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GABRIEL TOLLIVER
_A Story of Reconstruction_
By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
_Author of "Uncle Remus," "The Making of a Statesman," etc._
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.NEW YORK1902
COPYRIGHT, 1902, BYJOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
_Published, October, 1902 R_
* * * * *
To James Whitcomb Riley
* * * * *
CONTENTS
_Prelude_
CHAPTER ONE _Kettledrum and Fife_
CHAPTER TWO _A Town with a History_
CHAPTER THREE _The Return of Two Warriors_
CHAPTER FOUR _Mr. Goodlett's Passengers_
CHAPTER FIVE _The Story of Margaret Gaither_
CHAPTER SIX _The Passing of Margaret_
CHAPTER SEVEN _Silas Tomlin Goes A-Calling_
CHAPTER EIGHT _The Political Machine Begins Its Work_
CHAPTER NINE _Nan and Gabriel_
CHAPTER TEN _The Troubles of Nan_
CHAPTER ELEVEN _Mr. Sanders in His Cups_
CHAPTER TWELVE _Caught in a Corner_
CHAPTER THIRTEEN _The Union League Organises_
CHAPTER FOURTEEN _Nan and Her Young Lady Friends_
CHAPTER FIFTEEN _Silas Tomlin Scents Trouble_
CHAPTER SIXTEEN _Silas Tomlin Finds Trouble_
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN _Rhody Has Something to Say_
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN _The Knights of the White Camellia_
CHAPTER NINETEEN _Major Tomlin Perdue Arrives_
CHAPTER TWENTY _Gabriel at the Big Poplar_
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE _Bridalbin Follows Gabriel_
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO _The Fate of Mr. Hotchkiss_
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE _Mr. Sanders Searches for Evidence_
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR _Captain Falconer Makes Suggestions_
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE _Mr. Sanders's Riddle_
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX _Cephas Has His Troubles_
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN _Mr. Sanders Visits Some of His Old Friends_
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT _Nan and Margaret_
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE _Bridalbin Finds His Daughter_
CHAPTER THIRTY _Miss Polly Has Some News_
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE _Mr. Sanders Receives a Message_
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO _Malvern Has a Holiday_
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE _Gabriel as an Orator_
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR _Nan Surrenders_
GABRIEL TOLLIVER
_Prelude_
"Cephas! here is a letter for you, and it is from Shady Dale! I know youwill be happy now."
For several years Sophia had listened calmly to my glowing descriptionsof Shady Dale and the people there. She was patient, but I could see bythe way she sometimes raised her eyebrows that she was a triflesuspicious of my judgment, and that she thought my opinions were undulycoloured by my feelings. Once she went so far as to suggest that I wasall the time looking at the home people through the eyes ofboyhood--eyes that do not always see accurately. She had said, moreover,that if I were to return to Shady Dale, I would find that the friends ofmy boyhood were in no way different from the people I meet every day.This was absurd, of course--or, rather, it would have been absurd forany one else to make the suggestion; for at that particular time, Sophiawas a trifle jealous of Shady Dale and its people. Nevertheless, she wasreally patient. You know how exasperating a man can be when he has ahobby. Well, my hobby was Shady Dale, and I was not ashamed of it. Theman or woman who cannot display as much of the homing instinct as a cator a pigeon is a creature to be pitied or despised. Sophia herself was atramp, as she often said. She was born in a little suburban town in NewYork State, but never lived there long enough to know what home was. Shewent to Albany, then to Canada, and finally to Georgia; so that the onlyreal home she ever knew is the one she made herself--out of the rawmaterial, as one might say.
Well, she came running with the letter, for she is still active, thougha little past the prime of her youth. I returned the missive to her witha faint show of dignity. "The letter is for you," I said. She looked atthe address more carefully, and agreed with me. "What in the world haveI done," she remarked, "to receive a letter from Shady Dale?"
"Why, it is the simplest thing in the world," I replied. "You have beenfortunate enough to marry me."
"Oh, I see!" she cried, dropping me a little curtsey; "and I thank youkindly!"
The letter was from an old friend of mine--a school-mate--and it was aninvitation to Sophia, begging her to take a day off, as the saying is,and spend it in Shady Dale.
"Your children," the letter said, "will be glad to visit their father'sold home, and I doubt not we can make it interesting for the wife." Theletter closed with some prettily turned compliments which rather caughtSophia. But her suspicions were still in full play.
"I know the invitation is sent on your account, and not on mine," shesaid, holding the letter at arm's length.
"Well, why not? If my old friend loves me well enough to be anxious togive my wife and children pleasure, what is there wrong about that?"
"Oh, nothing," replied Sophia. "I've a great mind to go."
"If you do, my dear, you will make a number of people happy--yourselfand the children, and many of my old friends."
"He declares," said Sophia, "that he writes at the request of his wife.You know how much of that to believe."
"I certainly do. Imagine me, for instance, inviting to visit us a ladywhom you had never met."
Whereupon Sophia laughed. "I believe you'd endorse any proposition thatcame from Shady Dale," she declared.
She accepted the invitation more out of curiosity than with anyexpectation of enjoying herself; but she stayed longer than she hadintended; and when she came back her views and feelings had undergone acomplete change. "Cephas, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for notgoing to see those people," she declared. "Why, they are the salt of theearth. I never expected to be treated as they treated me. If it wasn'tfor your business, I would beg you to go back there and live. They arejust like the people you read about in the books--I mean the goodpeople, the ideal characters--the men and women you would like to meet."Here she paused and sighed. "Oh, I wouldn't have missed that visit foranything. But what amazes me, Cephas, is that you've never put in yourbooks characters such as you find in Shady Dale."
The suggestion was a fertile one; it had in it the active principle of agerm; and it was not long before the ferment began to make itself felt.The past began to renew itself; the sun shone on the old days and gavethem an illumination which they lacked when they were new. Time'sperspective gave them a mellower tone, and they possessed, at least forme, that element of mystery which seems to attach to whatever isvenerable. It was as if the place, the people, and the scenes had takenthe shape of a huge picture, with just such a lack of harmony and unityas we find in real life.
Let those who can do so continue to import harmony and unity into theirfabrications and call it art. Whether it be art or artificiality, thetrick is beyond my powers. I can only deal with things as they were; onmany occasions they were far from what I would have had them to be; butas I was powerless to change them, so am I powerless to twistindividuals and events to suit the demands or necessities of what iscalled art.
Such a feat might be possible if I were to tell the simple story of Nanand Gabriel and Tasm
a Tid during the days when they roamed over the oldBermuda hills, and gazed, as it were, into the worlds that existed onlyin their dreams: for then the story would be both fine and beautiful. Itwould be a wonderful romance indeed, with just a touch of tragicmystery, gathered from the fragmentary history of Tasma Tid, achild-woman from the heart of Africa, who had formed a part of the cargoof the yacht _Wanderer_, which landed three hundred slaves on the coastof Georgia in the last months of 1858. You may find the particulars ofthe case of the _Wanderer_ in the files of the Savannah newspapers, andin the records of the United States Court for that district; but thetragic history of Tasma Tid can be found neither in the newspapers norin the court records.
But for this one touch of mystery and tragedy, this chronicle, supposingit to deal only with the childhood and early youth of Nan and Gabriel,would resolve itself into a marvellous fairy tale, made up of theinnocent dreams and hopes and beliefs, and all the extraordinaryinventions and imaginings of childhood. And even mystery and tragedyhave their own particular forms of simplicity, so that, with Tasma Tidin the background the tale would be artless enough to satisfy the mostartful. For, even if the reader, seated on the magic cloak of somecompetent story-teller, were transported to the heart of Africa, wherethe mountains, with their feet in the jungle, reach up and touch themoon, or to China, or the Islands of the Sea, the hero of the tale wouldbe the same. His name is Dilly Bal, and he carries on his operationswherever there are stars in the sky. He is a restless and a rovingcreature, flitting to and fro between all points of the compass.
When King Sun crawls into his trundle bed and begins to snore, DillyBal creeps forth from Somewhere, or maybe from Nowhere, which is just onthe other side, fetching with him a long broom, which he swishes aboutto such purpose that the katydids hear it and are frightened. They hideunder the leaves and are heard no more that night. That is why you neverhear them crying and disputing when you chance to be awake aftermidnight.
But Dilly Bal knows nothing of the katydids; he has his own duties toperform, and his own affairs to attend to; and these, as you willpresently see, are very pressing. It is his business, as well as hispleasure, to be the Housekeeper of the Sky, which he dusts and tidiesand puts in order. It is a part of his duty to see that the stars aresafely bestowed against the moment when old King Sun shall emerge fromhis tent, and begin his march over the world. And then, in the dusk ofthe evening, Dilly Bal must take each star from the bag in which hecarries it, polish it bright, and put it in its proper place.
Sometimes, as you may have observed, a star will fall while Dilly Bal ishandling it. This happens when he is nervous for fear that King Sun,instead of going to bed in his tent, has crept back and is watching frombehind the cloud mountains. Sometimes a star falls quite by accident, aswhen Lucindy or Patience drops a plate in the kitchen. You will be sureto know Dilly Bal when you see him, for, in handling the stars anddusting the sky, his clothes get full of yellow cobwebs, which he neverbothers himself to brush off.
But Dilly Bal's most difficult job is with the Moon. Regularly the Moonblackens her face in a vain effort to hide from King Sun. If she usedsmut or soot, Dilly Bal's task would not be so difficult; but she hasfound a lake of pitch somewhere in Africa, and in this lake she smearsher face till it is so black her best friends wouldn't know her. Thepitch is such sticky stuff that it is days and days before it can berubbed off. The truth is, Dilly Bal never does succeed in getting allthe pitch off. At her brightest, the Moon shows signs of it. So saidTasma Tid, and so we all firmly believed.
Yes, indeed! If this chronicle could be confined to the childhood andyouth of those children, Dilly Bal would be the hero first and last. Hewas so real to all of us that we used to wander out to the old Bermudafields almost every fine afternoon, and sit there until the light hadfaded from the sky, watching Dilly Bal hanging the stars on their pegs.The Evening Star was such a large and heavy one that Dilly Bal alwaysreplaced it before dark, so as to be sure not to drop it.
Once when we stayed out in the Bermuda fields later than usual, a bigstar fell from its place, and went flying across the sky, leaving a longand brilliant streamer behind it. At first, Nan thought that Dilly Balhad tried to hang the Evening Star on the wrong peg, but when she lookedin the west, there was the big star winking at her and at all of us ashard as it could.
The pity of it was that Nan and Gabriel, and all their young friends,had finally to come in contact with the hard practical affairs of theworld. As for Tasma Tid, contact had no special influence on her. Shewas to all appearance as unchangeable as the pyramids, and as mysteriousas the Sphinx. But it was different with Nan and Gabriel, and, indeed,with all the rest. Their story soon ceased to be a simple one. In somedirections, it appeared to be a hopeless tangle, catching a great manyother persons in its loops and meshes; so that, instead of a simple,entrancing story, all aglow with the glamour of romance, they hadtroubles that were grievous, and their full share of dulness andtediousness, which are the essential ingredients of everyday life.
After all, it is perhaps fortunate that the marvellous dreams of Nan andGabriel, and the quaint imaginings of Tasma Tid are not to bechronicled. The spinning of this glistening gossamer once begun wouldhave no end, for Nan was an expert dreamer both night and day, and inthe practice of this art, Gabriel was not far behind her; while TasmaTid, who was Nan's maid and bodyguard, could frame her face in herhands, and tell you stories from sunrise to sundown and far into thenight.
Tasma Tid, though she was only a child in stature and nature, wasgrowner in years, as she said, than some of the grownest grown folksthat they knew. She was a dwarf by race, and always denied bitterly,sometimes venomously, that she was a negro, declaring that in hercountry the people were always at war with the blacks. Her color wasdark brown, light enough for the blood tints to show in her face, andher hair was straight and glossy black. From the _Wanderer_, she soonfound herself in the slave market at Malvern, and there she fell underthe eye of Dr. Randolph Dorrington, Nan's father, who bought herforthwith. He thought that a live doll would please his daughter. Thedwarf said that her name was Tasma Tid in her country, and she wouldanswer to no other.
It was a very fortunate bargain all around, especially for Nan, for inthe African woman she found both a playmate and a protector. Tasma Tidwas far above the average negro in intelligence, in courage and incunning. She was as obstinate as a mule, and no matter what obstacleswere thrown in her way, her own desires always prevailed in the end, afact that will explain her early appearance in the slave market. Thoseof her owners who failed to understand her were not willing to see herspoil on their hands, like a barrel of potatoes or a basket of shrimps.The African was uncanny when she chose to be, outspoken, vicious, andtender-hearted, her nature being compounded of the same qualities andcontradictions as those which belong to the great ladies of the earth,who, with opportunity always at their elbows, have contrived to create agreat stir in the world.
When Dr. Dorrington fetched Tasma Tid home, he called out to Nan fromhis gig: "I have brought you a live doll, daughter; come and see how youlike it."
Nan went running--she never learned how to walk until she was severalyears older--and regarded Tasma Tid with both surprise and sympathy.The African, seeing only the sympathy, leaped from the gig, seized Nanaround the waist, lifted her from the ground, ran this way and that, andthen released her with a loud and joyous laugh.
"What do you mean by that?" cried Nan, somewhat taken aback.
"She stan' fer we howdy," the African answered.
"Well, let's see you tell popsy howdy," suggested Nan, indicating herfather.
"Uh-uh! he we buckra."
From that hour Tasma Tid attached herself to Nan, following hereverywhere with the unquestioning fidelity of a dog. She sat on thefloor of the dining-room while Nan ate her meals, and slept on a palletby the child's bed at night. If the African was sweeping the yard, atask she sometimes consented to perform, she would fling the brushbroomaway and go with Nan if the child started out at the ga
te. At first thisconstant attendance was somewhat annoying to Nan, for she was anindependent lass; but presently, when she found that Tasma Tid was amost accomplished and versatile playfellow, as well as the depositary ofhundreds of curious fables and quaint tales of the wildwood, Nan'sirritation disappeared.
As for Gabriel--Gabriel Tolliver--he was almost as indispensable as theAfrican woman. Children learn a good many things, as they grow older,and I have heard that Nan and Gabriel were thought to be queer, and thatall who were much in their company were also thought to be queer. Noone knows why. It was a simple statement, and simple statements arereadily believed, because no one takes the trouble to inquire into them.A man who has views different from those of the majority is calledeccentric; if he insists on promulgating them, he is known as a crank.In the case of Nan and Gabriel, it may be said by one who knows, that,while they were different from the majority of children, they wereneither queer nor eccentric.
They, and those whom they chose as companions, were children at a timewhen the demoralisation of war was about to begin--when it was alreadycasting its long shadow before it--and when their elders were discussingas hard as ever they could the questions of State rights, the trueinterpretation of the Constitution, squatter sovereignty, the right ofsecession--every question, in short, except the one at issue. In thisway, and for this reason, the two children and their companions werethrown back upon themselves.
Of those who formed this merry little company, not one went to theacademies that had been established in the town early enough to be itsmost ancient institutions. Nan was taught by her father, RandolphDorrington, and Gabriel and I said our lessons to his grandmother, Mrs.Lucy Lumsden. Thus it happened that we were through with our schooltasks before the children in the two academies had begun their morningrecess.
"We would never have been such good friends," said Nan on one occasion,"if I hadn't wanted to go to your house, Gabriel, to see how yourgrandmother wavies her hair. I saw Cephas, and asked him to go alongwith me." Child as she was, Nan had her little vanities. She desiredabove all things that her hair should fall away from her brow in littlerippling waves, like those that shone in the silver-grey hair ofGabriel's grandmother.
"Why, my grandmother doesn't wavie her hair at all," protested Gabriel.
"Of course not," replied Nan, with a toss of the hand; "I found that outfor myself. And I was very sorry; I want my hair to wavie like hers andyours."
"Well, if your hair was to wavie like mine," said Gabriel, "you'd have amighty hard time combing it in the morning."
"Don't you remember," Nan went on in a reminiscent way, "that she madeyou shake hands with me that day? It was funny the way you came up andheld out your arm. If I had jumped at you and said _Boo!_ I don't knowwhat would have happened." Gabriel grew very red at this, but Nanignored his embarrassment. "You had syrup on your fingers, you know, andthen we all had some in a saucer. Yes, and we all sopped our bread inthe same saucer, and Cephas here got the syrup on his face and in hishair."
It never occurred to me in those days that Nan was beautiful, or thatGabriel was handsome, but looking back in the light of experience, it iseasy to remember that they had in their features all the promises thatthe long and slow-moving years were to fulfil. I was struck, however, byone peculiarity of Nan's face. When her countenance was at rest, itgave out a hint of melancholy, and there was an appealing look in herbrown eyes; but when she smiled or laughed, the sombre face broke upinto numberless dimples. Apart from her countenance, there was a charmabout her which I have never been able to trace to its source, and whichof course is beyond description; and this charm remained, and madeitself felt whether the appearance of melancholy had its dwelling-placein her eyes, which were large, and lustrous, and full of tenderness, orwhether her face was brilliant with smiles. She had a deservedreputation as a tomboy, but she carried off her tricksy whims with adaintiness that preserved them from all hint of coarseness; and ifsometimes she was rude, she had a way of righting herself that nonecould resist.
As for Gabriel, he was always large for his age. He was strong andhealthy, possessing every physical excuse for roughness andboisterousness; but association with his grandmother, who was one of thegentlest of gentlewomen, had toned him down and smoothed the roughedges. His hair was dark and curly, and his face gave promise of greatstrength of character--a promise which, it may be said here, wasfulfilled to the letter. He was as whimsical as Nan, and, in addition,had moods to which she was a stranger.
These things did not occur to Cephas the Child, but are the fruits ofhis memory and experience. He only knew at that time that Nan andGabriel were both very good to him. He was considerably younger thaneither of them, and he often wondered then, and has wondered since, whythey were such good friends of his, and why they were constantly huntinghim up if he failed to make his appearance. Perhaps because he was sofull of unadulterated mischief. Gabriel, with all his gravity, was fullof a quaint humour, and Nan hunted for cause for laughter in everything;and she was never more beautiful than when this same laughter had shakenher tawny hair about her face.
We had travelled widely. Nan had been to Malvern with her father, andhad seen sights--railway trains, omilybuses, as she called them, a greatbig hotel, and "oodles" of crippled persons; yes, and besides thecrippled persons, there was a blind man standing on the corner with abig card hanging from his neck; and that very day, she had eaten"reesins" until she never wanted 'em any more, as she said. Gabriel andCephas had not gone so far; but once upon a time, they went toHalcyondale, and, among other things, had seen Major Tomlin Perdue killsparrows with a pistol. Nan had been anxious to go with them at thetime, but when she heard about the slaughter of the sparrows, she wasvery glad she had stayed at home, for what did a grown man as old asMajor Perdue want to kill the poor little brown sparrows for? Nan'squestion was never answered. Gabriel and Cephas had only seen in thetransaction the enviable skill of the Major; whereas Nan thought ofnothing but the poor little birds that had been slain for a holidayshow. "They may have been singing sparrows, or snow-birds," mourned Nan.True enough; but Gabriel and Cephas had thought of nothing but theskill of the marksman with his duelling pistols. Tasma Tid also had herpoint of view. "Wey you no fetcha dem lil bud home fer we supper?" Shewas hardly satisfied when she was told that the little birds, all puttogether, would have made hardly more than a mouthful.
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