The sharpshooter had aimed only at the dashing young cavalryman, but his shot struck a father and a mother in Charleston, and an old negro woman who was supposed to be crazy; and the wounds that it made were grievous. The cavalryman was young Gabriel Waynecroft, and with the ending of his life the hope and expectations of the family seemed to be blotted out. He had been the darling of the household, the pride of his father, the joy of his mother, and the idol of Mom Bi. When the news of his death came, the grief of the household took the shape of consternation. It was terrible to behold. The mother was prostrated and the father crushed. Their sorrow was voiceless. Mom Bi went about wringing her hands and moaning and talking to herself day after day.
Once, Judge Waynecroft, passing through the hall in slippered feet, thought he heard voices in the sitting-room. In an aimless way, he glanced in the room, and the sight made him pause. Mom Bi was sitting in the middle of the room in a low chair, gazing at the portrait of Gabriel Waynecroft, and talking to it. She spoke in a soft and tender tone, in strange contrast to the usual rasping and irritating quality of her voice.
“Look at me, honey,” she was saying; “look at you’ ole nigger mammy! Whut make dee lef’ you fer go way down, dey wey one folks kill turrer folks? Tell de ole nigger mammy dat, honey. Whaffer dee no lef’ dem no ’count san’hillers fer do all de fightin’? Who gwine fer cry wun dee git kilt? Fightin’ fer nigger! Whaffer you’ daddy no sen’ he niggers fer fight? De Lord know dee plenty un um. Nummine, honey! ’T ain’t gwine fer be long, ’fo’ dee’ll all know whut de Lord know, un whut ole Bi know. Gi’ um time, honey! des gi’ um time!”
Judge Waynecroft turned away with a groan. To behold the bewildered grief of this old negro woman was to add a new pang to his own sorrow. Mom Bi paused, but did not turn her head. She heard her master pass down the hall with uncertain step, and then she heard the library door shut.
“’Tis de gospel troot ’e bin yeddy me preachin’,” she exclaimed. Then she turned again to the portrait and gazed at it steadily and in silence for a long while, rocking herself and nursing her withered arm.
When the body of Gabriel Waynecroft was brought home, Mom Bi kneeled on the floor at the foot of the coffin and stayed there, giving utterance to the wildest lamentations. Some friend or acquaintance of the family made an attempt to remove her.
“This will never do,” he said kindly, but firmly. “You must get up and go away. The noise you are making distresses and disturbs the family.”
Trembling with mingled grief and rage, Mom Bi turned upon the officious person.
“I ain’t, I ain’t, I ain’t!” she almost shrieked. “I gwine fer stay right wey I is. Take you’ han’ fum off me, man! I bin cry on count dat chile mos’ ’fo’ he own mammy is. I bin nuss um, I bin worry wid um, I bin stay ’wake wid um wun ev’body wuz sleep, un I bin hol’ um in my lap day un night, wun ’e sick un wun ’e well. I ain’t gwine out! I ain’t! I ain’t!”