The Victim: A Romance of the Real Jefferson Davis

by Thomas Dixon

  CHAPTER IX

  THE OLD REGIME

  Socola left Briarfield with the assurance of the President-elect of theConfederacy that he might spend a week with the Bartons and yet be inample time for the inauguration at Montgomery.

  He boarded the steamer at the Davis landing and floated lazily down toBaton Rouge.

  From Briarfield he carried an overwhelming impression of the folly ofSlavery from its economic point of view. The thing which amazed hisorderly New England mind was the confusion, the waste, the sentimentalextravagance, the sheer idiocy of the slave system of labor ascontrasted with the free labor of the North.

  The one symbol before his vivid imagination was the sight of old UncleBob and Aunt Rhinah seated in their rocking chairs gravely listening tothe patriarchal farewell of their master. The ancient seers dreamed ofNirvana. These two wonderful old Africans had surely found it in the newworld. No wave of trouble could ever roll across their peaceful breastsso long as their lord and master lived. He was their king, theirprotector, their physician, their almoner, their friend. The burden oflife was on his shoulders, not on theirs. Their working days were over.He must feed and clothe, house and care for their worthless bodies untothe end. And the number of these helpless ones were constantlyincreased.

  He marveled at the folly that imagined such a system of labor possiblein a real world where the iron laws of economic survival were allowedfree play. He ceased to wonder why it still flourished in the South. TheSouth was yet an unsettled jungle of bewildering tropical beauty. Onemight travel for miles and hundreds of miles without the sight of asingle important town. Vast reaches of untouched forests stretched awayin all directions. Apparently the foot of man had never pressed them.Rich plantations of thousands of acres were only scratched in spots toyield their marvelous harvests of cotton and cane, of rice and corn.

  The idea of defending such a territory, extending over thousands ofmiles, from the invading hosts of the rich and densely populated Northwas preposterous. His heart leaped with the certainty of swift and suretriumph for the Union should the question be submitted to the test ofthe sword.

  As the boat touched her landing at Baton Rouge, Jennie waved her welcomefrom the shore. The graceful figure of her younger brother stoodstraight and trim by her side in his new volunteer uniform. Whatever thepolitical leaders might think or do, these Southern people meant tofight. There was no mistaking that fact. With every letter to his Chiefin Washington he had made this plain. The deeper he had penetrated thelower South the more overwhelming this conviction had become.

  For the moment he put the thought of his tragic mission out of hisheart. There was something wonderful in the breath of this earlySouthern spring. The first week in February and flowers were blooming onevery lawn of every embowered cottage and every stately house! The songof birds, the hum of bees, the sweet languor of the perfumed air foundhis inmost soul. The snows lay cold and still and deathlike over theNorthern world.

  This was fairyland.

  And the Bartons' home on the banks of the river was the last touch thatcompleted the capture of his imagination. Through a vista of overhangingboughs he caught the flash of its white fluted pillars in the distance.The broad verandas were arched with climbing roses. In the center of thesunlit space in front a fountain played, the splash of its coolingwaters keeping time to the song of mocking birds in shrubs and trees. Inthe spacious grounds which swept to the water's edge more than athousand magnificent trees spread their cooling shade. The white rays ofthe Southern sun shot through them like silver threads and glowed hereand there in the changing, shimmering splotches on the ground.

  And everywhere the grinning faces of slowly moving negroes. The veryrhythm of their lazy walk seemed a part of the landscape.

  This fairy world belonged to his country. His heart went out in reneweddevotion. Not one shining Southern star should ever be torn from herdiadem! He swore it.

  For three days he bathed in the beauty and joy of a Southern home. Hesaw but little of Jennie. The boys absorbed him. They were eager fornews. They plied him with a thousand questions. Tom was going to jointhe navy, Jimmie and Billy the army.

  "Would the United States Army stand by the old flag?" Tom asked withpainful eagerness.

  Socola was non-committal.

  "As a rule the sailor is loyal to the flag of his ship. It's the symbolof home, of country, of all he holds dear."

  "That's so, too," Tom answered thoughtfully. "Well, we'll build a navy.We built the old one. We can build a new one!"

  The last night he spent at Fairview was one never to be forgotten. Itgave him another picture of the old regime. They sat on the greatpillared front porch looking out on the silvery surface of the moonlitriver. Jennie's grandfather. Colonel James Barton, a stately man ofeighty-five, who had led a regiment with Jefferson Davis in the MexicanWar, though at that time long past the age of military service, honoredthem with his presence to a late hour.

  His eyes were failing but his voice was stentorian. Its tones had beendeveloped to even deeper power during the past ten years owing to thedeafness of his wife. This beautiful old woman sat softly rocking besidethe Colonel, answering in gentle monosyllables the questions he roaredinto her ears.

  To escape the volume of the Colonel's conversation Socola asked Jennieto walk to the river's edge.

  They sat down on a bench perched high on the bluff which rose abruptlyfrom the water at the lower end of the grounds. The scene was one ofmemorable beauty.

  He laughed at the folly of his schemes to learn the inner secrets of theSouth. These people had no secrets. They wore their hearts on theirsleeves. He had only to ask a question to receive the answer directwithout reserve.

  "Your three younger brothers will fight for the South, of course, MissJennie?"

  "Of course--I only wish I were a man!"

  "You have an older brother in New Orleans, I believe?"

  "Judge Barton, yes."

  "He, too, will enter the army?"

  The girl drew a deep breath and hesitated.

  "He says he will not. He is bitterly opposed to my father's views."

  Socola's eyes sparkled.

  "He is for the Union then?"

  "Yes."

  "He is a man of decided views and character I take it."

  "Yes--as firm and unyielding in his position as my father on the otherside."

  "You will be very bitter towards him if war should come?"

  "Bitter?" A little sob caught her voice. "He is my Big Brother. I lovehim. It would break my heart--that's all--but I'll love him always."

  Her tones were music, her loyalty to her own so sweet in its simplicity,so utterly charming, he opened his lips to speak the first words to testher personal attitude toward him. A flirtation would be delightful withsuch a girl. And Mr. Dick Welford was a fearful temptation. He put thethought out of his heart. She was too good and fine to be made a pawn insuch a game. Beside it was utterly unnecessary.

  He had gotten exactly the information about this older brother in NewOrleans he desired and sat in brooding silence.

  Jennie rose suddenly.

  "Oh, I forgot--I must go in. My maids are waiting for me, I've an affairto settle between them before they go to bed."

  Socola accompanied her to the door and turned again on the lawn to enjoythe white glory of the Southern moon. The lights were still twinkling inthe long rows of negro cabins that lined the way to the overseer'shouse. Through the shadows of the trees he could see the dark figures inthe doorways of their cabins silhouetted against the lighted candles inthe background.

  He strolled leisurely into the lower hall. The door of the library wasopen. He paused at the scene within. A group of four little negro girlssurrounded Jennie. She was reading the Bible to them.

  "Can't you say your prayers together to-night?" the young mistressasked.

  The kinky heads shook emphatically.

  Lucy couldn't say hers with Amy:

  "'Cause she ain't got no brother and sister to
pray for."

  Maggie couldn't say hers with Mandy:

  "'Cause she ain't got no mother and father."

  So each repeated her prayer alone and stood before their little mistresswho sat in judgment on their day's deeds.

  Lucy had jabbed a carving knife into Amy's arm in a fit of temper. Herprayer had made no mention of this important fact. The judge gave atender lecture on the need of repentance. The little sullen black figurehung back stubbornly for a moment and walled her eyes at her enemy. Asudden burst of tears and they were in each other's arms, crying andbegging forgiveness. And then they filed out, one by one.

  "Good night, Miss Jennie!"

  "Good night!"

  "God bless you, Miss Jennie--"

  "I'll never be bad no mo'!"

  He had come to break the chains that cut through human flesh and he hadfound this--great God!

  For hours he lay awake, dreaming with wide staring eyes of the longblood-stained history of human Slavery and its sharp contrast with thestrange travesty of such an institution which the South was giving tothe world.

  He had barely lost consciousness when he leaped to the floor, roused byloud voices, tramping feet and the flash of weird lights on the lawn.Growls and long calls echoed from point to point on the spaciousgrounds, hulloes and echoing answers and the tramp of many feet.

  Some horrible thing had happened--sudden death, murder or war had brokenout. A voice was screaming from the balcony aloft that sounded like thetrumpet of the arch-angel calling the end of time.

  He listened.

  It was old Colonel Barton yelling at the sleepy negroes. In heaven'shigh name what could they be doing?

  Socola dressed hastily and rushed down-stairs. Jennie and the boysappeared almost at the same moment.

  "What is it?" Socola asked excitedly. "War has been declared? The slaveshave risen?"

  Jennie laughed.

  "No--no! Grandmamma smells a smell. She thinks something is burningsomewhere."

  "Oh--"

  The whole place, house, yard, grounds, outhouses, swarmed with bellowingnegroes. Those that were not bellowing were muttering in sleepy,quarrelsome protest.

  And they all carried candles to look for a fire in the dark!

  There were at least seventy--two-thirds of them too old or too young tobe of any service, but they belonged to the house.

  The old Colonel's voice could be heard a mile. In his nightgown he wasroaring from the balcony, giving his orders for the busy crowd huntingfor fire with their candles flickering in the shadows.

  Old Mrs. Barton, serenely deaf, was of course oblivious of the sensationshe had created. The loss of her hearing had rendered doubly acute hersense of smell. Candles had to be taken out of her room to be snuffed.Lamps were extinguished only on the portico or on the lawn. Violets shecouldn't endure. A tea rose was never allowed in her room. Only one kindof sweet rose would she tolerate at close range.

  In the mildest voice she was suggesting places to be searched.

  Far out at the negro quarters the candle brigade at length gathered--theflickering lights closing in to a single point one by one.

  The smell was found.

  A family had been boiling soap--a slave-ridden plantation was aminiature world which must be practically self-supporting. There couldbe no economy of labor by its scientific division. Around the soap potthe negro woman had swept some woolen rags. They were smoldering thereand the faint odor had been wafted to the great house.

  Socola couldn't sleep. All night long he could hear that wildcommotion--the old Colonel's voice roaring from the balcony and seventysleepy, good-for-nothing negroes with lighted candles looking for a firein the dark. When at last he was tired of laughing at the ridiculouspicture, his foolish fancy took another turn and fixed itself again onold Bob and Aunt Rhinah in their rocking chairs, swathed in cochinealflannel.