afternoon the Monarch, his hunger 
 whetted by his fruitless toil and vigilance of 
 the day, wheeled down from his sentinel post 
 on the cypress, and directed his flight towai\J 
 the river-mouth. As he passed over the spa- 
 
A Monarch of the Shy 121 
 
 cious fields In the delta, he flushed many mal- 
 lards, and many more crouched beside reedy 
 tussocks until he had passed. Tiiey knew well 
 his ways, and they feared nothing in life so 
 much as the sinister splendor of his presence. 
 When his flight had brought him down the 
 river as far as Cane Gap, an inlet from the sea 
 opening into the Santee, and not more than 
 three miles from Cedar Island, the eagle saw, 
 riding on the lapping waves near the shore, 
 four or five mallards. As he was flying over 
 the marsh and not down the open river, he 
 could approach them under cover of the tall 
 reedy growth, sinking from sight until he rushed 
 clear of the marsh, and was on his prey. So 
 he swerved downward until his great brown 
 body and his wide wings grazed the tremulous 
 tops of the rank growths in the wild waste 
 field. On, on the eagle sped, his powerful 
 pinions driving him forward with matchless 
 swiftness, his gaunt and proud old head out- 
 stretched in fiery eagerness, and his gripped 
 talons aching for the fall. Over creek and 
 shallow bay, over bush and cane-brake, his 
 speed increasing every moment, the great mon- 
 arch of the sky rushed down upon his prey. 
 
 Meanwhile, concealed in the heavy canes on 
 the river-edge, scanning the water and the sky 
 
122 Old Plantation Days 
 
 for ducks, London the poacher sat facing his 
 five battered decoys, his deadly musket across 
 his knees. The sun was almost down, and 
 the air would soon be alive with the evening 
 flight, and he had fair hopes of luring a few 
 gray mallards or black-ducks within range. 
 He was crouched so low that he was practically 
 invisible. He knew how to hide in a blind. 
 But so far he had had no luck at all. He 
 hadn't burnt powder once, and he had been 
 on the stand an hour. His legs were cramped 
 and cold, and his temper none the best. He 
 felt like shooting any kind of a duck that came 
 along. As the moments passed and the in- 
 coming flight of ducks from the sea began, 
 London became more and more restless. One 
 small flock drew to the stool, only to flare away 
 out of gunshot. The negro cursed them sul- 
 lenly. Then in a twinkling he heard a rush, 
 a great form shadowed him, and the Monarch 
 of the Sky, with wings arched and talons wide, 
 shot over the edge of the blind and fell on his 
 prey. He grappled one big drake-decoy, sink- 
 ing his claws into the soft wood, and actually 
 lifted him half out of the water. But even 
 on the moment the old eagle knew his fatal 
 mistake. 
 
 From the nearby marsh the fateful black 
 
A Monarch of the Sky 123 
 
 barrel of London's musket was thrust with cold- 
 blooded deliberation. 
 
 "Dat ole rascal!" muttered the negro be- 
 tween his teeth. 
 
 At last the eagle had come within range of 
 London's gun. And the poacher was going to 
 shoot him, partly because he was angry and 
 partly because eagles could be sold in the 
 nearby village to a taxidermist. He leveled 
 his musket, the heavy brass sight finding its 
 mark against the eagle's brown breast. He 
 was only forty yards away, and duckshot at 
 that distance would be deadly. And, wise be- 
 yond the wisdom usually accorded the bird 
 kingdom, the eagle realized his sickening peril. 
 
 To make it worse the eagle blundered as he 
 released his intended victim, and his piercing 
 eyes saw death looking him in the face. Per- 
 haps through his brain flashed the remembrance 
 of that far-off morning when his beautiful mate 
 had dropped from her place at his side, a place 
 that would ever be empty. With ponderous 
 strokes he beat violently upward, while Lon- 
 don's sight rested the more surely on his heart. 
 
 Suddenly, over the waters aglow with the 
 colors of the sunset, straight for the decoys, 
 two green-wing teal sped swiftly. Simple- 
 hearted, unsuspecting, companionable little fel- 
 
124 Old Pluntation Days 
 
 lows they were. In a moment London had 
 seen them, and his gun-sight shifted away from 
 the rising eagle. Two teal make a pair of 
 ducks, a better bag than an eagle. 
 
 Up rose the great monarch, towering far 
 and high. The frightened teal flared wide at 
 sight of that dread black apparition. And 
 London was left crouching, with his musket at 
 his shoulder, in the cold marsh. 
 
 The Monarch of the Sky winged his way ma- 
 jestically through the twilight once more down 
 to his home on Cedar Island. Far, far through 
 the rosy afterglow the lone and splendid eagle 
 pursued his lordly flight, until at last he was 
 lost to the vision of man in the liberty of God's 
 sky. 
 
XI 
 
 THE DUEL IN CUMMINGS 
 
 COLONEL JOCELYN was not without 
 honor as a prophet in his own coun- 
 try. This was, perhaps, due to the 
 fact that the Colonel was prepared to back any 
 speculation that he desired to make with the 
 same personal interest that a question involv- 
 ing his personal honor would have occasioned; 
 and his austerity on matters touching the Code 
 was the pride of three counties. It was not 
 surprising, therefore, that, in view of the defer- 
 ence accorded his insight into the future, his 
 remark to the effect that Scipio Lightning would 
 soon get the better of Wash Green should 
 have been widely circulated in Cummings; and 
 the good people of that community awaited 
 the fulfilment of this prophecy with calm and 
 flattering assurance. 
 
 Scipio and Wash — or, more properly, Scipio 
 Lightning and George Washington Alexander 
 Burnsides Green, a vision of whose future had 
 been granted Colonel Jocelyn — were negroes 
 without visible means of support. For a long 
 
 125 
 
126 Old Plantation Days 
 
 time their livelihood had depended on the char- 
 ity of Cummings; and that little seacoast vil- 
 lage was wont to be indulgent toward those 
 who were sufficiently picturesque to contribute 
 to the gaiety of the public. Not infrequently 
 the question of their arrest and imprisonment 
 on various charges was raised; but the possi- 
 bility of a Cummings without Scipio and Wash, 
 guilty as they were, caused such a hum of dis- 
 approval that even the white-haired Justice of 
 the Peace was forced to compromise his con- 
 science in the broader interests of humanity; 
 Scipio and Wash were permitted to remain at 
 large. 
 
 Wash Green had the reputation of being 
 a very wily negro; strange stories were told of 
 his ingenuity and cunning. He was middle- 
 aged, squat, and reverent looking. He wore 
 glasses — not that his eyes were weak, but be- 
 cause they added to his sanctified air. With 
 the same appealing force the innumerable 
 patches in his raiment enhanced his piety. His 
 broad face was benign and childlike, and the 
 slyness of his furtive eyes might well have been 
 interpreted as a sainted and bashful meekness. 
 He never lost his equanimity; he could lie with 
 a Scriptural accent and could steal chickens and 
 watermelons benevolently. Occasionally he 
 
The Duel in Cummings 127 
 
 made a little money by holding Doctor Be- 
 thune's horses; but his passionate aversion to 
 work was the chief characteristic which marked 
 him as Scipio's soul-mate. 
 
 Scipio was not wily, nor did he pretend to 
 be. He was too tall and too strong and too 
 simple-hearted to be treacherous. He was 
 very typical of a certain class of negro; ebony, 
 gaunt, smiling. His home for many years had 
 been on one of the nearby rice plantations, and 
 his heart was still there; however, because of 
 domestic aberrations, he had taken temporary 
 refuge in Cummings. Once since his coming 
 he had actually worked a whole week without 
 a break; and when a detractor sought to slander 
 him his friends defended him on the score of 
 this historic instance. Nothing in the world 
 should worry a man of this nature; but one 
 thing worried Scipio : Wash Green. 
 
 No two men are so suspicious of each other 
 as two worthless men; and this feeling between 
 Scipio and Wash, which had begun long years 
 before, had finally deepened into a rivalry that 
 had attracted all Cummings. Their feeling 
 had passed beyond the point where an appeal 
 to mere physical supremacy could settle it; it 
 must needs be a mental duel, an intellectual 
 fray; for the negro is not beneath appreciating 
 
128 Old Plantation Days 
 
 a keen thrust of thought and a fine parry of wit. 
 The rivals were spurred on by all the loafers 
 in Cummings, and there were times when a 
 personal encounter seemed imminent; but the 
 cunning of Wash always guided him safely past 
 that rock, for he knew what Scipio could do 
 along those lines. Wash, however, did not 
 try to conceal the fact that he prided himself 
 on his superior intellect and he took pains to 
 have Scipio aware of the fact. 
 
 What really brought the matter to a test was 
 the remark (since become historic in Cum- 
 mings) made by Colonel Jocelyn that Scipio 
 would soon get the better of Wash. This in- 
 telligence came to the rivals. It spurred on 
 the one with serene confidence; the other felt 
 that the hour to become famous had struck; 
 for to be prophesied against was to be a blessed 
 martyr, and Wash enjoyed being one; and then, 
 if he could but frustrate the forecast of the 
 great Colonel, all Cummings, even Scipio him- 
 self, would be bound to pay him tribute and 
 honor. 
 
 A few days later Wash was invited to ad- 
 dress the congregation of the little negro church 
 in Cummings. In the light of his ability as a 
 speaker, his moral turpitude had been over- 
 looked. Bearing in mind the humiliating ef- 
 
The Ikiel in Cummings 129 
 
 feet that any success of his would have on his 
 rival, he prepared an elaborate sermon. He 
 stood near the postoffice when the mail was 
 being delivered, for it was at such a time that 
 Doctor Bethune, Judge Wicklow, and Parson 
 Benbow were wont to give the community the 
 benefit of their professional learning in terms 
 well suited to the needs of Wash. He remem- 
 bered the longest and most rolling words of all, 
 and these he treasured, rehearsed in secret, and 
 longed for the hour of their delivery to come. 
 When the night arrived Wash was elated 
 past belief. He ignored Scipio when he passed 
 him on his way to church. His pride was not 
 lessened by his entrance into the sanctuary or 
 when he ascended the pulpit. He saw with 
 satisfaction that there were thirty or more peo- 
 ple in the congregation; and there, too, was 
 Scipio, sitting near the door. Ah, thought 
 Wash, if he could but shine in the eyes of that 
 company, to the everlasting confounding of 
 Scipio, when would his glory fade ! Perhaps 
 this very night would decide his fate for all 
 time. He felt that the mantle of the Divine 
 was upon his shoulders, and he accepted it with 
 that respectful resignation which is the attitude 
 of most wily men toward questions of a reli- 
 gious nature. But this resignation was only 
 
130 Old Plantation Days 
 
 assumed; inwardly he was burning with the 
 beaut}^ of the sermon that would utterly rout 
 the pretentions of his rival. 
 
 After a few hymns had been sung, the time 
 for the sermon came. Wash cleared his throat 
 forensically and stood up. The Bible in his 
 hand made the Animal in his face pathetic. 
 He did not open the Book because he could not 
 read. 
 
 "My brederen an' sister," he began, "I'se 
 gwine to onrabble de great ponderation. I 
 want to tell you 'bout dat gaaden w'ere Adam 
 lib wid Ebe." 
 
 He paused to let his words take effect, not 
 forgetting to look with serene and assured tri- 
 umph at Scipio. 
 
 "E-eh, Lord," cried a shrill-voiced woman, 
 "but dat nigger know dat Bible !" 
 
 Wash took this with becoming modesty, and 
 Scipio shifted his seat uneasily. As long as 
 his rival continued to preach well, Scipio's 
 chances for fulfilling the prophecy were slight. 
 Unlike Macaulay's Puritan, he was not deeply 
 read in Biblical lore. He saw one way only 
 of snatching victory from apparent defeat: if 
 he could turn the laugh on Wash the duel would 
 go to him. If he could put an innocent ques- 
 tion that Wash could not answer a certain 
 
The Duel in Cummings 131 
 
 amount of satisfaction would be his. He clung 
 to these thoughts while his rival proceeded. 
 
 "Lemme tell you 'bout dis gaaden, an' 'bout 
 Adam an' Ebe," he continued. "In dat same 
 paradise dere been a tremenjous water-mocca- 
 sin; an' dat same rep-tile was de ole debbil he- 
 self. One day he came out fo' sun heself on 
 dat ribber edge; an' 'bout dat same time Ebe 
 gone down to de ribber fo' fetch a bucket o' 
 water. Wen she see dat outrageous varmint 
 she jump up on de rail-fence an' whoop fo' 
 Adam. But dat Adam been 'sleep; 'cause he 
 been wuk in de cotton field' all mornin'. You 
 know, my brederen an' sister', dat all we po' 
 niggers must wuk. De day am long an de wuk 
 am haad, an' we po' niggers must do dat wuk! 
 Po' nigger !" 
 
 This adroit personal touch went to the hearts 
 of his congregation. They were moved. 
 They rocked and swayed on their seats with 
 bowed heads, moaning softly and repeating, 
 "Po' nigger !" Even Scipio felt the warm tears 
 gather as the words of Wash took him back 
 to the days (happily past) when he himself 
 had labored. 
 
 "I speck," continued the preacher, uncon- 
 sciously presenting his admiration for slyness, 
 "dat Adam hyeard dat whoopin' ; but Adam 
 
132 Old Plantation Days 
 
 done see dat snake heself, an' he don't want 
 to fool wid him. So he jes' lie on dat bench 
 in de sun an' listen how Ebe she whoop." 
 
 Alas for the sermon elaborately prepared! 
 Alas for the cunning of Wash! Scipio per- 
 ceived a rift in his rival's argument. He 
 scented treason in the attitude of Adam. 
 While Wash mopped his forehead ponderously, 
 catching his second wind, Scipio stood up in 
 the back of the church, making enough noise 
 with the shuffling of his feet to attract atten- 
 tion. He held all eyes. Wash felt faint. 
 His rival looked very tall and confident. 
 
 "My frien'," he said with a touch of right- 
 eous anger in his voice, "w'at kind ob a nigger 
 you call dat Adam anyhow? W'at kind of a 
 decent nigger will let one outrageous rep-tile 
 sca-a-re he wife? Answer me dat!" 
 
 All the members of the congregation nodded 
 their heads in approval of his words and mut- 
 tered their approbation. Wash mopped his 
 face feverishly. Dimly he began to see the 
 issue : Scipio was attacking the personal char- 
 acter of Adam, while he had held it up for 
 admiration. 
 
 "My frien'," continued the inexorable Scipio, 
 "lemme ax you one mo' ponderation : w'at 
 Adam an' Ebe, w'at dem triflin' niggers been 
 
The Duel in Cummings 133 
 
 doin' in dat w'ite man gaaden anyhow? Bro' 
 Wash, answer me dat!" 
 
 Wash Green cleared his throat for a reply, 
 but the congregation refused him the attempt. 
 The high-voiced woman began to croon a song 
 in a minor key and soon they all joined in the 
 farewell chorus. The duel was over; Scipio 
 had won. 
 
 The next day Cummings knew the details 
 of the duel, and every one congratulated Colo- 
 nel Jocelyn on his prophetic power of vision. 
 And the Colonel accepted these tributes with 
 due modesty, as befitting one whose code of 
 honor was austere. 
 
XII 
 
 AT LOW TIDE 
 
 THE sea-wind over the marshes was 
 warm and fragrant. The harvest 
 moon was rising and the night-mists 
 broke in silent foam, letting the moon's dimly 
 iridescent rays pierce through them to shine 
 palely on the water beneath. The surf fell 
 sleepily on the drowsy shore. Far back in the 
 pine woods behind the marshes two horned 
 owls were answering each other with wonder- 
 ful soft voices. In the creeks where the dull 
 foam of the ebb glimmered, fish of all kinds 
 broke water, hunted or were hunted. One by 
 one, as the tide receded, the gleaming black 
 oyster banks came out on the shores below the 
 marsh line. Here and there where a small 
 creek emptied into a larger, or where there was 
 a sharp bend, the ebb-tide eddies, full of float- 
 ing sedge and cloudy foam, whirled softly in 
 the moonlight. There seemed to be life astir 
 everywhere — the life which awoke with the 
 ebb and flourished by virtue of its withdrawal: 
 there were sharks sliding wickedly along the 
 
 134 
 
At Low Tide 135 
 
 shores; there were herons standing like specters 
 over ebbing creeks; there were shear-waters 
 and willets and night hawks; on a steep muddy 
 bank two otters were playing; through the high 
 marsh and thick sedge a whole family of minks 
 scuttled, glided and ran. Now and then a 
 clapper-rail, disturbed by some marauder or 
 made sentimental by the moonlight, rose and 
 flew a few rods with dangling legs. Occasion- 
 ally a tiny exquisite marsh sparrow would flit 
 with gay independence over a narrow creek. 
 The marsh and the water and the air were alive. 
 The sea called to the marsh and tide, and the 
 marsh sighed to the pine woods, which an- 
 swered melodiously. The marsh called to the 
 pine woods, and especially to a certain raccoon 
 which all day long had slept in a blanket of 
 Spanish moss in the high fork of a huge black- 
 gum tree that stood on the edge of the forest 
 near the beach. The night before he had for- 
 aged in the swamp and in the nearby corn field, 
 but this night — with the tide going out, and the 
 moon so bright, and the marshes whispering to 
 him — how could he resist the oyster bank that 
 lay so alluringly across the first stretch of 
 marsh, and all the glorious side chances of 
 catching a few fish in the shallow creeks? 
 He could not resist. He yawned, stretched 
 
136 Old Plantation Days 
 
 his legs, and, climbing high enough to clear the 
 moss, he began to back slowly down the tree. 
 He was an old raccoon and very wary. Every 
 ten feet or so he would stop backing and hang 
 breathless, listening for any noises that might 
 send him scurrying back to his perch, there to 
 crouch in watchful silence until the trouble and 
 every vestige of the shadow of it had passed. 
 But there were no such sounds. The marsh 
 only seemed to call the more insistently to the 
 dark pines, and the raccoon, gaining the ground 
 at length, paced off under the low, gnarled red 
 cedars and scrub oaks. He struck a hog path 
 on the edge of the high sedge and racked 
 swiftly through it, coming out on the thin strip 
 of beach that bordered the marsh. Before him 
 the wide marshes were softly illumined by the 
 moonlight. He picked his way through the 
 mud with its spear-marsh growth, crossed a lit- 
 tle trickling brackish stream that came out of 
 the pine woods, and began to nose his way 
 through an old, half-overgrown, water-sodden 
 runway that led to the marsh. As he ap- 
 proached the edge of the wide creek the exqui- 
 site scents became more and more tempting. 
 He racked faster: once he might have caught 
 a mullet in a little drain, but in his haste to 
 reach the oysters he forgot some of his stealth 
 
At Low Tide 137 
 
 and cunning. He hurried on, coming soon to 
 a small hummock that lay directly in his path. 
 Ordinarily he would have avoided it, choosing 
 to go around the high ground rather than pass 
 under the low bushes, whose heavy, bitter foli- 
 age might hide untold danger. But he was in 
 a great hurry this time, for the succulent, 
 savory oysters were almost within sight. He 
 ran up the sandy mud on the little incline and 
 took the first mink path through the bushes. 
 He knew that when he reached the other side 
 of the hummock the oyster bed would lie be- 
 fore him. But he never reached the other side 
 of the hummock. Without warning of odor, 
 of trembling bush, of bated breathing, without 
 instinct of danger, there was a sharp click, 
 cruel, terrifying, and the raccoon's foreleg was 
 fast in the jaws of a steel trap. 
 
 Scipio had set it there on the low tide that 
 morning, paddling all the way down the river 
 to put the trap out in the marsh; but he had 
 not set for a coon; he knew of easier ways to 
 catch them; he was after the old white-nosed 
 otter that for years had balked all his efforts 
 to take him. Yet Scipio would not at all mind 
 finding a big corn-fed coon in his trap. He 
 would have liked it almost as much as the rac- 
 coon hated being there. 
 
138 Old Plantation Days 
 
 With the first swift, blinding clench of the 
 steel jaws he leapt up and back, snarling and 
 gazing fiercely about for his assailant. He 
 tugged wildly at his leg, numbed by the deep 
 pain of a broken bone, and bit and clawed at 
 the trap. He pulled from every angle, limp- 
 ing about on three legs, whining piteously, and 
 glancing up and down the path, fearing some 
 new form of attack and not understanding 
 why his enemy did not strike him again. But 
 no further blow came. He paused in his strug- 
 gle and listened cunningly. The wind sighed 
 through the low bushes, the surf rushed and 
 fell softly on the distant front beach, the fish 
 in the creeks leapt and played, hunted or were 
 hunted, the yellow glory of the moon streamed 
 down on the wide marsh. 
 
 The raccoon sat down on his haunches and 
 whined. He thought of the one place where 
 he longed to be — safe in the high fork of the 
 big black-gum tree. Once more he snarled 
 and tugged fiercely. He listened again, but 
 heard only the plaintive wind and the warm 
 lapping of the waves and the fisli breaking 
 water. It was past midnight. He must get 
 back to the big tree before daylight; he never 
 hunted after 4 o'clock. The pain in the broken 
 
At Low Tide 139 
 
 leg was getting worse. He must get away; 
 but how? In a little while the flood would 
 be in and he would have to swim for shore. 
 He had never swum but once, and that was 
 because he had been cut off. And he loathed 
 it heartily; it took too long for his heavy coat 
 to dry. But if he could get away from the 
 demon which was gnawing his leg off he would 
 swim and gladly. 
 
 For the first time he examined cautiously and 
 curiously the monster which held him. Tn real- 
 ity it was only a small steel trap with teeth, 
 fastened by a dog chain to one of the larger 
 bushes; but to the raccoon in its grasp it seemed 
 like a huge relentless monster of the ghostly 
 night and of the mysterious marsh. He smelt 
 about the trap, detecting for the first time the 
 faint dread odor of the human hand and the 
 tang of the rusting steel. His nose brushed 
 against the part of his leg which dangled from 
 the trap and he jerked back fearfully, think- 
 ing that it belonged to some other creature. 
 Then he examined it again, and saw that it 
 was his own leg and that it was useless. The 
 faces of the trap had closed just above the 
 knee. The bone there was crushed and splin- 
 tered and the skin and flesh were badly torn 
 by the cold grip of the teeth. Once more the 
 
140 Old Plantation Days 
 
 raccoon pulled back, though it gave him agony 
 to do so, to be sure that he was held in that 
 one place only. Then, with a strange light 
 in his eyes and a look of ancient wisdom on his 
 face, he sat down close to the trap and began 
 to lick away the fur from that part of his leg 
 just above the steel jaws. When the circle 
 was complete and the place bare he sank his 
 teeth into the flesh. His own warm blood 
 flowed over his teeth and into his mouth. He 
 gulped it down as a child gulps down its tears. 
 Soon he had all the flesh cut; beneath were only 
 the shattered bones and a few tendons. 
 Stretching the tendons gently, he gnawed 
 through them. The leg gave suddenly, and 
 he nearly fell over. He was free ! 
 
 But he did not move; he did not bound 
 foolishly away as a mollie-cottontail would 
 have done. Still holding the wounded leg up, 
 he licked away the blood from the stump and 
 pulled out carefully with his teeth a few splin- 
 ters of bone. Then he eased himself down on 
 three legs and ambled off painfully, leaving a 
 wide trail of blood. 
 
 The flood tide was coming in apace. In 
 several small creeks the water rose over the 
 raccoon's knees. The salt burnt his wound 
 cruelly. At last he passed through the marsh, 
 
At Low Tide 141 
 
 crossed the strip of beach, and finally came to 
 the foot of the big gum tree. 
 
 Rearing himself on his hind legs he struck 
 the claws of his foreleg into the soft bark and 
 pulled himself up. Then he took hold of the 
 bark with his teeth until he could shift his foot- 
 ing higher. Inch by weary inch he toiled up- 
 ward until, just as the telltale light began to 
 come in the east, and just as the moon sank 
 over the sea, he dropped into the thick moss 
 in the high fork of the black-gum tree. He 
 lay very still; exhausted, but safe. Once he 
 turned his eyes toward the marsh and saw, in 
 the mist of the morning, the solitary figure of 
 a negro, stalking about on the hummock. But 
 the tide had covered the trail of blood. 
 
 Where the sea wind calls to the marsh, 
 blowing forever with sounds of the sea and 
 of the waves, there is a certain marsh, a cer- 
 tain pinewood, a certain hummock. And. the 
 wariest of all creatures there is an old raccoon 
 with his right foreleg cut ofif above the knee. 
 The wound has long since healed, and he for- 
 ages regularly In swamp, in field, and in marsh. 
 But he never again crosses a hummock. And 
 he is never quite at his ease unless he is lying 
 in the warm bed of Spanish moss in the high 
 fork of the big black-gum tree. 
 
XIII 
 
 THE STRATEGY OF GALBOA 
 
 GALBOA was by far the oldest of all 
 the negroes in the Santee country. 
 He was in "the white winter of his 
 age"; and to his ancient and venerable aspect 
 was added a dignity and a sense of superhuman 
 understanding which demanded the tribute of 
 awe. 
 
 Galboa lived alone on the Eldorado. His 
 cabin was the one nearest the plantation grave- 
 yard. Indeed, non-e but he would have taken 
 up his abode in dread proximity to that mys- 
 terious, gloomy cemetery. About it were the 
 wastes of a melancholy yellow sedgefield. All 
 the negroes suspected, and many firmly believed, 
 that out of the graveyard came fearful specters 
 which were boon companions of old Galboa. 
 
 Before his solitary little cabin were two 
 stunted live-oaks, haunted by shrikes and mock- 
 ing-birds. Built of rough pine logs, the cracks 
 between which were more or less effectively 
 stopped by pinestraw, bunches of grass, and 
 bits of broken shingles, the cabin was hardly 
 
 14.?. 
 
The Strategy of Galhoa 11-3 
 
 a protection. The chimney was built of slate 
 and clay; but the hand which had shaped it 
 had only carried it halfway up the end of the 
 cabin, so that all the logs above it were 
 scorched and blackened. Behind the cabin 
 were the last inland reaches of the long Eldo- 
 rado ricefield. 
 
 Galboa was to the negroes of the plantation 
 what Mage Merlin must have been to the old 
 Celts. He looked the personification of wis- 
 dom. He was tall and spare, with powerful 
 shoulders that his great age had not bowed; 
 long, muscle-knotted arms, and large, strong 
 hands. A heavy growth of white hair covered 
 his head, and a long beard fell over his throat 
 and breast. His manner, too, was venerable. 
 
 Galboa's character was like his appearance; 
 and Ned Alston could trust him when he could 
 trust no other negro on the plantation. Not 
 that most of them were dishonest; but rather 
 that, if put to a severe test, they would gener- 
 ally give way to fear or to excitement. But 
 Galboa could be counted upon "night and day," 
 as the planter used to put it. That was why, 
 when Alston went into the diamond-back terra- 
 pin business, he chose Galboa to mind the coo- 
 ter-pen. 
 
 This was the stockade in which the terrapin 
 
144 Old Plantation Days 
 
 were kept until the height of the market should 
 warrant their sale. It is like a huge wooden 
 crate, set in an estuary, where the salt tide will 
 flush it twice a day. Alston had his cooter- 
 pen several miles down the river from Eldo- 
 rado, in a little bay that made in from Alligator 
 Creek. 
 
 A cooter-pen must have a good watchman, 
 and this watchman must be of a peculiarly sober 
 and temperate disposition. He must be willing 
 to stay by his post day and night; and, since 
 a cooter-pen is generally located far from habi- 
 tations, he must not mind living apart from his 
 fellows in a lonely, out-of-the-way place. 
 
 For such a position, old Galboa was admir- 
 ably fitted. He was on good terms with lone^ 
 liness and to him it would be no discomfort to 
 be awake most of the night. Indeed, many 
 Eldorado negroes believed that Galboa never 
 slept at all. Then, Galboa would not be afraid 
 of the marauders who would almost certainly 
 visit the cooter-pen; for diamond-backs are 
 valuable, and since it would be difficult to iden- 
 tify them as stolen goods, they can readily be 
 disposed of. 
 
 So Galboa, at Alston's request, left his cabin 
 
The Strategy of Galboa 145 
 
 on the plantation and took up his abode in a 
 shack on the bank of Alligator Creek. The 
 planter supplied his watchman with a musket; 
 and, to repair instantly any damage that prowl- 
 ers might make, he also let him have a hatchet 
 and a box of nails. Like most negroes, espe- 
 cially old ones, Galboa was secretive; and these 
 implements he kept in a dry place under one 
 of the joists of his shack. 
 
 It was a hot night in August, and Galboa, 
 who thought that the rising moon would carry 
 on efficiently the watch he had begun, was doz- 
 ing as soundly as the mosquitoes would permit. 
 But in his sleep he heard the sound of a bump 
 under his floor. He sat up on his rude cot 
 and listened, but there came no further noise. 
 Galboa kept two half-starved pigs; and as these 
 often slept under his shack, he attributed the 
 momentary noise to their restlessness. Out- 
 side, through the tiny window toward the coast, 
 the old man could see by the moonlight the 
 dark cedars, the incoming tide, and the shad- 
 owy green marsh through which the flood was 
 stealing. On the shelving shore, gray curlews 
 and little sandpipers were running, or standing 
 and bobbing up and down after their quaint 
 fashion. 
 
146 Old Plantation Days 
 
 Galboa watched these familiar sights while 
 he listened. After a few minutes, the intense 
 stillness was suddenly and sharply broken by 
 a peculiarly shrill sound, such as a nail gives 
 when it is being drawn out of a tough, wet 
 board. Galboa got up quickly and quietly, 
 took hold of his musket, and went to the win- 
 dow. Plainly in the moonlight he saw two 
 dark figures at work down at the cooter-pen. 
 They were bending over, as if wrenching off 
 boards. 
 
 The watchman knew well enough what they 
 were after, and the amount of damage they 
 might do. Ned Alston had more than a thou- 
 sand dollars' worth of diamond-backs In the 
 pen; and some of the best of these the men 
 might steal. If they left a board off, the whole 
 penful might escape. Such a thing had been 
 done before. 
 
 "You, dar!" shouted Galboa, and his shout 
 was followed by the heavy report of the old 
 musket. The men crouched low and scuttled 
 away over the sandy beach, and were soon hid- 
 den in the woods beyond. 
 
 Mumbling to himself, Galboa came out into 
 the moonlight; then, fumbling under the joists, 
 he sought in the darkness for his hammer and 
 nails. They were gone. 
 
The Strategy of Galhoa 147 
 
 "Dey done steal my 'couterments, too," was 
 Galboa's comment. "And now dey is gwine 
 try to larcenlfy Mas' Ned's terrapin." 
 
 He crossed the beach and came to where 
 the men had been working. He found, upon 
 inspecting the damage, that they had done no 
 great harm. The end of one board had been 
 loosened; but this Galboa nailed into place 
 with a brick that he found near the pen. Then 
 he looked about for the hatchet and nails, but 
 he could find neither. 
 
 "Dat is a tarrigation fo' sho," he said to 
 himself. "Dey done steal my driver and my 
 pinions, too. Well," he added with finality, 
 "dey won't get these terrapin, dat's sho." 
 
 With a last look about him, old Galboa made 
 his way slowly back to his cabin. The first 
 thing he did was to reload his musket; and for 
 the benefit of any who might be interested 
 spectators of the proceeding, he did this in the 
 full moonlight before his cabin. And he not 
 only added some extra powder and shot, but 
 for some time he stood there drawing imag- 
 inary sights on all objects in view. He felt 
 that his movements were being watched, and 
 he wanted to show that he was eager for an- 
 other encounter. At length he stepped into his 
 shack for the precious box of percussion caps 
 
148 Old Plantation Days 
 
 that he always kept on a shelf above the bare 
 table on which he ate his meals. But for the 
 metal box in its familiar place, old Galboa felt 
 in vain. His gnarled hand fumbled along the 
 rough board, but encountered nothing more 
 than an ancient black bottle containing lini- 
 ment for his rheumatism. Without caps, his 
 musket was useless; and without his musket in 
 a condition of efficiency, Galboa was helpless. 
 
 Slowly to his awakening wits came the pos- 
 sibiHty of what had been done: the men who 
 were trying to rob the pen must be friends, 
 who, on visits to the cabin, had learned where 
 he kept the caps. They also had, in some way, 
 discovered the hiding-place of the hatchet and 
 nails. Galboa knew that the caps had been in 
 place before he had dozed off. He now felt 
 almost certain that while he had been repairing 
 the pen, the marauders had slipped around 
 through the woods to his cabin, then, under 
 cover of the adjacent myrtle thickets, had made 
 off with the box of caps. It meant that they 
 had put Galboa's only weapon out of use. It 
 also meant that the men were not through with 
 their night's work. 
 
 The old man scratched his head and thought 
 deeply. He was too far away to hope for help 
 from Ned Alston or any one else. It was night 
 
The Strategy of Galhoa 149 
 
 on one of the loneliest stretches of a lonely 
 coast. 
 
 "I know," said the negro at length, as if try- 
 ing sincerely to set in array the hard facts that 
 he had to face, "dat somebody is gwine to steal 
 dem cooter to-night. I is here to guard 'em. 
 Dey must kill me," he added gravely to him- 
 self, "befo' dey get Mas' Ned's terrapin." 
 
 Then a new thought came to Galboa's mind. 
 
 *'I wonder, now," he asked himself, "if dem 
 two boys, Halfhand and Nuttin," speaking of 
 his two worthless grandchildren, whose mother, 
 chagrined at their unprepossessing appearance 
 when they were born, had named them Half- 
 hand and Nothing, "ain't jest trying to scare 
 me? It might be," he added, but the hope in 
 his head that this was the true purpose of his 
 midnight visitors was faint indeed. Yet he de- 
 termined to proceed on that understanding of 
 the matter. 
 
 "Jest wait," he said softly; "dey don't know 
 ole Galboa; no, sah, dey don't." 
 
 With endless memories thronging upon him 
 of the failings of his two lazy and mischievous 
 grandchildren, who were now grown men, Gal- 
 boa began his preparations for the encounter. 
 He brought in the musket which had been lean- 
 ing against the door-beam. Then he pulled 
 
150 Old Plantation Days 
 
 from under his cot a spacious box, in which he 
 had an extraordinary assortment of objects. 
 One of these was a full-sized scarecrow, that 
 Galboa had used earlier in the summer to keep 
 away the crows and grackles from the little 
 corn patch which he had tried to cultivate. He 
 chuckled to himself as he brought forth this 
 object. Sitting on the edge of the cot, Galboa 
 began to make the figure look like himself; 
 and, to tell the truth, this was no difficult task. 
 He stretched his coat on its stiff arms, bending 
 them down against its straw sides. He put 
 his battered hat on its head. Then, placing a 
 box on top of his wooden bench, he set the 
 scarecrow on it, and then drew the whole machi- 
 nation over to the window. And there sat old 
 Galboa, solemn and watchful, looking protect- 
 ingly down on the pen of terrapins. 
 
 But his work was only half done. At the 
 bottom of the box, carefully wrapped in news- 
 paper, Galboa kept a cherished pair of sheets. 
 Long before, a planter's kind-hearted wife, 
 pitying the old negro's desolate quarters, had 
 given him the rather odd present. But Galboa 
 had always considered them far too precious 
 to use, save, perhaps, in the event of his own 
 funeral. 
 
 One of these sheets he now took out and, 
 
The Strategy of Galhoa 151 
 
 tucking it under his arm, he stole stealthily out 
 of the shack, going by way of the back door, 
 that exit being shielded by a heavy growth of 
 myrtle bushes from the view of those who 
 might be at the cooter-pen or beyond it. 
 
 Behind these myrtles Galboa stood quietly 
 until, as he had expected, he saw two shadowy 
 figures emerge from the woods across the 
 marsh-flats. Then Galboa took a wide circle 
 through the dark paths under the beach-cedars. 
 At last he came to the edge of the woods oppo- 
 site his cabin; and from that point he saw, with 
 pleasurable satisfaction, his own watchful coun- 
 tenance looking out of his window. 
 
 "It sho' do look like me," said Galboa, nod- 
 ding his head with approval. 
 
 From his place of concealment, Galboa could 
 see the men down at the cooter-pen, a hundred 
 yards away. They were talking as they pried 
 and worked with the wet boards that were diffi- 
 cult to start because the wood had swelled 
 about the nails. In his clump of dense myrtles, 
 Galboa shook out his sheet and put it over his 
 head. Then, having torn two small eyeholes, 
 he was ready for the encounter. 
 
 Through the tall sedge-grass and over the 
 smooth beach in the moonlight he advanced 
 silently. Truly he made a fearsome specter, 
 
152 Old Plantation Days 
 
 his great height enhancing the grim and ghostly 
 effect of his presence. There he stood, tall and 
 silent: not the Headless Horseman or the 
 Ghost of Hamlet's father could have been 
 more awe-inspiring. 
 
 The two men, busily at work under the 
 shadow of the cooter-pen, did not see the weird 
 figure. Indeed, they had no fear of any one 
 approaching from that direction. They were 
 much employed with their task; and as they 
 pulled and pushed and strained with the boards, 
 they took gleeful occasion to comment on the 
 character and attainments of their grandfather, 
 Galboa. They were not only there to steal, 
 but also to make an old and infirm relative mis- 
 erable. 
 
 *'Look at dat ole owl a-settin' up in dat win- 
 dow," said Halfhand. "Since he can't find 
 dem gun-caps, he is afeared to come out." 
 
 "Dat ole grandpa is skeered of us," said 
 Nothing, wMth a chuckle. "Dat ole thing am 
 no account to watch a cooter-pen. Some o' 
 dese nights a Hiddle Diddle Dee is gwine to 
 fly away with 'im." 
 
 Once more they indulged in chuckles at Gal- 
 boa's expense. But they had unaware given 
 Galboa the cue for his next move. They had 
 mentioned the Hiddle Diddle Dee. And of 
 
The Strategy of Galhoa 153 
 
 all weird spirits that haunt the woods and fields 
 at night, the negroes fear most the great horned 
 owl, which they call by that strange appella- 
 tion. In this name they gather all those freez- 
 ing horrors that are found in darkness, in soli- 
 tude, and in lonely woodlands, in spectral fields, 
 and in forbidding swamps. 
 
 And now, from a point not far behind the 
 two negroes, there floated out on the still night 
 air the soft and melancholy notes of a great 
 horned owl: "toot-a-loot, toot-a-loot, toot." 
 
 "Wah dat?" ejaculated Halfhand and Noth- 
 ing in a breath, unconsciously huddling together. 
 Again the weird notes sounded, and the culprits 
 turned toward where the tall, white specter 
 stood. 
 
 For a moment they were speechless with 
 terror. Nothing could be more imposing than 
 Galboa as a ghost. Soon the fears of the two 
 wretched men became articulate. Dropping 
 their tools, they went down on their knees In 
 the mud, groveling and praying to the sinister 
 figure. 
 
 "O do. Pastor!" pleaded one passionately, 
 "we didn't mean no wrong! We will never 
 worry old Galboa no mo' ! O do please, Boss- 
 man ! We wouldn't bother Mas' Ned's terra- 
 pin again. Oh!" 
 
154 Old Plantation Days 
 
 The only answer that the specter vouchsafed 
 was a peculiarly remote, haunting, and melan- 
 choly, "toot-a-loot, toot-a-loot, toot." 
 
 At that terrifying answer, the negroes broke 
 and fled. One dropped his hat, but he gave it 
 no thought. They screamed and waved their 
 arms as they ran, following the line of the 
 beach as it wound away toward the salt 
 marshes. Far down the moonlit track old Gal- 
 boa watched them go. Then he took off the 
 sheet, folded it carefully, put it under his arm, 
 and walked down to the cooter-pen. There 
 he repaired the slight damage that had been 
 wrought. After some searching, he found the 
 hatchet and the box of percussion caps. 
 
 Galboa returned to his shack highly satis- 
 fied, for he knew he would have no more vis- 
 itors that night. 
 
 Two days later he had a visit from Half- 
 hand and Nothing. After a good deal of des- 
 ultory talk, one of them approached the sub- 
 ject that was haunting him. 
 
 "Pa Galboa," he asked, "ain't you afraid to 
 stay in dis 'ere lonesome place all by yo'self ?" 
 
 With deep, inscrutable eyes old Galboa 
 looked out across the beach. 
 
 "Why should I be 'fraid?" he asked specu- 
 latively in his quiet voice. "I neber do nobody 
 
The Strategy of Galboa 155 
 
 no wrong. I don't lie, and I don't steal." 
 
 "But ain't you skeered o' dem Hiddle Diddle 
 Dee?" broke in Nothing excitedly. 
 
 "They and I are friends," responded Gal- 
 boa thoughtfully. "And sometimes," he added 
 significantly, "they come down out o' yonder 
 woods and help me guard this cooter-pen." 
 
 Soon after, when Halfhand and Nothing 
 took their departure, it was near twilight. 
 And as they passed along the lonely beach, 
 they quickened their pace, and cast many a 
 furtive look behind. 
 
 Galboa and Ned Alston have had many a 
 hearty laugh over Galboa's strategy; and they 
 are the only ones who understand why neither 
 Halfhand or Nothing can be induced to leave 
 his cabin after dark. 
 
XIV 
 
 THE ROMNEY SPECTER 
 
 ROMNEY, the rice plantation on the 
 Santee River just below old Colonel 
 Jocelyn's estate, had been deserted 
 for many years. The family which had orig- 
 inally owned it had died out; and the distant 
 relatives who inherited the place had never 
 visited it, and did not seem to care for the fine 
 old home or the broad acres surrounding it. 
 The inevitable followed. In a few years Rom- 
 ney was little more than a picturesque ruin. 
 There were the wide upland fields, overgrown 
 with broomgrass and scrub-pines; there was the 
 stately avenue of magnolias which led from the 
 silence of the great pine forest to the silence 
 of the desolate home. The giant live-oaks 
 surrounding the house, shrouded in gray moss 
 that sighed in the wind, seemed fit sentinels to 
 watch for those who would come no more. 
 The long piazzas had fallen in, and the hag- 
 gard windows looked wild. In the forsaken 
 garden a lone and lovely red rose completed 
 the ruin of the place. By day a white sun- 
 
 156 
 
The Momney Specter 157 
 
 shiny silence drenched the scene; by night Rom- 
 ney became the home of prowlers, going abroad 
 under the stars to seek their meat from God. 
 
 The ruins were not old enough to deserve 
 study, yet sufficiently old to inspire wonder and 
 awe. No fire or storfti had dismantled the 
 h'ouse, only the long years of disuse and deser- 
 tion had crumbled it and had given its gray 
 walls to decay. The weeds and the low bushes 
 grew up to the very doors (the lonely open 
 doors!), and tall grass waved out of the stained 
 cracks in the marble steps. Some sweet shrubs 
 thrust their brown arms through the vacant 
 window frames, as if appealing in behalf of 
 the forlorn old home. The roof had fallen in 
 places, giving a glimpse of molding walls and 
 rotting beams. Indeed, Romney House was a 
 most unhappy sight, and one which the people 
 of that isolated region avoided whenever pos- 
 sible. 
 
 So Romney was deserted. But there were 
 those who hinted darkly that the whole estate 
 was steeped in mystery, and that Its loneliness 
 was kept inviolate by a Presence that was 
 neither animal nor human. There were many 
 who believed, and who were not ashamed to 
 let their fears be known, that it was not safe to 
 
158 Old Plantation Days 
 
 pass Romney House by night. If asked the 
 cause of their fear they would only shake their 
 heads as if unwilling to commit themselves on 
 a matter involving the supernatural. Still, as 
 the road leading by the danger-point joined two 
 thriving rice plantations, there were of neces- 
 sity many who dared to take the risk. But 
 as time passed", what had seemed at first to be 
 but rumor and superstitious fear, began to take 
 on more serious* proportions. Old and respec- 
 table negroes, whose courage could not be 
 doubted, told soberly of a shadowy form that 
 had been seen standing in the tall gray grass 
 near the ruined house; and one had seen it by 
 moonlight in the open road, — a spectral shape 
 that melted out of sight at his approach. The 
 burden of most of the stories was to the effect 
 frhat the Specter seldom moved; it stood, 
 shielded by the high grass, and watched the 
 intruder. In no case had any one approached 
 it purposely. The Specter gave no chase, ut- 
 tered no sound, made no movement; it merely 
 watched silently from its semi-concealment. 
 And those who thought that they had seen it 
 said that its eyes were still, awful, and ma- 
 lignant, like the eyes of an evil spirit. 
 
 One night, a negro who was a stranger in 
 that region and who did not, therefore, know 
 
The Romney Specter 159 
 
 of the Romney Specter, came upon the old 
 house when he was very weary and lay down 
 upon the rotting porch to rest. There he fell 
 asleep. An approaching thunder-storm awak- 
 ened him, and he stepped off the piazza toward 
 one of the great oaks. There would be little 
 shelter afforded by the house, for the wild and 
 threatening sky was darkly visible through the 
 rents in the fallen roof. Rounding the corner 
 of the house suddenly, he was overpowered by 
 a sickening odor, and a huge form rushed past 
 him, tripped him, and slashing him with some 
 weapon disastrously sharp, plunged on under 
 cover of the night and the gathering storm. 
 
 When the unfortunate negro told his incred- 
 ible story and showed his cruel wound at the 
 plantation settlement next morning, many of 
 his listeners, while fascinated by the mystery, 
 disbelieved him. Yet some were prevailed 
 upon to visit the place; and there, as the Spec- 
 ter's victim said there would be, were blood 
 and the signs of a bitter struggle. But there 
 were no tracks visible in the tall grass; in fact 
 no one searched minutely; for spirits are not 
 known to leave trails. 
 
 This incident started the old rumors anew, 
 and soon the story of the malignant Specter 
 of Romney spread over half of the county. 
 
160 Old Plantation Days 
 
 But no organized search was made for the mon- 
 ster. Once a white hunter from one of the 
 nearby swamps passed through Romney on a 
 quail hunt. At dusk he came unexpectedly 
 upon the great moldering house in its silent 
 grove of gigantic oaks. He walked around 
 the melancholy structure, thinking that he 
 might get a shot at a barred-owl, for they haunt 
 such places. Suddenly, from the other side of 
 the house, he heard his setter give a startled 
 bark, and then a pitiful yelp. Running in the 
 direction of the sound, he almost fell over his 
 poor dog that was lying in a little open space. 
 The man stooped down and examined the un- 
 fortunate creature. There was a ghastly 
 wound in its throat and another in its side, 
 either one fatal. Rising, the man looked about 
 him; and from the tall yellow grass near the 
 yawning black door of the cellar, he fancied 
 that he saw a gray and ghostly shape gazing at 
 him steadily. Now, the hunter was a very 
 young man; also — for the truth must be told — 
 he was a coward. With one frightened glance 
 at the murdered setter, and another at the dread 
 Specter that he saw there, or that he fancied 
 he saw there, he broke away and fled from that 
 sinister old ruin. 
 
 Of course this story was soon abroad; but as 
 
The Romney Specter 161 
 
 no one gave it credence except the negroes, 
 and as they did not care about investigating, 
 it only served to swell the rumors concerning 
 the Specter and to give them a more fatal 
 tinge. 
 
 But a month after the hunter's adventure, 
 there occurred the only real tragedy that that 
 quiet old plantation region had l^nown in a 
 generation. Two little negroes from Colonel 
 Jocelyn's place had been down the river to 
 take some provisions to their father who was 
 working on ricefield trunk-docks. The elder 
 was a girl of ten and the younger a boy of five. 
 As they came by Romney House late in the 
 afternoon, they were very tired. To them 
 the Specter had assumed no very definite as- 
 pect or location. They had heard of it, of 
 course; but they feared it in any dark or lonely 
 place. The late afternoon sun fell with soft 
 silver light on the ruin, and the place did not 
 look haunted. So the children rested there 
 awhile. Then a playful mood overtook them, 
 and they began to play little games, hiding be- 
 hind the big oaks and chasing each other around 
 the angles of the house. Once the little boy 
 stumbled against the rotted doorway of the 
 cellar and fell across the black aperture. In 
 a second a great gaunt form rushed upward, 
 
162 Old Plantation Days 
 
 tossed the boy high, and sped swiftly into the 
 rank grass. The sister had but time to catch 
 a fleeting glimpse of the Specter, and even so 
 she was not sure that she had seen anything; 
 for it was dusk, and her shocked eyes had been 
 on her brother. When she brought him home 
 in her arms, toihng through the dark, she was 
 stupefied and speechless from fright and ex- 
 haustion. Her story was incoherent; but there 
 was that which was dreadfully plain: there on 
 the dead body of the little negro were the same 
 cruel wounds that the Romney Specter was 
 known to give. Then, indeed, did the sad 
 story flash from plantation to plantation, and 
 the name of Romney was on every lip. 
 
 Now, there was at least one negro along the 
 river who had no fear of any Specter, what- 
 ever that might be. He was the hunter Scipio. 
 He was a tall and powerful specimen of the 
 black man, and, in spite of his marauding prac- 
 tices, was a general favorite among all the 
 plantation-owners. The stories that had come 
 to him up to this time of the so-called Romney 
 Specter had not interested him. He was a 
 hardworking negro, and he had no spare time 
 to frighten himself. He had no leisure to 
 spend on speculating about ghosts. All that 
 he knew or cared to know about Romney was 
 
The Romney Specter 163 
 
 that he had long since caught the best raccoons 
 there, and that it was a poor place for the kind 
 of game that he wanted. This indifferent atti- 
 tude continued until the little boy lost his life. 
 But at the occurrence of this unhappy incident 
 Scipio awoke to the possibilities of Romney. 
 Doubtless, he thought, some one would now 
 put a bounty on the Specter. And in this he 
 was not mistaken; for, ill as the poor old gen- 
 tleman could afford it. Colonel Jocelyn, the 
 morning after the tragedy, offered a reward of 
 ten dollars to the man who would bring to him 
 the Romney Specter, dead or alive. Such a 
 price was more than Scipio would get for a 
 dozen 'coon skins ; and he seemed to be the only 
 man eager to take the chances that the solution 
 of such a problem was sure to occasion. 
 
 Scipio's unconcern over the matter of his own 
 personal safety showed Itself in the alacrity with 
 which he made preparations to meet the Spec- 
 ter. At noon on the day when the bounty was 
 offered, he washed out his old musket and 
 loaded it carefully. Twenty double-sized buck- 
 shot did he ram on top of the four drams of 
 coarse black powder, and the nipple he primed 
 with great exactness and deliberation. Scipio 
 did not know what he might have to face; and 
 the more he thought of it, the more he won- 
 
164 Old Plantaiion Days 
 
 dered. He thought that it must be a wild- 
 cat, and a very large and treacherous one at 
 that. Yet the wounds on the two negroes had 
 been very long and deep, Scipio could not tell; 
 so he took no chances. 
 
 Before sunset he took his stand at Romney 
 House. The Specter had been reported seen 
 only at twilight and after, and in the night 
 Scipio was determined to meet him. He was 
 so used to hunting at all hours that he did not 
 mind the darkness; but he debated a long while 
 as to where he should stand. He wanted to 
 be off the ground, and he wanted to watch the 
 shattered piazza and the gloomy cellar-door. 
 The Specter would be reasonably sure to prowl 
 near one of those places. If he sat in the low 
 fork of the nearest live-oak, he would not be 
 able to see the piazza distinctly; and if he had 
 occasion to use his musket he would have to 
 shoot through the foliage at the end of the 
 limb. If he sat on the porch itself he might 
 be taken unaware, and in a crisis there are few 
 things worse than that. He did not know but 
 that the sinister creature might drop on him 
 from the disastrous roof. There was but one 
 real chance, — to hide himself in the tall broom- 
 grass in front of the cellar-door and there await 
 the coming of the Specter. 
 
The Romney Specter 165 
 
 Trampling a little space in the broomgrass, 
 leaving a thin fringe in front of him, beyond 
 which, twenty feet away, were the ruined porch 
 and the haunted cellar-door, Scipio made him- 
 self comfortable — as much so as was possible 
 under the conditions. But he was far more 
 at his ease than most men would have been. 
 And he was ready; for he was always ready 
 when, as now, his musket lay cocked across his 
 knees. 
 
 The winter's twilight came softly and with a 
 gentle presence that pervaded all things. 
 There were those vague sounds which attend 
 the going to sleep of one half of the world 
 and the awakening of the other. Over the 
 river, a few hundred yards behind Scipio, a 
 string of mallards bent and turned in their 
 beautiful swift flight up to some favorite field. 
 The white-breasted sparrows called with shrill 
 urchin insistence from their dense green castles 
 of smilax that crested the cassina trees. The 
 barred-owls in the nearby oaks and in the giant 
 cypresses along the river began their garrulous 
 hooting and screaming. A sly raccoon paced 
 stealthily down the path by Scipio, his nose 
 twitching and his cars alert. A cotton-tail 
 rabbit ran out into the pathway, sat on his 
 haunches, washed his face with his paws, cut 
 
166 Old Plantation Days 
 
 a few ghostly capers, and then scampered si- 
 lently away. A gray fox barked once from the 
 old negro burying-ground, his harsh and men- 
 acing voice rasping on the gentle night. Then 
 came the deeper darkness; and with it came 
 silence, and the velvet swoons and trances of 
 the stars. 
 
 Scipio glanced down his musket-barrel and 
 saw there the friendly gleam of the brass sight. 
 That was the sign of light sufficient to enable 
 him to shoot with accuracy. He hoped that 
 the night-mist would not rise and that the dark 
 wall of clouds to the southwest would stay 
 there. He trusted himself not to fall asleep. 
 He felt that this was nothing like hunting 
 'coons, like waiting in a thicket for a deer, or 
 like stalking a roosted turkey after night. Not 
 even Scipio knew just what it would be like. 
 He wanted to take off the percussion cap and 
 examine the priming of his musket; but he was 
 afraid to do so. The Specter might even now 
 be watching him, he thought. So he just 
 gripped his gun the tighter and waited quietly. 
 
 He had been on his stand two hours before 
 he heard any suspicious sound. But then, clear 
 above the dreamy sighing of the night-breeze 
 through the waving banners of Spanish moss, 
 he heard the soft crunching footsteps of some 
 
The Bomney Specter 167 
 
 creature, the sound apparently coming from 
 the cellar. And when he heard that sinister 
 approach, for the very first time in Scipio's life 
 an icy chill of genuine fear crept up Scipio's 
 spine. The Specter was no wild cat; that he 
 knew. The beast had hoofs! What if it 
 were really an evil spirit and not liable to mor- 
 tal death? What If he were really stalking 
 a ghost, what if all the dread stories told about 
 the Romney Specter were true? But Scipio 
 was a brave man, and his determination did 
 not waver. His faith in his musket was won- 
 derful. Getting down softly on one knee he 
 made a rest for his gun with his hand, and so 
 leveled the sight against the black opening of 
 the haunted cellar. Ere he heard another 
 sound, there came to him, wafted on a stray 
 wind of the night, a raw odor, tangy and wild. 
 Then a great gray shape, silent and ghoulish, 
 suddenly filled the doorway of the cellar. It 
 was the Romney Specter. 
 
 He was a huge beast as he stood there In 
 the pale starlight, facing the crouching negro. 
 He was as tall as a calf, with peculiar body and 
 legs and a monstrous head. He looked like 
 Malignity. His color was gray, flecked here 
 and there with shaggy black hair. His back 
 arched like a hyena's, and on its ridge the rank 
 
168 Old Plantation Days 
 
 bristles were thin and stiff. His forelegs were 
 longer than the hind and tapered more. His 
 neck was thick and creased, with spiky hair 
 growing in blotches. His head was a horror. 
 There were the cunning and alertly-pointed 
 ears; the wicked glittering eyes, fiery red, yet 
 cold; the dread widening of the jaws toward 
 the nose; the loathsome nostrils and snout, and 
 the white terror of the long gleaming tusks 
 that arched gracefully out of the dreadful 
 mouth. He seemed to radiate foul cruelty and 
 eager brutality. 
 
 Scipio waited for the monster to turn. If he 
 shot at the Specter facing, only a few scatter- 
 ing buckshot might lodge in him; and the negro 
 must make very sure. But the creature would 
 not turn. ' He stood warily, his nostrils widen- 
 ing. Now he stepped a pace forward, his head 
 high in the wind. And then, to Scipio's horror, 
 out of the dim unfathomed night he heard a 
 weird voice call him, "Scipio! Scipio!" 
 
 Thrillingly, without sign of warning, the 
 great Romney Specter plunged headlong for 
 the negro. Scipio pulled down on the trigger 
 and sprang aside. But the whirl of the brute's 
 head and the rip of the curving tusks caught 
 him in the leg and bared the bone. Close on 
 the charge of the Specter came a hurrying hu- 
 
The Romney Specter 169 
 
 man figure; it was Pino, Scipio's brother, who 
 had followed, fearing for the hunter's safety, 
 and it was he who had called out of the dark- 
 ness. And now he bent over Scipio and began 
 to bind his wound. 
 
 But there was no further charge from the 
 creature that had so long and so cruelly haunted 
 Romney. For with a sullen groan, the great 
 wild boar sank back on his haunches, fell over 
 on his side, and was dead. 
 
 And so was buried the fear of the Romney 
 Specter. And to this day men are shown the 
 grass tussocks behind which the negro hunter 
 crouched; and one of the most cherished troph- 
 ies in Scipio's cabin is the huge pair of snowy 
 tusks that once menaced his life. 
 
XV 
 
 THE LONE BULL OF MAYBANK 
 
 COUNTLESS white bubbles rose to the 
 surface of the dark swamp water. 
 The lily-pads, anchored by their long 
 black stems, were sliding softly here and there 
 on the surface, moved from the depths of the 
 morass by some invisible power. Gently 
 among the bubbles there then appeared what 
 looked like a walnut, floating on the water. 
 Higher it rose, growing wider, more irregular. 
 Dimly two great eyes in protruding sockets 
 cleared the level of the water. Next, the huge 
 armored body of a bull alligator appeared, 
 monstrous and scaly, looking like a dragon of 
 medieval tapestry. With his body half-sub- 
 merged and his wicked head thrust partly up 
 on a spongy grass tussock, he lay still in the 
 mellow sunshine, hideously contented. 
 
 A gray squirrel, with tail arched divinely, 
 barked at him from a cool retreat among the 
 tender leaves of a sweet-gum. A foolish blue 
 jay, that had been inspecting a pine sapling 
 
 170 
 
The hone Bull of Mayhank 171 
 
 growing on the edge of the morass, peered im- 
 pudently at him, scolded him harshly, but sud- 
 denly grew afraid, and flew screaming away. 
 The blue and green dragon-flies, that could 
 poise so jauntily on the sere reed tops, whisked 
 daringly over the drowsing alligator, flared in 
 glittering circles above him, and returned with 
 defiant grace to their perches. 
 
 Far up in the blue profound of the noonday 
 sky a solitary osprey, which had a nest on the 
 crest of the dead cypress that stood out of the 
 water, gazed down arrogantly on the lord of 
 the morass; for to the enormous old alligator, 
 cruel, cunning and powerful, the community of 
 wild life in that vicinity paid the bitter tribute 
 of a fearful respect. And this realm of the 
 mighty monarch was a kingdom worth ruling. 
 
 The lonely morass was on Maybank Planta- 
 tion, one of the vast rice estates of the old 
 South. For half a century the plantation had 
 been deserted, and nature had long since com- 
 pleted her gracious work of covering the un- 
 happy ruins that showed the trail of man. 
 
 For a mile through the pine forest the black 
 channel of the swamp wound a tortuous and 
 sluggish course, having a trickling, weed- 
 choked outlet into the river. On each side of 
 
172 Old Plantation Days 
 
 the narrow channel were water-lily beds, marsh 
 tufts, clumps of buck-cypresses and fringes of 
 green and yellow duck oats. Beyond these 
 was a growth of young canes, dense and rus- 
 tling; and still beyond, the level brown floors 
 of the pine wood swept gently upward and 
 away. 
 
 There had been a time when the swamp had 
 swarmed with alligators, when the great bulls 
 had challenged each other from end to end 
 of the dark channel, when the marsh-beds held 
 many an armored giant, thawing out the chill 
 of winter in the sweet spring sun. But those 
 days, as the days of the plantation itself, had 
 passed. 
 
 Some of the alligators had been killed by 
 wandering negro hunters. During the heat 
 and drought of long summers others had 
 crawled off toward the river in search of fresher 
 water, and had never come back. One by one 
 they had passed, one by one. Only the great 
 bull, the most ancient and powerful of them 
 all, remained. 
 
 His deep den under the wide-spreading roots 
 of the osprcy-haunted cypress held the source 
 of a spring, so that his water-supply was al- 
 ways fresh. . His wariness kept him clear of 
 
The Lone Bull of Mayhanh 173 
 
 the few lone hunters who occasionally pene- 
 trated those deserted wilds. 
 
 As the other alligators left, the problem of 
 his own support became easy for the great alli- 
 gator. Cruel and slothful was the life that 
 he led. He ruled the swamp, even to its most 
 remote recesses, with a vicious Invincible power. 
 Heavy toll he took of the sportive trout that 
 silvered like flashes of sunlight the dark wa- 
 ters of the lagoon; of the gentle and beautiful 
 wood-ducks that built their nests on the low- 
 swinging cypress limbs that brushed the water, 
 trying to rear their fuzzy broods on the re- 
 tired edges of the tyrant's kingdom; of the 
 tall white egrets, graceful and mild; of the 
 gaunt blue herons that stood In motionless, mel- 
 ancholy ambush, waiting for a chance to pierce 
 or to seize a fish with their javelin beaks; of 
 the wild hogs that rooted on the boggy shores; 
 of the eager hunting-dogs that swam the deep 
 water; of all creatures that came to the haunted 
 morass to drink. 
 
 But on this balmy July day, when the mon- 
 arch with more than usual arrogance viewed 
 his rich domain, moving with indolent strength 
 and assurance among the broad lily-pads, there 
 floated to his nostrils a strange and fascinating 
 
171 Old Plantation Days 
 
 odor, musky and penetrating. The nostrils 
 widened until their black pits shone red, the 
 cold, protruding eyes gleamed, and the huge 
 body grew suddenly tense and eager. Deter- 
 mining the direction from which the scent came, 
 the lone bull, almost without a ripple, sank from 
 sight, rising a few seconds later forty yards 
 nearer the shore. Here he lay under some 
 sheltering grass, watching and waiting. 
 
 With soft-lunging, padding strides, a brown 
 bear with her little cub, all roly-poly, roguish 
 and playful, came down the pine-scented, 
 flower-bordered wood-path toward the lagoon. 
 The old bear had never been this way before, 
 and she was wary; but the rich beauty and 
 peace of the surrounding swamp, and the gleam 
 of water through the trees, and the cool, deli- 
 cious aroma of blueberries growing somewhere 
 near made her forget her usual caution and 
 cunning. 
 
 The cub, while not equally impressed by 
 the promises of things material, was still equally 
 unsuspicious and perfectly happy. Once or 
 twice when the big bear grunted her affection 
 to him, he answered with a droll squeak of 
 merriment and abandon. He imitated ab- 
 surdly his mother's rolling gait. To him the 
 
The Lone Bull of Mayhank 175 
 
 whole world was a beautiful playhouse, made 
 especially for cubs of his age. 
 
 Soon the mother came to a high swamp- 
 blueberry bush, and rearing up, drew the droop- 
 ing limbs, laden with their misty-purple fruit, 
 eagerly toward her, and crushed the sweet, 
 succulent berries with grunts of satisfied desire. 
 
 The cub essayed to follow his mother's ex- 
 ample; but the first time he stood up he lost 
 his balance and fell over backward, landing 
 with much amazement but with no injury in 
 a heavy tuft of grass. He rolled over on his 
 side, too lazy for immediate exertion, and gazed 
 with the lambent eyes of indolent admiration 
 at his mother, who was stripping the last 
 branch of its fragrant burden. 
 
 The cub swung his feet drowsily back and 
 forth In the air, wondering mildly at his own 
 dexterity. Meanwhile the old bear, with a sat- 
 isfied rumble, dropped down on her four feet, 
 turned ponderously about, looked at her baby 
 with huge affection, nuzzled him about the 
 sunny grass until he stood up, and then lunged 
 on down the llght-and-shade checkered path- 
 way toward the shining water. 
 
 Passing a growth of slim cypresses, they 
 came to the rustling cane-brake, like a fringe 
 
176 Old Plantation Days 
 
 to the lagoon. The old bear pushed her way 
 through this until her head and shoulders were 
 clear of the canes on the other side. Then 
 she stopped, sniffed the air, and listened. Close 
 behind her, greatly excited because the tips of 
 his furry feet were in the water, the cub palpi- 
 tated, wondering what this move might mean. 
 
 The morass was unknown to the mother, 
 and for that very reason she was apprehen- 
 sive. But as she listened, she heard nothing 
 to justify her suspicions. The blue sky bent 
 sweetly over them; the gray moss, pendent from 
 every tree, waved silently in the aromatic 
 breeze; two wood-ducks of gorgeous plumage 
 floated peacefully far out on the bosom of the 
 channel. An amiable old bullfrog, seated on 
 a half-submerged mossy tussock, eyed the bears 
 with the air of a kindly patriarch. A gray 
 sapsucker was following, upside down, the ex- 
 citing promise of a dead cypress limb. 
 
 Still, the mother bear hesitated a long time 
 before she waded into the morass; but some 
 green alligator acorns and some silvery wampee 
 leaves lured her clear of the cane-brake. There 
 she began to feed, and there finally she lay 
 down on the quaking turf to wallow. The cub 
 followed manfully, although he kept on a dry 
 ridge of turf that extended out to the channel. 
 
The Lone Bull of Mayhank 177 
 
 He was about ten feet away from his mother. 
 Twenty feet away, with just his eyes and the 
 point of his nose showing above the water, the 
 Maybank bull marked his prey. 
 
 The lone alligator was intent on a kill. The 
 musky smell of the bears had stirred his slug- 
 gish heart to a dull fever of desire. The tiny 
 brain deep in the monstrous head was aflame 
 with eagerness for blood. His cold, glassy 
 eyes gazed with unwinking speculation at his 
 intended victims. He noticed the old bear's 
 apparent forgetfulness and peace, and the cub's 
 separation from her. Just at that moment the 
 little fellow was trying in vain to make a play- 
 mate of a droll stolid terrapin, half-grown, 
 that was trying to pretend that he was really 
 nothing at all. 
 
 Measuring the distance and singling the cub 
 as his victim, the alligator withdrew silently 
 beneath the black waters. A moment later his 
 eyes rose ever so gently out of the grass-grown 
 lagoon, not six feet from the innocent little 
 bear, which was then slapping playfully at the 
 gaudy dragon-flies as they flirted past him. 
 His mother, although watching him now, was 
 still some distance away, wallowing in the weedy 
 water. 
 
 Stealthily, and under the ambush of the glis- 
 
178 Old Plantation Days 
 
 tening wampee leaves, the lone bull drew closer. 
 As he swam softly, he turned so as to give his 
 mighty tail the opportunity to sweep the cub 
 into his crushing jaws. Inch by tragic inch 
 he drew near, leaving but a tiny oily ripple in 
 the water behind him. 
 
 There was a short rush, a lunge; the flashing 
 whirl of a mighty tail as of some broad, black 
 scimitar, a terrified squeal from the cub, a 
 furious snort and plunge from the mother. 
 The lone bull's tail had grazed the cub, tum- 
 bling him, stunned, into the water; the mother 
 was struggling wildly but vainly in the sucking 
 mud; the red mouth of the great alligator, 
 terrible with tusks, was already open to seize 
 the victim, lying only a foot away. 
 
 But then, far from the opposite bank of the 
 lagoon, there came the clear, sharp crack of a 
 rifle, and a white tuft of smoke floated up from 
 the cane-brake. 
 
 In a moment the scene was vividly changed. 
 The old bear, working free of the morass, had 
 reached the cub and stood defiantly over it, her 
 great sides heaving in the fierce agony of ma- 
 ternal fear. Almost within reach of her paw, 
 turning in slow, blind, painful circles, with a 
 heavy bullet in his brain, was the lone bull of 
 Maybank, helpless, shattered, dying; and his 
 

 1 - ^ Hi 
 
 w^^y 
 
 fwp-- 
 
 1 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 ilH 
 
 i^'' 
 
 
 
 TT 
 
 wB\ *' 
 
 
 
 .' ■• I 
 
 mk 
 
 ■A 
 
 It' 
 
 i'^ 
 
The Lone Bull of Mayhank 179 
 
 dark blood stained the stagnant waters that 
 he had so long and so cruelly haunted. 
 
 Across the lagoon, standing on a fallen log, 
 an old hunter watched this second scene of the 
 tragedy; and even as he watched, the third and 
 last scene was enacted before his eyes. He 
 saw the cub, nuzzled by his fierce old mother, 
 stir feebly; and then the great bear sat back on 
 her haunches, took the cub in her huge, soft 
 arms, rose on her hind legs, and stalked growl- 
 ing out of the morass, disappearing in the pur- 
 ple twilight of the pines. 
 
 The hunter could have shot her easily, but 
 being a sportsman and a gentleman, he let the 
 brave old creature carry her baby away in 
 safety. The bull alligator ceased moving, 
 quivered through all his frame, turned slowly 
 over and lay still. And the hunter stepped 
 down from the log and started for his far-off 
 camp. 
 
 Then over the great swamp there fell a si- 
 lence, and such a silence as it had not known 
 in many a year. 
 
 For it was a silence that would never be 
 broken by the hollow, terrible roar of the lone 
 bull or the pitiful cries of his victims; but only 
 by the melodious winds choiring through the 
 mighty pines and the songs of happy birds. 
 
XVI 
 
 THE TOKEN FLOOD 
 
 THE late October rains had been so in- 
 sistent that, for at least a week, Ned 
 Alston had not sent for the mail; con- 
 sequently he missed the warning in the news- 
 papers of the coming of the great flood. A 
 certain height of water in the Santee at St. 
 Stephens, Columbia, and Camden always in- 
 dicated, three or four days ahead, that the 
 river would reach freshet proportions in the 
 delta country. Until now, the master of Eldo- 
 rado had always been warned in time; and 
 there had never been a time when he had been 
 in more dire need of warning. 
 
 It was Primus who brought the word. Pie 
 explained, in his quaint gullah, that he had 
 just come up the river in a dugout canoe; that 
 there were great logs, the like of which he had 
 never seen, drifting on the vanward waters of 
 the flood; that the eddies everywhere were 
 choked with trash and foam; and that he had 
 seen great clouds of wild-ducks leaving the 
 lower delta for the safety of the gray cypress 
 
 swamps high up the river. 
 180 
 
Tlie Token Flood 181 
 
 "A freshet, eh, Primus?" Alston said, while 
 he made the negro stand near the blazing fire 
 in the big hearth of the plantation kitchen and 
 dry out his clothes, telling Amy, the cook, to 
 get him a cup of hot coffee; "well, I'm glad 
 you came by the house to let me know. So 
 you think it will be a big water. Primus?" 
 
 The tall negro paused a moment so that his 
 words would have the proper oracular effect. 
 
 "Mas' Ned," he replied soberly, "dis is 
 gwine be de Token Flood." 
 
 While not taking much stock in negro su- 
 perstitions, Alston seldom disregarded them, 
 for they frequently contained an element of 
 valuable truth; and so near to the negro's heart 
 that he would never utter it save under the 
 strong impulse of deep feeling. 
 
 "The Token Flood," the planter now re- 
 peated gravely; "that sounds serious. Primus. 
 Do you think there will be any danger to the 
 Pine Ridge on the Island?" 
 
 "Cap'n," the big negro replied prophetically, 
 shaking his head slowly with an import of omi- 
 nous things, " if dis is de Token Flood, dis 
 Great House will be de only dry place on Eldo- 
 rado." 
 
 Alston stepped to the window and looked 
 out thoughtfully on the rainy twilight; on the 
 
182 Old Plantation Days 
 
 hurrying masses of gray and black clouds, and 
 on the bare and lonely boughs that swayed si- 
 lently against the wind. Primus, he thought, 
 had just come in out of the weather; he had 
 been alone; and the size of the river, vast and 
 indistinct in the rain, had overawed him. Yet, 
 as the master of Eldorado stood gazing out 
 on the forbidding dusk, he could not escape a 
 shiver as premonitions of disaster thronged 
 upon him. 
 
 There was much in such a flood that any 
 planter on the delta might lose; but at this 
 particular time of the year, Alston might lose 
 well-nigh everything. All his cattle and hogs 
 were still on their summer pasture on the 
 Island; even the flock of goats was across the 
 river. In a moderate freshet, all of these 
 might have a fair chance of saving themselves; 
 but in a flood they would be helpless. What 
 Alston feared for most were his three horses; 
 the faithful ones which had, throughout the 
 hot summer months, made and harvested his 
 crops for him. The week before, intending 
 to give them a thorough rest, he had sent them 
 across the river in a flat. There had as yet 
 been no frost, and the grass on the Island was 
 lush and green. "Fll not use them at all for 
 a couple of weeks," he had said; "they are 
 
The Token Flood 183 
 
 tired out; let them rest to their hearts' con- 
 tent." 
 
 From the window the planter turned back 
 toward the tall figure of Primus, who was now 
 hugely enjoying the steaming black coffee. But 
 not even that rare and stimulating treat could 
 remove the serious light from his eyes, the 
 haunted expression of the face, and that alert 
 poise of body which showed him waiting for 
 Alston's orders. 
 
 When the planter spoke, he showed that he 
 had come to one of his thoughtful vital deci- 
 sions. 
 
 "Primus, we must get the horses and stock 
 over to-night. Token Flood or not, there will 
 doubtless be a high water, and by to-morrow 
 our help might come too late. How many of 
 the boys are up In the Street?" 
 
 Primus looked as if he had expected and 
 dreaded this question. 
 
 "Cap'n," he replied, "ain't nobody but dis 
 Primus on Eldorado. Don't you 'member 
 'bout dat Jubilee Picnic on North Ribber? 
 Eberybody is done gone, sah. I self been 
 there, but I done come back. Nobody else 
 will git back dis night," he added with deso- 
 late assurance. 
 
 Amy, the cook, who had been listening with 
 
184 Old Plantation Days 
 
 thrills of solemn excitement to the conversa- 
 tion, now volunteered to second the statements 
 of Primus. 
 
 "Yes, sah," she said In a loud voice, ag- 
 grlevingly addressing the frothy dish-wateT, 
 "Primus done tell de trufe dis time. Ain't 
 nobody lef on Eldorado but me dis day. And 
 I wouldn't be here neither, Mas' Ned," she 
 added, in a tone expressing both affection and 
 reproach, "if I hadn't been gettin' your din- 
 ner." 
 
 xMston fully appreciated Amy's sacrifice; for 
 a Jubilee Picnic seemed able to offer her un- 
 common delights. It did not matter that she 
 always came home with a headache; for she 
 probably reasoned that so humbling an afflic- 
 tion was not an ill companion for the new reli- 
 gious sanctity which she generally acquired on 
 such occasions. 
 
 And now the planter looked at her and at 
 Primus, knowing that In these two he had his 
 only helps against the flood. 
 
 "Amy," he said In his kindly, earnest way, 
 "I believe you had better just leave those things 
 as they are and go over home. There's a 
 freshet coming down on us to-night. Can you 
 move your little ricestack higher up in the yard 
 out of the water's reach?" 
 
The Token Flood 185 
 
 "Yes, my Boss," she answered. Then, as 
 if the opportunity to say something disparaging 
 about her shiftless husband was too good to 
 be missed, she added, in high scorn, "I raise 
 all dat rice, Mas' Ned, and cut it and put it 
 in de stack. 'Course I can move it. If my 
 Ben been here he wouldn't help me. The only 
 time he will work is when dat rice comes on 
 table." 
 
 Amy, the counterpart in act and appearance 
 to Salome, now began to don the "seven veils" 
 which were to shield her from the weather: 
 a bandanna first, then an ancient shawl, then a 
 frayed linen napkin, then a square-yard of cal- 
 ico, followed by several head-coverings of star- 
 tling design and piteous frailty of existence. 
 All the while she was fulminating to herself 
 of the shortcomings of her husband. As she 
 started toward the door, Alston said: 
 
 "Primus and I will be over after a little, 
 Amy, to help you." 
 
 "Yes, sister," the negro added with a strange 
 gentleness of affection, "we will guard you; 
 so don't you fret yo'self." 
 
 "Now, Primus," said the planter, as soon 
 as the door had closed behind Amy, "you and 
 I have to do this whole thing ourselves. First, 
 we must get the stock off the Island; we must 
 
186 Old Plantation Days 
 
 try to save the live things first; then we must 
 get what we can of the crops high and dry. 
 The big flat is at the landing. We must cross 
 the river in it at once." 
 
 The tall negro did not demur, though there 
 were still vivid in his mind the perils of the 
 river. What would certainly have seemed im- 
 possible to him was apparently possible to the 
 master of Eldorado; and Primus relied with 
 an implicit, unquestioning faith on the guiding 
 intelligence of the white man. Together they 
 were now to face one of the most dangerous 
 tasks that had ever confronted a rice planter 
 in the Santee country. 
 
 It was a wild night. The autumn, long de- 
 laying, was now coming with affluent rupture 
 from the North. There was in the air, as 
 Alston and the negro stepped out on the back 
 porch of Eldorado, premonitions of tempests 
 and wild behaviors from those skies which for 
 so long had been friendly and radiant. It was 
 a wild night, with wild work ahead for the 
 planter and his single helper. 
 
 Together the men went out into the storm 
 and the gray of the falling darkness. The 
 long cypress poles for the flat were brought 
 from the barn; and Alston caught up a big 
 
The Token Flood 187 
 
 coil of plowlines to have on hand in case the 
 stock proved unruly. 
 
 When they reached the landing, they found 
 that the flood was brimming the great river 
 from the dark wooded bank of the mainland 
 to the far-off marshy shores of the Island. 
 The big rice boat seemed to be flattened against 
 the bushes along the bank, and her hawser was 
 as taut as tuned wire. Alston, for all his de- 
 termination, could not but regard the aspect of 
 the task before him with misgivings. The 
 mighty river was in a great mood of insurgent 
 power. Pacing seaward, the vast volume of 
 water was magnificently wild and terrible. 
 Debris was everywhere gliding over glassy cur- 
 rents, tossed out of the form of breaking waves, 
 or whirled violently in sporadic eddies. The 
 river had lost all its natural appearances; it had 
 broken the bonds of both physical and spiritual 
 restraint; and now was a lawless elemental crea- 
 ture, tawny-maned, triumphant in its power, and 
 delighting in its kinship with the night and. with 
 the storm. 
 
 Across the glimm'ering flood, Alston could 
 barely distinguish the farther shore; the Pine 
 Ridge beyond this, where the stock would be 
 marooned and refugeeing, was lost to view in 
 
188 Old Plantation Days 
 
 the falling rain and the shrouding mist. 
 
 The aspect of what; confronted him so im- 
 pressed its menace that Alston, turning to Pri- 
 mus who had loosed the flat and was holding 
 her with a turn of the hawser about a young 
 tupelo tree, said: 
 
 "Primus, I feel that I must go after those 
 poor creatures; but I don't want to take you 
 into danger. I believe I can manage the flat 
 alone — " 
 
 The planter thought it only right to give the 
 negro a chance to refuse. 
 
 Primus gave the big hawser a mighty tug to 
 express some of his feelings in the matter. 
 Then he answered in his deep tones : 
 
 "Cap'n, you know me better than dat. I 
 kin drown with you, but I ain't a-gwine to go 
 back on my Boss now, seeing he needs me. 
 Trouble is common to all, Mas' Ned," he 
 added, with the same gentleness in his tone 
 that he had used to Amy; *'and you has always 
 stood by me in mine." 
 
 A moment later, and the big unwieldy flat 
 had been launched on the vast river, Alston and 
 Primus, finding that in the deep currents their 
 long poles would not propel their ponderous 
 craft, now took hold of the heavy, rough-hewn 
 
The Token Flood 189 
 
 oars. So, standing In the misty rain, they 
 urged the flat slowly forward over the tu- 
 multuous waters. 
 
 Though the river swept them far out of their 
 course, they managed to beat their way across, 
 coming at last to the canal leading up through 
 Jackfield, one of the squares on the Island. 
 There they entered the full canal; and there, in 
 the eerie hush and whisper of the wind through 
 the half-submerged marsh and sedges, they laid 
 down their oars and took hold of their long 
 cypress poles. 
 
 It had now grown almost dark; but in the 
 southwest there was a lingering glimmer of 
 light from the track of the setting sun. On 
 the men urged the flat through the "tumultuous 
 privacy" of the storm. At length, from the 
 top of an old cypress stump beside the water- 
 way, a ghostly shape came into view. Alston 
 thought it to be some gigantic white bird 
 brought thither by the flood; but as the flat 
 drew near, the creature cried out pitifully. 
 
 Then, for the first time since they had en- 
 tered on their perilous undertaking, both the 
 planter and the negro laughed. 
 
 " 'Tis dat ole ram," said Primus; "you can't 
 drown him. He got sense like people." 
 
190 Old Plantation Days 
 
 As the flat came up, the white ram took a 
 flying leap and landed abruptly but with fine 
 balance in the boat. How long he had been 
 standing on the stump, the men could not guess; 
 nor did they know what might have become of 
 the rest of the flock. But a new impetus had 
 been given to their work; for they rescued at 
 least one refugee from the waters of the Token 
 Flood. 
 
 "Primus, shall we tie him in the flat?" Alston 
 asked. 
 
 The negro, who professed with some reason 
 a deep understanding of the nature of animals, 
 chuckled in disdain. 
 
 "Cap'n," he replied, "you will have to tie 
 dat ole ram to get him OUT o' dis safe place." 
 
 They were now making good headway to- 
 ward the Pine Ridge. There was no need for 
 them to search other parts of the Island for 
 the stock; for on this Ridge alone was there 
 any dry land left. Some, indeed, might be 
 swimming aimlessly about; but there would 
 be no chance for the rescuers to find such strag- 
 glers. Finally, just as the darkness of night 
 seemed closing down, the broad bow of the 
 flat grounded on the sedgy shores of the Ridge. 
 
 The planter and his faithful fellow-boatman 
 stepped out on the highland. There was still- 
 
The Token Flood 191 
 
 ness on the Ridge ; but beyond the gnarled live- 
 oaks and the towering pines, whose boughs 
 drooped with the rain, they could hear a sup- 
 pressed tumult. It was the mighty surge and 
 sweep of the North Santee now ramping sea- 
 ward wildly through the dusk. 
 
 Under the shadows of the drenched oaks, a 
 strange twilight glimmered; and by this the 
 two men made their way forward. When they 
 had come a rod from the boat, they heard a 
 horse whinney, and soon discerned the dark 
 bulk of the huddled animals. 
 
 Alston put his hand on the arm of Primus, 
 staying him for a moment. 
 
 "We must work it right. Primus. Let us 
 go round to the very end of the Ridge; then 
 come back slowly toward the flat, driving every- 
 thing before us. In that way, we'll not be 
 likely to leave anything behind. We must go 
 about it carefully, Primus, taking our time, al- 
 though the daylight has left us." 
 
 The tall negro acquiesced in his quiet way, 
 in such a time of crisis alert to understand 
 and ready to execute the will of the planter. 
 
 Through the tall sedges, whose rustling had 
 almost been hushed by the rising waters; past 
 ghostly canebrakes, and through dense tangles 
 of briars they went, until they had circled the 
 
192 Old Plantation Days 
 
 Ridge. In the semi-darkness they passed many 
 of the shapes and forms of the animals, some 
 of which seemed to recognize them as rescuers, 
 and others of which broke wildly away from 
 them as if they were final specters of the Token 
 Flood. 
 
 Meeting at the northern point of the Ridge, 
 on a sandbar which overlooked the vast sweep 
 of the river, Alston and Primus began their 
 "drive" back toward the flat. 
 
 "You're a big help to me. Primus," said the 
 planter, pausing in the darkness to lay his hand 
 momentarily on the negro's shoulder; "I 
 couldn't do this thing alone." 
 
 "Even de Token Flood," Primus answered, 
 still haunted by whatever dread foreboding 
 there was in that name, "can't part us, 
 Cap'n." 
 
 The strip of dry land remaining on the Ridge 
 was narrow, and its width was momentarily 
 being encroached upon by the waters. For the 
 most part, the driven animals, becoming accus- 
 tomed to the voices of the men, were docile; 
 and as long as their footing was on the ground, 
 the situation to them was not wholly startling 
 and strange. 
 
 But when, driven up the incline into the flat, 
 they felt themselves standing on floating boards 
 surrounded by water, and, out of the shelter 
 
The Token Flood 193 
 
 of the trees, now beaten by rain and wind, they 
 became nervous and excited. 
 
 In the flat there were twenty head of hogs, 
 a dozen cattle, and the three horses — not to 
 mention the old white goat, which stood, an 
 immovable ghost, in the steadiest part of the 
 long boat. While Primus waited at the bow 
 of the flat to keep the creatures in, Alston went 
 among them, quieting them with his gentle voice 
 and his reassuring manner. He tied the horses 
 to one of the side-rails; the cattle and hogs 
 would have to remain loose. Once well away 
 from shore the planter believed that they would 
 be glad enough to stay in the flat. 
 
 At last the boat was shoved away from the 
 Ridge, which receded mistily in the night. It 
 was now quite dark; but the flat was in the 
 big canal, and the course was kept without difli- 
 culty. There seemed a lulling in the wind and 
 rain. The flood sweeping over the Island 
 fields had its currents broken in a thousand 
 places; and, spreading over so vast an area, it 
 was neither wild nor of an aspect that boded 
 disaster. 
 
 But on approaching the river, all the ani- 
 mals became restless. The hogs moved about, 
 snifling the wet wind; the cattle, with heads 
 high and eyes big, lowed mournfully; the horses 
 
191 Old Plan I al ion Daijs 
 
 were slightly crouched, with necks arched and 
 tails held in close. It was really the creatures' 
 actions that made the men realize that they 
 were close to the ri\er. Finally, the dripping 
 houghs of trees, whose trunks were deep in 
 water, brushed their laces. These were the 
 trees marking the submerged river-bank. In 
 another moment the flat had passed the mouth 
 of the canal and was on the tawny breast of the 
 river. 
 
 The fierce tide caught the heavy boat and 
 turned it slowly about. Alston and Primus, 
 laboring at the long oars, worked desperately. 
 But though it was now dark, the planter could 
 tell, by the heavy water-pressure against his 
 oar blade, that they were not crossing the river 
 but were going down the current. The crea- 
 tures were lowing pitifully and were crowding 
 the oarsmen. A huge cypress, dislodged by 
 the flood from its home in the swamps, came 
 looming suddenly out of the night, and its mo- 
 mentum bore crushingly against the flat. The 
 boat trembled, stayed in its course, then, turn- 
 ing completely about, was released from the 
 heavy grasp of the tree. Never in his life had 
 Alston been in so desperate a situation. In 
 the struggle against the crowding cattle and 
 
The Token Flood 195 
 
 hogs, and the laboring with the soaked and 
 ponderous oar, he had been steadily trying to 
 keep his sense of direction. But now he knew 
 he had utterly lost It. Both shores were 
 blotted out. Darkness, danger, and the storm 
 were the boat's attendants. And it seemed as 
 though they were Its grim convoy to death and 
 destruction. 
 
 The planter looked across the boat; and 
 there he could dimly discern the powerful fig- 
 ure of Primus, toiling at the task to which he 
 had been set; as faithful as trust and affection 
 could make a human being. Alston knew well 
 that the negro was relying on him to bring the 
 boat out of its wild peril; but now the planter 
 feared not alone for the safety of the flat, but 
 also for their own lives. 
 
 He pulled in his oar and crowded his way 
 through the cattle to Primus, lie laid his 
 hand on the negro's shoulder. 
 
 "Primus, if anything happens to us, you are 
 to hold on to your oar. It will keep you up. 
 Don't try to save me. Primus," he added, for 
 he knew what the negro would surely attempt 
 to do; "PU be hanging on to an oar myself. 
 We can ride them ashore, Primus." 
 
 Though his concluding words had been 
 
196 Old Plantation Days 
 
 spoken In a jovial tone, Alston went back to 
 his oar with a heavy heart. The animals were 
 now on the verge of stampede. The planter 
 found that his attempts to quiet them were 
 vain. The boat was running on; the rowing 
 of the men was mechanical, for their purpose 
 in it was uncertain. There seemed nothing in 
 the world anywhere but night and a cataract 
 of wild waters plunging to death. 
 
 But suddenly, with a misty uncertainty, on 
 a far shore, there gleamed a light. It moved 
 about. It was lost to view. It reappeared. 
 
 "Primus!" shouted Alston, "the light, see 
 the light! 'Tis the mainland, 'tis Eldorado! 
 Pull hard, and I'll back her up !" 
 
 Directed by the wavering light, and given 
 by it the final strength they so sorely needed 
 to carry them across, the men toiled heroically. 
 Somewhat quieted by Alston's shouting, the 
 animals gave the men a chance to use their 
 powers to the utmost. The ponderous boat 
 made headway over the black waters. The 
 light grew larger. A bush rasped along the 
 side of the flat. The bow ran suddenly into a 
 heap of sedge. They had reached Eldo- 
 rado. . , . 
 
 Alston and Primus had no difficulty in get- 
 ting all the animals out except the old ram. 
 
The Token Flood 197 
 
 He steadfastly refused to budge ; and held his 
 post until daylight showed him that he was not 
 going ashore at a doubtful place. 
 
 While they were tying the flat, it was Amy 
 who came down with the lantern. 
 
 "Amy!" exclaimed the planter in astonish- 
 ment, "I thought I sent you home to look after 
 your rice." 
 
 Looking as she always did when she had 
 been caught in the act of doing something 
 good, Amy said in her shame-faced way: 
 
 "Mas' Ned, I was obleeged to save yo' rice 
 fust," and she waved the lantern toward the 
 big stack she had moved up out of the reach 
 of the waters. "Mine can wait, sah," she 
 added simply. 
 
 A tear gleamed in the planter's eye. He 
 could hardly trust himself to speak. 
 
 "You saved more than the rice, Amy. If it 
 hadn't been for that light. . . . But come, it 
 is not too late to save your rice, and that of 
 all who are at the Jubilee Picnic from the wa- 
 ters of the Token Flood!" 
 
XVII 
 
 Joel's Christmas turkey 
 
 JOEL'S place was the kind that one comes 
 upon suddenly in the pineland wilder- 
 ness of the Carolinas; the few meager 
 fields and parched pastures leading up to it 
 were unfenced, and appeared to be but an open 
 stretch of the monotonous landscape. There 
 were no groups of whitewashed buildings be- 
 hind it, nor pleasant vistas of orchards and 
 meadows; for Joel was a poor white woods- 
 man and trapper, and his home was in the 
 great pine barrens of the coast country of South 
 Carolina. The nearest settlement was eight 
 miles away, southward down the lonely, grass- 
 grown road. His cabin, built of rough-hewn, 
 sap-pine logs, already beginning to sag along 
 their length and to be crushed where the weight 
 of the structure caught them, squatted in a 
 rude clearing not much larger than the build- 
 ing itself. Scrub pines and sparse patches of 
 gallberry and low-bush huckleberry bushes grew 
 almost to the door; a weedy path led from the 
 road, along which few travelers ever passed, 
 
 198 
 
Joel's Christmas Turkey 199 
 
 to the rotted doorstep-block. The reason why 
 Joel's home was so unhomelike was shnple : he 
 had never married, and his real home was in 
 the woods. 
 
 Joel was accounted the best woodsman in 
 his county; and while he had many rivals, he 
 had no peers. He killed on the average of 
 twenty deer a season, and his record on wild 
 turkeys was even more formidable. Joel al- 
 ways said that he had never been to school long 
 enough to learn to count above the legal num- 
 ber of deer that the law allowed to be taken 
 in a season; besides, his third cousin was game 
 warden. But for all his craft, there was a 
 wild turkey living in the tupelo swamp behind 
 his cabin that had made Joel stretch himself, 
 and, so far, stretch himself in vain. It seemed 
 to the hunter that he had used every whit of 
 his strength, woodcraft, patience, and tireless 
 energy of pursuit in the attempt to win this 
 royal prize; and doubtless the wild gobbler 
 knew something of the relentlessness of Joel as 
 a hunter, and just how wary he had to be to 
 keep his distance from Joel's deadly musket. 
 This turkey could not speak human speech as 
 can some of the creatures about which our 
 fanciful naturalists write. He could not put 
 his finger to his nose and scoff at Joel, saying, 
 
200 Old Plantation Days 
 
 "O sad brother, I am the Wise One. Booloo 
 is my friend. I shall meet him at the Council 
 Tree at midnight, and you will never find us 
 any more." He was just a plain turkey; but 
 when that has been said all has been said that 
 need be mentioned; for if a plain wild turkey 
 is not the most intelligent bird afoot or awing, 
 then the dodo isn't dead. 
 
 Joel had first seen him one sultry September 
 day, when the pine woods were fervidly hot, 
 when the grass was as sear as tinder, and when 
 the lush-grown swamps were sending up in 
 steaming moisture the little water that the long 
 drought had left in them. There was no wing 
 stirring. The birds, hidden deep in the thick- 
 ets, were still. Even the wood-cicadas had 
 ceased their dry, insistent shrilling. Joel, com- 
 ing down a sandy path through the scrub-oak, 
 not far from the west bank of the Santee River, 
 heard a hen-turkey's sudden and startled "put ! 
 put!" Joel halted in his tracks, while his keen 
 gray eyes swept the bushy savanna over to his 
 left, whence the sound had come. He did not 
 see the mother, but he saw the young one (there 
 appeared to be but the one) as it came step- 
 ping from behind the shelter of a broomsedge 
 tussock. A half-grown wild gobbler he was, 
 remarkably large and well formed. He was 
 
Joel's Christmas Turkey 201 
 
 so big as to be awkward; but, like all members 
 of his hunted race, he was shy and swift and 
 wonderfully gifted in the woodland art of si- 
 lently and suddenly effacing himself. For a 
 second he was in Joel's sight; then he vanished. 
 When a wild turkey vanishes, after having seen 
 a man, depend upon it, bank upon it, he's gone. 
 
 Joel came cautiously round the edge of the 
 thicket, looking for others of the brood. But 
 he saw none. Not far away was the sandy 
 road, and toward this the trapper went; for 
 if one cannot see the game itself one can at 
 least have the dubious satisfaction of seeing 
 its tracks. In the damp sand where a summer- 
 dried stream had crossed the road, he found 
 the turkey's tracks. There, lightly and spring- 
 ily set, were those of the hen; while beside 
 them were great, sprawling tracks, with big, 
 wide-spreading toes that mashed the sand. 
 
 "Well, now, jest look at that!" muttered 
 Joel as he bent over them; "the young un's feet 
 are bigger than his ma's!" 
 
 Then he stood up and looked toward the 
 dark swamp into whose deep recesses the two 
 turkeys had vanished. Knowing the pine 
 woods from the Santee to the Cooper, and 
 from the railroad to the sea, the trapper knew 
 where these turkeys would feed, range, roost. 
 
202 Old Plantation Days 
 
 And he felt sure that by Christmas-time the 
 hen and the fine young gobbler would bring him 
 a big price from some epicurean clients of his 
 living down in the village on the nearby coast. 
 The luxuriance of the summer passed into 
 the mournful beauty of the autumn, and the 
 autumn gave place to the winter; but still Joel 
 had not fulfilled the plan he had made that 
 September day when for the first time he had 
 looked at the turkey-tracks in the road. A 
 score of times he had seen the splendid wild 
 bird; other turkeys fell before his gun; but 
 the big bronzed racer of the pineland always 
 escaped. The winter wore along to the early 
 spring, but Joel was still unsuccessful. Late 
 one March afternoon, on his return through a 
 tupelo swamp after a trip for raccoon, Joel 
 heard the gobbler down in a heavy clump of 
 cypresses gobbling a provoked answer to a 
 rookery of crows that were cawing away in 
 their careless fashion. As soon as he got to 
 his cabin the trapper took down from a smoke- 
 blackened beam a small white bone, the radius 
 of a turkey's wing. He washed it, blew 
 through it, squinted down it; then, placing it 
 to his mouth and hollowing his hands In front 
 of it, he drew forth the soft and pleading notes 
 of a hen turkey. 
 
JoeVs Christmas Turkey 203 
 
 "That will fetch the old sport," he said to 
 himself; "leastwise I never yet seen the gob- 
 bler that wouldn't jest streak it for me when 
 I called." 
 
 It was still quite dark when Joel stepped 
 out of his cabin next morning. The vast for- 
 est was sleeping under its mantle of mist. In 
 the velvet-purple of the night sky the stars 
 shone beautiful. High in the darkness the 
 crests of the mighty pines murmured and waved. 
 Fragrances of the wild and virgin woods moved 
 subtly across the path down which Joel stepped, 
 and met him also, more deep and rich, in the 
 glimmering road. But the trapper, to whom 
 such influences were too ordinary to be impres- 
 sive, pushed on rapidly through the mist. 
 Slung under his right arm, with its cap and 
 priming kept dry by the flap of his old coat, 
 was his musket; an ancient weapon, decidedly 
 out of date as far as appearances were con- 
 cerned, but one which had never yet failed 
 Joel. On the few occasions when he had 
 missed, he had never blamed his musket for it. 
 No good hunter ever blames his gun, when once 
 that gun has proved itself true. 
 
 A short walk down the road brought the 
 turkey hunter to a blind sheep path, which an 
 
204 Old Plantation Bays 
 
 ordinary man would have passed without see- 
 ing; but, to him, the woods and their ways 
 were as well known by night as by day. On 
 he tramped through the bush-hung path. The 
 gallberry bushes drenched him with their dew. 
 The cool, misty tops of the bending broomsedge 
 brushed him with a rainy fragrance. There 
 were many odors of the coming spring wafted 
 on the night air. Joel did not walk carelessly; 
 he stepped with the easy stride of a woodsman, 
 yet with caution and alertness. Only a woods- 
 man knows how to be alert withcmt being 
 strained. Through these woods he was trav- 
 ersing there was danger; for on a certain day 
 of that same week he had counted fourteen 
 rattlesnakes, dragging themselves across his 
 path, lying in loose coils between the tussocks 
 of broomsedge, and sunning themselves beside 
 fallen logs and sheltering stumps. 
 
 In half an hour Joel came to an airy ridge 
 in the woods, and here he halted. Behind him 
 lay the darksome forest, still dreaming in its 
 mantling mists; but before him, like the efful- 
 gence from some distant fire, there was a living 
 glow in the sky. Slowly the velvet-purple of 
 the heavens changed to a velvet-violet, then to 
 a velvet-blue. Beyond the vast tupelo swamp 
 
JoeVs Christmas Turkey 205 
 
 where he had roosted the gobbler, the red col- 
 ors brightened and extended themselves along 
 the horizon. 
 
 Joel sat down on a log, laid his musket care- 
 fully across his knees, took out his turkey 
 call, and sounded tentatively a few trial notes. 
 The sound was clear and sweet, and the atmos- 
 phere was just right for carrying it. He hol- 
 lowed his big bronzed hands and drew luring 
 music from the white bone ; plaintive and plead- 
 ing and feminine were the notes that came 
 forth. In them were the tenderness and glam- 
 our of the voices of young love and the early 
 springtime, voices of hope and of promise. 
 
 Far away, on his lonely roost in the huge 
 old moss-draped cypress, the gobbler heard the 
 sound. It pierced the solitude with a poignant 
 sweetness that could not be resisted. Loudly 
 and with masculine assurance he gobbled an 
 answer to the yearning call. Then he launched 
 himself out on his powerful wings, and sailed, 
 straight as a quail flies for cover, toward the 
 crouching hunter. The big turkey came to 
 ground on the edge of the swamp; and there, 
 being greeted by a further call, very soft this 
 time, he put his head forward and down and 
 raced for his alluring goal. 
 
 Joel had heard him gobble, but he did not 
 
20G Old Plantation Days 
 
 see him coming. Had he known that his royal 
 game was so near, he would have gone down 
 on one knee in the grass. But instead of that 
 he did something that was fatal to his success: 
 he took the call from his mouth and shook the 
 moisture out of it. The hunter had a flash- 
 ing glimpse ahead of him of a broad bronzed 
 back and a darting blue-black head. Before 
 he could throw his musket up the vision was 
 gone. Silently the great swamp, the sanctuary 
 of the hunted, had taken back its own. Into 
 its secure refuge the great wild bird had van- 
 ished. 
 
 "I knowed better n that," said Joel disgust- 
 edly, still sitting on his log. "I might have 
 knowed he would come a-pokin' up. But now 
 he's gone; and by gone I mean he's cleaned up, 
 quit the country, maybe quit the world. If a 
 man doesn't shoot a turkey the minute the tur- 
 key sees him, it's good-by, Susie. And I could 
 yelp here all day and he wouldn't even stop 
 getting away from me. I reckon he thought 
 I was shaking my finger at him. Gentlemen, 
 he's a sundowner. But I don't deserve to have 
 him." 
 
 The pineland hunter rose to his feet, know- 
 ing that his game had escaped him, knowing, 
 
Joel's Christmas Turkey 207 
 
 too, that for a long time it would be practically 
 impossible to get the wary old gobbler to come 
 to his call. But there were other ways of 
 getting this bronzed racer of the wilderness; 
 and to a man like Joel the woods would not 
 long deny another chance at the coveted prize. 
 
 But the spring and the summer passed, and 
 he saw no more of his gobbler. But the au- 
 tumn, with its bared forests and its fallen crop 
 of acorns to attract turkeys to special places, 
 brought Joel once more into distant acquaint- 
 anceship with the big bird. Once he had 
 stalked him among sweet live-oak acorns under 
 the giant oaks on a deserted plantation; but 
 the wary monarch had been just a flash too 
 quick for him. Again he thought he had cor- 
 nered him in a big patch of high blackberry 
 canes in the woods; and if Joel could have 
 made him fly, the turkey would have been his. 
 But the crafty bird refused to rise. After 
 beating about the briars into which he had seen 
 the gobbler skulk, Joel came out into the road, 
 and there he saw the racer's huge tracks — the 
 flying trail left by him in the sandy loam. Joel 
 whistled incredulously as he stood up after 
 measuring the tracks. 
 
 "Four inches from tip to tip," he said: "the 
 
208 Old Plantation Days 
 
 biggest gobbler that ever ran these woods. 
 And he'll be mine afore long, or my finger never 
 touched trigger!" 
 
 But another whole year passed, and yet an- 
 other, and Joel was still without his prize. 
 His continual hunting of the big turkey had 
 made that splendid creature abandon his old 
 haunts. He no longer fed in the dense bays 
 and gallberry patches of the Little Ocean; he 
 no longer roosted in the tupelo swamp. Out 
 of the pine woods and towards the river swamps 
 Joel had driven him. The hunter did not al- 
 together approve of the turkey's new range, 
 for well he knew that if once the gobbler took 
 a notion to cross the river he would probably 
 take up with other members of his own tribe 
 in the swamps and pinelands on the North San- 
 tee side, never to return to his former home. 
 This was especially likely, Joel knew, if he were 
 not hunted beyond the river. During this last 
 year he had been dividing his time among three 
 or four old deserted plantations — Romney, 
 Montgomery, Oldfield and Fairfield — that bor- 
 dered on the Santee delta. It was on Romney, 
 one November morning, that Joel had shot 
 at the huge gobbler as he sailed off his roost 
 in a giant short-leaf. But, as he said to him- 
 self with grim humor, "I kindled, but he did 
 
Joel's Ch'istmas Turkey 209 
 
 not curtsey." For a month thereafter he saw 
 nothing of the object of his quest. 
 
 The twilight of Christmas Eve was falling 
 as Joel, weary but hopeful, traversed the deso- 
 late, sandy field leading from the pine woods 
 to the river bank on Romney Plantation. All 
 day long he had followed the giant gobbler, 
 and even the hardihood of Joel was sorely 
 taxed. But before him in the sand he saw 
 the fresh tracks which had been left by the 
 wonderful bird he was pursuing. At length 
 he came to a fringe of trees marking the bank 
 of the river. Hardly had Joel paused to look 
 and to listen when, from a thickety clump of 
 elders, a hundred yards away, a great bulk 
 rose heavily and beat its way over the marsh. 
 Its flight took it upward, and bore it into a 
 huge moss-shrouded cypress that stood on the 
 very brink of the wide river. There it alighted 
 heavily; clearly against the afterglow in the 
 sky Joel could see Its great bulk rock on the 
 limb, lower its weight car€l"ully, and at last 
 settle on its perch. He had roosted the 
 mighty bird! At last, after all those years, 
 he was going to have a fair chance at the larg- 
 est and craftiest wild gobbler that had ever 
 ranged the Santee country. 
 
 For a half-hour, while the light died and the 
 
210 Old Plantation Days 
 
 noises from field and fen wakened and were 
 hushed again, Joel sat in the dry grass with his 
 keen eyes riveted on the black mass that never 
 stirred in the ancient gray cypress. At last the 
 real darkness was at hand, and he must make 
 his shot before it would be too late to see his 
 game. 
 
 He could not cross the boggy marsh that lay 
 between him and the big cypress. But a short 
 detour, by way of an old check-bank, brought 
 him almost under the vast bulk of the tree. 
 Through the branches, draped with moss, he 
 saw the Christmas stars; and motionless on a 
 stout limb, to Joel's tingling satisfaction, sat 
 the great wild turkey. All the hunter's stalk- 
 ing ended here. 
 
 Joel peered this way and that, trying to get 
 his game clear of intervening limbs. It was 
 tense work, as the light was almost gone. 
 Finally, when he dared to step out on the edge 
 of the marsh to get an unimpeded view, he 
 was amazed and bewildered to see tzvo black 
 shapes in the cypress, where but one had been 
 visible before. Moreover, they appeared to 
 be of the same size, and they were undoubtedly 
 of the same shape. Joel exclaimed under his 
 breath. His first thought was there were two 
 turkeys in the tree, but then he came to the 
 
Joel's Christmas Turkey 211 
 
 conclusion that one was his gobbler and the 
 other was a huge bunch of mistletoe. 
 
 But which was which ? Joel peered and pon- 
 dered. The light was going so fast that the 
 great tree had talcen on a more shadowy out- 
 line, and the two dark shapes were fast merg- 
 ing into the blackness of the cypress branches. 
 Which object should he shoot? Which one 
 was the royal bird, and which one was the 
 bunch of Christmas greens? In vain did Joel 
 crane his neck this way and that, straining his 
 good eyes. Not even he could distinguish be- 
 tween the two dim objects so high up in the 
 night. 
 
 At last he raised his musket, gripping it 
 strongly with his bronzed hands. It roared 
 out on the twilight. Its detonation rolled far 
 up and down the misty reaches of the river. 
 And Joel saw two things happen: first, a dark 
 bulk launched itself out from the tree, directing 
 its powerful flight above the river and toward 
 what lay beyond; secondly, another dark shape 
 swayed in the cypress, turned slowly, cracked, 
 and came rushing to the ground. Joel had shot 
 off the bunch of mistletoe. The king of the 
 pineland wilderness had escaped across the 
 river. 
 
 But Joel was a game sport. He picked up 
 
212 Old Planlaiion Days 
 
 the bunch of mistletoe and slung it slowly over 
 his shouKler. 
 
 "I'll t:ike it home aiul hanji; it in tiie house," 
 he said; "it will 'mind me of Christmas." 
 
XVIII 
 
 THE BANDED DEATH 
 
 THE blackberries grew thick by the old 
 rotting rail fence that stretched across 
 the wide field lying between the pine- 
 woods and the river. The adventurous vines 
 climbed over and under the rails, and along 
 their sagging length until they covered, with a 
 green unfailing shower, the upright supports 
 at the corners. The tall sprays that did not 
 rest on the fence bent and swayed under the 
 ripe abundance of their fruit. On one side of 
 the fence was a field of young corn, the cool 
 dark blades just long enough to begin to rustic 
 and wave; on the other side the land was un- 
 planted and the grass and weeds were high and 
 rank. Here and there along the line of the 
 fence was a wild cherry tree where, in the sum- 
 mer, birds of all kinds would feast on and fight 
 over the black and bitter fruit. But now it 
 was only May, and the cherries had hardly 
 formed. 
 
 The woman whose husband worked in the 
 
 213 
 
214 Old Plantation Days 
 
 great cotton mill, looming up darkly on the 
 edge of the river, had come out along the old 
 fence to pick blackberries. It was in the after- 
 noon and the air was fresh and sweet, and a 
 part of the grass field was already in the shadow 
 of the pines. The little child she carried in 
 her arms was at the age dearest to mothers; 
 he had just begun to gurgle a few baby words, 
 and when he opened his quaint cherub lips the 
 tiniest of glistening pearls could be seen. He 
 was the woman's only child, and who could not 
 guess how precious to her he was! She had 
 always taken him with her wherever she went, 
 and so, when she came out to gather the first 
 berries of the spring as a treat for her hus- 
 band's supper, she brought the little boy with 
 her. 
 
 When they left the house she had given 
 him the small woven-grass basket to hold, and 
 his chubby hands clutched it tightly. But as 
 they got farther away from the straggling 
 houses of the mill village and into the green 
 fields, shimmering with the nameless promise 
 of the spring; and as the soft wind came whis- 
 pering up to them and past them, breathing of 
 far blue summer days that had been and of 
 fairer ones to come, then the child, without 
 shame, lost all sense of the grave responsibil- 
 
The Banded Death 215 
 
 Ity which should have been his as bearer of 
 the basket. He sat up straight In his moth- 
 er's arms; he crowed; he curled up his little 
 legs and liicked out In sheer Infant abandon and 
 delight; time and again he let the basket fall 
 with bubbles of liquid laughter. And the 
 mother only gave It to him again, kissed him, 
 and held him the closer. 
 
 They came to where the blackberries were 
 ripe and plentiful, and the woman, putting the 
 baby down, cleared a little space In the grass 
 near the fence. Here she might leave her 
 child in safety while she gathered the black- 
 berries that grew near; and here, after many 
 kisses, she left him. 
 
 The child did not cry. He looked after his 
 mother for a moment with wide questioning 
 blue eyes; but his little heart must have been 
 loved into feeling that whatever his mother 
 did must be right, for his face did not cloud. 
 He had learned, on the smooth, yellow pine 
 floor at home, to talk wisely to his toes, and 
 to pass the drear Intervals when his mother 
 could not hold him in other like admirable in- 
 fant occupations. So he was very happy by 
 himself in the warm May sun. He pulled the 
 soft, tender spears of grass and wondered with 
 deep eyes of innocence at a great green grass- 
 
216 Old Plantation Days 
 
 hopper whose length of limb was marvelous. 
 When the child looked over the edge of the 
 grass he could see the blue sky, and the crests 
 of the purple pines, and the falling sun that 
 would soon be behind them. But he was a 
 very natural child and cared less for the glories 
 that would be the setting sun's than for that 
 wonderful grasshopper; he watched him climb 
 a tall spear of coffeegrass that bent under his 
 weight, and crowed with delight and surprise 
 when the gentleman of the long shanks, with 
 a bold leap and a great show of wings, half 
 jumped, half sailed, over the edge of the fence. 
 For a week the Banded Death had hunted 
 along the river, and now was making his way 
 toward the pinewoods where he had his home. 
 He followed the line of the old rail fence, for 
 it was a direct way and a safe way. And 
 caution had always been his motto since that 
 day, years before, when the gray boar that 
 roamed through the field near the river had 
 trampled him, tusked him, and left him for 
 dead. Through the soft grass at the bottom 
 of the fence he ghded slowly; his bright, me- 
 tallic eyes piloted the way well; he must be 
 able to see a foot ahead of him before he 
 would advance an inch. Now he sloped his 
 big body over a low rail to make a short cut 
 
The Banded Death 217 
 
 for the next corner; now his five feet of bone 
 and muscle and scale would suddenly become 
 tense and rigid while the minute ears listened 
 and the beady eyes gleamed with cunning in- 
 telligence. The twelve rattles he carried on 
 his tail were evidence that he had been in the 
 world long enough to be very wary and wise. 
 The rattles were stained with river mud and 
 made a harsh whisper as they were drawn 
 through withered leaves or over broken splin- 
 ters on the fence. At his coming all kinds of 
 wild life fled: the field mice, squeaking shrilly, 
 dived into their holes; the birds, uttering 
 strange cries, rose from the bushes and briars 
 and, circling near at first within the spell of a 
 dread fascination, at last flew wildly and far 
 away. The great fear was upon them all. In 
 savage loneliness the Banded Death moved on. 
 And, for all the bright horror of the wide 
 sunken eyes; the sullen droop, almost human in 
 its malice, at the corners of the mouth; the 
 powerful jaws, articulated with the strength 
 of steel; the huge muscles of the shapely body 
 that could drive a sickening and deadly blow; 
 the faint, cold pallor of thin, contemptuous lips 
 — in spite of all these things the Banded Death 
 was very beautiful. There was the marvel of 
 the color design on his back; the wonderful 
 
218 Old Plantation Bays 
 
 muscular control that made his movements 
 rhythmic and flowing; and, above all, the spirit 
 of power that went with him, and the spirit 
 of awe that went before him. 
 
 Even the child was old enough to think the 
 Banded Death beautiful. The grasshopper 
 had just flown out of sight when the rattle- 
 snake came gliding up to the clearing that the 
 mother had made for the child; he smelt the 
 freshly trampled grass and the strange odor 
 of man; he slipped along by stealthy inches 
 until his baleful eyes saw into the clearing. 
 There was the child, talking wisely and con- 
 tentedly to his toes. For some moments the 
 snake lay still and watched; the sight was a 
 decidedly unique one in his experience. After 
 a while his curiosity overcame his caution; hiss- 
 ing softly he came out slowly into the clearing. 
 But he did not advance his full length; he let 
 his body lie in heavy coils; by merely straight- 
 ening from such a position a tremendous blow 
 could be struck. At last he lay clear of the 
 surrounding grass; and just then the child, a 
 foot away, saw him. 
 
 The sun had begun to touch the tops of the 
 pines, and the mother needed only one more 
 handful of blackberries to fill her basket. 
 While she had gathered them she had been 
 
The Banded DeatJi 219 
 
 very happy, for her thoughts had been of the 
 little boy and of his father, the strong, true 
 man who had brought so much into her life. 
 Every now and then, as the wind blew toward 
 her, she could hear the child's baby talk and 
 laughter and she felt him to be as safe and 
 happy as she. She must soon be going, she 
 thought, for the little boy must not be kept 
 out in the dew, and besides she always met her 
 husband when he came home from his work. 
 She would pick just this one handful more and 
 then she would go. 
 
 The child saw the Beautiful Death that lay 
 in the sunshine on the edge of the bending grass; 
 he had never been afraid of anything; he was 
 not afraid of the snake. He stretched out his 
 little rosy arms toward it and laughed and 
 gurgled. The snake shortened his coil, and in 
 his hiss now there was menace. The last rays 
 of the sun shone on the head of the reptile; 
 they seemed to light up all his evil features. 
 They showed that his eyes had a touch of red 
 in them and were lustful; they showed a fleck 
 of dried blood, not his own, on the cruel curve 
 of the lip; they showed the spreading nostrils 
 and the jaws of iron. But the child could see 
 none of these things; for the child knew noth- 
 ing of lust, of cruelty, of blood. He rolled 
 
220 Old Vlantalion Days 
 
 over on his stomach and, taking hold on the 
 grass, pulled himself playfully toward the 
 snake; he touched the monster's cold head with 
 his little warm fingers. And not even then did 
 the Banded Death strike — *the child's touch 
 was a caress; in the child's face and voice was 
 nc'itiier hatred nor fear. Then the rattlesnake, 
 hissing softly, tnovctl out of his heavy coil, and 
 disappeared in the brush along the fencerow. 
 riiat night, wlien the little child had been 
 safely tucketl in his crib, the man and his wife 
 sat in the moonlight on the porch. And she 
 told him of her happy afternoon, of the quiet 
 safety of the green fields, and of how good the 
 baby had been. And as their love thrilled in 
 her voice, he bent near and kissed her tenderly; 
 for they were lovers. 
 
 That night, far away in the dim and silent 
 pinewoods, the huge rattler found his olil dew 
 and his mate. 
 
 Why had lie not struck the child? God 
 knows. 
 
XIX 
 
 THE BLACK MALLARD 
 
 TWILIGHT was falling on Hudson Bay, 
 and a keen November wind had set in 
 from the north; swaying the tall and 
 watchful darkness of the firs, bending and rus- 
 tling the sere reeds, and driving the gray clouds 
 southward. The mallards that had been doz- 
 ing and feeding on the Bay edges grew uneasy 
 and restless. They quacked with cautious ex- 
 citement and stretched their wings; they swam 
 in swift erratic semi-circles with their heads 
 erect and turning; they seemed to scent both 
 danger and delight on the autumn wind. And 
 to one solitary drake the whole flock seemed 
 to turn as if for guidance and direction. 
 
 As the hart-royal led the great droves of 
 deer in the forests of old England, so this 
 mallard was supreme among his fellows; and 
 there was a bearing about him that made him 
 regal. He was a third larger than any duck 
 there; his plumage, instead of being the soft 
 gray with the green neck and head and the 
 
 221 
 
222 Old Plantation Days 
 
 tinted wing feathers, was jetty and rich like that 
 of a black swan. And now, while the others 
 were quacking vaguely with half-distracted pre- 
 monitions, he alone seemed superbly sure of 
 himself. He alone appeared to know with cer- 
 tainty the message that was borne to them on 
 that wind out of the freezing North, he alone 
 seemed to feel the wild joy of flight thrill 
 through him. For he was the oldest and the 
 wisest of the mallards, and he knew that the 
 night for migration had come. 
 
 The Black Mallard swam a little out into the 
 Bay as if to marshal his forces; then he gave 
 a strident flight-call which electrified the flock. 
 Once more his call rang out; then, striking his 
 great tinted wings on the water, he sprang 
 upward and forward, towering by degrees to 
 a height of four hundred feet, the flock after 
 him, all quacking an understanding chorus and 
 falling into line. The Mallard headed due 
 south, toward the far warm ricefields on the 
 Carolina coast. 
 
 Two thousand miles lay before them; two 
 thousand miles under the autumn stars! The 
 silver sickle of the new moon was setting as 
 they began their flight, the flight that would 
 not finally end until they rested on the sunny 
 reefs that fringe the southern ocean. They 
 
The Black Mallard 223 
 
 were flying with the wind; so there was little 
 need of their phalanx and hollow-triangle 
 formations, but simply the steady straight flight 
 through the vaulted darkness. Beneath them 
 towns and cities flitted past; now they shot over 
 a glimmering river, now over a quiet village 
 with a few mild pilgrim lights; now over a 
 dark forest where the wind and the stars held 
 mystic communion; now they flashed above bays 
 and inlets where the salt tide, brimming high, 
 and the reeds and the marshes and the seawind 
 called to them in myriad tongues that spoke 
 but one word, and that a word to lure them 
 downward to delights. But the Black Mal- 
 lard was not to be lured. Through the high 
 cold air his flight was steady and strong; the 
 great pinions were bearing him southward at 
 seventy miles an hour. The little moon and 
 its faint afterglow had long since disappeared. 
 The smaller stars grew clearer, while the huge 
 night grew more silent and more empty. And 
 on the wonder and swiftness of a faultless flight 
 the ducks rushed southward. Nor were they 
 lonely in their passage; for far through the 
 hollow darkness were speeding many voyagers, 
 calling to one another in their mystic voices. 
 
 Throughout the night this matchless flight 
 continued; and when the east flushed, and the 
 
224 Old Plantation Days 
 
 dawn came, dewy and radiant as from a fresh 
 unwearied world, the Black Mallard led his 
 cohorts winding down the "invisible staircase 
 of the wind" until they alighted on a small 
 river, overarched by willows and birches. 
 There they spent the day. But with the twi- 
 light their passage was continued. New Eng- 
 land was left behind; New York City looked 
 like a blur of foggy light as they whirled a 
 few miles to westward of it; now they skirted 
 the Jersey coast; Delaware followed; they 
 sighted the vast calm waters of the Chesapeake 
 gleaming under the timorous glances of the 
 maiden moon. Then came the Potomac, and 
 the long low Virginia shores, behind which lay 
 a deeply-wooded country, with here and there 
 overgrown fields and deserted plantations. 
 Soon they reached the North Carolina line 
 and the great belt of long-leaf pines. Already 
 to the east, over the heaving gray ocean, the 
 sky was becoming pale; one by one the smaller 
 stars went out; the planets looked white and 
 high. And in the air was the fragrance, the 
 rapture, the wonder of the South; the warmth, 
 the spicy odors, the aromatic winds, the luring 
 sweetness of an exquisite charm. Beneath the 
 migrants the crests of the purple pines were 
 touched into golden light by the rising sun. 
 
The Black Mallard 225 
 
 The coast line was beginning to be fringed with 
 dark growths of gnarled cedars. The ducks 
 were almost at their journey's end. Still on- 
 ward forged their great leader until at last, 
 when they had come to the mouth of a turgid 
 yellow river, he turned to the eastward and 
 led his followers seaward. Finally, with a 
 great whirring of wings and calls of weariness 
 and delight they settled on a glimmering sand- 
 reef, a mile off the mouth of the Santee River, 
 and two thousand miles from Hudson's Bay! 
 
 There all day long they rested and sported 
 in the salt water; and when the flood-tide that 
 would bring the high water into the ricefields 
 came with the sunset, still led by the Black 
 Mallard they rose and flew some five miles up 
 the river where they settled in the overgrown 
 fields to feed; and such a rare and succulent 
 supper was awaiting them! There were wam- 
 pee-buds, wild-grass heads, duck-oats, an abun- 
 dance of waste volunteer rice, and now and then 
 a delicious alligator acorn. 
 
 Several times during their flight over the 
 delta, on the reed-hidden check-banks beneath 
 them, they were aware of dark ominous figures; 
 but ever the Black Mallard led them high above 
 the danger of the negro hunter. He piloted 
 them across the river-row of ricefields and 
 
226 Old Plantation Daijs 
 
 headed for a far corner on the very edge of a 
 somber cypress swamp; and in that secluded 
 retreat, overgrown with marsh and duck-oats, 
 where the first stars gleamed softly in the brim- 
 ming tide, they towered down on roaring wings 
 and were soon feasting in the warm still water 
 in and out among the clumps of marsh and the 
 tall reeds. 
 
 A few days after the flight of the Black 
 Mallard and his followers, Colonel Jocelyn met 
 Scipio Lightning, the negro poacher, trespass- 
 ing amiably on one of his ricefield banks; but 
 the Colonel, being above suspicioning any man 
 of poaching, greeted him with one of his benign 
 smiles. There was an ancient friendship be- 
 tween the two, endeared by many a hardship 
 and by many a pleasure together in the woods 
 and fields of the old Santee country, 
 
 Scipio was carrying his musket as he strolled 
 nonchalantly down the bank, but when he saw 
 the Colonel he shoved it down in the coffee- 
 grass on the margin, not pausing in his walk, 
 and marked the place by a twist of his naked 
 foot in the mud. 
 
 "Well, Scipio," remarked the Colonel, "you 
 are pretty sprightly for an old fellow like you." 
 The Colonel himself was beginning to feel his 
 years, and at no time showed it more plainly 
 
The Black Mallard 227 
 
 than when he playfully remarked on the in- 
 firmities of others. 
 
 "Yes, Boss, dat's so," replied the wily Scipio. 
 For reasons of precedent, the negro never met 
 the old planter without entertaining thoughts 
 of a gift; and at this time he particularly cov- 
 eted a plug of tobacco from the Colonel's com- 
 missary. Resorting to guile, therefore, he 
 opened the campaign with a most respectful 
 and expectant silence. 
 
 "Scipio, do you remember when you were 
 paddling me over Moorland last winter that 
 big mallard drake that we saw? He looked 
 like a mallard, but he was as black as a rac- 
 coon's rings. Don't you remember him?" 
 
 "Yes, sah, I 'member dat ole fellah," re- 
 sponded Scipio. 
 
 "Have you seen him this year?" 
 
 ♦'No, sah." 
 
 "You know they sometimes come back to the 
 same feeding-grounds. He may come back 
 this season if some pot-hunter doesn't kill him. 
 If you ever see a pot-hunter on my place, 
 Scipio, you let me know. They're a bad lot, 
 all of them." 
 
 "Dat's so," responded the poacher amiably, 
 though he had some personal feelings in the 
 matter. Yet he felt, down in his heart, that 
 
228 Old Plantation Days 
 
 it was shoddy work to deceive the dear old 
 Colonel whom he loved and for whom he would 
 do anything. He felt this the more strongly 
 because only the evening before Scipio had seen 
 the Black Mallard. Still, if he told Colonel 
 Jocelyn, he knew very well that the old gentle- 
 man would have him paddling all the old rice- 
 fields on the river; pushing up blind creeks and 
 poking around canebrakes, talking all the while 
 in that loud yet cautious whisper that would 
 make the ducks get up three hundred yards 
 away, frightening them far more than a war- 
 whoop would have done. 
 
 "Well, Scipio," the Colonel concluded with 
 some disappointment, as he gazed over the rich 
 sweep of riceland with here and there a far 
 glimpse of cabin, or winding river, or gray 
 plantation house, "if you should see the mal- 
 lard or hear of him, let me know. You and 
 I can go after him together — . And, Scipio, 
 come up to the house to-night; I have a piece 
 of tobacco there that's tired of waiting for 
 you." 
 
 With that, the old gentleman turned away 
 and passed down the bank toward the overseer's 
 house. 
 
 Scipio had become restless, for he did not 
 know how long the Colonel would engage him 
 
The Black Mallard 229 
 
 in conversation; and the best chance for a shot 
 at the Black Mallard was on a bank running 
 into the cypress swamp more than a mile away. 
 And it was nearly time for the evening flight 
 to begin. Therefore as soon as Colonel Joce- 
 lyn had gone what seemed to the negro a dis- 
 creet distance, Scipio stooped level with the 
 :offee-grass and scuttled down the bank to where 
 he had left his musket. Grasping it at the 
 balance he struck out in a swift fox-trot for a 
 far-away corner-field, — lonely, adjacent to the 
 great cypress swamp, and a place so remote that 
 no negro but Scipio would venture into it at 
 twilight. 
 
 He had seen the Black Mallard come into 
 that very field the evening before, and though 
 he had been almost within gunshot, the drake 
 had not seen him, and would therefore probably 
 return to his favorite feeding-ground that night. 
 Reaching the field before the up-river flight of 
 ducks began, he left the bank and bogged out 
 into a thick clump of marsh that would make 
 a better blind than the sedge on the bank. 
 Scipio was no ordinary hunter; for when he was 
 after game — especially game for which a gen- 
 tleman of the Santee Club had offered a bounty 
 — he was not content to make reasonably sure 
 of a kill, but must needs make positively cer- 
 
230 Old Plantation Days 
 
 tain. Therefore he paid little heed to those 
 things which were a part of the price of his 
 success — the trembling alligator-beds on which 
 he stepped, the cold water in which he stood 
 up to the waist. He" made his way into the 
 marsh carefully so that not even the wisest of 
 the mallards would see his trail; with great 
 patience he bent aside the sharp blades, feeling 
 for a footing on the marsh-roots. He reached 
 the center and there stood still, the musket ly- 
 ing in the hollow of his arm, his battered cap 
 slouched over his eyes, and his keen sight 
 searching the southeastern horizon. 
 
 Scipio was a long way from home. The 
 night was fast coming on. Near him loomed, 
 shadowy and vast, moldering in silence, the 
 gray unsearchable cypress swamp. The water 
 in which he stood was the home of many a 
 deadly reptile. On the bank which he must 
 traverse in the dark on his homeward journey 
 lurked the huge diamond-back rattler, truculent 
 and deadly. The bed of the morass on which 
 the negro's weight rested was treacherous; it 
 was a quagmire that quaked when he breathed; 
 a false step might plunge him over his depth. 
 
 Over the earth and sky there had now fallen 
 a wonderful stillness, divinely wistful and poign- 
 ant with twilight thoughts and twilight images. 
 
The Black Mallard 231 
 
 The colors in the west — rose, and ivory, and 
 silver-gray — were fading. In the red glow 
 above the dark pine forest the evening star 
 hung like a raindrop on a rose. The tide was 
 at its height and seemed asleep. From far, 
 far away, from the heart of the pinewoods, be- 
 yond the river, came the melodious voice of a 
 negro, whooping on his way home. But Scipio 
 had but one thought — the Black Mallard. 
 His eyes were fixed on the sky-line; it was there 
 that the first of the flight would be visible. He 
 waited motionless, completely hidden by the 
 tall marsh, a dusky sinister figure. Once or 
 twice he stroked his musket affectionately; 
 crude it was, coated with rust, gaping in the 
 seams, but a fatal weapon in the hands of the 
 poacher. 
 
 Suddenly the great stillness was broken by 
 a barred-owl's hoot and scream. Then, from 
 some swamp up the river, a flock of blue-winged 
 teal shot by like a charge of bullets; then two 
 wood-ducks with weird soft calls whirred down 
 over the cypresses and splashed into the water 
 within a few feet of the marsh where Scipio 
 stood. But the negro must get the shot he 
 wanted or none at all. He had just the one 
 load in the musket, and that was for the Black 
 Mallard. Soon, now, the flight from the coast 
 
232 Old Plantation Days 
 
 began to stream in. First came a few wary 
 pairs, with wings set wide to flare at a moment's 
 notice of danger; then long lines of black-ducks 
 and widgeons, too hungry to be heedful, too far 
 away from men's dwellings to fear men, too 
 safe in the multitude of their number to be 
 suspicious. They swarmed over Scipio's marsh 
 until the air was resonant with the whistling 
 music of their wings, with strident calls, with 
 old-comrade quacks, with now and then a cau- 
 tious, lest-we-forget q-u-a-c-k ! from a wise old 
 drake. They were lighting all about the 
 marsh, and there was just enough of the faint 
 glow left in the west for Scipio to distinguish 
 them; sprig-tail, widgeons, shovelers, canvas- 
 backs, teal, wood-ducks, buffle-heads, baldpates, 
 green-headed mallards. But the Black Mal- 
 lard had not come. The twilight was darken- 
 ing, and soon the flight would be over. Per- 
 haps the monarch was already feasting in some 
 other field. Scipio was about to give up, and 
 had actually leveled his musket on a flock of 
 black-ducks swimming near him, when some 
 instinct made him turn his gaze toward the 
 faded horizon. A great bulk loomed in the 
 empty heavens. It was rushing down on the 
 negro poacher. The Black Mallard was at 
 last within his grasp ! 
 
The Black Mallard 233 
 
 Sclpio gripped his musket as he had never 
 done in his life before, while his gaunt muscular 
 body became tense. Against the broad glossy 
 breast of the great mallard the brass sight of 
 the iron gun glimmered. Finer and finer the 
 negro drew the sight; his finger tightened slowly 
 on the trigger; and — the quaking grass on 
 which he stood, overstrained by the man's 
 weight that he exerted in his excitement, broke 
 under him ! One leg shot down to the hip in 
 the sucking mud. His musket roared out, 
 belching fire, fumes, and smoke; but it was 
 aimed at nothing, and it almost kicked the 
 negro's arm off. Struggling, sputtering, grop- 
 ing for something that would not give way un- 
 der his feet or the touch of his hands, Scipio 
 finally managed to pull himself up on the alli- 
 gator beds again. Thence he labored out of 
 the sedgy morass to the bank. There he shiv- 
 ered and stamped his feet. Then he took off 
 his old cap and bared his head to the waking 
 stars. 
 
 "Dat's the last time," he said, in a voice that 
 showed that in spite of his profession there 
 was still much good left in Scipio, "I will ever 
 lie to the Cunnel ! Dat, and nothing else, made 
 me lose my shot." 
 
 So when he went to the "Great House" that 
 
234 Old Plantation Bays 
 
 night to get his tobacco, Sclpio told the Colonel 
 about the Mallard: though he knew it would 
 insure the safety of that splendid creature of 
 the wild. 
 
XX 
 
 A FOX AND A CONSCIENCE 
 
 CONSCIENCE," the negro- minister had 
 solemnly said in his sermon that Sun- 
 day, "is sho' going to keep a man good'. 
 It will make yo-' 'fraid to lie, or steal, or bear 
 false witness." 
 
 Uncle Ben, the old negro who had outlived 
 his generation and* all those of his color who 
 knew him and loved him, and who was shel- 
 tered in his desolate age by Col. Henry Jocelyn, 
 had listened intently to the sermon. The word 
 conscience had moved him strangely. There 
 was something just and pure about it. 
 
 For the greater part of Monday, Uncle. Ben, 
 with his gray head bowed and his huge hands 
 hanging idly by his side, sat in his solitary 
 cabin and mused over the message that had 
 come to him. All his physical faculties had 
 long since been impaired; but his mental fac- 
 ulties remained perfectly clear. And as he 
 pondered the sermon, nearly every word that 
 the preacher had said was crystal clear to him. 
 
 When at last, late in the afternoon, he took 
 
 235 
 
236 Old Plantation Days 
 
 his old battered cedar bucket and went through 
 the great airy pine woods toward Horry 
 Spring, where he got his daily supply of drink- 
 ing water, the scenes that he had known and 
 loved so long took on a new and more signifi- 
 cant aspect. He felt that his attitude toward 
 them, which in the past had been governed by 
 a capricious will, should be governed only by 
 conscience in the future. And for some reason 
 the noble pines seemed to him far more noble 
 this afternoon, the mellow winter sunlight far 
 more benign and tender, and the saffron jas- 
 mine flowers far more heavenly and pure. 
 
 Buried in thought, he wandered beyond the 
 spring, and had to retrace his steps. Blood- 
 colored bay leaves lined the bottom of it; in 
 the pool, the water was dark red, but when 
 dipped up it was fresh and clear. 
 
 From dewy retreats haunted by swamp 
 thrushes and bullfinches, the little stream rip- 
 pled on over its snowy pebbles into the dim- 
 ness of the shadowy forest. On and on it 
 flowed, through the hushed thicket of myrtle 
 and through a dark swamp where cypresses 
 rose with their silken crests, until at last it 
 poured into the Santce River, just below the 
 home of Colonel Jocelyn. 
 
A Fox and a Conscience 237 
 
 Strene as was the flow of the little stream, 
 its peaceful tide was not usually more tranquil 
 than the life-tide in the heart of the genial 
 and gentle old colonel. But on this day there 
 was great trouble on the plantation. Nothing 
 of so serious a nature had happened on the 
 plantation since the blind mule Maria had died, 
 five years before. The fact was that a fox 
 had been taking heavy toll of the colonel's 
 game chickens*. Five had been stolen before 
 the loss had been- discovered. 
 
 The chickens had been taken, of course, at 
 night; the ragged remains of one especially fine 
 cock had been found in the broom grass near 
 the chicken yard. The intruder had had the 
 boldness to devour his prey almost beneath the 
 colonel's bedroom windows. 
 
 The colonel's fox-hunting days were over, 
 and his once famous pack of hounds had di- 
 minished to a solitary creature, which, tooth- 
 less and half blind, dozed in the sun all day, 
 and which did not have heart to howl at the 
 full moon at night. S'o the colonel was at a 
 loss to know how to put a stop to the depreda- 
 tions. Many of his best chickens, with a high- 
 bred dislike of being cooped in a house for the 
 night, slept out on the fences near the yard, 
 
238 Old Plantation Days 
 
 and in low trees near by. Colonel Jocelyn 
 half believed that any game chicken that would 
 go to roost meekly in a chicken house, when it 
 had several thousand acres to roam over dur- 
 ing the day, had a strain of common blood in 
 it somewhere. Fuming up and down under 
 the big live-oaks, the old gentleman tried to 
 devise some scheme for thwarting Master Rey- 
 nard. As he paced up and down, Maj. Blythe 
 Biddecomb, owner of the adjoining plantation, 
 rode up. 
 
 "What's the trouble, colonel?" he exclaimed, 
 reigning in his mule Daphne with some show 
 of flourish and effort, although the mule had 
 been cropping the long succulent grass before 
 the major ever ordered it to halt. 
 
 "It's the worst luck, Blythe," answered the 
 colonel, glad indeed to have some sympathy 
 and advice. "Five of my finest games are 
 gone — stolen." 
 
 "Fox?" queried the major. 
 
 "Yes," said the colonel, leaning wearily 
 against the rotting stake-and-rider fence. "I 
 reckon it must be a fox. I found some fresh 
 tracks crossing the road down by the low gate, 
 and my prize bronze-back cock I came across 
 in the broom grass over there — half eaten. 
 
A Fox and a Conscience 239 
 
 Maybe that old hound nosed him out before he 
 finished his meal." 
 
 "All gone in one night?" questioned Major 
 Biddecomb, who liked to treat all subjects with 
 legal precision. 
 
 "I don't believe so," returned the colonel. 
 "What would you do, Blythe?" 
 
 "Fox gun," answered Major Biddecomb 
 gravely, as if he were suggesting some unusual 
 device. "It's the only sure cure for your kind 
 of chicken thief. I got a gray fox three years 
 ago with one, colonel, although he had al- 
 ready cost me a couple of fine hen turkeys. 
 S'pose you bring your old shotgun out, and I'll 
 rig her up for you." 
 
 Colonel Jocelyn got the old double-barreled 
 gun from the house, and he and the major set 
 the fox trap. They were as eager as two boys. 
 First they piled some brush lightly in two rows 
 to make a rough pathway from the thickets 
 near by to the fence of the chicken yard. 
 Then near the chicken house they tied the gun 
 on a low box with the muzzle pointing straight 
 down the pathway. The major, who was evi- 
 dently familiar with the mechanism of fox 
 traps, fastened one end of a long cord to the 
 triggers, passed it round a smooth stake driven 
 
240 Old Plantation Days 
 
 into the ground immediately behind the gun, 
 and carried the other end some little distance 
 down the pathway, where he passed it round 
 two other stakes driven on opposite sides of the 
 approach. The slightest touch on the cross 
 cord would discharge the load from the gun. 
 
 When the work was done, Major Biddecomb 
 rode off homeward. He felt that he had spent 
 a most neighborly and profitable afternoon; but 
 he failed utterly to inspire the unresponsive 
 Daphne with any of the kindliness of his heart. 
 She only rolled her angular head from side 
 to side, whisked her dry tail, and ambled off 
 at a slow gait. 
 
 On the other side of the plantation. Uncle 
 Ben was thinking about conscience; he tried 
 to fathom its mysteries, to realize Its beauties, 
 to understand Its bleak austerities. The dogma 
 of conscience hummed through his brain so 
 insistently that he became a little tired of it. 
 When he came home from Horry Spring he 
 tried to forget all about it; but he could not. 
 Again and again the questions of conscience as- 
 sailed him. 
 
 As he stepped down from a shelving, sandy 
 bank into the main road, he slipped on a bare 
 pine root and upset his precious bucket of wa- 
 
A Fox and a Conscience 241 
 
 ter. He had to go back nearly a mile in order 
 to refill it; he was alone and old, and the shad- 
 ows of the December twilight were already 
 darkening the mighty pines. When at last he 
 reached his lonely cabin it was night, and his 
 desolate home loomed solitary in the darkness. 
 Sighing, Uncle Ben sat down on the hickory- 
 block doorstep to rest; and not until then did 
 it flash across him that it was Monday night, 
 and that he had not a bite to eat in the cabin. 
 He always got his week's allowance of food 
 from Colonel Jocelyn's commissary on Mon- 
 day. The commissary would now be closed, 
 and he had eaten nothing that day except two 
 half-burned sweet potatoes early in the morn- 
 ing. He felt scarcely strong enough to go 
 over to the plantation house. Yet he knew 
 that Colonel Jocelyn and his daughters, the only 
 friends that he had left In the world, would 
 give him plenty to eat and a warm place to 
 sleep if he would go over to the great house. 
 He wondered vaguely why conscience, which 
 he knew to be so great, did not give him aid 
 and comfort now. 
 
 After a little while the darkness gathered 
 so deep, the barred-owls hooted so weirdly, and 
 the rasping bark of the foxes in the old negro 
 
242 Old Plantation Days 
 
 burying^ ground sounded so near, that the aged 
 negro struggled painfully to his feet and shuf- 
 fled off down the black road toward the plan- 
 tation house. 
 
 When he had passed the stables he saw the 
 huge white bulk of the great house looming 
 spectral and silent beneath the majestic live- 
 oaks. But, alas, there were no lights visible ! 
 He was too late; he had not been able to walk 
 fast enough. More than ever was he alone 
 now in the solitary night. But no, not alone. 
 For as he stood there, — a pathetic figure of 
 weariness and bewilderment, — he heard a great 
 outcry in the darkness, and three proud game 
 roosters, each trying to outdo the others, an- 
 nounced confidently and importantly that it was 
 eleven o'clock. Uncle Ben knew well enough 
 where they were. He also knew how to lift 
 one noiselessly from its perch; for, although 
 he had never stolen a chicken, he had raised 
 many of them. He was standing near the end 
 of the path that led up to the chicken house. 
 The roosters could hardly be more than twenty 
 feet away. He even heard one of them clear 
 its throat sedately as it settled down for another 
 nap. 
 
 The old negro took a step or two toward 
 
A Fox and a Conscience 243 
 
 the sleeping chickens and then paused to listen. 
 He heard one of his prizes stir on its roost; but 
 there was now no other sound except the hoot- 
 ing of a swamp-sequestered owl far away. On 
 his hands and knees Uncle Ben crept closer 
 until he was almost within arm's reach of his 
 prey. 
 
 The cross cord of the Jocelyn-Biddecomb 
 fox gun stretched a foot ahead of him, straight 
 across his pathway. He was crouched so low 
 that the full charge of buckshot would prob- 
 ably take its awful effect in his pitiful sunken 
 breast. 
 
 But a foot away from the deadly hidden 
 string he halted. A deep pain was in his heart ; 
 a keen and angry light seemed to flash a men- 
 ace before his eyes. He sank back in the path, 
 drew in a long breath, and looked up at the 
 tremulous white stars. The words of the 
 preacher rang in his ears: "Conscience is sho' 
 going to keep a man good. It will make yo' 
 'fraid to lie, or steal, or bear false witness." 
 
 So this must be the doing of conscience! 
 Clear and swift as a thunderbolt out of the 
 pure, silent heavens, conscience had struck him, 
 had pierced his heart, had brought him poign- 
 antly face to face with the fact that he was 
 
244 Old Plantation Days 
 
 being a thief — and thieving from the kindest, 
 gentlest, most generous old gentleman on earth. 
 
 Uncle Ben rose stumbling to his feet and 
 passed on up the road that led to his forlorn 
 cabin on the other side of the plantation. 
 
 As he neared the cabin, he was startled to 
 see a lantern swinging in the path and to hear 
 voices laughing. As he emerged like a shape- 
 less shadow Into the brightness, he saw to his 
 amazement that it was Colonel Jocelyn and his 
 two daughters. 
 
 "Why, hello, Uncle Ben!" the colonel called 
 heartily. "Where have you been this time of 
 night?" 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Ben, guess where we've been!" 
 cried out Lucy Jocelyn. 
 
 "We've been robbing your cabin. Uncle 
 Ben !" cried Alice Jocelyn merrily. 
 
 Still laughing joyously, they left the bewil- 
 dered old negro trembling In the darkness. 
 
 When he reached his cabin he found a cheer- 
 ful fire burning on the wide hearth. On the 
 chair, on the floor, and on the long wooden 
 bench were great bundles done up in white 
 paper. Uncle Ben could not understand it at 
 all. He went from one package to another, 
 and wonderlngly opened each. In one was a 
 
"A Fooj and a Conscience 245 
 
 huge sugar-cured ham. In another was a box 
 of ginger crackers and a peck of sweet potatoes. 
 And in the last package — could he believe his 
 eyes! — was a great game rooster, all ready to 
 be cooked. 
 
 Then Uncle Ben went down on his knees and 
 covered his face with his hands. And while 
 he knelt there, he remembered that to-night 
 was Christmas Eve. 
 
 The next morning Major Biddecomb rode 
 over, and found the colonel by the gate. 
 
 "What luck, colonel?" he queried. 
 
 "Fine!" cried the colonel, vigorously wring- 
 ing the major's hand. "I heard the shot about 
 midnight. Didn't go out until this morning. 
 'Twas a gray, not a red." 
 
 "I'm mighty glad you got him," mused the 
 major, stroking Daphne's scrawny neck. 
 "There's no other way to stop a fox. He's 
 an animal that has no conscience." 
 
XXI 
 
 THE FAWN 
 
 AST ATE of affairs had come to pass on 
 the old plantation that, if tolerated, 
 would completely crush Colonel Joce- 
 lyn's hopes of abundant crops. It was in May, 
 the vital month for growth in the South — the 
 time when crops are made or lost. The colonel 
 had a fine stand cvf corn; he had been spared 
 both late frosts and high waters; and but for 
 this new and unheard-of situation, he could now 
 be counting on a good harvest. 
 
 Every night for almost a fortnight deer had 
 been coming into the fields and committing what 
 Colonel Jocelyn hotly declared to be "maraud- 
 ing practices." A big buck would lope over the 
 rotting rail fence, strike the end of a long corn 
 row, dew-drenched and succulent, and eat 
 calmly down to the other end, only to start 
 back on the next row. Two or three sleek 
 does followed each buck. The colonel, who 
 came up daily to the plantation from his sum- 
 mer home on the seacoast ten miles away, esti- 
 mated from the amount of depredation com- 
 246 
 
The Fawn 247 
 
 mitted that there must be ten or fifteen cul- 
 prits. Night after night the crops of cow- 
 peas, corn, and peanuts rapidly diminished. 
 
 Once or twice Colonel Jocelyn hunted out 
 the thickets on the edges of his field, and 
 jumped many deer; but he was an old man, 
 and the sun was very hot, and disheartening 
 to strenuous effort, and the one deerhound that 
 the colonel had was decrepit. He was so in- 
 firm that often when he struck an excitingly 
 fresh scent he would merely stand in one place 
 and vent his feelings in a futile, emotional bay. 
 Once the colonel actually walked up to two does 
 that had been lying on the margin of the field, 
 dozing in the high, warm broomgrass. 
 
 One night he tied the old hound to a stake 
 in the field near the border of the pine thicket, 
 hoping that his presence might frighten the 
 marauders away; but Prince Alston, one of 
 the negro hands on the plantation, told the 
 colonel the next morning that the dog had 
 yelped all night, and that he must have had 
 a bad scare. Sure enough, when his master 
 went to untie him, he found him shivering and 
 sick. Near by, he saw where a great buck had 
 circled the hound, and pawed and stamped the 
 black loam with his sharp hoofs. 
 
 Colonel Jocelyn decided to take the law into 
 
24.8 Old Plantation Days 
 
 his own hands. He had heard that one night 
 hunt, if successful, would so intimidate the 
 deer that they would ever afterward keep a 
 safe distance away from the field where one of 
 their number had fallen. Not another night 
 should pass, resolved the colonel, before he 
 would put a stop to his losses and his anxieties. 
 He would stay on the old place that night. 
 
 The full moon was fringing the broken forest 
 line with light when Colonel Jocelyn, with his 
 shotgun in his hand, left the house and walked 
 down toward the cornfield that had suffered 
 most. He did not feel exactly at his ease; 
 for night shooting is always exciting, and espe- 
 cially so to one who Is going beyond the law 
 to kill deer. 
 
 Passing beneath huge, shadowy oaks and 
 across velvet strips of moonlit lawn, the colonel 
 came at last into the corn, green-bladed, bur- 
 dened with misty dew, lustrous In the mellow 
 light. Far down on the edge of the black 
 thicket he found a fallen pine, with dry pine 
 trash underfoot and a screen of broomgrass 
 in front. Here he sat down and waited for the 
 deer. 
 
 Meanwhile, from distant ferny solitudes, 
 through the deep-gladed pine wood, into the 
 dark depths of the thicket, a shadowy troop 
 
The Fawn 249 
 
 of deer came toward the cornfield. A splendid 
 old giant buck with towering antlers led them. 
 Two slim does followed, and farther back 
 came two peghorns and four does. On they 
 came with wonderfully little noise for their 
 size. The old buck led his band to the edge of 
 the field, perhaps a hundred yards from where 
 the colonel sat. There the leader stood; his 
 tall horns gleamed gray above the fringing 
 bushes, but his body was lost in the shadows 
 behind. The shot was an easy one for a rifle, 
 but hardly for an old shotgun; besides, the 
 colonel's object was to shoot a deer actually 
 at work in the field, so that there should be 
 no doubt as to the purpose of the deed. 
 
 But no creature in the woods of the South 
 is so wary as a buck that carries great antlers. 
 The proud head was lifted high in the breeze; 
 the antlers shook Impatiently, and then stead- 
 ied suddenly. For a second, as the keen nose 
 detected the presence of the crouching colonel, 
 the wise old "bayleaf" paused; then with a 
 mighty plunge, he disappeared into the thicket. 
 
 One of the does, startled and misunderstand- 
 ing, darted into the field, where she crouched 
 with ears thrust forward, eyes dilated, and 
 slim legs set and tingling; but before she could 
 make a jump, the colonel, knowing that he 
 
250 Old plantation Days 
 
 would get no more chances that night, threw 
 his gun to his shoulder and fired. 
 
 He walked over to where the doe lay between 
 two corn rows, with her white sides gleaming 
 in the moonlight, and her lithe limbs, so fleet 
 only a moment ago, now helpless and growing 
 chill. He did not face the rebuke of the doe's 
 great eyes; he went only near enough to see 
 that she was dead. Then with a strangely 
 heavy heart he walked through the dripping 
 corn back to the house. 
 
 But real and deep as was his regret over the 
 occurrence, Colonel Jocelyn forgot it almost 
 completely during the next few days. A far 
 more exciting and pleasurable interest had 
 come into his life — an event for which he had 
 waited twenty years. At last the line tract of 
 yellow pine, a part of the old Malbone estate 
 that joined his land, was to be sold at auction. 
 
 Although Jonathan Malbone, the eccentric 
 owner, had never lived on the place, he had 
 always flatly refused to sell it to the colonel, 
 who knew and loved nearly every stick of tim- 
 ber on it. However, after wretched health 
 and more wretched temper, old Malbone died; 
 and the heirs had put the property up for sale. 
 It was to be sold at auction in Cummings vil- 
 lage that Friday night; and when, on Friday 
 
The Fawn 251 
 
 morning, Colonel Jocelyn rode through the 
 village on his way toward his plantation, he 
 heard some talk of the bidding. 
 
 Herman Peckham, the German storekeeper, 
 came down from his white porch into the road 
 to greet and congratulate the colonel. 
 
 "Your chance is coming to-night," said he, 
 pointing with a fat thumb toward the school- 
 house, where the auction was to be held. 
 
 "Yes," replied the colonel, reining in his bay 
 mare, "and I wouldn't miss it for a trip to the 
 moon. Who's against me, Herman?" 
 
 "Fred Baker's talking about it, and Ben 
 Whitmore; but the man you must watch is 
 young Lou Sands. I have Lou's acquaintance. 
 He comes from Georgetown to bid for the 
 Coast Lumber Company." 
 
 "Well, come down and see the fun, Her- 
 man," said the colonel. 
 
 The journey that morning was short and 
 happy. The pines were fragrant; the green, 
 level woodland was starred with flowers; far 
 off on the edges of the shadowy cypress swamps, 
 where lush savannas lay in tropic luxuriance, 
 flamed strange, sultry flowers; the pleasant 
 sunlight filtered through the pine needles; and 
 the birds sang joyously. 
 
 At last, turning a bend in the road, he came 
 
252 Old Plantation Days 
 
 within sight of the gate of the plantation and 
 saw the great white house in the clearing be- 
 yond. He shook the reins, and the mare broke 
 into a light canter that soon brought him, 
 flushed and smiling boyishly, to the line fence 
 and the gate, which Prince was even then open- 
 ing for him. 
 
 Prince looked conscious and abashed. 
 
 "Have they been in again, Prince?" the 
 colonel asked sharply. 
 
 "No, sah," answered Prince slowly, coming 
 forward and laying his huge hand on the mare's 
 mane. "But I find dat fawn," he added, with- 
 out looking up. 
 
 "Fawn!" ejaculated his master. "Did the 
 doe I shot have a fawn?" 
 
 "Must be," murmured the negro. 
 
 "Oh, what a pity, what a pity!" The colo- 
 nel shook his gray head sadly. "Is it dead, 
 Prince?" 
 
 "No, sah, but it's sho' gwine die." 
 
 "Where did you find it? Where is it now?" 
 
 Prince told him that as he was following 
 a raccoon track into the thicket behind the corn- 
 field early that morning he had come to a little 
 open, sunny space beneath the pines, where he 
 had found the fawn lying, too faint to strug- 
 gle. And there certainly it must have been 
 
The Fawn 253 
 
 since Colonel Jocelyn killed its mother; for it 
 is well known that when a doe leaves her fawn 
 and goes away — sometimes for miles — to feed, 
 her little one will not stir until her return. 
 Prince also told his master that he had put the 
 fawn on a rug in the dining-room, and asked 
 in the same breath whether he could be spared 
 that day to go across the river to a great 
 "jubilee picnic." 
 
 The colonel nodded his assent, put sudden 
 spurs to his mare, and galloped across the field 
 to the great house. Under the big live-oak 
 before the wide piazza he dismounted, slipped 
 off the saddle and bridle, and leaving the mare 
 to graze, ran up the broad steps. 
 
 The fawn lay where Prince had left it, 
 stretched on a worn rug on the floor, with its 
 great brown, pitiful eyes mutely appealing. 
 It was young, with starry white spots on its 
 glossy golden coat. Its shapely legs seemed 
 no larger than the colonel's fingers; its deli- 
 cate hoofs were soft and pearly. It tried to 
 move and lick its lips, and its sunken sides 
 heaved with fright and the eagerness for food. 
 
 The colonel knelt down by it and stroked 
 its back. He sat on the floor and took its head 
 into his lap. He looked into its wonderful 
 
254 Old Plantation Days 
 
 eyes, and saw in them fear and yearning af- 
 fection. Yet it was only after the tiny creature 
 had licked his hand with its rough tongue that 
 he realized its crying need. 
 
 He brought some milk, and again taking the 
 fawn's head in his lap, fed it with a spoon. 
 In spite of the strangeness of a silver spoon 
 in its mouth, it drank eagerly; but it seemed 
 too weak to respond to the nourishment. It 
 gasped and struggled with each mouthful. It 
 shuddered and nuzzled up to the colonel. 
 
 Meanwhile the afternoon sun was stretching 
 the pine shadows across the wide fields, and a 
 yellow shaft of light stole into the hushed room 
 and lay at the colonel's feet. It roused him to 
 a realization of where he was and what he was 
 doing. It was Friday, and four o'clock in the 
 afternoon. Yes, and on Friday at six o'clock 
 the coveted Malbone tract was to be sold to 
 the highest bidder. The fawn had so dis- 
 tracted Colonel Jocelyn's mind that it seemed 
 years since he had heard of the sale; but grad- 
 ually he came to himself, and his intense desire 
 to purchase the timber returned. 
 
 And here indeed was a plight ! With every 
 negro on the place gone to the "jubilee picnic," 
 with no way of taking the poor little fawn 
 
The Fawn 255 
 
 home with him, and with the sale for which 
 he had prayed for twenty years faking place 
 within two hours, what was he to do? 
 
 He could not count on Prince's return ; for 
 among the uncertainties of Southern life is a 
 negro's return from festivities of any nature. 
 The fawn apparently could not live unless 
 nourished every few minutes. The village was 
 almost an hour's ride from the plantation; if 
 he were to reach the sale on time, he must be 
 starting. But there lay the helpless fawn ! 
 
 The colonel grew angry, and then fl«ushing 
 with shame at his anger, laid a gentle hand 
 on the tremulous little creature. Easing its 
 head softly to the rug, he rose and tiptoed to 
 the doorway. Under the big oak he saw the 
 mare feeding. He would just have time to 
 ride home comfortably, put the mare away, 
 and go to the sale. 
 
 He should be there at six o'clock sharp; for 
 with the strange inconsistency of a sleepy vil- 
 lage, official events in Cummings were usually 
 held on schedule time. So seldom did any- 
 thing of importance happen there that those 
 concerned were likely to be in a hectic hurry. 
 Lou Sands was probably there now. Fred 
 Baker would be on the spot when the time 
 came. And if Colonel Jocelyn were not on 
 
256 Old Plantation Days 
 
 hand, the sale would proceed and the land be 
 lost to him. 
 
 Turning back into the room, he saw the 
 fawn's great, appealing eyes looking at him. 
 He could not leave the poor little creature to 
 die. The Malbone tract would have to go; 
 but he could not be such a brute as to kill the 
 mother and leave her baby to perish. 
 
 So he went back to the fawn; and it was 
 glad to have him come. Once more his hand 
 rested tenderly on its silken flank, and he could 
 feel its heart beat more quietly and its quiver- 
 ing muscles relax. It nestled close to him, and 
 nuzzled against his sleeve. 
 
 An hour passed, and the shadows on the 
 plantation fields were very long. It was nearly 
 six o'clock, and the sale would soon begin. It 
 was hard to wait twenty years for a chance and 
 then lose it! If Prince would only come, he 
 might still get to the sale; but Prince was far 
 away. Six o'clock came and went; then, after 
 what seemed an age, seven. The colonel had 
 lost; but the fawn was safe asleep in his arms. 
 
 Shortly after eight o'clock, Prince's long, 
 melodious whoop sounded through the hollow 
 pine wood. Laying the fawn in a big arm- 
 chair, the colonel took a hunting horn down 
 from a craggy pair of antlers, stepped to the 
 
The Fawn 257 
 
 door, and blew a mellow note. Prince came 
 running toward the house. 
 
 "Saddle the mare, Prince," his master said. 
 "Saddle her quickly!" 
 
 The negro, half-frightened by the colonel's 
 manner, caught the mare and brought her up 
 to the steps, ready. 
 
 "Prince," exclaimed the colonel, "I have 
 kept that fawn alive, and it's in there now in 
 the big armchair by the fireplace! Wrap it up 
 and take it over to your house. Keep it warm 
 and feed it milk every hour in the night. And 
 if you let it die after all Pve done — " 
 
 Prince could not hear the threat that came 
 over the colonel's shoulder as he galloped down 
 the darkened avenue. The mare was fresh, 
 and she was homesick for the tang of the salt 
 air. As she cantered briskly along the level 
 road, the straight-stemmed trees flitted by in 
 the dusk. Now she tore over a hollow-sound- 
 ing bridge, now she swept into the cool dark- 
 ness of a bay-branch crossing, and now she clat- 
 tered through a long, shining water slash. The 
 colonel knew that there was the barest chance 
 that he might yet be in time. 
 
 When, still urging the lathered mare, he 
 emerged from the woods and came up on the 
 high, hard-shell road, the lights were twinkling 
 
260 Old Plantation Days 
 
 In less than ten minutes Lewis came running 
 back toward the house. Hampden saw him 
 coming and, quickly taking down his rifle from 
 the gun rack in the hall, stepped out to meet 
 him. 
 
 "What is it, Lewis?" 
 
 The panting and disheveled man, with eyes 
 wide, leaned weakly against the little rose- 
 garden fence. 
 
 "A wild dog," he said, "was killin' the 
 sheep. He done kill five before I come. He 
 done kill the young ram and four ewes. He 
 gone now. He run off when he done see me." 
 
 "Whose dog was it?" 
 
 As Hampden put the question, his searching 
 look discovered in the face of Lewis something 
 that he did not like. The negro's eyes were 
 on the ground. When they were lifted, they 
 did not meet the white man's eyes, but roamed 
 back toward the pasture where the tragedy had 
 occurred. 
 
 "I dunno who dog, sah. When I come up, 
 he run off." 
 
 But the tone was not convincing, and the 
 averted eyes told their story. Hampden knew 
 that the negro was hiding something, but he 
 decided to push him no further for the mo- 
 ment. 
 
The Secret Killer 261 
 
 "Where are the sheep?" he asked. 
 
 "Two by Dark Pond., sah, and three in the 
 graveyard." 
 
 The planter said no more, but started imme- 
 diately for the pasture. His swift walk took 
 him down a fragrant avenue, arched with vast 
 and somber live-oaks, then along a stretch of 
 sandy road, and then into a winding, thicket- 
 bordered path that brought him within sight 
 of Dark Pond. 
 
 On the borders of that spectral woodland 
 pool, ringed with gray cypresses, from the 
 branches of which pendant moss hung like ban- 
 ners of silence, he found the two sheep. Their 
 pitiful bodies were huddled against the groups 
 of cypress knees. The killer's work, the 
 planter saw, had been very savage. Farther 
 on, in a densely thicketed tract where low and 
 humble mounds showed where the plantation 
 negroes of an earlier day were sleeping, Hamp- 
 den came upon the other three sheep. He also 
 found a fourth one that Lewis had not seen. 
 One of them had been the handsomest young 
 ram in the flock; another was a gentle ewe 
 that his children had petted. On her torn neck 
 was still a shred of the faded blue ribbon that 
 his little daughter had tied there with laughter 
 and delight. 
 
262 Old Plantation Days 
 
 Leaving that melancholy scene, the planter 
 came out into the pasture road. The blank 
 silence oppressed him. It was after midday, 
 and wild life should have been moving round 
 for the evening meal; but nowhere was there 
 sound or movement. The drove of sheep, he 
 knew, would be huddled, terrified, in some cor- 
 ner by the creek, or in some far thicket of the 
 pasture. And the secret killer? 
 
 In a community that is sparsely settled it 
 is not hard to pick out a sheep-killing dog. 
 Hampden knew all the dogs in the pinelands 
 near the plantation; and he knew that there 
 was one dog only that could kill sheep as his 
 sheep had been killed. 
 
 What he saw at the pasture crossroads con- 
 firmed his opinion. In the damp sand were the 
 fresh tracks of a very large dog; and the planter 
 knew from the character of the prints that the 
 maker of them had gone along guiltily. If not, 
 why did the tracks show that the creature had 
 paused to look back and to listen, had broken 
 into a wild run, and had then paused again 
 with tense craftiness? Hampden had been a 
 woodsman too long not to be able to read the 
 meaning of those signs. 
 
 "It's that gray brute that belongs to West 
 McConner," he said to himself. "He's a ne- 
 
Tlie Secret Killer 263 
 
 gro with whom I prefer to have no dealings; 
 no one has yet proved that it was not West 
 who killed those timber cruisers in Wambaw 
 Swamp. Now I know why Lewis didn't recog- 
 nize the dog: he is more afraid of West than 
 he is of any one else in the world; and all the 
 negroes have the same dread. Moreover, this 
 is the dog that West swears by; it's the same 
 one that caught a buck last summer on the edge 
 of the river." 
 
 But, convinced though he was, the planter 
 wanted more evidence. He did not care to 
 approach the half-wild negro of sinister repu- 
 tation without a clear story — not because he 
 had any fear of West, but because he did not 
 wish to bring such a charge against any man's 
 dog unless he had proof. That he did not 
 have; but as he stood alertly in the road he 
 believed that he could get it. 
 
 The sun was aflame in the crests of the som- 
 ber pines as the planter reentered the lonely 
 region of deep thickets, old fields, and sandy 
 wastes grown to broom-sedge and young pines. 
 With a certain feeling of eeriness he passed 
 along the silent road, which was shadowy in 
 the dusk of pines and oaks. Again he came to 
 Dark Pond and looked out over its cold, gleam- 
 ing waters. Making a round of the pasture, he 
 
264< Old Plantation Days 
 
 at last returned to the crossroads, beyond which 
 lay the wide pinelands. Here, he thought, he 
 would take a stand and wait. The killer was 
 sure to return ; and probably he would come 
 by this familiar route. Whether he would 
 come before night was another matter; but here 
 at least Hampden would wait — Hampden and 
 his rifle. 
 
 Over the solitary forest the sun slowly sank. 
 A faint breeze touched the tresses of the pines 
 so that they murmured and waved. Far off 
 in the pinelands the planter heard a slight move- 
 ment: he saw a deer, coming forth in the late 
 afternoon to roam delicately. Even while he 
 was looking at the graceful creature, another 
 and a far different form caught his sight. It 
 was quite near him in one of the paths through 
 the broom-sedge that led into the road. He 
 saw the gray bulk, the heavy and cruel head, 
 the sharp ears set at an angle of craftiness; it 
 was West McConner's dog coming back to his 
 kill. 
 
 With slow, precision the planter lifted his 
 rifle. He was a dead shot; and if ever he had 
 wanted to score cleanly, this was the moment. 
 But, alert as he had been, the gray brute had 
 been more alert than he. Hampden found his 
 
The Secret Killer 265 
 
 rifle sighted against a blank space in the wood- 
 land path. A moment later he saw the dog 
 far off in the woods, running wildly — running 
 with that uncanny abandon and speed that is 
 the unfailing sign of such a creature's guilt. 
 
 Now that Hampden was certain of the kill- 
 er's identity his plan of action was clear: he 
 would go straight to West McConner's house 
 and demand the dog. 
 
 A short walk brought him to the negro's 
 lonely cabin, which stood in a brown cotton 
 field. To the planter's rap on the door there 
 was no response. He waited a moment and 
 then turned back toward the road. There, to 
 his surprise, he saw West McConner standing, 
 with Buddy, his little boy, beside him. 
 
 Hampden spoke to him quietly but firmly. 
 On the negro's face and over his form there 
 came a certain tense alertness, a guarded cun- 
 ning, that revealed the spirit of the man. 
 West did not look like a dangerous black man; 
 he was no giant, scowling of face and men- 
 acing of attitude. On the contrary he was a 
 small mulatto. His face could easily assume 
 an expression of blandness; his voice was mild. 
 But although his stature was below the me- 
 dium, his muscles had a certain ruggedness that 
 
200 Old Plaiilalion Da//fi 
 
 showed their fitness. His shirt and trousers 
 hung loosely on him; his head and his feet were 
 bare. 
 
 What Blake Hampden had to say West Mc- 
 Conner received in silence. At last he said in 
 tones of quiet assurance, "That ain't my dog, 
 sah; I think you must be mistaken." 
 
 "I know the dog," said the planter, "and he 
 was in my pasture not half an hour ago. He 
 was on his way back to the sheep he had killed, 
 or else to kill others." 
 
 "No, sah, that dog was lookin' for Buddy 
 and me. We been down the road, lookin' for 
 my cow, and that dog was followin' and lookin' 
 for we. Ain't that so, Buddy?" 
 
 The boy, who was about five years old, stared 
 up with wide eyes. "Yes, sah," he answered. 
 
 He had learned when a question from his 
 father demanded an affirmative reply. 
 
 "You see, sah," West went on, "my dog 
 didn't kill no sheep. That must be a dog from 
 the settlement down the river." 
 
 "Now, West," said the planter in a matter- 
 of-fact tone, "I know your dog. I know what 
 he did to that buck last summer. It takes a 
 certain kind of beast to do that, and to do what 
 was done to my sheep. More than that, W^est, 
 I know you. I'll give you until to-morrow 
 
The Secret Killer 207 
 
 morning to bring that dog up. I I'c must be 
 killed." 
 
 "1 will send the dog away," said the negro 
 sullenly, "but you mustn't kill him." 
 
 "No — no sending him away except on the 
 longest journey he's ever taken. It's unlawful 
 to keep a dog like that. \i 1 kill him, 1 wili 
 give you a good dog; but you are to bring liim 
 to-morrow morning without fail. You under- 
 stand, West?" 
 
 The negro would not meet the planter's gaze. 
 Nor would he make any answer until Mampden 
 had turned on his heel. Then the planter 
 heard him mutter: 
 
 "If you ever kill my dog — " 
 
 To that the white man paid no attention. 
 He had laid out a course of action, and he in- 
 tended to follow it : if West did not bring forth 
 the killer in the morning, it would then be time 
 to try conclusions with the negro. 
 
 Into the pasture Hampden returned. He 
 decided that, to avoid further trouble for that 
 day at least, he would round up the sheep and 
 drive them into the stable lot near the house. 
 
 But he could not find the frightened sheep. 
 His search took him into almost every part of 
 the great pasture. He crossed and recrossed 
 paths, penetrated thickets and traced the river 
 
268 Old Plantation Days 
 
 banks. It was now dusk. Suddenly, coming 
 out on a twilight path, he was astonished to 
 find himself face to face with Buddy. 
 
 The child had always been a favorite with 
 Hampden. His bright ways and his quaint, 
 elfin manliness had made a strong appeal to the 
 planter. 
 
 "Why, Buddy, what are you doing here?" 
 
 "Pa say I is lookin' for a cow," he answered 
 with the pathetic craft of childhood. 
 
 "Ah! Have you seen your dog?" 
 
 "No, sah." 
 
 "Well, it's time you were starting home, 
 Buddy; but if you see my sheep, call me." 
 
 The child turned away up the path. The 
 planter followed him curiously until, coming 
 to an old field where grew scrubby pines and 
 oaks, he lost sight of the strange little figure. 
 
 " I suppose," he mused, as he turned into the 
 road leading home, " that West sent that 
 child here to find that brute of a dog. It's a 
 wonder, too; for if there's anything by which 
 West swears, it's that little boy of his." 
 
 The planter had gone scarcely a hundred 
 yards when a sound that chilled his blood broke 
 the twilight silence of the misty pasture. It 
 was a dog's wild and rasping bark, desperate 
 with excitement. It was back in the old field 
 
The Secret Killer 269 
 
 that he had just left. Moreover, he heard the 
 heavy, thudding running of the terrified sheep. 
 
 Grasping his rifle by the middle, the planter 
 ran swiftly down the road. When he reached 
 the border of the old field, he paused. Not far 
 off he saw a sheep galloping wildly; then he 
 saw others. The stampede was coming his 
 way. He knew what was behind them. He 
 would get his shot. 
 
 Just then, almost in front of him, he heard 
 a small voice call, "O Cap'n! O Cap'n! 
 Here's the sheep!" 
 
 It was little Buddy, calling him by the name 
 of affection that the child used. 
 
 The planter advanced, with his rifle cocked. 
 He could see the child now. The sheep, in the 
 wildest distraction, were rushing past. Soon 
 the killer must appear. 
 
 "You, there!" called a small voice. "What 
 you doin'?" 
 
 Hampden knew that the child saw the dog, 
 and that he was trying to stop him. In a 
 moment he saw a great gray form clear a bush 
 and leap at the child. The killer, caught in 
 his bloody guilt, had turned on his human dis- 
 coverer. It was misty there in the old field, 
 and the planter had had enough excitement to 
 shake his aim; but at the crack of the rifle the 
 
270 Old Plantation Days 
 
 gray form was hurled to earth. With him 
 went the little child. 
 
 Hurrying forward, Hampden found the dog 
 dead. The child was unhurt, although his 
 shirt was torn open at the neck. As he was 
 lifting the boy in his arms to carry him home, 
 a form loomed up in the mist; it was West 
 McConner. 
 
 "I have killed your dog, West," said Hamp- 
 den, pointing to the killer lying stretched on 
 the ground. 
 
 The negro made no reply; but the planter 
 thought he saw his shoulders heave slightly. 
 
 "What have you to say about it, West?" 
 asked Hampden. 
 
 "Cap'n ! How can I say anything?" cried 
 West in a voice broken by emotion. "I done 
 see the whole business happen. I'se glad." 
 
 And West McConner wept. 
 
XXIII 
 
 SCIPIO MAKES A SHOT 
 
 THE great Carolina ricefield lay steam- 
 ing under the August sun. Standing 
 on the high dividing bank that 
 stretched across the field, one could look a 
 mile in every direction, and his gaze would 
 meet nothing but the golden grain which in a 
 few weeks would be ready for the sickle. The 
 field had been flooded and the water came 
 within a span of the rich drooping heads of 
 the rice. It had been drawn from the full 
 yellow river which flowed sluggishly past the 
 eastern bank of the field. To the west, stand- 
 ing dark against the pale blue sky, was the 
 great forest of longleaf pines. Between the 
 pines and the river there had been no peace 
 that day. Since the first pink and white col- 
 ors had come in the east, since the first breath 
 of sea-wind had been borne up with the flood 
 tide from the coast at dawn, a small army of 
 negroes carrying huge muskets had patrolled 
 the ricefield banks, and the almost incessant 
 firing had told of their vigilance. It was the 
 271 
 
272 Old Plantation Days 
 
 ricebird season, and they were the bird-mind- 
 ers. 
 
 The ricebird, reedbird, bobolink or ortolan 
 is, in keeping with his variety of names, a sad 
 glutton. When his breeding season is past he 
 leaves the river-meadows and the warm 
 marshes along the coast of the Middle-Atlantic 
 States, and, about the middle of August, comes 
 South. The rice is "in the milk," then; that is, 
 it has headed out and has begun to turn down, 
 but the grain is still soft. The birds flock by 
 millions. Over the ricefields at twilight, when 
 they are settling in the river-marsh for the 
 night, the whole sky will be darkly alive with 
 them; they themselves form a moving sky. 
 In rice planting, the minding of birds is a 
 regular, and often a very heavy, expense. 
 An unguarded field would be a total loss. It 
 is quite fortunate, therefore, that these pests 
 are sanctioned on the tables of epicures. 
 Every year thousands are sold in the local mar- 
 kets or shipped North. One may buy either 
 "killed" or "caught" birds, the latter being 
 higher in price because of their almost perfect 
 condition. They are captured in the marshes 
 at night by negroes. 
 
 With a burlap bag hanging over his shoul- 
 
Scipio Makes a Shot 273 
 
 der and a light-wood torch in his hand the 
 negro hunter will bog for hours through the 
 foul marsh mud, braving miasma, alligators, 
 snakes of all kinds, and hordes of malarial mos- 
 quitoes. With little or no trouble he covers 
 with his huge hand one bird after another that 
 is either too dazed or too fast asleep to escape. 
 The little warm body will feel itself gently 
 lifted; perhaps it will try to snuggle down in 
 the gaunt brown hand, — but not for long; the 
 negro's thumb and forefinger close down on 
 the bird's neck with a sudden snap, and the 
 poor unfortunate's head flies off into the marsh. 
 Then the fluttering body is stuffed down into 
 the dirty bag. And it all takes only a second ! 
 When the hunter goes home, he may take per- 
 haps ten, perhaps twenty dozen ricebirds with 
 him. These he will sell for enough to buy 
 himself a quart of the vilest whiskey, all of 
 which he drinks without delay. Then he goes 
 home and beats his wife. But his reputation 
 in the market as a bird-hunter remains unim- 
 paired. 
 
 When the flight of ricebirds begins, there will 
 be found in every plantation commissary many 
 kegs of black powder and bags of number lo 
 shot. This is portioned out to the negro bird- 
 minders. Perhaps out of twenty minders, there 
 
271 Old Plantation Daj/s 
 
 will be only one real hunter. Sometimes these 
 minders are put on platforms, sometimes on 
 the intersection of check-banks, where the cor- 
 ners of four fields are controlled. There are 
 many ways of rousing the birds, perhaps the 
 most effective, after that of killing a goodly 
 number of them, is to lire a flattened buck- 
 shot, that whirs like the wings of a hawk, over 
 them. \Yhen the minder happens to be a boy 
 too young to be trusted with a gun, he will 
 get on a platform or on a wide clear space on 
 the bank and bawl a wahwoo lash of immense 
 length, whooping the while to experience an 
 unmistakable dime-novel thrill at the sound of 
 his own manly voice. Also the excitement thus 
 aroused helps him to forget the unspeakable, 
 unescapable heat of the sun. And the longer 
 he works the harder he works, for the birds 
 seem to get more and more tame as the season 
 advances. 
 
 When they first arrive after their long flight, 
 they are very thin and ravenously hungry, but 
 a little wary and shy. Their note is lively but 
 prosaic, with a very occasional trill of exqui- 
 site song. As their visit lengthens, and as, 
 with every long, long summer's day they gorge 
 themselves with the succulent nourishing rice, 
 not only their appearance but their voices 
 
Scipio Makes a Shot 275 
 
 change. From a slim, trim, bright-eyed bird, 
 the size of a field sparrow, this wandering 
 plunderer is transformed into what Poe would 
 have called "an ungainly fowl," — dull, corpu- 
 lent, incautious. From a cheery, airy, "pink- 
 pank" tenor, he descends to a blase, phlegmatic 
 "ponk-ponk" bass. All his charm and spirit- 
 uality are gone. If shot at any height he will 
 burst open when he strikes a hard ricefield bank. 
 He is loth to fly from any one. He does not 
 even fear a man like Scipio, the bird-minder. 
 Therefore he is lost. 
 
 Scipio was, and had always been, a poacher. 
 He was also, when occasion demanded, like one 
 of Sir Roger de Coverley's hounds, a noted liar. 
 But he was a good bird hunter. What if he 
 did set mink-traps and shoot wild ducks and 
 turkeys on posted land all winter? When the 
 bird season came he was indispensable. His 
 steady hand and eye covered a multitude of 
 misdemeanors, as his gaunt and powerful frame 
 carried him unharmed through all winds and 
 weathers. He was a negro beside whose ebony 
 skin all the darkness of "Chaos and eldest 
 Night" would appear pale. He stood six feet. 
 The beauty of his spare and muscular body was 
 finely outlined under his ragged and loose- 
 hanging clothes. It would not have been a 
 
276 Old Platifation Days 
 
 wholesome mental exercise to speculate as to 
 the size of shoe Sclpio might wear. No quick- 
 sand could have taken iiim down unless he went 
 head first. But these are idle fancies. It is 
 time to abandon them to see Scipio make a shot. 
 Early in the morning he had come down to 
 the field and had chosen a far corner near the 
 river as his stand for the day. He had made 
 for a buck-cypress tree on the bank, and here 
 he had put down his little tin bucket of dinner 
 in the tall shading grass and had left his cur- 
 dog to mind it. Then he had loaded his mus- 
 ket. It was a tedious operation. Into the long 
 rusty iron barrel he poured four drams of 
 coarse black powder that he took from a dirty 
 tobacco bag. This he wadded down with a 
 superfluous part of his attire that he detached 
 from his person in a wholly disinterested man- 
 ner. Then he topped the load with about 
 two ounces of mustard-seed shot. Again the 
 operation for the removal of the unnecessary 
 portions of his raiment -was accomplished. 
 Finally, from some obscure pocket in his under- 
 shirt, he took out the precious metal box of 
 percussion caps. With much grave delibera- 
 tion he selected one, and settling it on the nip- 
 ple, let the hammer down with great care. All 
 
Scipio Makes a Shot 277 
 
 that had been in the early morning. Over half 
 the day had passed and the same load was in his 
 gun. He was waiting for a shot. Scipio was 
 no fool. Those other negroes might waste 
 their powder and shot bang-banging all day, 
 but he was a hunter. He was waiting for a 
 shot. The negro nearest him on the bank, who 
 gloried in the name of George Washington 
 Alexander Burnsldes Green, had been shooting 
 at frequent intervals all day. But Scipio knew 
 that he hardly had birds enough for supper, 
 and his scorn of Wash was great; but it was 
 supreme when his own chance for a shot came. 
 Standing in the shade of the cypress, he had 
 seen when the birds began to light near him. 
 First one, from a bush on the margin, lit off 
 in the field; then perhaps twenty or thirty, 
 frightened from some coffee grass by the 
 sailing maneuvers of a marsh-harrier hawk, 
 joined the lone adventurer; then a passing flock 
 dropped down and swelled their number; then 
 they seemed to pour in from every direction; 
 one hundred, two hundred, five, a thousand; 
 one, three, five thousand, and a continual stream 
 pouring in. From far-off corners of the field, 
 restless flocks rose and came to join the my- 
 riads. 
 
278 Old Plantation Days 
 
 "If Cousin Scipio eber git in dat crowd," 
 muttered Wash Green excitedly, "I sho' sorry 
 fo'dembud!" 
 
 Scipio, marking the gathering with an eye 
 that had made him the hero of all the little 
 pickaninnies on seven plantations, grinned to 
 himself; then, slouching his old greasy cap over 
 his eyes, he bent under the cypress limbs. Into 
 the hot, evil-smelling, almost deadly water of 
 the ricefield, teeming with all kinds of reptilian 
 life, he stepped. The percussion cap on his 
 musket glistened in the sunlight as he stooped 
 cautiously into the rice and began his long 
 stalk of the birds, two hundred yards away. 
 He bent low in the rice, parting it before him 
 with his musket and his left hand. He sank 
 into the mud and water over his knees. The 
 foul stifling air, hot, and alive with tiny green 
 grasshoppers, rose in his face. He must 
 breathe it. He must keep below the level of 
 the rice if he was going to make a shot. Every 
 thirty yards or so he would, with infinite cau- 
 tion, peer over the rice to see if the birds were 
 still feeding and to get his bearings adjusted. 
 Yes, they were still there; and every time he 
 looked he saw many more still lighting. 
 
 The negro crept on. Now he stumbled into 
 a quarter drain, just catching himself in time 
 
Scipio Makes a Shot 279 
 
 to keep his powder dry; now he jerked his 
 hand suddenly away from within a few inches 
 of a blunt-tail, deadly cotton-mouthed moccasin. 
 On he crept, always keeping below the level 
 of the rice. He was going to make a shot. A 
 good shot would contribute as much to his right 
 to do nothing as three or four days' hard work. 
 He crept on. 
 
 Now he came to a few stragglers on the bor- 
 ders of the host; plump, yellow, bright-eyed 
 birds that he might have caught with his hand. 
 But he did not stop there. He moved forward, 
 almost imperceptibly. Now he heard them 
 feeding; the endless chirring and chattering of 
 their bills against the rough rice grains; the 
 occasional little song; the soft, contented, full- 
 fed note. Now he was well upon them, among 
 them. Before him, in the rice covering not 
 over half an acre, were thousands of birds. 
 The long black barrel of the musket came up 
 slowly, slowly over the rice; then came the 
 negro's head : the musket was leveled stead- 
 ily. 
 
 "Who-o-o-o-o-e-e!" shouted a great voice. 
 There was a thunder of wings, the roar of a 
 musket that belched fire at every seam, and the 
 echoes of whose detonation reverberateci far 
 up and down the river; then the lifting of a 
 
280 Old Plantation Days 
 
 volume of smoke from the field, the myriad 
 frightened "pink-panks" from the scattered 
 hurrying birds in the sky, and the solitary fig- 
 ure of the hunter as he made his way slowly 
 toward his game. He first found "the trail," 
 the line of his shot. Then he caught and de- 
 spatched the wounded and gathered the killed. 
 It took him so long that Wash Green, waiting 
 on the bank, had conflicting thoughts. Perhaps 
 Scipio had not made much of a shot after all, 
 he thought. But the canvas sack at Scipio's 
 side was bulging out; it was full to overflow- 
 ing. 
 
 As he started back toward the cypress tree 
 he saw Wash standing there; so he took his 
 time. As he drew near, Wash, leaning over 
 the coffee grass on the margin, called: 
 
 "Hey, Cousin Scipio! How you mek out?" 
 
 Scipio stopped and looked up. He shaded 
 his eyes with his hand. Scipio was sometimes 
 deceitful. 
 
 "Bro' Wash," he said loudly, In answer, "I 
 dunno w'at Is de matter wid de bud. I sho' 
 do po'ly, — po'ly!" he added with much em- 
 phasis and deep disgust. 
 
 Wash Green accepted Scipio's word and went 
 back to his stand with a generous feeling of 
 sympathy in his heart that he felt he could af- 
 
Scipio Makes a Shot 281 
 
 ford to so mighty a one who had fallen. When 
 Scipio saw him going he grinned with the de- 
 light of a good liar. Coming up under the 
 cypress tree, he pulled out three birds and 
 threw them to his dog. Then he sat down be- 
 tween the cypress roots with his legs stretched 
 out in a patch of sunshine to dry, and counted 
 his birds. There were twelve dozen and five. 
 He had made a shot. 
 
 Far down the bank Wash Green fired his 
 last load disconsolately at three birds in line 
 on the margin. As he picked them up he felt 
 exceedingly sorry for Scipio. But Scipio was 
 loading up his musket for another shot. 
 
XXIV 
 
 A PAIR OF MALLARDS 
 
 AFTER several years of disastrous ex- 
 perience as a rice planter on the San- 
 tee River, Maj. Blythe Biddecomb, 
 who had returned to his "stale, flat and un- 
 profitable" law practice in Charleston, wrote 
 his friend, Col. Jocelyn, that he was homesick 
 for a pair of rice-fed mallards. Now, when- 
 ever any one mentioned game to the colonel, 
 he took it as a challenge to his skill and as a 
 high opportunity for gratifying his generosity. 
 So the day after the major's letter came he 
 started down the river in a little dugout cypress 
 canoe for Murphy's Island at the mouth of 
 the Santee. 
 
 Col. Jocelyn took with him his fine old Eng- 
 lish gun, a few boxes of 4's, a small basket of 
 provisions, and — more for companionship than 
 for help — Three Cents, a little negro, who, 
 although he had a Christian name, had long 
 worn that mercenary title. And his bright 
 ways and his diminutive figure went far toward 
 establishing the fitness of it. 
 
 •282 
 
A Pair of Mallards 283 
 
 Col. Jocelyn and I hrcc Cents were great 
 "chums." When the boy was four years old, 
 he had remarked stolidly to his father, the 
 coachman, "Pa, you didn't currycomb dat horse 
 right." Word of this rebuke came to the 
 master of Mayfield, and he chuckled in great 
 glee, and decided thenceforward to make Three 
 Cents his chief counselor. 
 
 For several years this comradeship between 
 the white-haired old gentleman and the picka- 
 ninny had continued; in fact, the colonel be- 
 came quite dependent upon Three Cents, and 
 the boy looked to his patron for everything. 
 
 So it happened that they set out together in 
 the canoe, and headed for the mallard para- 
 dise — there where the great river lost itself 
 in the greater sea, and where, by day and by 
 night, clouds of wild ducks, wintering on the 
 coast, rolled over the shimmering beaches and 
 the yellow river mouth toward Bird Bank. 
 
 It was a twelve-mile paddle down from the 
 plantation; but the tide was ebbing, and both 
 occupants of the canoe were swinging cypress 
 paddles; so the long, slim craft shot swiftly 
 by the shadowy banks, by tall, sighing growths 
 of tawny marsh, by pebbly strands where the 
 tide washed languidly. 
 
 Once, standing spectrally transfigured against 
 
284 Old Plantation Days 
 
 the pale afternoon sky, they saw the grim, 
 bleached skeleton of what had once been a 
 proud house that fire had devoured. Then 
 they passed a prosperous place where, in happy 
 contrast to the recent scene, a turpentine still 
 was sweetening the air with soft aromatic fra- 
 grance. Then the plantations ceased and there 
 began the long waste stretches of marsh that 
 extended clear down to the mouth of the river. 
 
 When they had at last landed on the back 
 beach of Murphy's Island, they repaired to the 
 best of the duck ponds, which was situated a 
 good mile across the island. On their way they 
 were aware of the long lines of ducks that fre- 
 quently darkened the strip of sky above their 
 reed-grown pathway. 
 
 Coming at last cautiously to the edge of the 
 pond, where the colonel expected to hear a 
 great clamor of feeding ducks, they were met 
 by a telltale silence. Then, far across the 
 stretch of water, they saw a bald eagle poised 
 on a dead tree; there would be no duck shoot- 
 ing where the monarch ruled. 
 
 "Look here, Three Cents, that old rascal has 
 every mallard within a mile flying for his life !" 
 the colonel exclaimed. And to himself he mut- 
 tered, "Blythe's dinner won't fly here this eve- 
 ning!" 
 
A Pair of Mallards 285 
 
 "Maybe, sah, we might find Cedar Island 
 mo' bettah, sah," the little negro ventured. 
 
 Col. Jocelyn did not answer; but from the 
 hopeful look that stole into his face you might 
 have guessed that Three Cents had solved the 
 problem. He looked quizzically at the sky, 
 with its few ragged clouds scudding eastward. 
 He had fully made up his mind; but on matters 
 of hunting the colonel always thought it -wise 
 not to accept another's judgment too hastily. 
 Hesitation implied doubt, doubt implied 
 thought and knowledge, and the old gentleman 
 was not above the gentle vanity of wishing to 
 be regarded as learned. "Well," he said at 
 last, "there isn't any place to sleep on Cedar 
 Island, and here we could spend the night in 
 the old clubhouse; but, at that, I guess Cedar 
 Island is our only chance." 
 
 "Yes, sah," echoed Three Cents, as if the 
 idea were his master's, "dat's de only chance." 
 
 Retracing their steps, they soon came to the 
 canoe, which they launched and headed straight 
 across the river for Cedar Island — a long, low 
 sea island, with heavy delta marshes behind 
 and with a wooded point that faced the ocean. 
 It was a famous place for ducks, but because 
 of its remote situation sportsmen rarely visited 
 it. 
 
280 Old PJaniaiion Bays 
 
 As the line of cedars on Murphy's Tslantl 
 sank into the sea, Col. Jocelyn and Three Cents 
 gained fair headway toward their goal; but 
 behind tiiem the ashen clouds in the west were 
 hiding the low sun. Moreover, the paddle 
 across the river was a long one and diflicult m 
 the cross sea that was running. The colonel 
 was on the middle seat; his henchman swung 
 his paddle manfully from the stern. The go- 
 ing was not very rough, but with every stroke 
 they felt the lightness of their craft and the 
 majestic power of the sea that paced beneath 
 them. 
 
 When they were halfway across, the colonel 
 knew that he had made a mistake in trying to 
 reach Cedar Island that night; Three Cents 
 had known the same thing some time before, 
 but he had not expressed his doubts. There 
 seemed to be no immediate danger; but it would 
 be dark before they got there, and the west 
 wind over the salt water was growing very 
 cold. 
 
 With those thoughts in his mind, the colonel 
 glanced over his shoulder with a smile intended 
 to cheer Three Cents; but the bullet head of 
 the negro was buried between his shoulders, 
 and his paddle was Hashing doggedly from the 
 murky water to the chill air and back again. 
 
A Pair, of Mallards 287 
 
 "He's all right," the colonel assured his con- 
 science, which wa^ accusing him of bringing a 
 child out into danger. 
 
 The sun had now set and the sweep of the 
 ebb grew slower. Tint by tint the colors faded 
 from the sky, and the counterglow in the east 
 died swiftly. Over the river the incoming 
 ducks began to fly. The dull roar of the surf 
 on the outer beaches sounded insistently. The 
 shore lines faded, vanished — and it was night. 
 
 "Boss,'' asked Three Cents, through lips that 
 were stiff with the briny cold, "is we headed 
 right? I b'lieve, sah,"" he added respectfully, 
 "we is too far down de ribber." 
 
 Had the colonel shared that opinion there 
 would hav*e been less cause for apprehension; 
 but the old gentleman thought they were too 
 far upstream. That meant that they did not 
 know where they were. Above them they could 
 hear the whistling music of. wild ducks' wings. 
 Vaguely, to the south and east, they heard the 
 booming of the surf. Darkness was before 
 them and behind them; and darkness covered 
 them. 
 
 The colonel, old hunter that he was, began 
 to feel uneasy — chiefly on account of the pres- 
 ence of Three Cents. An hour before it had 
 
288 Old Plantation Days 
 
 seemed simple to reach either island; but now 
 the blessed sight and touch of dry land seemed 
 indeed remote possibilities. 
 
 There was no moon. There were no stars. 
 The canoe seemed to have changed its course; 
 and the high, smooth wavea that she was now 
 riding moved with the strength and dignity that 
 they gather only in the ocean. The cold salt 
 spray began to break over the gunwales, and 
 it froze as it fell. The two paddles were al- 
 ready coated with it. The wind was slowly 
 rising, and with it came that bitter, bitter sea 
 cold that cuts into the marrow. For the first 
 time In his life Col. Jocelyn felt powerless to 
 fight the forces that appeared to be leagued 
 against him. His hands were almost as stiff 
 from cold as the paddle. His legs and feet 
 were losing their feeling. 
 
 Suddenly, with a jerk of decision, he laid 
 his paddle along the thwarts in front of him 
 and, steadying himself on the gunwales, turned 
 himself In the boat so that he faced Three 
 Cents. Dimly he could make- out the pitiful 
 little form. The colonel's strong arms reached 
 out, took the negro child by the shoulders and 
 lifted him down into the bottom of the boat. 
 He had to wrench the paddle from the boy's 
 hands; it was frozen to the palms. 
 
A Pair of Mallards 289 
 
 "Oh, please, boss," the little fellow chat- 
 tered, "don't l^mme freeze ! I 'speck I is a 
 goner dis time; but I ain't sorry, sah, dat I 
 come with you." Then Three Cents nestled 
 up between the colonel's knees. 
 
 Colder grew the wind, and the waves broke 
 heavily against the boat. Three Cents moaned 
 and trembled. There was nothing to cover him 
 with. Col. Jocelyn lifted one of the little ne- 
 gro's hands and slipped it up his own sleeve. 
 "Can't let the child die!" he muttered. 
 
 With that he fumbled with the buttons on 
 his coat, loosed it, and, quivering in the pierc- 
 ing cold, slipped it off and laid it over his little 
 comrade. 
 
 Under his coat Col. Jocelyn wore a low- 
 necked jersey. Through that the stark wet 
 wind cut like a saber. He tried to grip his 
 paddle in his numb hands ; if he could only get 
 started, he thought, he might be able to warm 
 up. But his hands, coated with ice, refused to 
 respond to his will; so blindly he tried to steer 
 the canoe, and tried to keep her before the 
 wind so that the waves would not swamp her. 
 
 Three Cents had dropped off to sleep, but he 
 was still moaning and shaking; and once he 
 shook with a violent chill. The colonel tried 
 to fix the coat tighter about the boy, but he 
 
290 Old Plantation Days 
 
 could not manage It very well. Then he tried 
 to cover the little negro's feet with the loose 
 straw in the bottom of the boat, but the child 
 woke up, crying. Clinging to the colonel's 
 knees, he begged him to make a fire in the 
 boat! 
 
 For answer the colonel unbuttoned his jer- 
 sey, slipped it off, and wrapped it closely about 
 the little black boy whom he was literally giv- 
 ing his life to save. 
 
 The child felt instant and grateful relief — - 
 the man, acute agony. The fiend of cold 
 seemed to lay icy hands on his very heart. 
 The wind felt scorching, and he thought him- 
 self intolerably burned; but he slowly realized 
 that he must be freezing to death. There in 
 the darkness, there in the treacherous inlet, he 
 would meet his end ! Antietam or Gettysburg, 
 he said, would have been better than this. 
 
 Then a monster, blacker than the night, rose 
 out of the water before them; it rushed down 
 upon them; and the bow of the canoe ran high 
 on the shore — of Murphy's Island I 
 
 Somehow, he forgets how, the colonel and 
 Three Cents crawled to the old clubhouse, 
 where they built a roaring fire. And before 
 its huge comfort and cheer they ate the provi- 
 sions from the basket, and slept. 
 
A Pair of Mallards 291 
 
 On the way home the next morning the colo- 
 nel shot two mallards, and he sent them, with 
 his regards, to Maj. Blythe BIddecomb. 
 
 Two days later Maj. BIddecomb was enter- 
 taining at dinner. 
 
 "Mallards?" he replied to a question con- 
 cerning their number on the Santee. "There 
 are millions of them there, sir. Now, my dear 
 personal friend, Col. Henry Jocelyn, sent me 
 this pair; and I'll warrant you, sir, that he 
 wasn't on the river long enough to make a 
 shadow. In fact, for a man so robust as I am, 
 mallard shooting is just a little tame; but 
 Henry, dear fellow, could never stand the cold 
 and exposure as I can, God bless him!" 
 
XXV 
 
 GHOST POINT 
 
 ALTHOUGH Daniel Bonneau had) 
 that had once been an "open-sesame" 
 ■proud I luguenot ancestry and a name 
 to the court of I'Vance, he himself did not pre- 
 tend to high and worldly things. He wished 
 to be known and remembered simply as a nat- 
 uralist, and as one who had added to the knowl- 
 edge of science. He attributed his investigat- 
 ing turn of mind to his famous great-great- 
 grandfather, Admiral Achillc Bonneau of the 
 French navy, who had been an authority on 
 navigation and on the denizens of the deep. 
 
 The Carolina coast, where for generations 
 his people had made their home, was rich in 
 a variety of forms of wild life, and Daniel 
 lived continually in what was a paradise for 
 him. His fine old plantation was one of the 
 most picturesque — and ill-kept — places along 
 the seaboard. It was sheltered on three sides 
 by the whispering darkness of the great long- 
 leaf pines; while toward the east the view 
 
 292 
 
Gliost Point 293 
 
 opened on Bull's Bay, a wide sheet of marsh- 
 bounded water. Beyond the bay were glisten- 
 ing sea-islands and the mystic sea-horizon. 
 Bonneau's nearest neighbor was five miles 
 through the woods, and Charleston, the near- 
 est town, was fifteen miles off. 
 
 The naturalist was alone in the world, for 
 he had never married, and his few distant rela- 
 tives lived far away. Yet he was surrounded 
 by companions. The woods on all sides were 
 vocal with birds; the marshes harbored still 
 others. Deer sometimes grazed down to the 
 paling-fence of his back garden, and squirrels 
 darted here and there in the great trees that 
 surrounded the house. Occasionally an old 
 white-nosed otter would swim up the creek that 
 flowed past the gray oaks in front, and Bon- 
 neau would study him from behind the shelter 
 of a climbing rose. 
 
 Birds flock to a friend, and Bonneau's gar- 
 dens were inhabited by colonies of songsters. 
 About the vine-covered, wood-embowered house 
 they sang all day, and made the twilight more 
 tender and the dawn more triumphant. In 
 the jasmine and honeysuckle vines on the porch 
 mocking-birds and brown thrushes had built; 
 in a hollow in one of the cedar supports of the 
 
294 Old Plantation Days 
 
 piazza a black-capped titmouse had found a 
 home. Over the hedges of box, in a great 
 elm, orioles had hung their swinging cradles. 
 
 If Bonneau wearied of the study of birds, 
 there was always the bay to consider; for the 
 bay, ten miles across each way, serried by white 
 shell banks, haunted of sharks, shadowed by 
 the wings of innumerable shore-birds and sea- 
 birds, was a field for a naturalist to spend his 
 life in. And Bonneau had spent many of his 
 days there, rowing out through Harbor Creek, 
 past Eagle Hummock and Ghost Point, and as 
 far as the margin of the deadly inlet rip, sweep- 
 ing like a green serpent round the edge of Bull's 
 Island. 
 
 One morning Bonneau, hoping to stalk a peli- 
 can on the bay, left his comfortable porch, drew 
 his oars out from their shelter beneath the 
 steps, and strode down to his little fishing-boat 
 moored to the decrepit wharf. As he glided 
 swiftly down the narrow salt creek, his eyes 
 were eagerly searching water and shore. Be- 
 fore he had gone far he had seen several brown 
 minks scuttling away from the sedgy margins, 
 a few rare and beautiful Spanish curlews, many 
 shore-birds, and one splendid old bald eagle, 
 fiercely harrying his wide domain. 
 
 Before long the bottom of the boat was lit- 
 
Ghost Point 295 
 
 tered with curious shells, with nests of black- 
 birds and marsh sparrows, and with odd pieces 
 of driftwood that he had caught in the cloudy 
 eddies. At last, urged by the long oars, the 
 little boat shot out into Bull's Bay, where in- 
 stantly the wind freshened and the world wid- 
 ened. Daniel dipped his oars and turned his 
 head to scan the bay. 
 
 A little beyond him lay Ghost Point, a stark 
 shell bank, just showing above the low ebb. 
 Farther on, the White Banks glistened in the 
 sun; and farther yet, on the verge of the sea, 
 wild white horses, sun-crowned, snow-plumed, 
 raced along the outer reefs. On each side of 
 the tawny inlet were sea-islands. One was bar- 
 ren and bare, supporting only a sparse growth 
 of harsh sea-grass; the other, wider and longer, 
 was heavily wooded with red cedar and pine. 
 
 Bonneau turned once more and looked to- 
 ward his home among the friendly trees; then 
 toward Eagle Hummock, a low, sandy, cedar- 
 grown hill rising from the intervening marsh. 
 He thought he would visit the hummock that 
 day for curlew eggs, but that would be on his 
 way home. So he buckled to the oars, and the 
 bateau continued to pound from crest to crest 
 of the lazily rolling waves. 
 
 Soon he came abreast of Ghost Point, the 
 
29G Old Plantation Days 
 
 strange shell formation that was visible only 
 at low water. There was a tradition that all 
 those who had lost their lives in the waters of 
 the bay came to shore on Ghost Point, where 
 on moonless nights they lamented their fate; 
 hence the name of their rendezvous. The sin- 
 ister appearance of the place bore out the tra- 
 dition. Now, as the gray shape came into 
 Bonneau's vision, he rested on his oars, gazing 
 at it intently. Then he gave a sharp exclama- 
 tion, whirled the boat, and rowed rapidly to- 
 ward the bank. 
 
 What he had seen interested him more than 
 even an ivory-bill pelican would have done. 
 It was a peculiar pile of white shells, much 
 whiter than those of the bank itself. Bon- 
 neau's knowledge of the coast told him at once 
 that the inevitable hole behind the snowy pyra- 
 mid must be the home of a stone-crab. "Me- 
 nippe mercenaria !" he muttered proudly to 
 himself, as he bent over the oars. 
 
 A stone-crab is one of the several hermits 
 of the crustacean family. His body is shaped 
 in general like that of other members of his 
 species, but is proportionally much smaller and 
 much higher. His claws, his distinguishing 
 feature, are shaped like a lobster's, and grow 
 
Ghost Point 297 
 
 to great size, having, too, a powerful vise-like 
 grip. His legs are strong and spidery, so that 
 he can hold himself firmly in position while 
 seizing his prey. His hole is invariably in a 
 shell bank, below the high-water mark. 
 
 When the tide recedes, the crab retires into 
 his cavern, which is just the size of his body 
 and two or three feet deep. There he rumi- 
 nates and digests his dinner until the flowing 
 of flood-tide water into his doorway tells him 
 that it is time to forage again. He crawls to 
 the mouth of his hole; and there, anchored in 
 the swaying tide by his tough black legs, he 
 thrusts with his powerful claws, snapping in 
 small fish. 
 
 When the shadow of a creature that he fears 
 floats by, he crouches in his hole, his claws 
 folded against his breast, or else drawn in close 
 and defiantly open. Few fishermen have the 
 courage or the patience to try to dislodge a 
 stone-crab; but such an opportunity was what 
 Bonneau had for a long time been wishing. 
 
 His rocking boat grated on the shells and 
 came to a stand. Unshipping his oars, he laid 
 them along the thwarts, rose, tossed the claw 
 anchor high on Ghost Point, and stepped out 
 on the reef of sinister name. Before the stone- 
 crab's hole, on hands and knees, Bonneau in- 
 
298 Old Plantation Days 
 
 vestigated the situation. As the opening was 
 about nine inches across, the crab would be a 
 very large one. 
 
 Tepid, cloudy water stood in the hole a few 
 inches below the top. Occasionally a small 
 white bubble rose slowly to the murky surface. 
 Evidently the crab was at home. 
 
 Bonneau scraped about the mouth of the 
 den with an old conch-shell, but the bank had 
 been pounded solid by the ceaseless beating of 
 the waves. He went back to his boat and got 
 an oar, with which he tried to pry away the 
 shells compacted together and guarding the 
 creature's fortress. But it was like trying to 
 dig a post-hole with a wheat stalk. The oar 
 grated and bent; the tough ash fibers cracked 
 and strained; but save a few splinters of shell, 
 no damage was done. Bonneau laid the oar 
 down and began to roll up his sleeve. As he 
 did so he watched the movement of the tidCj 
 noting the slack in its flow. The turn was not 
 far off. 
 
 With his left arm supporting his weight, 
 Bonneau dipped his other into the cloudy hole. 
 He wanted the crab, and he was going to have 
 him; and this was the only way to get him out. 
 He must reach his hand down, take the crea- 
 ture unawares, grip him so that he could not 
 
Ghost Point 299 
 
 open his claws, and jerk him out. But since 
 the holes are deep, the stone-crabs strong, and 
 always crouching with their claws outward, the 
 plan is a precarious one. Bonneau found the 
 water warm, and his cautious fingers followed 
 the passage downward and backward under the 
 crest of the bank. 
 
 Twice he jerked his hand back as it touched 
 a pointed shell, but returned it swiftly, half- 
 angry with himself. He knew that he could 
 tell the crab when he felt it — the unmistakable 
 smooth roundness of the formidable claws, the 
 sharp spikes on their ridges, and the sinewed 
 sutures of the joints. He would have to grasp 
 his prey between his thumb and forefinger, and 
 drag him forth while his claws were pressed 
 together. Once out of the hole the crab would 
 attempt no escape; he would offer sullen re- 
 sistance. 
 
 Farther and farther into the invisible cav- 
 ern Bonneau's bare arm crept. The pale wa- 
 ter lapped sluggishly against his flesh. The 
 hole was so deep that he was obliged to rest 
 his weight on his elbow. Finally he lay flat 
 on the reef, his arm in the stone-crab's den up 
 to the very shoulder. His feet were in the wa- 
 
300 Old Plantation Days 
 
 ter, — for the flood had set in, — and he glanced 
 about to see how high it had risen. As his 
 eyes turned and his hand shifted slightly, he 
 felt a sharp shock of pain, and a grim and 
 terrible clutch gripped him about the thumb 
 and through the palm of his hand. The great 
 stone-crab had him fast. 
 
 Bonneau jerked back, but the stone-crab gave 
 only slightly, just enough to permit the man to 
 lacerate his arm against the sharp shells that 
 lined the hole. The creature had him in such 
 a way that he could not use his thumb in an at- 
 tempt to crush its body; and his arm was so 
 deep in the passage that he could get no pur- 
 chase with it. He tried to squeeze his other 
 hand Into the aperture, but it was too narrow. 
 He peered over the reef, and saw clean foam, 
 fresh from the sea, rolling in on the crests of 
 the flood. 
 
 A broad-winged sea-gull circled over him with 
 a discordant cry. Bonneau gritted his teeth 
 and set his weight against the creature in the 
 hole. The socket of his shoulder crunched 
 and the arm stretched, but the dread grip 
 at the bottom of the murky water was 
 in no way loosened. Bonneau was a brave 
 man, but he groaned to think of what he had 
 come to. 
 
Ghost Point 301 
 
 While he thus lay prone on the reef, the wa- 
 ter crept over his feet and stole up his legs. 
 The frayed edges of long waves, sea waves, 
 broken in part by the inlet and in part by the 
 White Banks, washed over his lower body. 
 Far beyond the bank a great gray pelican 
 flapped above the water with lazy, powerful 
 strokes; and just beyond the bank Bonneau 
 saw, with a sickening gulp in his throat, the tall, 
 keen fin of a tiger-shark ripping the water as 
 it circled. 
 
 His boat was lifted from the sand, swung 
 round to the lee of the bank, and there tossed 
 impatiently against her hawser. The man 
 turned his body in the water and lay at another 
 angle; but it only added the pain of a twisted 
 arm to that already torturing him. The crab 
 had broken the flesh of his hand, and his heavy 
 claws were dully tearing it. The salt scorched 
 the wound cruelly, and the deep pain was mad- 
 dening. 
 
 Little was now to be seen of Ghost Point. 
 A green, rolling wave, with a lordly crest that 
 smoked misty spume against the low sky, broke 
 its back over the shell bank, and took a gasp- 
 ing revenge in drenching Bonneau. Strange 
 little elfin creatures, perhaps the spawn of 
 barnacles, crawled about his feet and ankles. 
 
802 Old Plantation Bays 
 
 His boat looked far away, so greatly had the 
 water-width between them been increased. 
 
 The tide was now up under his chest, and 
 once a low, sliding wave rippled like a velvet 
 paw under his throat and chin. Madly he 
 wrenched at his suffering hand; but the agony 
 made him sick, and he sank back limply into 
 the water whence he had partly risen. Another 
 wave raced up on the reef and snatched the 
 oar that lay beside him, retreating like a threat- 
 ening beast, curling a dark lip to show a white 
 fang. 
 
 Bonneau had once been employed by the 
 coast survey to assist in sounding Bull's Bay, 
 and he knew the depth of the water between 
 every reef, and on every reef at high tide. Up 
 to this time he had taken quiet pride in his 
 knowledge; but now he wished that he knew 
 nothing of the bay. For an insistent and burn- 
 ing memory showed him this, written In his 
 black, official note-book at home: 
 
 "Ghost Point, three hundred yards east-south- 
 east from mouth of Harbor Creek. On direct 
 line between blazed cedar on Eagle Hummock 
 and Bull's Island lighthouse. Bad reef for 
 boat of any draft. Shows at low water. 
 Depth of water on Ghost Point at high tide, 
 four to six feet." 
 
Gliost Point 303 
 
 Perhaps the facts of his death would never 
 be known, for there were creatures waiting for 
 him to die. He saw the big tiger-shark sail- 
 ing off at some distance. A huge hammer- 
 head, with one bulging eye out of the water, 
 slid craftily by the bank. Several dog-sharks 
 were ripping the water near the boat, and the 
 fin of a second tiger rose and then sank near 
 the reef. Out of the glassy crest of a foam- 
 less wave the bald and benign head of a big 
 sea-turtle appeared, surveying the scene amia- 
 bly. 
 
 A bursting white wave washed over Ghost 
 Point and blinded Bonneau. And once again, 
 for a last time, while his whole body throbbed 
 with the fierce agony, he labored against the 
 little animal that was drowning him. But he 
 labored in vain. The tough prehensile legs of 
 the creature were locked and braced in the 
 socket of the hole, and no leverage that the 
 man could bring to bear would move him. 
 Bonneau's exhausted body was now floating or 
 rather rolling here and there in the eager, hur- 
 rying tide. 
 
 The tide lipped the stone-crab's hole and 
 flowed warmly under Bonneau's armpit. He 
 
304 Old Plantation Days 
 
 felt a slight shift of the grip on his hand, a 
 cautious relaxation. A wild joy thrilled the 
 man's heart and tingled through his whole 
 frame. He knew what was happening in the 
 dreadful hole. He eased himself up with his 
 left arm and drew his right arm out, ever so 
 softly and gently. The crab still had him, but 
 the crab was moving. Slowly, slowly they 
 came, the lacerated hand and the creature that 
 had done the work. 
 
 Finally Bonneau got his elbow out, and he 
 could stand the suspense no longer. With a 
 cry of triumph, much resembling a shriek of 
 despair, he jerked his arm clear of the hole 
 and sprang to his feet. From his bleeding 
 right hand there hung a huge stone-crab, sullen 
 and menacing. 
 
 Bonneau leaned over until the creature rested 
 on the water-swept shell; then he crushed him 
 savagely — too savagely for a naturalist — with 
 his heel. But the claws, deeply embedded, had 
 to be pried open. 
 
 The flood, the power that had lured the crab 
 from his den, was now flowing freely over 
 Ghost Point, and the green water eddied about 
 the last visible fluke of the little anchor. Bon- 
 neau pulled the boat toward him and clam- 
 bered in, sick and dazed. And as he cleared 
 
Ghost Point 305 
 
 the water, the tall fin of a great tiger-shark 
 shot high out of the waves, as the gray harrier 
 lunged fiercely along the edge of the bank. 
 
XXVI 
 
 THE SILENT CHAMPION 
 
 THE great diamond-back rattlesnake lay 
 under the green shade of the dense 
 tiirkeyberry bushes that fringed the 
 edge of the vast and lonely swamp. The July 
 air was as clear as a perfect white jewel, with 
 faint hints and mists of opaline lights along the 
 horizon. A light wind, blowing inland from 
 the near-by sea, mingled deliciously the spicy 
 odors of the far salt marshes and cedar groves 
 with the hushed and aromatic fragrance of the 
 pines. 
 
 On three sides the mighty pines arose; and 
 to the westward, as if marginal to lands of 
 mystery and wonder, loomed shadowy cypresses 
 in the solemn sorrow of perpetual mourning. 
 The growth of the underbrush in the woods 
 was not high, but it afforded thick cover. 
 Here and there a sultry red orchis, dreamy 
 and Oriental, or a cool blue larkspur lighted the 
 prevailing green of the background. There 
 were huckleberries, too, hanging in indolent 
 dim clusters; gall-berries, twinkling in their 
 306 
 
The Silent Champion 307 
 
 dark, glossy foliage like jet beads; and prickly- 
 pears, with their heavy, thorny leaves, their 
 tawdry, flaming blossoms, and their uninviting 
 green friut. Shady and cool it was under these 
 bushes, and a pleasant retreat from the after- 
 noon sun. 
 
 The huge rattlesnake, however, was not at 
 his ease. He had the day before shed his skin, 
 and had foolishly crawled nearly half a mile 
 in his new coat, following the elusive trail of 
 a family of swamp-rabbits. Now he was sore, 
 irritable and wakeful. He lay in a restless flat 
 coil, his broad, malignant head resting on a 
 gray tuft of sphagnum moss, his tail, with its 
 triumph of sixteen rattles, moving nervously 
 over a little space of white sand. 
 
 His gorgeous coat, black, brown and of a 
 tawny gold, with all the colors new and bright, 
 was undoubtedly exquisite; but its beauty was 
 awful. Its charm was like the false lure of 
 evil, sinister and deadly. Six feet he meas- 
 ured from tip to tip — a diamond-back of the 
 swamps, probably the most venomous and the 
 most morose of all rattlesnakes. His baleful 
 yellow eyes glittered in their shallow sockets. 
 His broad, angular head was malignant In de- 
 
308 Old Plantation Days 
 
 sign as well as In appearance. Over the curved 
 and cruel mouth the lips were drawn and pale 
 — sarcastic they seemed, terrible they were. 
 His great body arched away from his head 
 until It reached the size of a strong man's arm; 
 there It tapered rather gradually to his blunt 
 tail, tipped by the dry-whispering rattles. 
 
 Among the various forest tones, there was 
 one vibrating sound that stirred the sullen heart 
 of the snake to dangerous malice. It was the 
 thud of a solitary woodsman's ax, ringing into 
 the deep heart of a tall yellow pine that stood 
 about thirty yards from where the snake lay. 
 
 The man had been at work on the tree since 
 noon, and his relentless strokes were fast tell- 
 ing on the stately monarch. He was deep on 
 the back cut now, and was glancing about to 
 see where he would turn to clear himself from 
 the fall. There was an old sheep-path through 
 the turkeyberries, running at right angles to 
 the purposed line of the cast, that looked to 
 him best. 
 
 Presently, as he looked up, he saw the proud 
 crest shiver and sway. Then he heard a crack 
 at the bottom, and grasping his ax by the hilt 
 he sprang lightly away down the blind path, 
 
The Silent Champion 309 
 
 looking back over his shoulder. The pine 
 shuddered through all its splendid height, sank 
 majestic from its lofty place in the blue heav- 
 ens, whirled with sickening speed, spun on its 
 axis, and plunged straight downward on the 
 bewildered man ! He had but time to turn 
 with a smothered cry when a far-reaching limb 
 struck him, and he was driven heavily to the 
 earth. 
 
 The end of the limb had been dashed deep 
 into the ground just a few feet beyond where 
 the man lay; its heavy length was pinning him 
 to the ground. Flis right arm was crushed 
 close in to his body. His weight must have 
 fallen on his left elbow, for the arm was broken 
 near the shoulder. He fainted when he tried 
 to move it. 
 
 When he opened his eyes a minute later, 
 somewhat recovered from the first shock, he 
 grew sick through all his strong frame, and 
 only his indomitable will kept him from faint- 
 ing away again. For there in his lordly spiral 
 coil, with his head and his singing rattles on 
 their fatal level, the great diamond-back rattle- 
 snake was poised, a scant two feet away, ready 
 to strike. 
 
 At the first downward rush of the tree, 
 the snake had turned in flight, to be halted 
 
310 Old Plantation Days 
 
 by the violent fall of the man, that seemed a 
 threat of attack. 
 
 The dreadful beauty of the snake, the help- 
 lessness of his own position, together with the 
 fleeting memory of his happy safety but a few 
 moments before — were these not enough to 
 draw the blood from his heart and send it in 
 a dull, hot flood into his head in one wave of 
 shuddering pain and weak anguish? 
 
 He knew rattlesnakes well enough to realize 
 his situation. If he stirred, if he closed his 
 eyes, perhaps, the monstrous reptile would 
 strike him — full in the face, most likely. The 
 broken arm that he had moved was in a posi- 
 tion that caused him excruciating pain. He 
 shifted it ever so softly, and the fierce, wide 
 head shot down swiftly; but it withdrew with- 
 out striking, its eyes glittering and its evil hiss 
 torturing the unfortunate man with menace 
 and with delayed cruelty. 
 
 He was so young a man to die ! He had but 
 the year before cleared for himself a little 
 farm in the vast, solitary pineland, and there 
 was happy with his wife and their little child. 
 He was their whole world, as they were his. 
 He prayed with a feverish mind, all the while 
 gazing fixedly at his murderer, which seemed 
 to gloat over his helplessness. 
 
The Silent Champion 311 
 
 Supreme upon the topmost bough of a near- 
 by hve-oak, a joyous mocking-bird sang a few 
 cool notes to the crystal air; then, hearing the 
 rattlesnake, he paused tremulously, turned his 
 head on one side, made certain of his fear, and 
 flew wildly away. A shy wood-thrush let his 
 inquisitiveness lead him near the buzzing rat- 
 tles; then he, too, darted away through the 
 brush. 
 
 So the man and the reptile were left alone. 
 In those fleeting, delirious seconds the victim's 
 mind wandered strangely. He remembered his 
 school-days and a book that his teacher had 
 lent him to read out of class. It was all about 
 forlorn princesses, and the desperate fealties 
 of their champions. How brave and hardy 
 those champions were ! How he had longed to 
 be one, longed so far back in those early days ! 
 Ah, for a champion to save him now ! But 
 there was no sound of a rescuer approaching; 
 there was but the insistent, cruel song of the 
 rattles. 
 
 The man had sometimes thought of death, 
 and the thought had never awed him as it did 
 now. For how was he so to forecast the years 
 as to know that remotely, with no fond heart 
 near to cheer him with its faith and to light 
 
312 Old Plantation Days 
 
 him with Its love, he was to meet his end, alone, 
 and in nameless agony? 
 
 The poor woodsman's eyes filled with tears 
 as he thought of his wife, with their baby in 
 her arms, searching for him. He thought of 
 their finding him, and at this his tears ceased 
 suddenly; for there are imaginings too deep 
 for tears to relieve. They would find him — 
 he shuddered on the brink of the vision. 
 
 Now his thoughts, although covering so wide 
 a range, were almost instantaneous. A last 
 imagining haunted him most vPvidly. His 
 loved ones would come early to look for him. 
 They had been coming down the road to meet 
 him of late, the wenther had been so fine and 
 the baby so well; and the most precious mo- 
 ments of his day were when he bore the little 
 fellow homeward on his broad shoulders 
 through the falling twilight. They would come 
 to-day to meet him; not finding him, they would 
 search. What then? The snake might still 
 be near. He marked the fresh coat, and knew 
 that the reptile was more dangerous than usual 
 because of it. If he might only warn them! 
 If they might only know of their peril, and 
 beware ! 
 
 He tried to think what rescuers had ever 
 
The Silent Champion 313 
 
 come to him out of silence. Surely there were 
 many. Love, prayers answered, the marvel- 
 ous secrets from the green, gigantic books of 
 nature — all these had come. But where was 
 now a champion to defend him? 
 
 The agony of his tortured mind was plainly 
 visible on his face, and the rattlesnake saw the 
 change. Tenser grew his body. The mon- 
 strous head drew back, flattening; the rattles 
 sang shrilly. And the man, his face bleak and 
 gray, praying brokenly for his wife and little 
 child, closed his eyes as if in death. 
 
 The rattles whirred wildly for a second; 
 then they ceased abruptly. There was a sound 
 of scaly movement. Tbi man's eyes unclosed, 
 and unclosed on an amazing sight. The great 
 rattlesnake, with an expression of positive 
 terror about the eyes and mouth, had dropped 
 swiftly from his coil. Now he glided furtively 
 by the man, never noticing him. Every motion 
 was a fearful one. No longer was he supreme; 
 cowed he was, and a fugitive. 
 
 The man guessed the rattlesnake's pursuer; 
 but because of the height of the bushes he did 
 not see him until he was quite near. With a 
 swift and rocking motion, a king-snake came 
 hot on the rattler's trail. His bright eyes 
 darted this way and that, glittering with the 
 
314 Old Plantation Days 
 
 fierce love of battle. Not a sound he made 
 as he sped onward. Silent and swift and sure, 
 he was as a very answer to prayer itself. 
 
 His size was not so great as that of the rat- 
 tlesnake, but his skin was far more beautiful. 
 Wide bands of pure black and white circled 
 the muscular lithe body, built for strangula- 
 tion; for that is his form of attack on the rat- 
 tler, one of his inveterate enemies. To man 
 he is harmless. 
 
 The speed of this silent champion was won- 
 derful. His graceful body swayed into curves 
 that shot him forward along the thin paths 
 through the underbrush. Near where the man 
 lay he paused momentarily, glanced curiously 
 at the pinioned form, and darted silently on. 
 
 Struggling backward, the woodsman worked 
 himself clear of the binding limb. He had a 
 very strange feeling as he stood up, as if he 
 were dead and risen again; but he knew that 
 he was safe. As his burning eyes swept the 
 near bushes, they caught sight of two flashing 
 bodies wrapped in gorgeous battle, swaying, 
 struggling, twisting, strangling. The great 
 thunderbolt had fallen upon the rattler, and 
 no rattler that ever grew would be a match 
 for him. 
 
 The woodsman ventured near and saw the 
 
The Silent Champion 315 
 
 end of the battle. In a few minutes the beau- 
 tiful demon with the tawny coat of black and 
 gold lay lifeless in the powerful coils of the 
 king-snake. 
 
 So the man came home safely, but for his 
 broken arm; the rattlesnake died in fair fight 
 with the king-snake, and the silent champion 
 had triumphed. 
 
 You would think that the woodsman might 
 never want to recall so terrible an experience, 
 but he does. Often he thinks of his peril and 
 of his deliverance, and he trusts wonderfully 
 and more and more in the great silent forces 
 that surround us — love, mercy, and prayer. 
 
XXVII 
 
 SHADRACH AND THE FIERY FURNACE 
 
 SOMETIMES the telephone line between 
 the cottonseed-oil mill and the superin- 
 tendent's house would not work; then 
 the great whistle on the mill would blare across 
 the marshy flats, calling raucously for the mas- 
 ter. It was not a pleasant summons, especially 
 in the dead of night. There were nervous peo- 
 ple living on the edge of town who declared 
 that they had been terrified into believing it 
 the trump of doom. But Charley Piollet, the 
 superintendent, knew that it meant no such fan- 
 tastic crisis; it was merely a leaky valve in one 
 of the cylinder-heads, or the misadjustment of 
 a linter, or, at worst, it might mean that one 
 of the negro workmen of the night-shift had 
 been injured. 
 
 It was two o'clock of a rainy January morn- 
 ing. Dead asleep lay Charleston. Gray mists 
 shut out the harbor, the two great rivers be- 
 tween whose arms the city slept, the brackish 
 marshes and mud-fields north of the town, on 
 which the black bulk of the mill loomed, and 
 
 316 
 
Shadrach and the Fieri/ Furnace 317 
 
 the dark, mighty forests to northward. Mists 
 and rain everywhere, bhirring the light, drip- 
 ping from wires and trees and houses, softly 
 curtaining the windows of the sleepers. It was 
 a night for heavy sleep; but Charley Fiollet 
 was awakened by the futile tinkling of the tele- 
 phone bell. It showed that some one was call- 
 ing him, but couldn't get the message through. 
 A moment later the muffled, long, husky shout 
 of the great whistle told its story. It was call- 
 ing for one out of all those who were sleeping. 
 
 Piollet slipped quickly out of bed. In five 
 minutes he was dressed. Fifteen minutes after 
 the whistle had blown, his little car drew up 
 before the mist-shrouded mill. The superin- 
 tendent's tall form bulked huge in the fog. He 
 strode into the office. , 
 
 "Well, Dave?" he asked quickly. 
 
 The night foreman was a negro, small and 
 brown and middle-aged. He personified faith- 
 fulness. He and Piollet together had run the 
 oil mill for twelve years; and between them 
 there was a perfect understanding that found 
 its expression in their mutual trust and good 
 will. 
 
 "I had some trouble with a man, sir," Dave 
 Mullin replied. "I couldn't exactly handle 
 him; and the other boys — I didn't want them 
 
318 Old Plantation Days 
 
 to get into It, Sorry to call you, Cap'n, but I 
 needed you." 
 
 "Who is this fellow? Is he white?" 
 "No, sir, he's colored. He's never been in 
 these parts before. He must have dropped off 
 an A. C. L. freight." 
 
 "What did he try on you, Dave?" 
 "He said he wanted a job in the mill at the 
 best figure we paid, and he wanted it in a 
 hurry. I told him to go on about his busi- 
 ness; but he began to stir up trouble among 
 the boys, asking them what they were getting, 
 and saying that they could get twice as much 
 in Mobile or Pittsburg or at Hog Island." 
 "Where's this walking delegate now?" 
 Piollct had slouched off his overcoat and was 
 drawing on his overalls. Then he fitted on his 
 head a tight little rubber cap. It pays to take 
 a few precautions when one is moving about 
 among the whirling belts, roaring linters, and 
 gurgling presses of an oil mill. 
 
 "He asked me if I was the boss," Dave went 
 on. "I told him I was just the night foreman. 
 Then he said he'd make the boss give him the 
 job he wanted the minute he came." 
 
 "Been drinking?" shot out Piollet, not sure 
 but that Dave had called him without much 
 reason. 
 
Shadrach and the Fiery Furnace 819 
 
 "Yes, sir. And, Cap'n," and the little 
 brown man came close, a light in his eyes that 
 showed both affection and apprehension, "I 
 ask you to be careful with that stranger. Take 
 your gun out of the safe, please, Cap'n," Dave 
 pleaded. "This man is a bad actor." 
 
 In his heart Dave Mullin had not a doubt 
 but that the man who stood before him could 
 give a good account of himself. Charlie Piol- 
 let had the height and the strength and the 
 courage. His huge shoulders, his massive 
 chest, his long and powerful arms, and his 
 broad, peculiarly masculine hands had not come 
 to him by chance. Living a hardy life and toil- 
 ing for years with machinery had made him 
 what he was. Moreover, the direct approach 
 he made to men and his straight steady way of 
 looking at them were steps toward mastering 
 even the most untractable of those with whom 
 he had to deal. Now, when his foreman, so- 
 licitous for his safety, mentioned the pistol, 
 Piollet began to smile deprecatingly. 
 
 "Dave, the company made me buy that 
 thing, but I never expect to use it. Come along 
 and see the fun. Where is this friend of 
 yours?" 
 
 Still protesting under his breath against Piol- 
 let's lack of caution, the foreman led the way 
 
320 Old Plantation Days 
 
 to the engine room. Down a long platform 
 they passed, where great windows opened on 
 the ceaseless activity of the oil mill. Through 
 one of these the superintendent's quick glance 
 saw, under the suffused light of the long room, 
 the gleaming bodies of half-naked negroes toil- 
 ing about the giant cookers. They had been 
 trained to work with machinery, and they had 
 learned that it would not wait for men to take 
 their time; therefore they moved about with an 
 ease and precision and good-natured timeliness 
 that was worth watching. From chutes that 
 ran across the mill, high up, the cotton seed 
 that had had its thorough grinding, was being 
 shunted into the cookers, passed out on the 
 pans, and straightway borne to the powerful 
 presses that received the huge, damp, warm 
 cakes and squeezed from them the lustrous oil. 
 Piollet noticed that the negroes were not sing- 
 ing as usual. They were on the job, but they 
 were thoughtful. As the two came to the door 
 of the engine room, Dave touched the superin- 
 tendent's arm. 
 
 "Yonder he is, Cap'n, leaning against that 
 window." 
 
 Charlie Piollet saw the negro, but he paid 
 no attention to him. What his trained eyes 
 saw was that there were more men in the room 
 
Shadrach and the Fiery Furnace 321 
 
 than was necessary. He asked a hulking 
 worker in no uncertain tones what he was doing 
 in the engine room when his place was with 
 the linters. He looked at a couple of gauges 
 on the big engine. He measured with an eye 
 of satisfaction the steady, rhythmic rocking of 
 the crank throws. Though he seemed preoccu- 
 pied, he was aware that all the negroes in the 
 room had their eyes upon him. Two of the 
 yard workmen had come up on the gangway 
 outside the open windows. Piollet could feel 
 that all of them were expecting something to 
 happen. They were not to be disappointed. 
 
 The burly stranger slouched over to the su- 
 perintendent. 
 
 "Is you the boss here?" he asked, with no 
 hint of deference. 
 
 Piollet looked him over slowly. The fellow 
 had been drinking. He wore a derby hat on 
 the back of his head. His baggy suit was in- 
 digo in color. His shoes were an angry red. 
 
 "What do you want?" Piollet asked. 
 
 "I wants a job what will pay me good 
 wages." 
 
 "What can you do?" 
 
 The negro realized that he was being over- 
 heard. 
 
 "Anything I wants to do," he said boldly. 
 
322 Old Plantation Days 
 
 "We can't make use of your kind here. We 
 handle machuiery, and we can't trust it to men 
 who drink. You can get out of the mill 
 through that door yonder." 
 
 He pointed with his thumb to one of the 
 exits, turning at the same time to continue the 
 examination of his engine. He opened an oil 
 cup, tapped a feed pump, and stooped down 
 to study the movements of one of the small 
 eccentrics. 
 
 It was not that PioUet would deny a man 
 work without good cause; nor was it because 
 the stranger looked forbidding. There was 
 Ben Jackson, the engineer of the cookers. 
 Piollet had taken him straight from the chain 
 gang. The superintendent had promised to 
 gave him a chance, and the man had made good, 
 but Ben had not approached him as this man 
 had. Piollet demanded respect from every 
 man under him, a respect so natural that a man 
 would show it even when drunk. He felt that 
 he had no place for this kind of fellow. 
 
 Yet the stranger evidently thought so, for 
 he had not moved from his tracks since he had 
 been shown where the door was. He stood 
 in what might be described as a threatening 
 manner over Piollet. Dave MuUin had come 
 near. Tt was evident that Dave was excited. 
 
Shadrach and the Fiery Furnace 323 
 
 Though the men in the room pretended to be 
 doing their work, they watched the scene in- 
 tently. 
 
 It was a curious crowd that Piollet had to 
 handle in that mill. There was hardly a man 
 there to whom he had not shown some per- 
 sonal favor; supplying this one with medicine, 
 showing that one how to start a savings ac- 
 count, and giving another clothes that were 
 sorely needed. They loved Piollet and feared 
 him, but it was in their nature, since they were 
 intensely human, always to be eager to accept 
 any suggestion of respite from toil, or to listen 
 to talk about better wages. Since this was so, 
 they were not wholly out of sympathy with the 
 truculent figure who was refusing Charlie Piol- 
 let's invitation to withdraw. 
 
 Piollet knew something about elementary 
 psychology. He knew that his men were ex- 
 pecting him to eject the stranger without any 
 assistance from them. They would give it if 
 he called; but it should not be necessary for 
 the man who had ruled them with a sense of his 
 superiority to need them now. Piollet knew 
 what the situation required. As he stood up 
 from examining the engine he let his eye rest 
 with cold surprise on the huge negro. 
 
324 Old Plantation Days 
 
 "Have you come back?" he asked. 
 "Couldn't you find your way out?" 
 
 "I hain't never gone. I wants my rights." 
 He ended this declaration with an oath. 
 
 "I've got a job for you," said PioUet sud- 
 denly. "Come with me," 
 
 The superintendent led the way through the 
 door to which he had a few moments before 
 pointed. Every eye in the engine room was 
 on the pair. The clanking of the great engine 
 and even the oily hissing of the presses in the 
 next room were more distinct as a hush came 
 over the men. Just outside the door the gang- 
 way was widened into a platform on which the 
 cotton seed was dumped from the cars, before 
 being relayed to the seed room. When they 
 had come out on this platform, Charlie Piollet 
 paused. 
 
 "Now, stranger," he said in a matter-of-fact 
 tone, "you are trespassing on the property of 
 this mill. There are two ways for you to leave 
 this private place. One is along the gangway 
 there, and down the road through the mill gate. 
 The other is off the edge of the platform here. 
 Take your choice, but be quick about it." 
 
 "But where's the job? You can't fool with 
 me like this, mister." 
 
Shadrach and the Fiery Furnace 325 
 
 "Your job, stranger, is to clear out or to 
 whip me." 
 
 "I ain't gwine. You has got to — " 
 
 What followed can best be described by say- 
 ing that it was an impact. There was a mo- 
 ment of furious struggle. There was a throng- 
 ing of negro workmen toward the the platform. 
 Little Dave MuUin was closest to the two men. 
 Suddenly they broke apart; then like sleight- 
 of-hand work a burly form was lifted high 
 and hurled off into the dripping fog. It fell 
 heavily on the railroad tracks below. There in 
 the rain it lay still. 
 
 Charlie PioUet, though his great shoulders 
 were heaving slightly, walked back, unper- 
 turbed, into the engine room. He spoke 
 brusquely, yet not without a certain kindness, to 
 those whom he saw away from their posts. He 
 passed over to one of the presses, dipped a 
 finger into the oil bubbling over the grates, 
 and tasted it. 
 
 "Cooker's too hot, Fred," he said to the 
 pressman. "That cake was scorched." 
 
 Suddenly he was aware of Dave at his el- 
 bow. 
 
 "Cap'n," — and the night foreman was apolo- 
 getic — "dat man ain't done moved yet — dat 
 man you done kill." 
 
326 Old riantation Days 
 
 "Go down, Dave, and take him out to the 
 gate. If he is really hurt, I want to know. 
 My object was not to injure the fellow, but 
 simply to get rid of him." 
 
 Dave Mullin went about the task assigned; 
 and Piollct went over into the room where the 
 huge cookers were steaming fragrantly. 
 
 "Too hot, Ben," he said. "Ease her oflf a 
 bit. Last cakes were a little scorched. How's 
 that sick boy of yours?" 
 
 The giant black engineer eased off the steam 
 with the skill of a born mechanic. 
 
 "Better, Cap'n, some better. The medicine 
 you bring him done him good. And I's much 
 obliged to you, Cap'n, for the pig you done send 
 me. Yes, sir," he ended impotently, being un- 
 skilful in the matter of giving thanks with the 
 lips. 
 
 A few minutes later, as Piollet was. stripping 
 off his overalls in the smoky mill ollice, Dave 
 entered. 
 
 "Well, Dave, was he able to navigate?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Cap'n," chuckled the little man, 
 "he can cruise 'bout considerable. He's done 
 gone out the gate now. He §ays he's gwine 
 back Mobile." 
 
 The telephone that seemed forever wanting 
 the superintendent, sometimes gave him long 
 
Shadrach and the Fiery Furnace 327 
 
 distance. Charlie Piollet had hardly finished 
 his breakfast at home that morning before a 
 call came for him from the mill in Sumter. 
 
 "Hello, Piollet," sounded the voice from the 
 sister mill nearly a hundred miles away, "we'd 
 like you to run up this morning. We can't get 
 our new shredders on the linters to work, and 
 we know you have yours adjusted. Can you 
 come? Yes. You can get here at 11.40. 
 How long will it take? I can't tell exactly. 
 We are all balled up on the thing. Yours is 
 the only mill in the district that has these new 
 things working. You'll come, then? Good! 
 I'll meet you." 
 
 Noon of that day found Piollet in the Sum- 
 ter mill. His adjustments there, that set the 
 glittering new type of shredders merrily whirl- 
 ing, chewing with frantic haste and human in- 
 telligence the last vestige of lint from the 
 cotton seeds, were no sooner completed than a 
 day letter was handed him. It was from the 
 company's central office in Atlanta. 
 
 "Visit all mills in your district," it ran, "for 
 purpose of establishing new linter system. 
 Harland takes charge until your return to 
 Charleston. Be sure to include Florence, Dar- 
 lington, Columbia, Bennettsville, and Orange- 
 
328 Old Plantation Days 
 
 burg. Stay with each mill until sure shredders 
 working well. Wire us as you get each started 
 right." 
 
 It was two weeks before he was back in 
 Charleston. 
 
 He reached the city at nine o'clock at night; 
 but before thinking of going to bed he ran out 
 to the mill in his car, interviewed Dave, took 
 a careful and fond look at the huge, pulsating 
 engine, and greeted the boys singing at their 
 work. 
 
 "Call me if you need me, Dave," he said on 
 leaving. "The whistle gets me better than the 
 'phone." 
 
 But when the great whistle began to shriek 
 and call, shortly after midnight, the superin- 
 tendent woke slowly to a realization of the 
 meaning of the clamorous voice. 
 
 "Trouble again," he muttered. "I believe 
 Dave's getting nervous." 
 
 If, however, he had been dubious of the 
 necessity for the night foreman's call, all doubt 
 was dissipated when he got his car on the road 
 for the mill. Far across the marsh-flats he 
 saw a strange red glow. 
 
 "Fire ! and at my mill !" he exclaimed, giving 
 his motor full power. 
 
Shadrach and the Fiery Furnace 329 
 
 His car flew along the flat road, dashed down 
 the shell driveway of the mill yard, and drew 
 up suddenly. Piollet sprang out. 
 
 Running down the gangway, he was met by 
 groups of frightened negroes hurrying in the 
 opposite direction. One of these he caught by 
 the arm. 
 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 'In the seed house, sir. We'se gwine for 
 water." 
 
 Dashing through the engine room Piollet 
 came to the open doors of the vast room known 
 as the "seed house," where all the incoming 
 cotton seed was piled. Within it was a roaring 
 furnace. The pine flooring, the unlinted cot- 
 ton, the stacks of bags — everything was aflame. 
 
 "The sprinklers!" Piollet shouted to Dave 
 MuUin who, standing at the head of a line of 
 negroes, was dashing bucket after bucket of 
 water futilely on the hungry fringes of the 
 flames. 
 
 "Something's jammed, sir!" Dave shouted 
 back chokingly through the smoke. "The 
 sprinklers won't work!" He shook his head 
 for emphasis as he was forced to retreat from 
 the terrific heat. 
 
 The huge tank above the mill had been de- 
 signed to serve just such an emergency as this. 
 
330 Old Plantation Days 
 
 It was full of water waiting to be released. 
 The sprinklers were set to extinguish just such 
 a fire as this. Charlie Piollet jerked with 
 shrewd haste at the releasing chain-ends. He 
 knew too much about machinery to try to force 
 his will upon it. The chains would not budge. 
 Something had locked the apparatus. Charlie 
 saw that no bucket line could ever stop such a 
 fire. Already the energy of the men was abat- 
 ing. From the seed-house the flames would 
 roar on to the mill proper, devouring all in its 
 path. The great tanks close by held nearly 
 60,000 gallons of oil, the product of months 
 of work by the mill. The heat of such a fire 
 might mean disaster to them. 
 
 Turning from his hopeless tinkering with the 
 chains, Piollet beckoned to Dave. 
 
 "I'm going up," he said to the negro who 
 had reached his side, at the same time point- 
 ing to the sprinkler rods that ran along the 
 floor beams over their heads. "Something's 
 jammed. I'm going up to get it loose." 
 
 The foreman began to protest, but Piol- 
 let was already halfway up. His powerful 
 arms drew him up swiftly and surely. He 
 pulled himself over a beam, his hand gripping 
 the sprinkler rod. The smoke was stifling. 
 Sparks and suffocating waves of heat swiftly 
 
ShadracJi and the Fiery Furnace 331 
 
 thronged into his face. But he felt his way 
 on. Now he was over the fire itself. Behind 
 him and below him he could see the upturned 
 faces of the terrified workmen. He came to 
 where a set of cogs controlled the rods. He 
 could hardly see them, but he knew all about 
 them. Feverishly his great intelligent hands 
 ran over them. Something had told him that 
 the trouble was here. It was. Piollet's fingers 
 felt a foreign object. It was a crooked twelve- 
 penny nail. Dropping from a rafter, or per- 
 haps tossed up by the engine belt, it had found 
 lodgment in the cogs, blocking the action of 
 the sprinklers. 
 
 The man jerked out the nail. Dimly he 
 could see Dave MuUin through the red glare. 
 He motioned violently for the foreman to pull 
 down on the chains. He shouted, motioning 
 again. He reeled, clutched for a beam; but 
 the smoke blinded him. He missed it, his 
 strong hand closing convulsively on air. 
 Swooning he fell into the crimson maw of the 
 fire. After him came the water, sufl'icient to 
 curb the fire slowly, send pufi^s of steam hissing 
 toward the roof, to put it out at last; but not 
 sufficient to save Charlie Piollet. 
 
 Yet it was Charlie Piollet, the same and not 
 
332 Old Plantation Days 
 
 the same, who, three weeks later, put out a 
 hand from a hospital cot and greeted little 
 Dave Mullin who had tiptoed fearfully down 
 the big white room. 
 
 Their talk could be of but one thing: the 
 fire at the mill. 
 
 "Tell me all about it, Dave. You see, I 
 don't even know how it started." 
 
 In his quaint way, Dave gave the superin- 
 tendent a full account, ending with a reassur- 
 ing, "She's running about as usual, about as 
 well as she ever runs when you're away." 
 
 Piollet, whose strength had not as yet come 
 back to him, began to feel drowsy. 
 
 "By the way, Dave," he asked, "how did 
 you boys get me out of that place? I thought 
 I saw Ben Jackson's face — " 
 
 The papers, at the time of the fire, had been 
 full of the story of the rescue of the superin- 
 tendent from the flames by the daring of one 
 of the negro workmen; but Piollet knew noth- 
 ing of it. 
 
 "We didn't do it, Cap'n, nor Ben neither. 
 It was that Shadrach." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "That new man that Mr. Harland done take 
 on while you was away to Sumter." 
 
Shadracli and the Fiery Furnace 333 
 
 ''Strange he should risk his life to save me 
 when he didn't even know me," PioUet said 
 drowsily. 
 
 "He done know you, Cap'n! He tell me 
 he wouldn't work for no other man in the 
 world but you. Ain't you know him now, 
 Cap'n? He is dat man — dat same man you 
 done kill." 
 
XXVIII 
 
 MARGIE HAS A MAN 
 
 ERIC PETERSEN, his wife, Margie, 
 and their five small children had taken 
 refuge in the tower of the lighthouse. 
 
 "A bad blow, and for sure, Eric," said Mar- 
 gie as, with four of her little ones clinging 
 about her and her baby held in her arms, she 
 looked anxiously through the narrow light- 
 house window. 
 
 Below, huddled against the storm, was the 
 tiny trim house they had been forced to leave. 
 Margie did not fear much for their own safety 
 in the stanch tower, but it was a question 
 whether their little house could withstand the 
 frightful impact of this terrific gale. 
 
 "A bad blow, yes," Eric agreed; "but here 
 we are safe, and I am where I can light the 
 light. The home, too, will be there when the 
 storm is gone," he added reassuringly. 
 
 Yet there was trouble in his deep-set gray 
 eyes. He had been through too many storms 
 not to have acquired respect for them. 
 
 They were standing on the second floor of 
 
 334 
 
Margie Has a Man 335 
 
 the lighthouse, twenty feet from the ground. 
 By turns the keeper of the light held his chil- 
 dren up to the window to see the wild grandeur 
 of the gale. During the few hours that they 
 had been in their strong refuge, the fury of the 
 hurricane had greatly increased. 
 
 There was little to see except rain driving 
 madly by. It did not seem to fall; it shot past 
 the window horizontally. Beneath its stream- 
 ing veil the white house of the keeper gleamed 
 pallidly. It stood now in the water; for the 
 swiftly rising tide had submerged all the 
 island. The myrtles, the only trees on the 
 small Island, were blurred and indistinct, though 
 now and then, like drowning creatures, they 
 tossed their dark wild arms despairingly. The 
 vast sea marshes, stretching away behind the 
 island, were shrouded and lost. Only the light- 
 house stood firm and impassive; it was an out- 
 post that could escape no storm, and it had 
 been built to stand against them all. Eric 
 Petersen knew what he was saying when he 
 told his wife that they would be safe In the 
 tower. 
 
 "Mother, shall we have to swim?" little 
 Margie asked. To swim was as yet one of her 
 unrealized ambitions, and the opportunity to 
 achieve It now appeared to her to be good. 
 
336 Old Plantation Days 
 
 "I hope not," the mother replied and put her 
 hand on the child's head. 
 
 At that moment, as if to shatter the hope 
 thus expressed, the lighthouse trembled wildly. 
 Then quickly followed a succession of shocks 
 as if some tremendous ram were driving with 
 insane malice against the structure. 
 
 "An earthquake, Eric!" Margie Petersen ex- 
 claimed. "There was one here before our 
 time," she added. 
 
 The keeper did not answer. He ran over 
 to the window on the seaward side of the tower 
 and peered down through the blinding storm. 
 His gaze was fixed for some moments, and his 
 wife joined him. Presently he drew her to the 
 window and pointed. 
 
 "See it, Margie?" he cried. " 'Tis no earth- 
 quake, but 'tis something to batter down our 
 tower." 
 
 "I see a dark shape," the woman answered. 
 "It is floating. It drives against the tower. 
 Oh, Eric, what is it? It looks Hke the big 
 sperm whale we saw ten years ago in mid-ocean 
 when we came over from Copenhagen." 
 
 "You remember the big cypress log I caught 
 drifting — the fine timber that had come down 
 to sea from the river back in the mainland?" 
 
 "Yes, and sure; it lay out on the beach 
 
Margie Has a Man 337 
 
 in the sunshine. The children played on it." 
 "And when they slipped over its butt end, 
 they slipped six feet to the ground. 'Tis a 
 monster of a log. I had it tied with a section 
 of steel cable. The tide has lifted it out of 
 the sand and has swung it round so that its butt 
 end now points landward. The cable is just 
 about long enough to let the log reach us. 
 Whenever the storm gets the monster lined 
 right, it rams us. There it comes now, Mar- 
 gie." 
 
 The solid tower shook. 
 
 "She was not built to stand that," the man 
 said gravely. "I see a job for me." 
 
 "Oh, Eric, what can you do? You will not 
 go out into the storm? Sure, Eric, and the log 
 will break loose and float away." 
 
 "I tied it just so a storm like this couldn't 
 steal it away from me," the keeper replied. 
 "But you — what will you do?" 
 "I will go out and untie it," he answered 
 quietly. 
 
 "You go, Eric?" the woman said slowly, as 
 if in a vision she had divined his fate. "But 
 you will not come back. You will go and leave 
 us." 
 
 "Margie, I am the keeper," was Petersen's 
 reply, "just the same in fair weather as in foul. 
 
338 Old Plantation Daijs 
 
 I've got to save the tower, and I've got to 
 save you and our children, too." 
 
 He looked straight into her eyes as he was 
 speaking. They had in life looked too deeply 
 into each other's eyes not to see there light for 
 all guidance. 
 
 "You got a duty, Eric. Kiss me, and go." 
 
 The keeper took a brief farewell of his wife 
 and little ones. 
 
 "You can watch me," he said. 
 
 "Eric! Eric!" cried his wife suddenly. "A 
 rope! I tie a rope to you and hold it here." 
 
 The keeper, who was taking off his coat and 
 shoes, paused to smile at his wife. 
 
 "You and I cleaned the tower last week, 
 Margie," he reminded her. " 'AH this old 
 rope, Eric, it must be taken to the woodshed.' " 
 He quoted her, laughing and mimicking her 
 tone, and made the children laugh. "Not a 
 foot of rope in the tower,'' he went on. "Now, 
 I go." 
 
 He drew his wife closer to the seaward win- 
 dow. 
 
 "I drop down," he explained; "the water's 
 nine feet deep now; high tide and storm, too. 
 I climb along the log. I loose the cable." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "I swim to the tower steps on the lee side." 
 
Margie Has a Man 339 
 
 His voice was full of assurance; but in his eyes, 
 which always spoke the truth, there was a 
 doubt. 
 
 "Margie," he said to his little daughter, 
 "somebody is going to swim." 
 
 The ready smile for the child died on his 
 bronzed face as the huge ram smote the tower 
 a thunderous blow. From the great air shaft 
 of the tower there came the tinkling sound of 
 breaking glass. 
 
 "The light!" exclaimed Margie. 
 
 "One mirror, maybe," her husband admitted. 
 "But most likely the big shade. Stand back 
 from the window." 
 
 While his wife and children took shelter 
 against the curved wall of the tower, the man 
 threw up the narrow sash. The hurricane 
 rushed in, and he had to fight to make his way 
 against it. He reached the sill, with the wild 
 wind screaming in his face; then, turning cau- 
 tiously, he let himself down outside the tower. 
 There he hung by his hands. Behind him Mar- 
 gie closed down the sash. He was alone in 
 the storm. 
 
 It was an eleven-foot drop into the surging 
 waters below that charged against the tower, 
 broke against it and rushed onward in furious 
 
340 Old Plantation Days 
 
 vehemence. The keeper had not only to drop 
 into that storm of water; he had to fall near 
 enough to the log to catch it, yet in such a 
 position that it would not crush him against 
 the tower wall. Hanging for a moment in the 
 gale, he waited his chance. 
 
 "I'll drop to the end of it the second after it 
 strikes!" he muttered. 
 
 The wild rain drove fiercely against him; 
 the wind tore at his clothes and sent his shock 
 of auburn hair streaming over his eyes. The 
 corded muscles of his arms bulged under the 
 tension. He wai-ted, watching. 
 
 The monstrous bulk of the log swung in the 
 tide. It bumped the lighthouse shaft with lit- 
 tle force. But its recoil withdrew it against a 
 huge oncoming wave. The enormous rolling 
 cylinder of water arrested the ram, poised it 
 and drove it with massive strength against the 
 tower. Even above the incessant roar of the 
 hurricane the keeper heard the dull grinding 
 of stone and mortar; but as, a moment later, 
 he clung to the cypress upon which he had 
 dropped, his half-blinded eyes were not pre- 
 pared for what he saw: a great gaping hole 
 driven clear through the wall of the lighthouse ! 
 Through this breach a storm of salt water was 
 
Margie Has a Man 341 
 
 rushing in mad triumph; and as Petersen lay 
 on the tree trunk, he felt the vast bulk with- 
 drawing for another attack. 
 
 "Two more like that last one," he said, "and 
 in goes the whole side of the tower. The wall 
 is breached — if I'm too late — " 
 
 His face was grim as he turned on the roll- 
 ing cypress, clinging with hands and feet to its 
 slippery bulk. The coursing waves ran over 
 it, plunged clear across it, sped with fearful 
 haste along its length, lifted it high only to 
 buffet it and sank it as if to drown it. At no 
 time was its back wholly out of water, and its 
 lone rider went under with it. Once Petersen 
 glanced upward at the window above; but he 
 could see nothing except a blur of spume against 
 the glass. Yet Margie, gazing downward, saw 
 him and what he did. 
 
 With waves breaking over him, Eric Peter- 
 sen fought his way along the perilous length of 
 the log. Its vast bulk wallowed, reeled, rolled, 
 turned, sank and rose. The man clinging val- 
 iantly to it had two cares: to keep his hold and 
 to advance. If he did not advance, the relent- 
 less battering ram would complete its work of 
 destruction; if he lost his hold, he would lose 
 his game, and the game of life as well. Lying 
 almost flat, he pulled himself painfully toward 
 
342 Old Plantation Days 
 
 the place where the cable had been made fast 
 in the log. 
 
 At last he came to the end of the steel haw- 
 ser, pulled through the heavy galvanized ring 
 that was held in place by a huge screw eye 
 such as the lumbermen of the Southern rivers 
 sometimes use. The keeper sat up on the log; 
 grasping the eye of the screw with one hand, 
 he worked with the other at the cable. When 
 he had, a month before, deftly fastened the 
 cable to the great timber he little thought that 
 in such a crisis as this he would be struggling 
 to unloose it. 
 
 It was hard for Margie to see him, now that 
 he was at the far end of the log. But she could 
 discern him dimly and fitfully. A.sudden great 
 pride in her husband made her lift her children, 
 one by one, to the streaming window. 
 Whether they saw, she could not tell; but she 
 made sure that they heard and understood 
 what she said. To each one, as she pointed out 
 into the storm, she said : 
 
 "To save us and to save his tower, your fa- 
 ther is gone out there. For a father, you got 
 a man." 
 
 The last child had been lifted. Margie's 
 anxious eyes were fixed on the huge storm- 
 shrouded cypress. Suddenly she saw its mon- 
 
Margie Has a Man 343 
 
 strous bulk, which had poised itself for another 
 heavy thrust at the tower, turn slowly away. 
 It was swinging in the tide. It was rolling 
 over and over. The waves at last had their 
 will with it. It was at the mercy of the storm. 
 But the figure of the man was no longer visible. 
 Somewhere in that gray maelstrom of waters 
 he must be struggling. The log passed from 
 sight, hurrying off under the blind smother of 
 the storm. 
 
 A minute passed, then another. Margie's 
 heart beat sickly. The children were aware of 
 her terror and clung to her. She knew not how 
 to comfort them. Leaving them in a pathetic 
 group, she went toward the tower stairs. 
 Downward she looked, along the steel shaft. 
 The bottom of the tower was full of water. 
 The storm howled up at her insolently with 
 brutal mockery. 
 
 Margie looked back at the children. Then 
 she gazed downward again. Suddenly out of 
 the surging water within the tower a form ap- 
 peared; a voice called to her. Though her 
 senses reeled, she saw and understood. 
 
 "Don't come down!" the voice warned her. 
 "Deep water here. I come to you." 
 
 In another minute the keeper of the light 
 was with his family. 
 
344 Old Plantation Days 
 
 "You are safe, Eric, you are safe," was all 
 Margie could say. 
 
 "You lost sight of me," he answered. "I 
 know. I had to swim under water to the 
 tower. Not so stormy as on top," he added, 
 trying to smile at his children. "I had to 
 swim, little Margie." 
 
 A week later, Avhen people from the main- 
 land had begun to visit the lighthouse island 
 to see the damage wrought by the storm, many 
 of them spoke to Margie Petersen of her hus- 
 band and of his deed. She, having a great 
 heart but few and simple words, would say, 
 happily smiling, "I got a man." 
 
 But there was no need for any words; for 
 the light in her eyes was love. 
 
 
 »' 
 
 1A 
 
b>v. 
 
 ^ '%. 
 
 
 

 • -^^ a'«' ♦V 
 
 ^^-^K 
 
 K* "Tj^ a* ♦ 
 
 
 9^ ^^'\ ''^W/ /\ 
 
 /"^'j^^X. ^°/^i-"- ./*:ri!^^\ < 
 
 
 ^.^lliL^* 
 
 i^"^^ 
 
 
 
 V'O' 
 
 
 
 
 
 .♦^•V 
 ^ ^ 
 
 
 
 
 if bookbjndinc ■ 
 
 '■ CnniviUe Pa H 
 ^1 Jsfi feb 1989 ■ 
 
 > V.^^" ^'