Gabriel Tolliver: A Story of Reconstruction

by Joel Chandler Harris

Cephas couldn't guess what Mr. Sanders was driving at, and he asked no questions. His mind was too full of his proposed trip. When the proposition was first broached to Cephas's mother, she scouted the idea of allowing her boy to make the journey. He was all she had, and should anything happen to him—well, the world wouldn't be the same world to her. And it was so far away; why, she had heard some one say that Savannah was right on the brink of the ocean—that great monster that swallowed ships and men by the thousand, and was just as hungry afterward as before. But Cephas began to cry, saying that he wanted to see Gabriel; and Mr. Sanders told Gabriel's side of the story. Between the two, the poor woman had no option but to say that she'd consider the matter, and when a woman begins to consider—well, according to the ancient philosophers, it's the same as saying yes.

The truth is, a great deal of pressure was brought to bear on Cephas's mother, in one way and another. Meriwether Clopton called on her, bringing Captain Falconer. She was not at all pleased to see the Captain, and she made no effort to conceal her prejudice. "I never did think that I'd speak to a man in that uniform," she said with a very red face. But she was better satisfied when Meriwether Clopton told her that the Captain was the son of his dearest friend, and that he was utterly opposed to the radical policy.

The upshot of the matter was that, with many a sigh and some tears, she gave her consent for her onliest, her dearest, and her bestest, to go on the long journey. And then, after consenting, she was angry with herself because she had consented. In short, she was as miserable and as anxious as mother-love can make a woman, and poor Cephas never could understand until he became a grown man, and had children of his own, how his mother could make such a to-do over the opportunity that Providence had thrown in his way. To tell the truth, he was almost irritated at the obstacles and objections that the vivid imagination of his mother kept conjuring up. She said he must be sure not to fall in the ocean, and he must keep out of the way of the railroad trains. She cried silently all the time she was packing his modest supply of clothes in a valise, and put some tea-cakes in one corner, and a little Testament in the other.

It is no wonder that children who do not understand such feelings should be impatient of them, and Cephas is to be excused if he watched the whole proceeding with something like contempt for woman's weakness. But he has bitterly regretted, oh, tens of thousands of times, that, instead of standing aloof from his mother's feelings, he did not throw his arms around her, and tell how much he appreciated her love, and how every tear she shed for him was worth to him a hundred times more than a diamond. But Cephas was a boy, and, being a boy, he could not rise superior to his boy's nature.

It was arranged that Cephas was to go to Savannah with Captain Falconer, and return with Mr. Sanders, who would take advantage of the occasion to settle up some old business with the firm that had acted as factor for Meriwether Clopton before the war. The arrangement took place when Mr. Sanders returned home after his visit to Cephas's mother, and was of course conditional on her consent, which was not obtained at once.

Mr. Sanders was shrewd enough not to dwell too much on the plight of the young men on his return. By some method of his own, he seemed to sweep the whole matter from his mind, and both he and Meriwether Clopton addressed themselves to such topics as they imagined the Federal Captain would find interesting; and in this they were seconded by Sarah Clopton, whom Robert Toombs declared to be one of the finest conversationalists of her time when she chose to exert her powers. But for the softness and fine harmony of her features, her face would have been called masculine. Her countenance was entirely responsive to her emotions, and it was delightful to watch the eloquent play of her features. Captain Falconer fell quickly under the spell of her conversation, for one of its chiefest charms was the ease with which she brought out the best thoughts of his mind—thoughts and views that were a part of his inner self.

It was the same at dinner, where, without monopolising the talk, she led it this way and that, but always in channels that were congenial and pleasing to the Captain, and that enabled him to appear at his best. In honour of his guest, Meriwether Clopton brought out some fine old claret that had lain for many years undisturbed in the cellar.

"Thank you, Sarah," said Mr. Sanders, when the hostess pressed him to have a glass, "I'll not trouble you for any to-day. I've made the acquaintance of that claret. It ain't sour enough for vinegar, nor strong enough for liquor; it's a kind of a cross betwixt a second drawin' of tea an' the syrup of squills; an' no matter how hard you hit it it'll never hit you back. It's lots too mild for a Son of Temp'rance like me. No; gi' me a full jug an' a shuck-pen to crawl into, an' you may have all the wine, red or yaller."

But the fine old claret was thoroughly enjoyed by those who could appreciate the flower of its age and the flavour of its vintage; and when dinner was over, and Captain Falconer was on his way to camp, he felt that, outside of his own home, he had never had such a pleasant experience.

In the course of a few days orders came from Atlanta for Captain Falconer to turn over the command of the detachment to the officer next in rank, and proceed to Malvern, where he would find further instructions awaiting him. When the time came for Cephas to be off with the Captain, you may well believe that his mother saw all sorts of trouble ahead for him. She had dreamed some very queer dreams, she said, and she was very sure that no good would follow. And at the last moment, she would have taken Cephas from the barouche which had come for him, if the driver, following the instructions of Mr. Sanders, had not whipped up his horses, and left the lady standing in the street.