Red Rock: A Chronicle of Reconstruction

by Thomas Nelson Page

The Stamper place, amid its locusts and apple-trees, with its hipped roof and dormer-windows, small as it was, was as old as Red Rock—at least as the new mansion, with its imposing porticoes and extended wings, built around the big fireplace of the old house—and little Andy, though being somewhat taciturn he never said anything about it, was as proud of this fact as he was of being himself rather than Hiram Still. He had got an old army wagon from somewhere and was now beginning his farming operations in earnest. It had had “U. S.” on it, but though Andy insisted that the letters stood for “US,” not for the United States, Delia Dove had declined to ride in the vehicle as long as it had such characters stamped on it. As Mrs. Stamper was obdurate, Andy finally was forced to save her sensibilities, which he did by substituting “D” for “U.” This, he said, would stand either for “Delia Stamper,” or “D—d States.”

Jacquelin Gray was almost the only one of the men who was not able to go to work. His wound showed a tendency to break out afresh.

Steve Allen intended to practise law as soon as matters settled themselves. As yet, however, he could not engage in any profession. He had not yet determined to take the oath of allegiance. Meantime, to the great happiness of his cousins, especially of Miss Thomasia, he deferred going to the county seat and, moved by the grassy appearance of the once beautifully cultivated fields of Red Rock, began farming. Perhaps, it was sheer pride and dislike of meeting Middleton at the court-house under circumstances so different from those under which they had met last; perhaps it was the pleasure of being near Birdwood that kept him. It was very pleasant when his day’s work was done, to don his old gray jacket, play gentleman once more, and ride across the river of an evening; lounge on the grass under the big trees at Birdwood, and tease Blair Cary about Jacquelin, until her eyes flashed, and she let out at him, as he used to say, “like a newly bridled filly.” So he hitched his war-horses, Hotspur and Kate, to ploughs and ploughed day by day, while he made his boy, Jerry, plough furrow for furrow near him, under promise of half of his share of their crop if he kept up, and of the worst “lambing” he had ever had in his life if he did not. Jerry was a long, slim, young negro, as black as tar. He was the grandson of old Peggy, Steve’s mammy, and had come from the far South. Where Steve had got him during the war no one knew except Steve and Jerry themselves. Steve said he found him hanging to a tree and cut him down because he wanted the rope; but that if he had known Jerry as well then as he did afterward, he would have left him hanging. At this explanation, Jerry always grinned, exhibiting two rows of white teeth which looked like corn from a full ear. Jerry was a drunkard, a liar, and a thief. But one thing was certain: he adored Steve, who in return for that virtue bore delinquencies which no one else in the world would have tolerated. Jerry had one other trait which recommended him to his master: he was as brave as a lion; he would not have been afraid of the devil himself unless he had taken on the shape of Mr. Stevenson Allen, of whom alone Jerry stood in wholesome awe.

Steve’s bucolic operations came somewhat suddenly to an end. One evening, after a hard day’s work, he met Wash Still dressed up and driving a new buggy, turning in at Dr. Cary’s gate. He was “going to consult Dr. Cary about a case,” he said. Next day, as Steve was working in the field, he saw Wash driving down the hill from the manager’s house with the same well-appointed rig. Steve stopped in the row and looked at him as he drove past. Just then Jerry came up. His eye followed his master’s, and his face took on an expression of scorn.

“Umph! things is tunned sort o’ upside down,” he grunted. “Overseer’s son drivin’ buggy, and gent’mens in de fiel’.” Steve smiled at Jerry’s use of the plural. The next moment Hiram Still rode down the hill, and turning his horse in Steve’s direction came across the field.

“He sutney don’ like you, Cun’l,” said Jerry, “an’ he don’ like the Cap’n neider;” by which last, he designated Jacquelin. Jerry always gave military titles to those he liked—the highest to Steve, of course. “He say it do him good to see you wuckin’ in the fiel’ like a nigger, and some day he hope to set in de gret-house and see you doin’ it.”

Still passed quite close to Captain Allen, and as he did so, reined in his horse, and sat looking down at Steve, as he came to the end of his row.

“We all have to come to it, at last, Captain,” he said.

Whether it was his words, and the look on his face, or whether Steve had intended anyhow to do what he did, he straightened up, and shot a glance at the Manager.