“Oh! who is dat a comin’? Don’t you grieve for me.
De Lord don’t want you to grieve for me.
’Tis ole Father Gable (Gabriel),” etc., etc.
Over and over again sounded the weird melody, mingling with the strains of martial music that floated from the barracks opposite. Paulphemia seemed to appreciate better her own melody, with its accompaniment of heels knocking against the gate-post on which she sat, than the patriotic “Rally round the flag, boys,” of the musicians.
It was after the war and Paulphemia was free. Surely, she knew all this, for hadn’t her pa fallen in battle, bravely fighting? and hadn’t she fled with her dear widowed missus and little missuses in as great terror as they when the Union army entered the city? For she loved this mistress, and was only dimly sure that freedom was to be such a glorious thing. Surely no one knew better than Paulphemia that she was free, and yet where was the use in singing all day, “I’se free, thank de Lord,” or of falling on her knees periodically to shout and praise God, as “maw” did?
I have said that she seemed to appreciate better her own doleful melody than the martial music; in reality, though, her song was a kind of “Get thee behind me, Satan,” to the tempter urging her to run over to the barracks.
Indeed Paulphemia’s cup was one of mingled joy and pain, and therein, although as black as ebony, she was akin to us. True, she was free; that meant she had no more toting of missus’ babies. But when she lived with missus, she didn’t have to live with ma; and Paulphemia would have told you, “this ma ain’t my ma, ’cause my own dear ma done died,” and this ma had decreed that the child should not run loose hither and yon, and especially should not go over to the fort and barracks. Paulphemia almost envied the little dwarf, her neighbor, poor little Joe Morgan, whose body and limbs were so distorted and mixed up that he could scratch his ear or his little woolly head with his toes. For the amusement this accomplishment afforded the soldiers, he was welcome at any time, and in this way picked up many a penny.
“Paulphemie,” shouted an imperative voice, “I’se a gwine ter whip you, chile, if you darst go over to them quarters!” The old woman, with her threat and her stick for enforcing it, appeared most opportunely in the cabin door, for the child had slid from the gate-post and in another second would have rallied round the flag; but with a face expressive of innocence itself, she responded, “I’se jis a comin’, maw!” This meekness deceived the old woman and she changed her menacing tones. “Honey,” she said, “your pore ma’s done died, an’ nebber lived to see us free! Say, honey, reckon you’d like for to be a lady like ole missus?” “Dunno,” answered Paulphemia, for “Yankee Doodle” was just then driving her almost wild. “Say, honey, reckon you’d like for to go to the big paid school?”
At this the child opened wider her big eyes, for next to the barracks in point of mystery was the large school into which she had longed to penetrate. “You get learning, chile, an’ get religion, an’ sure ’nough you’se a lady like ole missus.” This was what the old woman told Paulphemia then, and afterward put her to school.
Years came and went as years will do, some three or four or five; and after a time the blue-coats vanished from the city, martial music was no more heard, and the forts crowning the beautiful hills and all the barracks about them became deserted and silent. Still the school in the hospital buildings continued and increased in prosperity, and still the years rolled on, fourteen of them, and even the hospital buildings became deserted, for the Freedmen’s school had long since outgrown its quarters, and from one of the beautiful hills it proudly and peacefully looks down upon the city, that proudly and in peace gazes up to it.
On a day when the Southern sunshine was brightest, one of the professors, on his way to the University, was stopped by an aged colored woman, bowed over on a walking-stick, and hobbling to meet him. “Howdy,” said she, “is you de teacher up yonder?” and she pointed to the stately hall. “Yes, auntie,” he replied with a smile. “Can I do anything for you?” “Reckon you don’t ’member Paulphemie Watkins?”—and as she spoke the name, her voice grew even more tremulous.
The professor regretfully said he did not recall her. “I ’spects you doesn’t,” added the old auntie. “Well, down yonder, sah, when dis yere school was a baby, you know, down yonder in de guv’ment buildings, my Paulphemie went to your paid school; she got religion thar, and—and (wiping slowly her eyes) she done got de choleray and done died, nigh on ter fourteen year ago now, sah. Praise de Lord! she got religion, and she gone home ter glory!” And then the poor old thing, after placing her walking-stick so that she could safely lean on it and have her hands free, removed from her bosom a handkerchief, and with trembling fingers untied a knot in one corner; then she placed in the professor’s hand, counting them out one by one, six silver dollars. “For my Paulphemie’s larnin’, sah. I couldn’t pay it sooner, sah; but, sure ’nough, its done laid like a stone right here all dese yere years,” she said, putting her hand on her heart. "I prayed de Lord an’ I said, O! good Lord, don’t lemme come home to glory till I done paid for Paulphemie’s larnin’! It’s a pretty day, sah; I lives a right smart o’ way yonder, an’ my ole feet don’t go fast, so good evening."[A] With those words she would have gone. The professor’s eyes were moist, and he had hardly spoken, so strange had been the scene, but now he followed her, begging her gently to keep the money. With pride and almost anger she refused, and after learning where her home was, he was obliged to let her go, contenting himself with a plan to fully make up to her in some way the sum she had left in his hands.