The Littlest Rebel by Edward Peple

E >> Edward Peple >> The Littlest Rebel

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

The

LITTLEST REBEL

By

EDWARD PEPLE

GROSSET & DUNLAP: _Publishers_

NEW YORK

Copyright, 1914 By the ESTATE OF EDWARD H. PEPLE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM
WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER.

_Printed in the United States of America_

FOREWORD

The play, from which this book is written, was in no sense of the word
intended as a war drama; for war is merely its background, and always in
the center stands a lonely little child.

War is its theme but not its purpose. War breeds hatred, horror,
pestilence and famine, yet from its tears and ashes eventually must rise
the clean white spirit of HUMANITY.

The enmity between North and South is dead; it sleeps with the fathers
and the sons, the brothers and the lovers, who died in a cause which
each believed was just.

Therefore this story deals, not with the right or wrong of a lost
confederacy, but with the mercy and generosity, the chivalry and
humanity which lived in the hearts of the Blue and Gray, a noble
contrast to the grim brutality of war.

* * * * *

The author is indebted to Mr. E.S. Moffat, who has novelized the play
directly from its text, with the exception of that portion which
appeared as a short story under the same title several years ago,
treating of Virgie in the overseer's cabin, and the endorsing of her
pass by Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison.

EDWARD PEPLE.

THE LITTLEST REBEL

CHAPTER I

Young Mrs. Herbert Cary picked up her work basket and slowly crossed the
grass to a shady bench underneath the trees. She must go on with her
task of planning a dress for Virgie. But the prospect of making her
daughter something wearable out of the odds and ends of nothing was not
a happy one. In fact, she was still poking through her basket and
frowning thoughtfully when a childish voice came to her ears.

"Yes, Virgie! Here I am. Out under the trees."

Immediately came a sound of tumultuous feet and Miss Virginia Houston
Cary burst upon the scene. She was a tot of seven with sun touched hair
and great dark eyes whose witchery made her a piquant little fairy. In
spite of her mother's despair over her clothes Virgie was dressed, or
at least had been dressed at breakfast time, in a clean white frock, low
shoes and white stockings, although all now showed signs of strenuous
usage. Clutched to her breast as she ran up to her mother's side was
"Susan Jemima," her one beloved possession and her doll. Behind Virgie
came Sally Ann, her playmate, a slim, barefooted mulatto girl whose
faded, gingham dress hung partly in tatters, halfway between her knees
and ankles. In one of Sally Ann's hands, carried like a sword, was a
pointed stick; in the other, a long piece of blue wood-moss from which
dangled a bit of string.

"Oh, Mother," cried the small daughter of the Carys, as she came up
flushed and excited, "what do you reckon Sally Ann and me have been
playing out in the woods!"

"What, dear!" and Mrs. Cary's gentle hand went up to lift the hair back
from her daughter's dampened forehead.

"_Blue Beard_!" cried Virgie, with rounded eyes.

"Blue Beard!" echoed her mother in astonishment at this childish freak
of amusement.

"Not really--on this hot day."

"Um, hum," nodded Virgie emphatically. "You know he--he--he was the
terriblest old man that--that ever was. An' he had so many wifses
that--"

"Say 'wives,' my darling. _Wives_."

Sally Ann laughed and Virgie frowned.

"Well, I _thought_ it was that, but Sally Ann's older'n me and she said
'wifses.'"

"Huh," grunted Sally Ann. "Don' make no differ'nce what you call 'em,
des so he had 'em. Gor'n tell her."

"Well, you know, Mother, Blue Beard had such a bad habit of killin' his
wives that--that some of the ladies got so they--they almost didn't like
to marry him!"

"Gracious, what a state of affairs," cried Mrs. Cary, in well feigned
amazement at the timidity of the various Mrs. Blue Beards. "And then--"

"Well, the last time he got married to--to another one--her name was
Mrs. Fatima. An'--an' I've been playin' _her_."

"And who played Blue Beard?"

"Sally Ann--an' she's just fine. Come here, Sally Ann, an' let's show
her. Kneel down."

Clutching the piece of moss from Sally Ann, Virgie ran behind the girl
and put her chubby arms around her neck. "This is his blue beard,
Mother. Hold still, Sally Ann--_My lord_, I mean--till I get it tied in
the right place."

"Be keerful, Miss Virgie," advised the colored girl. "You's a-ticklin'
my nose. I'se gwine to sneeze ef yo' don't, and jes blow my beard all
away."

"Oh, don't be such a baby," remonstrated the earnest Miss Virginia, with
a correcting slap. "S'pose you were a man an' had to wear one all the
time. Now! Stand up! Look, Mother!"

"I'm afraid of him already. He's so ferocious."

"Isn't he? Oh, won't _you_ play with us, Mother? I'll--I'll let you be
Mrs. Fatima." And then, as her mother's face showed signs of doubt as to
her histrionic ability, "If you were _my_ little girl, I'd do it in a
minute."

"All right, dear, of course I will; but I've just remembered a bit of
lace in your grandmother's trunk in the attic. I believe it will be
exactly enough for the neck and sleeves of your new dress." She smiled
courageously as she folded a piece of old silk she was remaking. "You
and--" she cast a glance at Sally Ann--"your respected brother-in-law
can wait a few moments, can't you? You might rehearse a little more.
With all this important audience of solemn oaks you wouldn't want to
make the slightest slip in your parts."

"That's so," agreed Virgie, raising her hands and clasping her tiny
fingers thoughtfully. "And I'll tell you what--we'll mark off the castle
walls around the bench where the window's going to be. We ought to have
a stage. Come on Sal--I mean Blue Beard, pick up some sticks quick."

Mrs. Cary started, but turned back an instant: "By the way, have either
of you seen Uncle Billy. I' must find him, too, and plan something for
our lunch."

"I seen 'im early dis mawnin'," piped Blue Beard, "makin' for de woods.
I reckon he be back pres'n'y."

"Very well," answered Virgie's mother, a shadow creeping into her face
as she went on toward the house. Could Uncle Billy possibly be leaving!
The most trusted negro of all! No--_never_! She would almost as soon
doubt the cause itself!

Three long years ago war had seemed a thrilling, daring necessity.
Caught in the dreadful net of circumstance she had vowed proudly in her
own heart never to be less brave than the bravest. In her ears still
rang the echo of that first ...

* * * * *

_Tara-tara!_

From far away a faint fanfare of trumpets, borne on brazen wings from
the distant clamor of the city's streets.

_Tara-tara!_

"What's that--a bugle?"

_R-r-r-r-rum-dum!_

"And that--a drum?"

_Tramp--tramp--tramp_--the rolling thunder of ten thousand feet.

_War has been declared!_

From North to South, the marching lines fill the land--a sea of men
whose flashing bayonets glisten and glitter in the morning light. With
steady step and even rank, with thrill of brass lunged band and
screaming fife the regiments sweep by--in front, the officers on their
dancing steeds--behind them, line after line of youthful faces, chins
in, chests out, the light of victory already shining in their eyes.

In just this way the Nation's sons went forth to fight in those first
brave days of '61. Just so they marched out, defiant, from South and
North alike, each side eager for the cause he thought was right, with
bright pennons snapping in the breeze and bugles blowing gayly and never
a thought in any man's mind but that _his_ side would win and his own
life be spared.

And every woman, too, waving cheerful farewell to valiant lines of
marching gray or sturdy ranks of blue, had hoped the same for _her_
side.

But in war there is always a reckoning to pay. Always one contender
driven to the wall, his cities turned to ashes, his lands laid waste.
Always one depleted side which takes one last desperate stand in the
sight of blackened homes and outraged fields and fights on through ever
darkening days until the inevitable end is come.

And the end of the Confederacy was now almost in sight. Three years of
fighting and the Seceding States had been cut in twain, their armies
widely separated by the Union hosts. Advancing and retreating but always
fighting, month after month, year after year the men in gray had come at
last to the bitterest period of it all--when the weakened South was
slowly breaking under the weight of her brother foes--when the two
greatest of the armies battled on Virginia soil--battled and passed to
their final muster roll.

Of little need to tell of the privations which the pivotal state of the
Confederacy went through. If it were true that Virginia had been simply
one vast arsenal where every inhabitant had unfailingly done his part in
making war, it was also true that she had furnished many of its greatest
battlefields--and at what a frightful cost.

Everywhere were the cruel signs of destruction and want--in scanty
larder, patched, refurbished clothing, servantless homes--in dismantled
outhouses, broken fences and neglected, brier-choked fields. Even the
staples of life were fast diminishing for every man who could shoulder
a gun had gone to fight with Lee, and few animals were left and fewer
slaves.

* * * * *

Yet, for all the dismal outlook, Winter had passed without actual
disaster to the Confederate arms and now that Spring had come the
plantation home of the Herbert Carys, twenty miles below Richmond, had
never had a fairer setting. White-pillared and stately the old Colonial
mansion stood on one of the low, emerald hills which roll back lazily
from the peaceful James. It was true that the flower beds had been
trampled down to ruin by alien horse and heel, but the scent of the
honeysuckle clinging to those shining pillars only seemed the sweeter
for the loss, and whatever else the forager might take, he could not rob
them of their gracious vista of hills and shimmering river.

Across the broad driveway and up the steps of the veranda passed Mrs.
Cary, fairer than had been the flowers, a true daughter of the oldtime
South, gentle and quiet eyed, her light summer dress of the cheapest
material, yet deftly fashioned by her own fingers from slightly opened
neck, where an old brooch lay against her soft throat, down to the
dainty spotless flounces lying above her petticoat of crinoline.

Though her lips and eyes refused to betray it even when there was no one
to see, it was with a very heavy heart that she mounted the stairs to
the attic, thinking, contriving, clutching desperately at her fading
hopes.

For good reason the plantation was very silent on this warm spring
morning. Where only a year before dozens of soft eyed Jerseys had ranged
through the pastures and wood lots there was now no sound of tinkling
bells--one after another the fine, blooded stock had been requisitioned
by a sad faced quartermaster of the Army of Northern Virginia. And one
by one the fat porkers who had muzzled greedily among the ears from the
Cary bins and who ought to have gone into the smoke house had departed,
squealing, to furnish bone and sinew with which to repel the invader.
Saddest of all, the chicken coops down by the deserted negro quarters
were quite as empty as the once teeming cabins themselves. Poverty, grim
and relentless, had caught the Carys in its iron hand and behind
Poverty stood its far more frightening shadow--Starvation.

But in these gloomy thoughts she was not entirely alone. All that
troubled her and more, though perhaps in a different way, passed hourly
through the old gray kinky head of Uncle Billy who happened at this very
moment to be emerging stealthily from the woods below the house. Slowly
and deliberately he made his way toward the front till he reached a
bench where he sat down under a tree to ruminate over the situation and
inspect the feathered prize which he had lately acquired by certain,
devious means known only to Uncle Billy. Wiping his forehead with his
ragged sleeve and holding the bird up by its tied feet he regarded it
with the eye of an expert, and the fatigue of one who has been sorely
put to it in order to accomplish his purpose.

"It 'pears to me," said Uncle Billy, "dat des' when you needs 'em the
mostest the chickens goes to roosting higher 'n' higher. Rooster--I
wonder who you b'longs to. Um-_um_!" he murmured as he thoughtfully
sounded the rooster's well developed chest through the feathers. "From
de feelin' of you, my son, I 'spec' you was raise' by one er de ol'es'
fam'lies what is!"

But Uncle Billy knew the fortunes of the Cary family far too well to
mourn over the probable toughness of his booty, and as he rose up from
the seat and meandered toward the kitchen, his old, wrinkled face broke
into a broad smile of satisfaction over the surprise he had in store.
"Well--after I done parbile you, I reckon Miss Hallie be mighty glad to
see you. Yas, _seh_!"

But as Uncle Billy walked slowly along beside the hedge which shielded
the house on one side he heard a sound which made him halt. A young
negro, coming from the rear, had dodged behind the hedge and was trying
to keep out of his sight.

"Hi, dar! You, Jeems Henry!" shouted Uncle Billy, instantly suspicious
of such maneuvers. "Come heh! Hear _me_! Come heh!"

At this sudden command a young mulatto, hesitating, came through a break
in the hedge and stood looking at him, sullen and silent. In his hands
he carried a small bundle done up in a colored handkerchief and on this
guilty piece of baggage Uncle Billy's eye immediately fastened with an
angry frown.

"Whar you gwine?" demanded Uncle Billy, with an accusing finger
trembling at the bundle.

The younger man made no reply.

"Hear _me_?" the elder demanded again in rising tones of severity.
"Ain't you got no tongue in yo' haid? Whar you gwine?"

Shifting from one foot to the other the younger man finally broke away
from Uncle Billy's eye and tried to pass him by.

"Den _I'll_ tell you whar you gwine," shouted Uncle Billy, furious at
last. "You's runnin' 'way to de Yankees, dat's whar you gwine."

At this too truthful thrust Jeems Henry saw that further deceit would be
futile and he faced Uncle Billy with sullen resentment.

"An' s'posin' I _is_--wat den?"

"Den you's a thief," retorted Uncle Billy with dismayingly quick wit.
"Dat's what you is--a _thief_."

"I _ain'_ no thief," Jeems Henry refuted stubbornly, "_I_ ain' stole
nothin'."

"You is too," and Uncle Billy's forefinger began to shake in the
other's face. "You's stealin' a _nigger_!"

"What dat?" and Jeems Henry's eyes opened wide with amazement. "What you
talkin' 'bout?"

"Talkin' 'bout _you_," replied Uncle Billy, sharper than ever. "Dey say
a nigger's wuth a thousan' dollars. 'Cose _you_ ain't wuth dat much," he
said with utter disgust. "I put you down at a dollar and a quarter. But
dat ain't de p'int," and he steadily advanced on the other till their
faces were only a few inches apart. "It's dis. _You_, Jeems Henry,
belongs to Mars' Herbert Cary an' Miss Hallie; an' when you runs 'way
you's stealin'. _You's stealin yo'sef!_"

"H'm!" sniffed Jeems Henry, now that the nature and extent of his crime
were fully understood. "Ef I ain' wuth but a dollar an' a quarter, I
suttenly ain' stealin' _much_!"

At this smart reply Uncle Billy's disgust overcame him completely and he
tossed the rooster on the ground and clutched Jeems Henry by the arm.

"You mighty right, you ain't!" he shouted. "An' ef I was fo' years
younger I'd take it outer yo' hide with a carriage whip. Hol' on dar,"
as Jeems Henry eluded his grasp and began to move away. "Which way you
gwine? You hear me? Now den!"

"I gwine up de river," replied Jeems Henry, badgered at last into
revealing his plan. Then, after a cautious look around,--"to
Chickahominy Swamp," he added in lower tones.

Uncle Billy cocked his ears. Here was news indeed.

"Chickahominy, huh! So de Yankees is up dar, is dey? An' what you think
you gwine to do when you git to 'em?"

"Wuck 'roun de camp," replied Jeems Henry with some vagueness.

"Doin' what?" was the relentless query.

"Blackin' de gent'men's boots--an'--an' gittin' paid fer it," Jeems
Henry stammered in reply. "It's better'n being a slave, Unc' Billy," he
added as he saw the sneer of contempt on the faithful old man's face.
"An' ef you wan' sech a crazy ol' fool, you'd come along wid me, too."

At this combination of temptation and insult Uncle Billy's eyes narrowed
with contempt and loathing. "Me?" he said, and a rigid arm pointed back
at the house which had been for years his source of shelter and comfort.
"Me leave Miss Hallie _now_? Right when she ain't got _nothin_'? Look
heah, nigger; dog-gone yo' skin, I got a great min' for to mash yo'
mouf. Yas, I _is_ a slave. I b'longs to Mars Cary--an' I b'longed to his
pa befo' him. Dey feed me and gimme de bes' dey got. Dey take care of me
when I'm sick--an' dey take care of me when I'm well--an' _I_ gwine to
stay right here. But you? You jes' go on wid de Yankees, an' black der
boots. Dey'll free you," and Uncle Billy's voice rose in prophetic
tones--"an you'll _keep on_ blackin' boots! Go 'long now, you low-down,
dollar-an'-a-quarter nigger!" as Jeems Henry backed away. "Go long wid
yo' _Yankee_ marsters--and git yo' freedom an' a blackin' brush."

So engrossed were both the actors in this drama that they failed to
hear the sound of footsteps on the veranda, and it was so that the
mistress of the manor found the would-be runaway and the old slave,
glaring into each other's eyes and insulting one another volubly.

Mrs. Cary, with her workbasket on her arm, paused at the top of the
steps and regarded the angry pair with well-bred surprise.

"Why, Uncle Billy," she queried, "what is going on here? What _is_ the
matter?"

"It's Jeems Henry; dat's what's de matter," said Uncle Billy, in defense
of his agitation. "He's runnin' 'way to de Yankees."

Mrs. Cary stopped short for a moment and then came slowly down the
steps.

"Oh, James," she said, unbelievingly. "Is this really true?"

Jeems Henry hung his head and dug at the gravel with his toe.

"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Cary, and the word held a world of painful
thought--of self-accusation, of hopeless regret, of sorrow for one who
could be so foolishly misguided. "I'm sorry not only for ourselves but
for _you_. You know, I promised Mammy before she died that I would look
after you--always."

Still Jeems Henry made no answer and old Uncle Billy saw fit to make a
disclosure.

"He's gwine up to Chickahominy." Then to Jeems Henry he added something
in low tones which made the young negro's eyes roll wildly with fear.
"Dey tells me dat der's _hants_ and _ghoses_ over dar. I hopes dey'll
git you."

"Stop that!" commanded Mrs. Cary. "You know very well, Uncle Billy,
there are no such things as ghosts."

"Nor'm I don't, Miss Hallie," responded Uncle Billy, sticking
tenaciously to his point, because he could plainly see Jeems Henry
wavering. "'Twas jes las' night I hear one--moanin' 'roun' de smoke
house. An' ef I ain't mighty fur wrong, she was smellin' arfter Jeems
Henry."

At this wild fabrication, the reason for which she nevertheless
appreciated, Mrs. Cary had hard work to hold back a smile, although she
promptly reassured the terrified Jeems Henry.

"There now--there--that will do. Nothing of that kind will trouble you,
James; you may take my word for it. If you are quite determined to go I
shall not try to keep you. But what have you in that bundle?"

"Hi! Hi! Dat's de way to talk!" interrupted Uncle Billy, excitedly
foreseeing means to prevent Jeems Henry's departure. "What you got in
yo' bundle?"

Jeems Henry lifted his anguished eyes and gazed truthfully at his
mistress.

"I ain't got nothin'--what don't b'long to me, Miss Hallie."

"I don't mean that," Mrs. Cary responded kindly. "But you have a long
tramp before you. Have you anything to eat?"

"Nor'm, I ain't," and Jeems Henry seemed disturbed.

"Then you'd better come around to the kitchen. We'll see what we can
find."

At this unheard-of generosity, Uncle Billy's eyes opened widely and he
exploded in remonstrance.

"Now, hol' on dar, Miss Hallie! Hol' on. You ain' got none too much fo'
yo'se'f, d'out stuffin' dis yere six-bit rat hole wid waffles an'
milasses."

"_William!_" commanded his mistress.

"Yas'm," was the meek response, and Uncle Billy subsided into silence.

With a sigh, Mrs. Cary turned away toward the house. "Well, James, are
you coming?"

But Jeems Henry, completely abashed before this miracle of kindness
which he did not deserve, decided that it was time for him to be a man.

"Thank you, Miss Hallie," he gulped, "but f'um now on I reckon I gwine
take keer of myse'f."

Mrs. Cary, pausing on the bottom step, raised her eyes heavenward in a
short prayer that children such as these might somehow be protected from
themselves.

"Well, James," she said, when she saw there was nothing more to be done.
"I hope you'll be happy and contented. If you are not--come back to us.
Perhaps, when the war is over, you'll find things a little
more--comfortable. Good-by, James," and she held out her hand.

But this last touch of gentleness was too much for the young mulatto.
Although he made an obedient step forward, his feelings overcame him and
with an audible snuffle and his hand over his eyes he retreated--then
turned his back and plunged through the hedge.

Mrs. Cary sank down on the step and looked as if she, too, would like to
cry.

Manfully, Uncle Billy came to her rescue. "Now don't you care, Miss
Hallie. He wan' no 'count for plowin' no how."

"Oh, it isn't that, Uncle Billy," Mrs. Cary replied with a low cry of
regret. "It isn't the actual loss of help, tho' we need it, goodness
knows. But it makes me sad to see them leaving, one by one. They are
such children and so helpless--without a master hand."

"Yas'm," agreed Uncle Billy readily. "An' de marster's han' ought to
have a hick'ry stick in it fer _dat_ nigger. Yas, bless Gawd. But you
got _me_, Miss Hallie," he announced proudly. "_I_ ain't runned away to
de blue-bellies yet."

"No, you dear old thing," Mrs. Cary cried with laughing relief, and her
hand rested on his shoulder in a gentle caress. "I'd as soon think of
the skies falling. It is just such faithful friends as you who help me
to fight the best."

"Um?" said Uncle Billy promptly, not quite understanding.

"I mean a woman's battles, Uncle Billy--the _waiting_ battles--that we
fight alone." Mrs. Gary rose to her feet and turned sadly away.

"Yas'm," agreed Uncle Billy. "I dunno what yo' talkin' 'bout but I spec'
you's right. Yas'm."

"Dear Uncle Billy," repeated Mrs. Gary, while her eyes filled with
tears. "The most truthful--the most _honest_--"

Mrs. Cary stopped and looked sharply at something lying on the ground
beside the steps. Then she turned and swept the old man with an accusing
glance which made him quail.

"_William!_" she said, in awful tones.

"Yas'm," replied Uncle Billy, feverishly.

"What's _that_?"

Uncle Billy immediately became the very picture of innocence and
ignorance. He looked everywhere but at the helpless rooster.

"What's what?" he asked. "Aw, dat? Why--why, dat ain' nothin' 'tall,
Miss Hallie. Dat's--dat's des a _rooster_. Yas'm."

Mrs. Cary came down from the steps and looked carefully at the
unfamiliar bird. No fear that she would not recognize it if it were
hers. "Whose is he?" she asked.

"You--you mean who he b'longs to?" queried Uncle Billy, fencing for time
in which to prepare a quasi-truthful reply. "He--he don' b'long to
_nobody_. He's his _own_ rooster."

"William!" commanded Mrs. Cary, severely. "Look at me. _Where_ did you
get him?"

Here was a situation which Uncle Billy knew must be handled promptly,
and he picked up the rooster and made an attempt to escape. "Down on de
low grouns--dis mornin'. Dat's right," he said, as he saw dawning
unbelief in his mistress' face. "Now you have to skuse me, Miss Hallie.
I got my wuck to do."

"One moment, William," interposed Mrs. Cary, completely unconvinced.
"You are sure he was on the low grounds?"

"Cose I is!" asseverated Uncle Billy, meanwhile backing farther away.

"What was he doing there?"

Uncle Billy stammered.

"He--he--he, he was trespassin', dat's what he was doin'--des natcherly
trespassin'."

At this marvel of testimony, Mrs. Cary's lips relaxed in a smile and she
warned him with an upraised finger.

"Be careful, Uncle Billy! Be careful."

"Yas, _mar'm_" chuckled the old man. "I _had_ to be. I never would a-got
him! Oh, I's tellin' de trufe, Miss Hallie. Dis' here ol' sinner tooken
flewed off a boat what was comin' up de river. Yas'm. And he sure was
old enough to know better."

"And you _saw_ him fly off the boat?"

"Oh, yas'm. I seed him. I seed him," and Uncle Billy floundered for a
moment, caught in his own trap. "Dat is, not wid my own eyes. But I see
him settin' in de woods, lookin' dat lonesome and losted like, I felt
real sorry for him. Yas'm," and to prove his deep sympathy for the
unfortunate bird he stroked its breast lovingly.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10