“Brevet,” said Joe seriously, as they jogged away from the gate, “You mus’ be ver’ careful ’bout bein’ spectful like to yo’ Grandnana, case if you don’ dere’s no tellin’ but any day yo’ Cap’n ’ll take away yo’ straps an’ den you’d jus’ be plain Marse Howard again I reckon.”
“Joe,” said Brevet solemnly, his voice trembling a little, “I could not bear it if you took away my straps,” and he laid a little brown hand protectingly upon one shoulder.
“Well, den you have a care, Honey, ‘bout Miss Lindy, an’ de nex’ time Joe invites you down to Arlington fur de day, you des ask yo’ Grandnana’s permission. Yo’re my Brevet-Cap’n sure ’nuff, but you’re yo’ Grandnana’s little pickaninny eb’ry day in de week, and don’ you forget it.”
“I’ll remember, Captain,” with most soldierlike submission, and then for awhile they drove along in silence. Happy thoughts of anticipation, however, soon chased the troubled look from Brevet’s little face, for there was nothing at all could compare with these occasional days spent with Joe at Arlington. It was owing to them that he had gained his dearly-loved title of Brevet and the blue soldier-cap and the shoulder-straps. Joe had been a member of a coloured regiment and had fought all through the war, and when at last he had come back and had settled down in his old cabin at Arlington, he was dubbed Captain, in recognition of his gallant services, by all the coloured folk of the neighbourhood. And Joe was by no means unworthy of the honour, for save for the fact that his regiment had been officered by white men, he might easily have risen to the command of a company. Time and time again in the face of the greatest danger he had been notoriously fearless, and had never in a single instance shown the white feather, which is more than can be said for many of his black comrades. And so from that time on it had been Captain Joe, and when some thirty years later little Howard Ellis came to make his home with his grandmother, and soon afterward came to know Joe, and to spend many a long summer day in his delightful company, what more natural than that the little fellow, with his great passion for everything military, should first aspire to some of the outward insignia, and then, having attained cap and shoulder-straps by favour of his grandmother, should later be dowered with the title of “Brevet-Captain,” by favour of Captain Joe himself?
“You see it’s des de name fur you, Honey,” Joe had explained, “case it’ll save any con-fus’n’ of us togedder, an’ at de same time it’s a very complimentin’ title. It means es how you have it des as a sort of honour, widout havin’ any of de ’sponsibilities of an out-an’-outer cap’n like me.”
From that day forward it was “Brevet-Captain,” very tenaciously insisted upon by Howard himself, but gradually allowed to be abbreviated to “Brevet” within the home circle. And so Captain Joe and Brevet, having long ago arrived at the most satisfactory mutual understanding, sat side by side in the donkey-cart, without feeling the slightest obligation to say a word.
The road from the Ellis homestead up to Arlington lies through the woods, and has all the charm of a road that has been left to follow its own way—and a sweet, wild way at that. There were no fences, either new or old, for none were needed. On each side a forest of oak, interspersed with an occasional maple or chestnut, stretched miles away, with seldom a glimpse of a clearing, while immediately bordering the road grew the veriest tangle of a natural hedge-row, abloom with some sort of sweet wild-flower from May to October. The original cut through the wood had been happily a wide one, and so sunshine and shower even, after all these years, still had abundant chance to slant this way and that across the road and coax every growing thing to perfection. Wood-violets, white and yellow and purple, peered out from under the taller growths of fern in the early springtime. June brought the sweet wild rose, unfolding bud after bud well into the summer, and the white berry-blossoms of the briars. With August came the berries themselves, ripening ungathered in riotous profusion, and following close upon them advance heralds of the goldenrod and the asters. It was in very truth a beautiful, dear old road, and it formed a beautiful setting for the little donkey-drawn cart slowly making its way along it. A pretty contrast, too, that of the old negro, still alert and sturdy notwithstanding his threescore years and ten, with the little golden-haired boy beside him. Together they seemed the embodiment of happy, confiding childhood and trustful, serene old age. On came the little cart, each of its occupants apparently intent upon his own thoughts, until at last Brevet commenced humming a sweet little refrain; very softly and slowly at first, as though not quite sure of his ground, then more distinctly as he felt himself master of the situation. Finally the refrain took to itself words; words that have since grown commonplace, but which had all the charm of novelty for Joe, and he listened with absorbed delight as Brevet sang cutely,—