“That will do, sir. If you’ve had to eat mule in Paris don’t tell me about it. My constitution wouldn’t stand that, though during our war, just before Vicksburg, I ate—but we won’t go into that either. Now this is the situation, as much as a lad from the wilds of Paris could understand it. The French Government wants five thousand mules by the fall of the year, and there are no such mules in the world as this State produces. They are sending a man over here to try to make a deal with the State of Harpeth to purchase the mules from private breeders, graze them on the government lands and deliver them in a lot for shipment the first of August at Savannah. There is no authority on the statute book for the State to make such a deal, but Jeff Whitworth has fixed up a sort of contract, that wouldn’t hold water in the courts, by which the Governor of the State, Williamson Faulkner, grants the grazing rights on the State’s lands to a private company of which he is to be a member, which, in a way, guarantees the deal. They’ve made him believe it to be a good financial thing for the State and he can’t see that they are going to buy cheap stock, fatten it on a low rate from the State and hand it over to the French Government at a fancy rake-off—and then leave him with the bag to hold when the time for settlement and complaint comes. There is a strong Republican party in this State and they’re keeping quiet, but year after next, when Bill Faulkner comes up for re-election, downright illegality will be alleged, and he will be defeated in dishonor and with dishonor to the State. I am his Secretary of State and I’m going to save him if I can. And you are going to help me, sir!” And as he spoke my Uncle, the General Robert, gave to me a distinguished shake of the hand that made my pride to rise in my throat, which gave to my speaking a great huskiness.
“I will help in the rescue of the honor of that Gouverneur Bill Faulkner, my Uncle Robert, with the last breath in my body, and I will also assist to feed mule to that Mr. Jefferson Whitworth, though not to his beautiful wife whom I do so much admire.”
“That’s just it; she’ll have to eat mule the first one. She’s at the Governor day and night with her wiles, and in my mind it’s her dimity influence that is making him see things with this slant. They say she put her brand on him in early youth. He’s the soul of honor but what chance has a man’s soul-honor got when a woman wants to cash it in for a fortune with which to lead a gay life? None! None, sir!” And the countenance of my Uncle, the General Robert, became so fierce that it was difficult to find words to answer.
“Oh, my Uncle Robert, is it that a woman would make a cheat in giving the mule animal of not sufficient strength to carry food to poor boys of France in the trenches when there is too much mud for gasoline!” I exclaimed with a great horror from knowledge given me by my Capitaine, the Count de Lasselles.
“Just exactly what she is trying to do, boy. Let those poor chaps with guns in their hands to defend her civilization as well as theirs, die for want of a supply train hauled by reliable mules when unreliable gasoline fails. That’s what women are like.” And as he spoke I perceived the depth of dislike that was in the heart of my Uncle, the General Robert, for all of womankind.
“There are some women who would not so comport themselves, my Uncle Robert. I give you my word as one—” Then as I hesitated in terror at the revelation of my woman’s estate I had been about to make, my Uncle, the General Robert, made this remark to me:
“Women are like crows, all black; and the exceptional white one only makes the rest look blacker. The only way to stop them in their depredations is to trap them, since the law forbids shooting them.” And as he made this judgment of women I forgot for a moment that we discussed that Madam Whitworth, whom it was causing me great pain to discover to be the enemy of France, and I thought of my beautiful mother, whom he had judged without ever having encountered, and a great longing rose in my heart so to comport myself that his heart should learn to trust in me as a man and then discover the honor of woman through me at some future time. I took a resolve that such should be the case and to that end I asked of him:
“How is it that I can serve you in these serious troubles, my Uncle Robert?” And as I asked that question I made also a vow in my heart against that black crow woman.
“Now that’s what I’m coming to. The French Government is sending an army expert down here to look over the situation and make the contracts. I can’t speak their heathenish tongue or read it, and I want somebody whom I can trust—trust, mind you—to help me talk with him and make any necessary translations. That Whitworth hussy has been translating for us and I don’t trust her. Your letter was handed to me in the Governor’s private office and both he and I saw what a help it would be to have you here when this Frenchie—who is a Count Something or Other—and his servants and secretaries, what he calls his suite, arrive. By George, sir, we need your advice in eating and drinking them! Do you suppose they’ll have intelligence enough to eat the manna of the gods, which is corn pone, and drink the nectar, which is plain whiskey, or will we be expected to furnish them with snails and absinthe?”
At that I laughed a very large laugh and made this answer to the perturbation of my Uncle, the General Robert: