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  CHAPTER VII.--WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE?

  It was a year later before the Rev. Griffith Davenport found himself ina position to carry out, even in part, a long-cherished plan of his. Forsome time past, he had been strengthening himself in the belief that inthe long run he would have to flee from the problem that so perplexedhim. That he would have to make one supreme effort which should,thereafter, shield him against himself and against temptation. Thisdetermination had cost him the severest struggle of his life, and it hadresulted in the rupture of several lifelong friendships and in strainedrelations with his own and his wife's near kinsmen. It had divided hischurch and made ill-feeling among his brother clergymen, for it hadbecome pretty generally known and talked about, that the Rev. GriffithDavenport had definitely determined to leave his old home and take hissons to be educated "where the trend of thought is toward freedom" as hehad expressed it, and as his neighbors were fond of quoting derisively.He had finally secured a position in connection with a small collegesomewhere in Indiana, together with an appointment as "presiding elder"in the district in which the college was located. He had arranged forthe sale of his property, and he was about to leave.

  To those whose traditions of ancestry all center about one locality, itcosts a fearful struggle to tear up root and branch and strike outinto unknown fields among people of a different type and class; withdissimilar ideas and standards of action and belief. To such it isalmost like the threat or presence of death in the household. But tovoluntarily disrupt and leave behind all of that which has given colorand tone and substance to one's daily life, and at its meridian, tobegin anew the weaving of another fabric from unaccustomed threads ona strange and unknown loom, to readjust one's self to a differentcivilization--all this requires a heroism, a fidelity to conscience and,withal, a confidence in one's own judgment and beliefs that surpass thenormal limit. But, if in addition to all this, the contemplated changeis to be made in pursuance of a moral conviction and will surely resultin financial loss and material discomfort, it would not be the part ofwisdom to ask nor to expect it of those who are less than heroic. Inorder to compass his plans Mr. Davenport knew that it would be necessaryto dispose of his slaves. But how?

  He hoped to take with him to his new home--although they would be freedby the very act--several of the older ones and Jerry and his littlefamily. He knew that these would, by their faithful services, be acomfort and support to his wife and of infinite use and advantage tothe children, whose love and confidence they had. To take all into hisemploy in the new home would, of course, be impossible. He would nolonger have the estate of an esquire. At first, at least, he must livein a small town. There would be no land to till and no income to sosupport them. The house would no longer be the roomy mansion of aplanter. His income would be too meager to warrant the keeping of evenso many servants as they were planning to take--and there would belittle work for them to do. The others must be disposed of in some otherway. But how? They are yours, my friend, for the moment. How will youdispose of them? What would you have done?

  "Free them and leave them in the state of their birth and of their lovewhere their friends and kinsmen are?" But you cannot! It is against thelaw! If you free them you must take them away. Sell them? Of course not!give them to your wife's and your own people? Would that settle oronly perpetuate and shift the question for which you are suffering andsacrificing so much? And it would discriminate between those you takeand thus make free and those you leave and farther fix in bondage, andthe Rev. Griffith Davenport had set out to meet and perform, and notmerely to shift and evade, what he had grown to look upon as his duty tohimself and to them. It was this which had burdened and weighed upon himall these last months, until at last he had determined to meet it inthe only way that seamed to settle it once and for all. He would go.He would free all of them and take them with him into the state of hisadoption. He would then give hired employment to those he needed in hishousehold and the others would have to shift for themselves. This heprepared to do. Some of them would not want to go into a homeless andstrange new land. This he also knew. Pete was, as the negroes phrasedit, "settin' up to" Col. Phelps' Tilly. Pete would, therefore, resist,and wish to remain in Virginia. Old Milt and his wife had seven childrenwho were the property of other people in the neighborhood, and theirgrandchildren were almost countless. It would go hard with Milt andPhillis to leave all these. It would go even harder with them tobe free--and homeless. Both were old. Neither could hope to beself-supporting. My friend, have you decided what to do with Milt andPhillis? Add Judy and Mammy and five other old ones to your list whenyou have solved the problem.

  Mr. Bradley had spoken to Griffith of all these things--of the hardshipsto both black and white--and of the possible outcome.

  Over and over during the year, when they had talked of the proposed newmove, he had urged these points.

  "It seems to me, Mr. Davenport, that you are going to tackle a prettyrough job. You say you will take all of them as far as Washington,anyhow. Now you ought to know that there are no end of free niggers inWashington, already, with no way to support themselves. Look at Miltand Phillis and Judy and Dan, and those other old ones in the two endcabins! They've all served you and your father before you faithfullyall of their lives, and now you are proposing to turn them out todie--simply to starve to death. That's the upshot of your foolishness.You know they won't steal, and they can't work enough to supportthemselves. All the old ones are in the same fix, and the young oneswill simply be put on the chain-gang for petty thefts of food before youget fairly settled out west. Lord, Lord, man, you don't know what youare doing! I wish the old Major was here to put a stop to it. You'relaying up suffering for yourself, you're laying up sorrow and crime forthem, you are robbing your children of their birthright, and of whattheir grandfathers have done for them, you are making trouble amongother people's niggers here who hear of it, and think it would be a finething to be a free nigger in Washington or Indiana--and what good is itall going to do? Just answer me that? It would take a microscope to seeany good that _can_ come out of it. It's easy enough to see the harm.Look at 'Squire Nelson's Jack! He undertook to run off last week, andNelson had him whipped within an inch of his life. Yes, bad policy, andcruel, of course, but that's the kind of a man Nelson is. Now your moveis going to stir up that sort of thing all around here. It does it everytime. You know that. What in thunder has got into the heads of some ofyou fellows, I can't see. It started in about the time you Methodistsbegan riding around here. Sometimes I think they were sent down herejust for that purpose, and that the preaching was only a blind." Mr.Davenport laughed. "Ha, ha, ha, ha! Bradley, you are a hopeless case! IfI didn't know you so well, I'd feel like losing my temper; but--"

  "Oh, I don't mean you, of course. I know _you_ got to believing in thenew religion and got led on. I mean those fellows who came down here andstarted it all when you were a good, sensible boy. And how do they gettheir foolishness, anyhow? Your Bible teaches the right of slavery plainenough, in all conscience, and even if it didn't, slavery is here andwe can't help ourselves; and what's more we can't help the niggers byturning some of 'em loose to starve, and letting them make trouble forboth the masters and the slaves that are left behind. I just tell you,Mr. Davenport, it is a big mistake and you are going to find it outbefore you are done with it."

  Griffith had grown so used to these talks and to those of a less kindlytone that he had stopped arguing the matter at all, and, indeed, thereseemed little he could say beyond the fact, that it was a matter ofconscience with him. His wife's father had berated him soundly, and hersisters plainly stated that, in their opinion, "poor Brother Grif wasinsane." They pitied their sister Katherine from the bottom of theirhearts, and thanked God devoutly that their respective husbands werenot similarly afflicted. And, as may be readily understood, it was all asore trial for Katherine.

  At last, when the manumission papers came, Katherine sent LeRoy, hersecond son, to tell the negroes to come to the "big house."

 
Roy ran, laughing and calling, to the negro quarters. "Oh, John, Pete,Sallie, Uncle Milt everybody I Father says for _all_ of you--everysingle one--to come to the big house right after supper! Every singleone! He's got something for you. Something he is going to make you apresent of! I can't tell you what--only every one will have it--and youmust come right away after supper!"

  "G'way fum heah, chile! What he gwine t' gib _me?_ New yaller dress?"inquired Lippy Jane, whereupon there arose a great outcry from the rest,mingled with laughter and gibes.

  "I know wat he gwine t' gib Lippy Jane! He gwine t' gib'er a swing t'hang onter dat lip, yah! yah! yah!" remarked Pete, and dodged the blowthat his victim leveled at him. "New dress! Lawsy, chile, I reckon hebe mo' likely ter gib you a lickin' along 'er dat platter you done bus'widout tellin' Mis' Kate!" put in Sallie, whose secure place in theaffections of the mistress rendered her a severe critic of manners andmorals in the "quarters." "Come heah, Mos' Roy, honey, an' tell ole Une'Milt wat'e gwine t' git. Wat dat is wat Mos' Grif gwine t' gib me? Somemo' 'er dat dar town terbacker? Laws a massy, honey, dat dar las' plugwhat he fotch me nebber las' no time ertal."

  But Roy was tickling the ear of old Phillis with a feather he had pickedup from the grass, and the old woman was nodding and slapping at theside of her head and humoring the boy in the delusion that she thoughther tormentor was a fly. Roy's delight was unbounded.

  "G'way fum heah, fly! Shoo! G'way fum heah! I lay dat I mash you flat'fo' a nudder minnit! Sho-o-o!"

  Roy and the twins were convulsed with suppressed mirth, and Aunt Phillisslapped the side of her head with a resounding whack which was not onlya menace to the life and limb of the aforenamed insect, but also,bid fair to demolish her ear as well. One of the twins undertook tosupplement the proceeding on the other ear with a blade of "fox tail,"but found himself sprawling in front of the cabin door. "You trillin'little nigger! Don' you try none'er yoah foolin' wid me! I lay I breakyoah fool neck! I lay I do," exclaimed the old woman in wrath. Then in asportively insistent tone, as she banged at the other side of her head,"Fore de good Lawd on high! twixt dat imperent little nigger an' disheah fly, I lay I'm plum wore out. Sho-o-o, fly!"

  Suddenly she swung her fat body about on the puncheon stool and gave atremendous snort and snapped her teeth at the young master. "Lawsey me,honey, was dat yoh all dis long cum short? Was dat yo' teasin' yoah po'ole Aunt Phillis wid dat fedder? I lay I gwine ter ketch yo' yit, an'swaller yo' down whole! I lay I is!"

  The threat to swallow him down whole always gave Roy the keenestdelight. He ran for the big house, laughing and waving the feather atPhillis.

  Great was the speculation in the quartets as to what Mos' Grif had forevery one.

  "Hit's des' lade Chris'mus!"

  "I des wisht I knowed wat I gwine t' git."

  "Lawsey me, but I wisht hit was arter supper now!"

  In the twilight they came swaying up through the grass--a long irregularline of them. Jerry had his banjo. Mammy, Sallie's old mother, carrieedin her arms the white baby. Little Margaret was her sole care and chargeand no more devoted lovers existed.

  "'Et me wide piggy back, mammy," plead the child.

  "Heah, Jerry, put dis heah chile on my back! Be mons'ous keerful darnow! Don' yoh let dat chile fall! Dar yoh is, honey! Dar yoh is! Hoi'tight, now! Hug yoah ole mammy tight! D-a-t-s de way.

  "'Go down, Moses, away down in Egypt's lan'. Go tell ole Pharoah, t' let my people go.'"

  Mammy began to trot and hum the tune for the child. The swaying rhythmcaught like a sudden fire in a field of ripened grain. Every voice, oldand young, fell into harmony, and Jerry's banjo beat its tuneful waylike the ripple of a stream through it all.

  Mrs. Davenport stood by the window watching them as they came nearerand nearer. Her face was sad and troubled. She looked up into the cleartwilight and saw one star peer out. She did not know why, but in somemysterious way it seemed to comfort her. She smiled through dim eyes atthe child on mammy's back. Her husband still sat by the table sortingover some legal-looking papers.

  "Are those the manumission papers, father?" asked Beverly, taking one upand turning it curiously.

  "Yes."

  Beverly glanced at his father. It seemed to him that the lines in hisface were very sad. The merry twinkle that always hid in the corners ofeyes and mouth were obliterated. Then was a settled look of anxiety.He seemed older. Beverly was silent. He more nearly understood what hisfather was doing than did even Katherine. Presently he said: "Hear themsing!"

  Mr. Davenport was staring straight before him into space. He turned tolisten.

  "Happy, careless, thoughtless, unfortunate creatures," he said softly,"and as free as you or I, this minute--as free as you or I--if only theyknew it;" then suddenly--"No, not that, either. They can never be _that_so long as they may not stay here free, even if they want to. I supposeI am breaking the law to tell them what I shall to-night, but I _can't_take them away from their old home and friends and not tell them it isfor good and all--that they may not come back. For good and all--forgood and all," he repeated, abstractedly. After a long pause he said,"Law or no law, I cannot do that. I must tell them they are free beforethey go--and that they must say good-bye, never to come back."

  "Seems pretty hard, doesn't it, father? But then--but--don't you thinkGod was pretty hard on them when He--when He made them black? Jerry is agentleman, if--if he was not black."

  "Griffith," asked Katherine from the window, "how do you suppose theywill take it? I'm afraid----"

  "Take it! take it! Why, little woman, how would you or I take freedomif it were given to us?" The thought cheered him and he crossed the roomand tapped her cheek with the papers. His face beamed. "I'm prepared tosee the wildest outbreak of joy." He chuckled, and some of the old linesof mirth came back to his face. "I'm glad Jerry brought his banjo. Theywill be in a humor for some of the rollicking songs afterward. I thinkthey would do me good too. And you, you, little woman, you will need ittoo. You have been brave--you have been my tower of great strength inall this. If _you_ had contested it, I'm afraid my strength would havegiven out, after all." He put his arm around her. "But God knows whatwe can stand, Katherine, and he tempers the trial to our strength. ThankGod it is over--the wont of it," he said, and drew her to him.

  Suddenly this silent, self-controlled woman threw both arms about hisneck and sobbed aloud. "God help us to bear it, Griffith. Sometimes Ithink I cannot! It is hard! It is hard!"

  He stroked her hair silently.

  "Mos' Grif, does yoh want us to come in er t' stay on de big po'ch?"It was Jerry's voice. "Good-ebnin', Mis' Kath'rine I I hope yoh ismonst'ous well dis ebenin'. Thanky, ma'am, yes'm, I'm middlin'."

  Mis. Davenport drew herself farther into the shadow, but she heard thelittle groan that escaped her husband. She understood. Her own voice wasas steady as if no storm had passed.

  "Open these large windows on to the porch, Jerry, and your Mos' Grifwill talk to you from here. Just keep them all outside. I liked yoursongs. When Mos' Grif is done with you all, sing some more--sing thatone he likes so well--the one about 'Fun in de Cabin.'" "To be sho',Mis' Kath'rine, to be sho'. Dat I will. What dat Mos' Grif gwine ter gibus? Milt he 'low dat hit's terbacker, an' Lippy Jane she 'low dat hit'scalicker, an' John he 'low dat--"

  With the opening of the low windows a great wave of "howdys" arose anda cloud of black faces clustered dose to the open spaces. The moon wasrising behind them and the lamp on the table within gave but a feebleeffort to rival the mellow light outside. The master was slow to begin,but, at last, when the greetings were over he said, with an effort toseem indifferent, "You all know that we are going away from here andthat you are going, too; but--" He found the task harder than he hadexpected. His voice trembled and he was glad that Katherine put her handon his arm. He shifted his position and began again. "You have all heardof freedom." He was looking at them, and the faces were so blandly,blankly vacant of that which he was groping for--they were so evidentlyexpecting a gift of tobacco
, or its like--that he omitted all he hadthought of to say of their new freedom and what it could mean for them,and what it had meant for him to secure it for them, and at once held upthe folded papers. "These are legal papers. They are all registered at acourt-house. I have one for each one of you. These papers set you free!They are manumission papers, and you are all to be free! free--"

  The silence was unbroken except for a slight shuffling of feet, but thedire disappointment was depicted on every face. That was too plain tobe mistaken. Only papers! No tobacco! No calico! Nothing to eat! Thesilence grew uncomfortable. They were waiting for something for whichthey could give out the "thanky, Mos' Grif, thanky, sir, I's mighty much'bleeged t' you, I is dat!" in their own hearty and happy way.

  Griffith found himself trying to explain what these papers really were.He chanced to open Judy's first. He would make an object lesson of it.She had been his nurse, and was too old and rheumatic to work except asthe spirit of occupation urged her to some trifling task. Griffith wasreading the paper and explaining as he went. The negroes looked from themaster to Judy and back again until he was done. She walked lamely tohis side when he had finished and was holding her freedom papers towardher. She held out her hand for it. Then she tore it through twice andtossed it out of the window. Her eyes flashed and she held herselferect.

  "What I want wid yoah ole mannermussent papers? What I want wid 'em,hey?" She folded her arms. "_Me_ a free nigger! Me! Mos' Grif, yoh ain'tnebber gwine ter lib t' be ole enough t' make no free nigger out ob oleJudy! What I fotch yoh up foh? Didn't I nus yoh fum de time yoh was ateenchy little baby, an' wasn't ole Mis' and yoah paw sas'fied wid me?What I done t' yoh now? What fo' is yoh gwine ter tun me loose dat away? Mannermussent papers!" she exclaimed, in a tone of contemptuouswrath, "mannermussent papers! Yoh can't mannermussent yoah ole AuntJudy! Deys life lef in her yit!"

  It was done so suddenly. The reception of freedom was so utterlyunexpected--so opposed to what he had fondly hoped--that Griffith stoodamazed. Katherine motioned to mammy, who still stood with the white babyin her arms. "Give me the baby, mammy. I will--"

  "Mis' Kate," said the old woman, turning, as she pushed her way throughthe room, "Mis' Kate, do Mos' Grif mean dat yo' alls is gwine ter_leabe_ us? Do he mean dat we _alls_ is got ter be free niggers, wid nofambly an' no big house an' no baby t' nus?"

  She changed the child's position, and the little soft, white cheek laycontentedly against the black one.

  "'Cause, if _dat's_ wat Mos' Grif mean, dis heah chile ob yoahs an' olemammy, deys gwine t' stay togedder. Dis heah mammy don't eben _tetch_ noole mannermossent papers! Tar hit up yo'se'f, Mis' Kate, kase dis heahnigger ain't eben gwine t' tetch hit. She's des gwine ter put dis babyter bed lak she alius done. Goodnight, Mis' Kate! Good-night, Mos'Grif!"

  She was half-way up the stairs, when she turned.

  "Mis' Kate, sumpin' er a-nudder done gone wrong wid Mos' Grifs haid.Sho' as yoh bawn, honey, dat's a fack! I wisht yoh send fo' yoh paw. Idoes dat!" and she waddled up the stairs, with the sleeping child helddose to her faithful heart.

  The reception of the freedom papers by the others varied withtemperament and age. Two or three of the younger ones reached in overthe heads of those in front of them when their names were called, and,holding the papers in their hands, "cut a pigeon-wing" in the moonlight.One or two looked at theirs in stupid, silent wonder. Jerry and hiswife gazed at the twins, and, in a half-dazed, half-shamefaced way,took theirs. Jerry took all four to Katherine. "Keep dem fo' me, please,ma'am, Mis' Kathrine, kase I ain't got no good place fer ter hide'em.Mebby dem dare chillun gwine ter want'em one er dese here days."

  Not one grasped the full meaning of it all. It was evident that oneand all expected to live along as before--to follow the fortunes of thefamily.

  "Thanky, Mos' Grif, much 'bleeged," said old Milt, as he took his, "butI'd a heap site a-rud-der had some mo' ob dat town terbacker--I woulddat, honey."

  "Give it up for to-night, Griffith," said his wife, gently, as he stillstood helplessly trying to explain again and again. "You look so white,and I am very tired. Give it up for tonight. It will be easier afterthey have talked it over together, perhaps--by daylight."

  She pushed him gently into a chair and motioned to Jerry to take themall away. The faithful fellow remembered, when outside, that she hadasked him to sing, but the merry song she had named had no echo in thehearts about him. All understood that they had failed to respond tosomething that the master had expected. The strings of his banjo rangout in a few minor chords, and as they moved toward the quarters an oldforgotten melody floated back--

  O, de shadders am a deepenin' on de mountains, O, de shadders am a deep'nin' on de stream, An' I think I hear an echo f urn de valley, An echo ob de days ob which I dream!

  Ole happy days! Ole happy days! Befo' I knew dat sorrow could be bawn, When I played wid mos'er's chillun in de medder, When my wuk was done a-hoein' ob de cawn!

  Dose happy, happy days! Dose happy, happy days! Dey'll come again no mo', no-o-o m-o-r-e, no more!

  Ole mos'er is a-sleepin' 'neath de willow! An' de apple blossoms' failin' on de lawn, Where he used to sit an' doze beneath its shadder, In de days when I was hoein' ob de cawn!

  Ole happy, etc.

  Dey'll come no mo' dis side de rlbber Jordan, O, dey'll come no mo' dis side de golden shoah! Foh de Chilian's growed so big dat deys forgot me, Kase I'se ole an' cannot wok foh dem no mo'!

  Ole happy, etc.