Back Aa

Colonel's Dream

<hr /> [145] <h3>Sixteen</h3> Little Phil had grown very fond of old Peter, who seemed to lavish upon the child all of his love and devotion for the dead generations of the French family. The colonel had taught Phil to call the old man "Uncle Peter," after the kindly Southern fashion of slavery days, which, denying to negroes the forms of address applied to white people, found in the affectionate terms of relationship—Mammy, Auntie and Uncle—designations that recognised the respect due to age, and yet lost, when applied to slaves, their conventional significance. There was a strong, sympathy between the intelligent child and the undeveloped old negro; they were more nearly on a mental level, leaving out, of course, the factor of Peter's experience, than could have been the case with one more generously endowed than Peter, who, though by nature faithful, had never been unduly bright. Little Phil became so attached to his old attendant that, between Peter and [146]the Treadwell ladies, the colonel's housekeeper had to give him very little care. On Sunday afternoons the colonel and Phil and Peter would sometimes walk over to the cemetery. The family lot was now kept in perfect order. The low fence around it had been repaired, and several leaning headstones straightened up. But, guided by a sense of fitness, and having before him the awful example for which Fetters was responsible, the colonel had added no gaudy monument nor made any alterations which would disturb the quiet beauty of the spot or its harmony with the surroundings. In the Northern cemetery where his young wife was buried, he had erected to her memory a stately mausoleum, in keeping with similar memorials on every hand. But here, in this quiet graveyard, where his ancestors slept their last sleep under the elms and the willows, display would have been out of place. He had, however, placed a wrought-iron bench underneath the trees, where he would sit and read his paper, while little Phil questioned old Peter about his grandfather and his great-grandfather, their prowess on the hunting field, and the wars they fought in; and the old man would delight in detailing, in his rambling and disconnected manner, the past glories of the French family. It was always a new story to Phil, and never grew stale to the old man. If Peter could be believed, there were never white folks so brave, so learned, so wise, so handsome, so kind to their servants, so just to all with whom they had dealings. Phil developed a very great fondness for these dead ancestors, whose graves and histories he soon knew as well as Peter himself. With his lively imagination he found pleasure, as children often do, in looking into the future. The unoccupied space in the large cemetery lot furnished him food for much speculation. "Papa," he said, upon one of these peaceful afternoons, "there's room enough here for all of us, isn't there—you, and me and Uncle Peter?" [147]"Yes, Phil," said his father, "there's room for several generations of Frenches yet to sleep with their fathers." Little Phil then proceeded to greater detail. "Here," he said, "next to grandfather, will be your place, and here next to that, will be mine, and here, next to me will be—but no," he said, pausing reflectively, "that ought to be saved for my little boy when he grows up and dies, that is, when I grow up and have a little boy and he grows up and grows old and dies and leaves a little boy and—but where will Uncle Peter be?" "Nem mine me, honey," said the old man, "dey can put me somewhar e'se. Hit doan' mattuh 'bout me." "No, Uncle Peter, you must be here with the rest of us. For you know, Uncle Peter, I'm so used to you now, that I should want you to be near me then." Old Peter thought to humour the lad. "Put me down hyuh at de foot er de lot, little Mars' Phil, unner dis ellum tree." "Oh, papa," exclaimed Phil, demanding the colonel's attention, "Uncle Peter and I have arranged everything. You know Uncle Peter is to stay with me as long as I live, and when he dies, he is to be buried here at the foot of the lot, under the elm tree, where he'll be near me all the time, and near the folks that he knows and that know him." "All right, Phil. You see to it; you'll live longer." "But, papa, if I should die first, and then Uncle Peter, and you last of all, you'll put Uncle Peter near me, won't you, papa?" "Why, bless your little heart, Phil, of course your daddy will do whatever you want, if he's here to do it. But you'll live, Phil, please God, until I am old and bent and white-haired, and you are a grown man, with a beard, and a little boy of your own." "Yas, suh," echoed the old servant, "an' till ole Peter's bones is long sence crumble' inter dus'. None er de Frenches' ain' never died till dey was done growed up." [148]On the afternoon following the colonel's visit to Mink Run, old Peter, when he came for Phil, was obliged to stay long enough to see the antics of the mechanical mule; and had not that artificial animal suddenly refused to kick, and lapsed into a characteristic balkiness for which there was no apparent remedy, it might have proved difficult to get Phil away. "There, Philip dear, never mind," said Miss Laura, "we'll have Ben mend it for you when he comes, next time, and then you can play with it again." Peter had brought with him some hooks and lines, and, he and Phil, after leaving the house, followed the bank of the creek, climbing a fence now and then, until they reached the old mill site, upon which work had not yet begun. They found a shady spot, and seating themselves upon the bank, baited their lines, and dropped them into a quiet pool. For quite a while their patience was unrewarded by anything more than a nibble. By and by a black cat came down from the ruined mill, and sat down upon the bank at a short distance from them. "I reckon we'll haf ter move, honey," said the old man. "We ain't gwine ter have no luck fishin' 'g'ins' no ole black cat." "But cats don't fish, Uncle Peter, do they?" "Law', chile, you'll never know w'at dem critters kin do, 'tel you's watched 'em long ez I has! Keep yo' eye on dat one now." The cat stood by the stream, in a watchful attitude. Suddenly she darted her paw into the shallow water and with a lightning-like movement drew out a small fish, which she took in her mouth, and retired with it a few yards up the bank. "Jes' look at dat ole devil," said Peter, "playin' wid dat fish jes' lack it wuz a mouse! She'll be comin' down heah terreckly tellin' us ter go 'way fum her fishin' groun's." "Why, Uncle Peter," said Phil incredulously, "cats can't talk!" "Can't dey? Hoo said dey couldn'? Ain't Miss Grac'ella an' me be'n [149]tellin' you right along 'bout Bre'r Rabbit and Bre'r Fox an de yuther creturs talkin' an' gwine on jes' lak folks?" "Yes, Uncle Peter, but those were just stories; they didn't really talk, did they?" "Law', honey," said the old man, with a sly twinkle in his rheumy eye, "you is de sma'tes' little white boy I ever knowed, but you is got a monst'us heap ter l'arn yit, chile. Nobody ain' done tol' you 'bout de Black Cat an' de Ha'nted House, is dey?" "No, Uncle Peter—you tell me." "I didn' knowed but Miss Grac'ella mought a tole you—she knows mos' all de tales." "No, she hasn't. You tell me about it, Uncle Peter." "Well," said Peter, "does you 'member dat coal-black man dat drives de lumber wagon?" "Yes, he goes by our house every day, on the way to the sawmill." "Well, it all happen' 'long er him. He 'uz gwine long de street one day, w'en he heared two gent'emen—one of 'em was ole Mars' Tom Sellers an' I fuhgot de yuther—but dey 'uz talkin' 'bout dat ole ha'nted house down by de creek, 'bout a mile from hyuh, on de yuther side er town, whar we went fishin' las' week. Does you 'member de place?" "Yes, I remember the house." "Well, as dis yer Jeff—dat's de lumber-wagon driver's name—as dis yer Jeff come up ter dese yer two gentlemen, one of 'em was sayin, 'I'll bet five dollahs dey ain' narry a man in his town would stay in dat ha'nted house all night.' Dis yer Jeff, he up 'n sez, sezee, 'Scuse me, suh, but ef you'll 'low me ter speak, suh, I knows a man wat'll stay in dat ole ha'nted house all night.'" "What is a ha'nted house, Uncle Peter?" asked Phil. "W'y. Law,' chile, a ha'nted house is a house whar dey's ha'nts!" "And what are ha'nts, Uncle Peter?" [150]"Ha'nts, honey, is sperrits er dead folks, dat comes back an' hangs roun' whar dey use' ter lib." "Do all spirits come back, Uncle Peter?" "No, chile, bress de Lawd, no. Only de bad ones, w'at has be'n so wicked dey can't rest in dey graves. Folks lack yo' gran'daddy and yo' gran'mammy—an' all de Frenches—dey don' none er dem come back, fer dey wuz all good people an' is all gone ter hebben. But I'm fergittin' de tale. "'Well, hoo's de man—hoo's de man?' ax Mistah Sellers, w'en Jeff tol' 'im dey wuz somebody wat 'ud stay in de ole ha'nted house all night. "'I'm de man,' sez Jeff. 'I ain't skeered er no ha'nt dat evuh walked, an' I sleeps in graveya'ds by pref'ence; fac', I jes nach'ly lacks ter talk ter ha'nts. You pay me de five dollahs, an' I'll 'gree ter stay in de ole house f'm nine er clock 'tel daybreak.' "Dey talk' ter Jeff a w'ile, an' dey made a bahgin wid 'im; dey give 'im one dollah down, an' promus' 'im fo' mo' in de mawnin' ef he stayed 'tel den. "So w'en he got de dollah he went uptown an' spent it, an' 'long 'bout nine er clock he tuk a lamp, an' went down ter de ole house, an' went inside an' shet de do'. "Dey wuz a rickety ole table settin' in de middle er de flo'. He sot de lamp on de table. Den he look 'roun' de room, in all de cawners an' up de chimbly, ter see dat dey wan't nobody ner nuthin' hid in de room. Den he tried all de winders an' fastened de do', so dey couldn' nobody ner nuthin' git in. Den he fotch a' ole rickety chair f'm one cawner, and set it by de table, and sot down. He wuz settin' dere, noddin' his head, studyin' 'bout dem other fo' dollahs, an' w'at he wuz gwine buy wid 'em, w'en bimeby he kinder dozed off, an' befo' he knowed it he wuz settin' dere fast asleep." "W'en he woke up, 'long 'bout 'leven erclock, de lamp had bu'n' down kinder low. He heared a little noise behind him an' look 'roun', [151]an' dere settin' in de middle er de flo' wuz a big black tomcat, wid his tail quirled up over his back, lookin' up at Jeff wid bofe his two big yaller eyes. "Jeff rub' 'is eyes, ter see ef he wuz 'wake, an w'iles he sot dere wond'rin' whar de hole wuz dat dat ole cat come in at, fus' thing he knowed, de ole cat wuz settin' right up 'side of 'im, on de table, wid his tail quirled up roun' de lamp chimbly. "Jeff look' at de black cat, an' de black cat look' at Jeff. Den de black cat open his mouf an' showed 'is teef, an' sezee——" "'Good evenin'!' "'Good evenin' suh,' 'spon' Jeff, trimblin' in de knees, an' kind'er edgin' 'way fum de table. "'Dey ain' nobody hyuh but you an' me, is dey?' sez de black cat, winkin' one eye. "'No, suh,' sez Jeff, as he made fer de do', 'an' quick ez I kin git out er hyuh, dey ain' gwine ter be nobody hyuh but you!'" "Is that all, Uncle Peter?" asked Phil, when the old man came to a halt with a prolonged chuckle. "Huh?" "Is that all?" "No, dey's mo' er de tale, but dat's ernuff ter prove dat black cats kin do mo' dan little w'ite boys 'low dey kin." "Did Jeff go away?" "Did he go 'way! Why, chile, he jes' flew away! Befo' he got ter de do', howsomevuh, he 'membered he had locked it, so he didn' stop ter try ter open it, but went straight out'n a winder, quicker'n lightnin', an' kyared de sash 'long wid 'im. An' he'd be'n in sech pow'ful has'e dat he knock' de lamp over an' lack ter sot de house afire. He nevuh got de yuther fo' dollahs of co'se, 'ca'se he didn't stay in de ole ha'nted house all night, but he 'lowed he'd sho'ly 'arned de one dollah he'd had a'ready." "Why didn't he want to talk to the black cat, Uncle Peter?" [152]"Why didn' he wan' ter talk ter de black cat? Whoever heared er sich a queshtun! He didn' wan' ter talk wid no black cat, 'ca'se he wuz skeered. Black cats brings 'nuff bad luck w'en dey doan' talk, let 'lone w'en dey does." "I should like," said Phil, reflectively, "to talk to a black cat. I think it would be great fun." "Keep away f'm 'em, chile, keep away f'm 'em. Dey is some things too deep fer little boys ter projec' wid, an' black cats is one of 'em." They moved down the stream and were soon having better luck. "Uncle Peter," said Phil, while they were on their way home, "there couldn't be any ha'nts at all in the graveyard where my grandfather is buried, could there? Graciella read a lot of the tombstones to me one day, and they all said that all the people were good, and were resting in peace, and had gone to heaven. Tombstones always tell the truth, don't they, Uncle Peter?" "Happen so, honey, happen so! De French tombstones does; an' as ter de res', I ain' gwine to 'spute 'em, nohow, fer ef I did, de folks under 'em mought come back an' ha'nt me, jes' fer spite." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.