There was no church proper in Jubilee. On Sundays, the people, who were generally Baptists, assembled in the schoolroom, where services were conducted by a brother who had “de gif’ ob preachin’,” and who poured forth a flood of Scripture phrases with a volubility, incoherence, and earnestness alike extraordinary. Presbyterian David attended these services, not only for the sake of example, but also because he steadfastly believed in “the public assembling of ourselves together for the worship of Almighty God.”
“Perhaps they understand him,” he thought, noting the rapt black faces, “and I, at least, have no right to judge them—I, who, with all the lights I have had, still find myself unable to grasp the great doctrine of Election.” For David had been bred in Calvinism, and many a night, when younger and more hopeful of arriving at finalities, had he wrestled with its problems. He was not so sure, now, of arriving at finalities either in belief or in daily life; but he thought the fault lay with himself, and deplored it.
The Yankee schoolmaster was, of course, debarred from intercourse with those of his own color in the neighborhood. There were no “poor whites” there; he was spared the sight of their long, clay-colored faces, lank yellow hair, and half-open mouths; he was not brought into contact with the ignorance and dense self-conceit of this singular class. The whites of the neighborhood were planters, and they regarded the schoolmaster as an interloper, a fanatic, a knave, or a fool, according to their various degrees of bitterness. The phantom of a cotton-field still haunted the master, and he often walked by the abandoned fields of these planters, and noted them carefully. In addition to his fancy, there was now another motive. Things were not going well at Jubilee, and he was anxious to try whether the men would not work for good wages, paid regularly, and for their Northern teacher and friend. Thus it happened that Harnett Ammerton, retired planter, one afternoon perceived a stranger walking up the avenue that led to his dilapidated mansion; and as he was near-sighted, and as any visitor was, besides, a welcome interruption in his dull day, he went out upon the piazza to meet him; and not until he had offered a chair did he recognize his guest. He said nothing; for he was in his own house; but a gentleman can freeze the atmosphere around him even in his own house, and this he did. The schoolmaster stated his errand simply: he wished to rent one of the abandoned cotton-fields for a year. The planter could have answered with satisfaction that his fields might lie for ever untilled before Yankee hands should touch them; but he was a poor man now, and money was money. He endured his visitor, and he rented his field; and, with the perplexed feelings of his class, he asked himself how it was, how it could be, that a man like that—yes, like that—had money, while he himself had none! David had but little money—a mere handful to throw away in a day, the planter would have thought in the lavish old times; but David had the New England thrift.
“I am hoping that the unemployed hands over at Jubilee will cultivate this field for me,” he said—“for fair wages, of course. I know nothing of cotton myself.”
“You will be disappointed,” said the planter.
“But they must live; they must lay up something for the winter.”
“They do not know enough to live. They might exist, perhaps, in Africa, as the rest of their race exists; but here, in this colder climate, they must be taken care of, worked, and fed, as we work and feed our horses—precisely in the same way.”
“I can not agree with you,” replied David, a color rising in his thin face. “They are idle and shiftless, I acknowledge that; but is it not the natural result of generations of servitude and ignorance?”
“They have not capacity for anything save ignorance.”
“You do not know then, perhaps, that I—that I am trying to educate those who are over at Jubilee,” said David. There was no aggressive confidence in his voice; he knew that he had accomplished little as yet. He looked wistfully at his host as he spoke.
Harnett Ammerton was a born patrician. Poor, homely, awkward David felt this in every nerve as he sat there; for he loved beauty in spite of himself, and in spite of his belief that it was a tendency of the old Adam. (Old Adam has such nice things to bother his descendants with; almost a monopoly, if we are to believe some creeds.) So now David tried not to be influenced by the fine face before him, and steadfastly went on to sow a little seed, if possible, even upon this prejudiced ground.
“I have a school over there,” he said.
“I have heard something of the kind, I believe,” replied the old planter, as though Jubilee Town were a thousand miles away, instead of a blot upon his own border. “May I ask how you are succeeding?”
There was a fine irony in the question. David felt it, but replied courageously that success, he hoped, would come in time.
“And I, young man, hope that it will never come! The negro with power in his hand, which you have given him, with a little smattering of knowledge in his shallow, crafty brain—a knowledge which you and your kind are now striving to give him—will become an element of more danger in this land than it has ever known before. You Northerners do not understand the blacks. They are an inferior race by nature; God made them so. And God forgive those (although I never can) who have placed them over us—yes, virtually over us, their former masters—poor ignorant creatures!”
At this instant an old negro came up the steps with an armful of wood, and the eye of the Northerner noted (was forced to note) the contrast. There sat the planter, his head crowned with silver hair, his finely chiseled face glowing with the warmth of his indignant words; and there passed the old slave, bent and black, his low forehead and broad animal features seeming to typify scarcely more intelligence than that of the dog that followed him. The planter spoke to the servant in his kindly way as he passed, and the old black face lighted with pleasure. This, too, the schoolmaster’s sensitive mind noted: none of his pupils looked at him with anything like that affection. “But it is right they should be freed—it is right,” he said to himself as he walked back to Jubilee; “and to that belief will I cling as long as I have my being. It is right.” And then he came into Jubilee, and found three of his freedmen drunk and quarreling in the street.
Heretofore the settlement, poor and forlorn as it was, had escaped the curse of drunkenness. No liquor was sold in the vicinity, and David had succeeded in keeping his scholars from wandering aimlessly about the country from place to place—often the first use the blacks made of their freedom. Jubilee did not go to the liquor; but, at last, the liquor had come to Jubilee. Shall they not have all rights and privileges, these new-born citizens of ours? The bringer of these doctrines, and of the fluids to moisten them, was a white man, one of that class which has gone down on the page of American history, knighted with the initials C. B. “The Captain” the negroes called him; and he was highly popular already, three hours of the Captain being worth three weeks of David, as far as familiarity went. The man was a glib-tongued, smartly dressed fellow, well supplied with money; and his errand was, of course, to influence the votes at the next election. David, meanwhile, had so carefully kept all talk of politics from his scholars that they hardly knew that an election was near. It became now a contest between the two higher intelligences. If the schoolmaster had but won the easily won and strong affections of his pupils! But, in all those months, he had gained only a dutiful attention. They did not even respect him as they had respected their old masters, and the cause (poor David!) was that very thrift and industry which he relied upon as an example.
“Ole Mars Ammerton wouldn’t wash his dishes ef dey was nebber washed,” confided Maum June to Elsy, as they caught sight of David’s shining pans.
The schoolmaster could have had a retinue of servants for a small price, or no price at all; but, to tell a truth which he never told, he could not endure them about him.
“I must have one spot to myself,” he said feverishly, after he had labored all day among them, teaching, correcting untidy ways, administering s
imple medicines, or binding up a bruised foot. But he never dreamed that this very isolation of his personality, this very thrift, were daily robbing him of the influence which he so earnestly longed to possess. In New England every man’s house was his castle, and every man’s hands were thrifty. He forgot the easy familiarity, the lordly ways, the crowded households, and the royal carelessness to which the slaves had always been accustomed in their old masters’ homes.
At first the Captain attempted intimacy.
“No reason why you and me shouldn’t work together,” he said with a confidential wink. “This thing’s being done all over the South, and easy done, too. Now’s the time for smart chaps like us—‘transition,’ you know. The old Southerners are mad, and won’t come forward, so we’ll just sail in and have a few years of it. When they’re ready to come back—why, we’ll give ’em up the place again, of course, if our pockets are well lined. Come, now, just acknowledge that the negroes have got to have somebody to lead ’em.”
“It shall not be such as you,” said David indignantly. “See those two men quarreling; that is the work of the liquor you have given them!”
“They’ve as good a right to their liquor as other men have,” replied the Captain carelessly; “and that’s what I tell ’em; they ain’t slaves now—they’re free. Well, boss, sorry you don’t like my idees, but can’t help it; must go ahead. Remember, I offered you a chance, and you would not take it. Morning.”
The five months had grown into six and seven, and Jubilee Town was known far and wide as a dangerous and disorderly neighborhood. The old people and the children still came to school, but the young men and boys had deserted in a body. The schoolmaster’s cotton-field was neglected; he did a little there himself every day, but the work was novel, and his attempts were awkward and slow. One afternoon Harnett Ammerton rode by on horseback; the road passed near the angle of the field where the schoolmaster was at work.
“How is your experiment succeeding?” said the planter, with a little smile of amused scorn as he saw the lonely figure.
“Not very well,” replied David.
He paused and looked up earnestly into the planter’s face. Here was a man who had lived among the blacks all his life, and knew them: if he would but give honest advice! The schoolmaster was sorely troubled that afternoon. Should he speak? He would at least try.
“Mr. Ammerton,” he said, “do you intend to vote at the approaching election?”
“No,” replied the planter; “nor any person of my acquaintance.”
“Then incompetent, and, I fear, evil-minded men will be put into office.”
“Of course—the certain result of negro voting.”
“But if you, sir, and the class to which you belong, would exert yourselves, I am inclined to think much might be done. The breach will only grow broader every year; act now, while you have still influence left.”
“Then you think that we have influence?” said the planter.
He was curious concerning the ideas of this man, who, although not like the typical Yankee exactly, was yet plainly a fanatic; while as to dress and air—why, Zip, his old valet, had more polish.
“I know at least that I have none,” said David. Then he came a step nearer. “Do you think, sir,” he began slowly, “that I have gone to work in the wrong way? Would it have been wiser to have obtained some post of authority over them—the office of justice of the peace, for instance, with power of arrest?”
“I know nothing about it,” said the planter curtly, touching his horse with his whip and riding on. He had no intention of stopping to discuss ways and means with an abolition schoolmaster!
Things grew from bad to worse at Jubilee. Most of the men had been field-hands; there was but little intelligence among them. The few bright minds among David’s pupils caught the specious arguments of the Captain, and repeated them to the others. The Captain explained how much power they held; the Captain laid before them glittering plans; the Captain said that by good rights each family ought to have a plantation to repay them for their years of enforced labor; the Captain promised them a four-story brick college for their boys, which was more than King David had ever promised, teacher though he was. They found out that they were tired of King David and his narrow talk; and they went over to Hildore Corners, where a new store had been opened, which contained, among other novelties, a bar. This was one of the Captain’s benefactions. “If you pay your money for it, you’ve as good a right to your liquor as any one, I guess,” he observed. “Not that it’s anything to me, of course; but I allow I like to see fair play!”
It was something to him, however: the new store had a silent partner; and this was but one of many small and silent enterprises in which he was engaged throughout the neighborhood.
The women of Jubilee, more faithful than the men, still sent their children to school; but they did it with discouraged hearts, poor things! Often now they were seen with bandaged heads and bruised bodies, the result of drunken blows from husband or brother; and, left alone, they were obliged to labor all day to get the poor food they ate, and to keep clothes on their children. Patient by nature, they lived along as best they could, and toiled in their small fields like horses; but the little prides, the vague, grotesque aspirations and hopes that had come to them with their freedom, gradually faded away. “A blue-painted front do’,” “a black-silk apron with red ribbons,” “to make a minister of little Job,” and “a real crock’ry pitcher,” were wishes unspoken now. The thing was only how to live from day to day, and keep the patched clothes together. In the mean while trashy finery was sold at the new store, and the younger girls wore gilt ear-rings.
The master, toiling on at his vain task, was at his wit’s end. “They will not work; before long they must steal,” he said. He brooded and thought, and at last one morning he came to a decision. The same day in the afternoon he set out for Hildore Corners. He had thought of a plan. As he was walking rapidly through the pine-woods Harnett Ammerton on horseback passed him. This time the Northerner had no questions to ask—nay, he almost hung his head, so ashamed was he of the reputation that had attached itself to the field of his labors. But the planter reined in his horse when he saw who it was: he was the questioner now.
“Schoolmaster,” he began, “in the name of all the white families about here, I really must ask if you can do nothing to keep in order those miserable, drinking, ruffianly negroes of yours over at Jubilee? Why, we shall all be murdered in our beds before long! Are you aware of the dangerous spirit they have manifested lately?”
“Only too well,” said David.
“What are you going to do? How will it end?”
“God knows.”
“God knows! Is that all you have to say? Of course he knows; but the question is, Do you know? You have brought the whole trouble down upon our heads by your confounded insurrectionary school! Just as I told you, your negroes, with the little smattering of knowledge you have given them, are now the most dangerous, riotous, thieving, murdering rascals in the district.”
“They are bad; but it is not the work of the school, I hope.”
“Yes, it is,” said the planter angrily.
“They have been led astray lately, Mr. Ammerton; a person has come among them—”
“Another Northerner.”
“Yes,” said David, a flush rising in his cheek; “but not all Northerners are like this man, I trust.”
“Pretty much all we see are. Look at the State.”
“Yes, I know it; I suppose time alone can help matters,” said the troubled teacher.
“Give up your school, and come and join us,” said the planter abruptly. “You, at least, are honest in your mistakes. We are going to form an association for our own protection; join with us. You can teach my grandsons if you like, provided you do not put any of your—your fanaticism into them.”
This was an enormous co
ncession for Harnett Ammerton to make; something in the schoolmaster’s worn face had drawn it out.
“Thank you,” said David slowly; “it is kindly meant, sir. But I can not give up my work. I came down to help the freedmen, and—”
“Then stay with them,” said the planter, doubly angry for the very kindness of the moment before. “I thought you were a decent-living white man, according to your fashion, but I see I was mistaken. Dark days are coming, and you turn your back upon those of your own color and side with the slaves! Go and herd with your negroes. But, look you, sir, we are prepared. We will shoot down any one found upon our premises after dark—shoot him down like a dog. It has come to that, and, by Heaven! we shall protect ourselves.”
He rode on. David sat down on a fallen tree for a moment, and leaned his head upon his hand. Dark days were coming, as the planter had said; nay, were already there. Was he in any way responsible for them? He tried to think. “I know not,” he said at last; “but I must still go on and do the best I can. I must carry out my plan.” He rose and went forward to the Corners.
A number of Jubilee men were lounging near the new store, and one of them was reading aloud from a newspaper which the Captain had given him. He had been David’s brightest scholar, and he could read readily; but what he read was inflammable matter of the worst kind, a speech which had been written for just such purposes, and which was now being circulated through the district. Mephistopheles in the form of Harnett Ammerton seemed to whisper in the schoolmaster’s ears, “Do you take pride to yourself that you taught that man to read?”
The reader stopped; he had discovered the new auditor. The men stared; they had never seen the master at the Corners before. They drew together and waited. He approached them, and paused a moment; then he began to speak.
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