Читать книгу Tar Heel Tales - H. E. C. Bryant - Страница 6

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“Me an’ Marse Jeems is all uv de ole stock dat’s lef’,” said Uncle Ben, an ex-slave of the Morrow family, of Providence township.

“Yes, Miss Lizzie, she’s daid, an’ ole Marster, he’s gone to jine her. It’s des me an’ Marse Jeems, an’ he’s in furrin parts. He sole de ole farm, all cep’n’ dis here little spot dat he lef’ fur me an’ Ellen. An’ Ellen, she’s daid an’ de ole nigger’s by hissef.

“Dey ain’t no foks lak dem here now. De times is done changed. Me an’ Marse Wash wuz de big uns here when he wuz livin’. All dis lan’ an’ dese farms belonged to him. But Marse Jeems he’s done come to be er fine doctor, an’ stays in New York.

“Evybudy’s gone an’ lef’ me.

“De horses an’ de houns, too, dey’re all gone.

“I guess I ain’t here fur long, but I sho’ woul’ lak to see ole Marster, an’ Miss Lizzie, an’ Sam, an’ Cindy, an’ Mollie, de hosses, an’ Joe, Jerry, Loud, Dinah, Sing, an’ Hannah, de dogs.”

The old darkey was on his death bed. He spoke in a weak but charming voice. His mind was wandering, returning to the past. He had been his old master’s hunting companion, his whipper-in, and their black and tan hounds were famous for speed, casting ahead at a loss and hard driving. They could catch a red fox or make him take to the earth.

Old Ben was a hunter from his heart. He loved the running dog, the fast horse and the chase. The pleasant days of years long since passed were coming back to him. He longed for one more run with the old Morrow hounds. Those who watched by the death bed in the little cabin, waiting for the final summons, listened to Ben’s stories of the past. Dr. Smith had telegraphed for Dr. James Morrow, the last of his family, and told him that the old man wanted to see him and say good-bye. Loyal to the last the young master was hurrying from the North to the old home place to be present when the faithful servant departed this life. He had asked Dr. Smith to make the last hours as comfortable as possible and to gratify Uncle Ben’s every wish.

It was almost midnight that October day; the moon was shining gloriously, the ground damp from recent rain and the weather fine for a fox hunt. The scenting conditions were well-nigh perfect. Dr. Morrow had just arrived, but old Ben did not know him.

“Yes, sir, Marse Wash, all’s ready fur de hunt,” said the negro in his delirium.

“Ever thing’s right an’ ole Hannah’s been clawin’ at my do’ fur de las’ hour. She’s mighty anxious to try dat ole Stinson fiel’ fox dis evnin’. De horses is done saddled an’ nothin’ to do but start.

“Des listen at Sing an’ Jerry, dey’s powful anxious to go!”

It was pathetic to hear the old fellow talking to his master who had been dead many years, but he seemed happy. There was no way to stop him if those there should have desired to do so.

“Blow yo’ horn, boss, an’ let Marse Sam Stitt jine us ef he will. Dat’ll do, I hear ’im. He’s comin’.”

For a time Uncle Ben was quiet. His lips worked and he seemed to be talking to himself. But, after a long silence, he lifted his head from the pillow and exclaimed: “Listen! Listen, Marse Wash! Hear dat bark? Dat’s ole Sly, Marse Sam’s Georgy dog. She’s done slip in dere an’ strike er head uv ole Hannah!

“Listen! Hear her callin’? Marse Wash, dat Sly looks lak er steppin’ dog an’ she sho’ is gwine to give Joe some hard runnin’ dis mornin’ ef we jump dat Stinson fox.

“Listen, listen, listen, Marse Wash, I hear our dogs puttin’ in! Dere’s ole Sing, ole Loud and Joe. It’s time fur dat fox to walk erway now, ole Joe ain’t in no foolin’ way to-night. He sho’ is ready to run. Listen, Marse Wash, you hear him callin’.”

Uncle Ben dropped back on the pillow, and rested a few minutes. Everybody in the room was silent. It seemed only an hour or so. The old man had run his race and his time had come.

“Hear dat, Marse Wash? Listen how dat Georgy lady’s singin’ in dere. She an’ ole Joe’s neck to neck. Deyer comin’ down thu de Hartis woods now an’ ’tain’t gwine to be long till dey make dat fox run. Ef it’s de ole Stinson fox dey’ll ’roust him in de Rea pastur’. Dat’s whay he’s feedin’ dis time er night.

“Dat’s it! Listen, you hear ole Loud crossin’ dat hill? He’s scoutin’ now. De fus’ thing you know he’ll be right behint dat rascal. He ain’t sayin’ much, but he’s movin’ on.

“Dat’s Joe fallin’ in, an’ Jerry, an’ Dinah!

“Deyer all crossin’ to de pastur. Dat’s whay ole Stinson Fiel’ do his eatin’ ’bout dis time. Well, ef he’s in dere to-night you’ll hear dem dogs cry out lak dey wuz mad derectly.”

At irregular intervals the old darkey would stop and catch his breath. There was a smile upon his face and spirit in his voice. Death came on and he was having his last fox chase. The old Morrow hounds trailed the famous Stinson Field fox and were about to make a jump. Capt. Sam Stitt’s dogs were putting in and the quality of a new hound would be tested. The contest promised to be exciting.

“Hear dat Sly, wid dat chop, chop bark, an’ er sort uv er squeal! She’s right wid ole Joe.

“Listen, Marse Wash, ole Loud’s done driv him out!

“Des listen how he’s shoutin’!

“Dey’s gone toads de Big Rock an’ dey sho’ is flyin’. Ef it’s de ole fiel’ feller he’ll drap erroun’ by de Cunnigin place des to let ’em know dat he’s up an’ doin’ an den he’ll come back dis way.

“Whoopee, but ain’t dey movin’! Listen at ole Joe wid his ‘yowl’ holler. He’s des kickin’ dust in de faces uv de res’ uv dem dogs.

“Yes, sir, he’s gone right square to dat Cunnigin place. It’s ole Stinson an’ he’s walkin’ erbout.

“I des kin hear ’em. Dey’s sucklin’ ’roun de ole house now.”

There was a break in the story. Uncle Ben stopped to rest. The dogs had gone out of his hearing.

“Listen, Marse Wash, dey’re comin’ back! Ole Joe’s runnin’ lak he’s skeered. Some dog mus’ be crowdin’ him? Yes, sir, it’s de Stinson fox, an’ he’s comin’ dis way. See, comin’ over de hill? Dat’s him! Look how he’s lopin’! He knows dat ole Joe ain’t arter no foolin’ dis night.

“See, yonder’s de dogs! Dey’re travlin’ arter him. Look at dat pale red houn’! Dat’s Sly, an’ she’s steppin’ lak de groun’ wuz hot! She ain’t givin’ ole Joe time to open his mouf wide. I knowed some dog wuz pushin’ him.

“Here dey come down to de branch! Ain’t dey movin’? Dey’re goin’ to de Hartis woods, an’ on toads Providence church. But ain’t dey flyin’? I dis kin hear dem!”

As the dogs went out of hearing toward the east the old hunter lay back and hushed his tongue. He was running the race that he had run many times before.

“Listen, Marse Wash, I hear ’em crossin’ de Providence road, comin’ back. Dey’re drivin’ to kill ole Stinson now. I ’clar’ fo’ de Lawd I never heered dat Joe run lak he’s runnin’ dis night. He’s almos’ flyin’.

“But hush, listen, don’t you hear dat ‘Whoo-ark, whoo-ark, whoo-ark’ in dere? Dat’s Sly, an’ she sho’ is shovin’ dat fox an’ crowdin’ Joe.

“Hear dat? She’s crossin’ de big hill fust.

“Dey’re turnin’! He’s makin’ fur de Big Rock, but he ain’t gut time to make it.

“Listen, Marse Wash, dat Georgy dog’s ’bout to outdo ole Joe! She’s comin’ lak de wind. I don’t hear ole Joe. He won’t bark ef he gits behind. He mus’ be tryin’ to head off dat Sly bitch.

“Look! Yon dey go ’cross de cotton fiel’ an’ Joe an’ Sly is side to side.

“Whoopee, ain’t dey goin’? Ole Joe sho’ is doin’ about, but Sly’s on his heels.

“Dey’s goin’ to ketch dat fox. Git up Sam an’ less see ’em kill him! Go on! Come on, Marse Wash!”

For the first time during the night the old darkey became very much excited and jumped and surged in the bed. Those near tried to calm him. But the race was almost over. Uncle Ben’s summons had come. The angel of death was at the door.

“Look, Marse Wash, ole Joe’s in de lead. He sees dat fox an’ he’s done lef’ Sly. He’s runnin’ fur blood.

“See him! Look! Look! Ole Stinson Fiel’s ’bout to git to de thicket! See, he can’t make it! Joe’s grabbin’ at him! Look! Look!”

That was all. Uncle Ben was giving up the ghost. Death came on him. The final summons had arrived. As old Joe bore down the fox the faithful servant of the Morrow family passed away. As the end drew nigh Dr. Morrow and Dr. Smith and other friends who had assembled around the bed stood near and watched the light go out. Everything around was still. Death was easy.

The remains were buried in the Morrow family’s private burial grounds. Ben was the last of the old slave stock. In his delirium he had called back his old master, the old horses and the old hounds, and died happy in the delusion.

Aunt Matt.