In the season of 1863, the Rockville Hunting Club, which had been newly organized, was at the height of its success. It was composed of men too old to go in the army, and of young men who were not old enough, or who, from one cause and another, were exempted from military service. Ostensibly, its object was to encourage the noble sport of fox-hunting and to bind by closer ties the congenial souls whose love for horse and hound and horn bordered on enthusiasm. This, I say, was its [v]ostensible object, for it seems to me, looking back upon that terrible time, that the main purpose of the association was to devise new methods of forgetting the sickening [v]portents of disaster that were even then thick in the air. Any suggestion or plan calculated to relieve the mind from the weight of the horror of those desperate days was eagerly seized upon and utilized. With the old men and the fledgling boys in the neighborhood of Rockville, the desire to escape momentarily the realities of the present took the shape of fox-hunting and other congenial amusements. With the women—ah well! Heaven only knows how they sat dumb and silent over their great anguish and grief, cheering the helpless and comforting and succoring the sick and wounded. It was a mystery to me then, and it is a mystery to me now.
About the first of November the writer hereof received a long-expected letter from Tom Tunison, the secretary of the club, who was on a visit to Monticello. It was brief and breezy.
“Young man,” he wrote, “they are coming. They are going to give us a [v]ruffle. Their dogs are good, but they lack form and finish as well as discipline—plenty of bottom but no confidence. I haven’t hesitated to put up our horn as the prize. Get the boys together and tell them about it, and see that our own eleven are in fighting trim. You won’t believe it, but Sue, Herndon, Kate, and Walthall are coming with the party; and the fair de Compton, who set all the Monticello boys wild last year when she got back from Macon, vows and declares she is coming, too. Remember the 15th. Be prepared.”
I took in the situation at a glance. Tom, in his reckless style, had bantered a party of Jasper county men as to the superiority of their dogs, and had even offered to give them an opportunity to gain the silver-mounted horn won by the Rockville club in Hancock county the year before. The Jasper county men, who were really breeding some excellent dogs, accepted the challenge, and Tom had invited them to share the hospitality of the plantation home called “Bachelors’ Hall.”
If the truth must be confessed, I was not at all grieved at the announcement in Tom’s letter, apart from the agreeable change in the social atmosphere that would result from the presence of ladies in “Bachelors’ Hall.” I was eagerly anxious to test the mettle of a favorite hound—Flora—whose care and training had cost me a great deal of time and trouble. Although it was her first season in the field, she had already become the pet and pride of the Rockville club, the members of which were not slow to sound her praises. Flora was an experiment. She was the result of a cross between the Henry hound (called in Georgia the “Birdsong dog,” in honor of the most successful breeder) and a Maryland hound. She was a grand-daughter of the famous Hodo and in everything except her color (she was white with yellow ears) was the exact reproduction of that magnificent fox-hound. I was anxious to see her put to the test.
It was with no small degree of satisfaction, therefore, that I informed Aunt Patience, the cook, of Tom’s programme. Aunt Patience was a privileged character, whose comments upon people and things were free and frequent; when she heard that a party of hunters, accompanied by ladies, proposed to make the hall their temporary headquarters, her remarks were ludicrously indignant.
“Well, ef dat Marse Tom ain’t de beatinest white man dat I ever sot eyes on—’way off yander givin’ way his vittles fo’ he buy um at de sto’! How I know what Marse Tom want, an’ tel I know, whar I gwineter git um? He better be home yer lookin’ atter deze lazy niggers, stidder high-flyin’ wid dem Jasper county folks. Ef dez enny vittles on dis plan’ash’n, hits more’n I knows un. En he’ll go runnin’ roun’ wid dem harum-skarum gals twell I boun’ he don’t fetch dat pipe an’ dat ’backer what he said he would. Can’t fool me ’bout de gals what grows up deze days. Dey duz like dey wanter stan’ up an’ cuss dersef’ case dey wuzent borned men.”
“Why, Aunt Patience, your Marse Tom says Miss de Compton is as pretty as a pink and as fine as a fiddle.”
“Law, chile! you needn’t talk ’bout de gals to dis ole ’omen. I done know um fo’ you wuz borned. W’en you see Miss Compton you see all de balance un um. Deze is new times. Marse Tom’s mammy useter spin her fifteen cents o’ wool a day—w’en you see Miss Compton wid a hank er yarn in ’er han’, you jes’ sen’ me word.”
Whereupon, Aunt Patience gave her head handkerchief a vigorous wrench, and went her way—the good old soul—even then considering how she should best set about preparing a genuine surprise for her young master in the shape of daily feasts for a dozen guests. I will not stop here to detail the character of this preparation or to dwell upon its success. It is enough to say that Tom Tunison praised Aunt Patience to the skies; and, as if this were not sufficient to make her happy, he produced a big clay pipe, three plugs of real “manufac terbacker,” which was hard to get in those times, a red shawl, and twelve yards of calico.