University of Virginia Library

Chapter XVIII.

[ILLUSTRATION]

col. grangerford.

Col. GRANGERFORD was a gentleman, you
see. He was a gentleman all over;
and so was his family. He was well
born, as the saying is, and that's worth
as much in a man as it is in a horse,
so the Widow Douglass said, and nobody
ever denied that she was of the
first aristocracy in our town; and
pap he always said it, too, though he
warn't no more quality than a mud-cat,
himself. Col. Grangerford was
very tall and very slim, and had a
darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of
red in it anywheres; he was cleanshaved
every morning, all over his
thin face, and he had the thinnest
kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of
nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes,
sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you,
as you may say. His forehead was high, and his hair was black and straight,
and hung to his shoulders. His hands was long and thin, and every day of
his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made out of
linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on Sundays he wore a blue
tail-coat with brass buttons on it. He carried a mahogany cane with a silver

head to it. There warn't no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't
ever loud. He was as kind as he could be—you could feel that, you know, and
so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when
he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker
out from under his eyebrows you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what
the matter was afterwards. He didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their
manners—everybody was always good mannered where he was. Everybody
loved to have him around, too; he was sunshine most always—I mean he made
it seem like good weather. When he turned into a cloud-bank it was awful
dark for a half a minute and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong
again for a week.

When him and the old lady come down in the morning, all the family got up
out of their chairs and give them good-day, and didn't set down again till they
had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard where the decanters
was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his
hand and waited till Tom's and Bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said
"Our duty to you, sir, and madam;" and they bowed the least bit in the world
and said thank you, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom poured a
spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple brandy in the
bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and Buck, and we drank to the old
people too.

Bob was the oldest, and Tom next. Tall, beautiful men with very broad
shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes. They dressed
in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman, and wore broad
Panama hats.

Then there was Miss Charlotte, she was twenty-five, and tall and proud and
grand, but as good as she could be, when she warn't stirred up; but when she
was, she had a look that would make you wilt in your tracks, like her father.
She was beautiful.

So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She was gentle
and sweet, like a dove, and she was only twenty

Each person had their own nigger to wait on them—Buck, too. My nigger

had a monstrous easy time, because I warn't used to having anybody do anything
for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the time.

This was all there was of the family, now; but there used to be more—three
sons; they got killed; and Emmeline that died.

The old gentleman owned a lot of farms, and over a hundred niggers.
Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from ten or fifteen
mile around, and stay five or six days, and have such junketings round about and
on the river, and dances and picnics in the woods, day-times, and balls at the
house, nights. These people was
mostly kin-folks of the family.
The men brought their guns
with them. It was a handsome
lot of quality, I tell you.

There was another clan of
aristocracy around there—five
or six families—mostly of the
name of Shepherdson. They
was as high-toned, and well
born, and rich and grand, as the
tribe of Grangerfords. The
Shepherdsons and the Grangerfords
used the same steamboat
landing, which was about two
mile above our house; so sometimes
when I went up there
with a lot of our folks I used to
see a lot of the Shepherdsons
there, on their fine horses.

[ILLUSTRATION]

young harney shepherdson.

One day Buck and me was
away out in the woods, hunting,
and heard a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says:

"Quick! Jump for the woods!"

We done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves.
Pretty soon a splendid young man come galloping down the road, setting his
horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun across his pommel. I
had seen him before. It was young Harney Shepherdson. I heard Buck's gun
go off at my ear, and Harney's hat tumbled off from his head. He grabbed
his gun and rode straight to the place where we was hid. But we didn't
wait. We started through the woods on a run. The woods warn't thick, so
I looked over my shoulder, to dodge the bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover
Buck with his gun; and then he rode away the way he come—to get his hat, I
reckon, but I couldn't see. We never stopped running till we got home. The
old gentleman's eyes blazed a minute—'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged—then
his face sort of smoothed down, and he
says, kind of gentle:

"I don't like that shooting from behind
a bush. Why didn't you step into
the road, my boy?"

"The Shepherdsons don't, father.
They always take advantage."

[ILLUSTRATION]

miss charlotte.

Miss Charlotte she held her head up
like a queen while Buck was telling
his tale, and her nostrils spread and her
eyes snapped. The two young men
looked dark, but never said nothing.
Miss Sophia she turned pale, but the
color come back when she found the
man warn't hurt.

Soon as I could get Buck down by
the corn-cribs under the trees by ourselves,
I says:

"Did you want to kill him, Buck?'

"Well, I bet I did."

"What did he do to you?"

"Him? He never done nothing to me."

"Well, then, what did you want to kill him for?"

"Why nothing—only it's on account of the feud."

"What's a feud?"

"Why, where was you raised? Don't you know what a feud is?"

"Never heard of it before—tell me about it."

"Well," says Buck, "a feud is this way. A man has a quarrel with another
man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills him; then the other
brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the cousins chip in—and byand-by
everybody's killed off, and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of
slow, and takes a long time."

"Has this one been going on long, Buck?"

"Well I should reckon! it started thirty year ago, or som'ers along there.
There was trouble 'bout something and then a lawsuit to settle it; and the suit
went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the man that won the suit—
which he would naturally do, of course. Anybody would."

"What was the trouble about, Buck?—land?"

"I reckon maybe—I don't know."

"Well, who done the shooting?—was it a Grangerford or a Shepherdson?"

"Laws, how do I know? it was so long ago."

"Don't anybody know?"

"Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old folks; but they
don't know, now, what the row was about in the first place."

"Has there been many killed, Buck?"

"Yes—right smart chance of funerals. But they don't always kill. Pa's
got a few buck-shot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much
anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and Tom's been hurt once or
twice."

"Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?"

"Yes, we got one and they got one. 'Bout three months ago, my cousin
Bud, fourteen year old, was riding through the woods, on t'other side of the river.

and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame' foolishness, and in a lonesome
place he hears a horse a-coming behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson
a-linkin' after him with his gun in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the
wind; and 'stead of jumping off and taking to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could
outrun him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man
a-gaining all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn't any use, so he stopped and
faced around so as to have the bullet holes in front, you know, and the old man
he rode up and shot him down. But he didn't git much chance to enjoy his
luck, for inside of a week our folks laid him out."

"I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck."

"I reckon he warn't a coward. Not by a blame' sight. There ain't a coward
amongst them Shepherdsons—not a one. And there ain't no cowards amongst
the Grangerfords, either. Why, that old man kep' up his end in a fight one day,
for a half an hour, against three Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was
all a-horseback; he lit off of his horse and got behind a little wood-pile, and kep'
his horse before him to stop the bullets; but the Grangerfords staid on their
horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he
peppered away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and
crippled, but the Grangerfords had to be fetched home—and one of 'em was
dead, and another died the next day. No, sir, if a body's out hunting for
cowards, he don't want to fool away any time amongst them Shepherdsons, becuz
they don't breed any of that kind."

Next Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback.
The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between their knees
or stood them handy against the wall. The Shepherdsons done the same. It
was pretty ornery preaching—all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness;
but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going
home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith, and good works, and free
grace, and preforeordestination, and I don't know what all, that it did seem to
me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.

About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their chairs
and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. Buck and a dog was

stretched out on the grass in the sun, sound asleep. I went up to our room, and
judged I would take a nap myself. I found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in
her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in her room and shut the
door very soft, and asked me if I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me
if I would do something for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then
she said she'd forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at church, between
two other books and would I slip out quiet and go there and fetch it to her,
and not say nothing to nobody. I said I would. So I slid out and slipped off
up the road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except maybe a hog or
two, for there warn't any lock on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor
in summer-time because it's cool.
If you notice, most folks don't go to ;
church only when they've got to;
but a hog is different.

[ILLUSTRATION]

"and asked me if i liked her."

Says I to myself something's up
—it ain't natural for a girl to be
in such a sweat about a Testament;
so I give it a shake, and out drops a
little piece of paper with "Half-past
two" wrote on it with a pencil. I
ransacked it, but couldn't find anything
else. I couldn't make anything
out of that, so I put the paper
in the book again, and when I got
home and up stairs, there was Miss
Sophia in her door waiting for me.
She pulled me in and shut the door;
then she looked in the Testament
till she found the paper, and as soon
as she read it she looked glad;
and before a body could think, she grabbed me and give me a squeeze, and said I
was the best boy in the world, and not to tell anybody. She was mighty red in

the face, for a minute, and her eyes lighted up and it made her powerful pretty.
I was a good deal astonished, but when I got my breath I asked her what the
paper was about, and she asked me if I had read it, and I said no, and she asked
me if I could read writing, and I told her "no, only coarse-hand," and then she
said the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep her place, and I might
go and play now.

I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon I
noticed that my nigger was following along behind. When we was out of sight
of the house, he looked back and around a second, and then comes a-running,
and says:

"Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp, I'll show you a whole
stack o'water-moccasins."

Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. He oughter know
a body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting for them. What
is he up to anyway? So I says—

"All right, trot ahead."

I followed a half a mile, then he struck out over the swamp and waded
ankle deep as much as another half mile. We come to a little flat piece of land
which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and vines, and he says—

"You shove right in dah, jist a few steps, Mars Jawge, dah's whah dey is. I's
seed 'm befo', I don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'."

Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees hid
him. I poked into the place a-ways, and come to a little open patch as big as a
bedroom, all hung around with vines, and found a man laying there asleep—and
by jings it was my old Jim!

I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to him to
see me again, but it warn't. He nearly cried, he was so glad, but he warn't
surprised. Said he swum along behind me, that night, and heard me yell every
time, but dasn't answer, because he didn't want nobody to pick him up, and take
him into slavery again. Says he—

"I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I wuz a considable ways behine
you, towards de las'; when you landed I reck'ned I could ketch up wid you on de

lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when I see dat house I begin to go slow. I
'uz off too fur to hear what dey say to you—I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs—but when it
'uz all quiet agin, I knowed you's in de house, so I struck out for de woods to
wait for day. Early in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de
fields, en dey tuck me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't track me on
accounts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me how
you's a gitt'n along."

"Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?"

"Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we could do sumfn—but we's
all right, now. I ben a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as I got a chanst, en a
patchin' up de raf', nights, when——"

"What raft, Jim?"

"Our ole raf'."

"You mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?"

"No, she warn't. She was tore up a good deal—one en' of her was—but dey
warn't no great harm done, on'y our traps was mos' all los'. Ef we hadn' dive'
so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn' ben so dark, en we warn't
so sk'yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. But it's
jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed up agin mos' as good as new, en
we's got a new lot o' stuff, too, in de place o' what 'uz los'."

"Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim—did you catch her?"

"How I gwyne to ketch her, en I out in de woods? No, some er de niggers
foun' her ketched on a snag, along heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick,
'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout which un 'um she b'long to de
mos', dat I come to heah 'bout it pooty soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by tellin'
'um she don't b'long to none uv um, but to you en me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne to
grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I gin 'm ten
cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come
along en make 'm rich agin. Dey's mighty good to me, dese niggers is, en
whatever I wants 'm to do fur me, I doan' have to ast 'm twice, honey. Dat
Jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart."

"Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come, and he'd

show me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens, he ain't mixed up in it.
He can say he never seen us together, and it'll be the truth."

I don't want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I'll cut it pretty
short. I waked up about dawn, and was agoing to turn over and go to sleep
again, when I noticed how still it was—didn't seem to be anybody stirring.
That warn't usual. Next I noticed that Buck was up and gone. Well, I gets
up, a-wondering, and goes down stairs—nobody around; everything as still as
a mouse. Just the same outside; thinks I, what does it mean? Down by the
wood-pile I comes across my Jack, and says:

"What's it all about?"

Says he:

"Don't you know, Mars Jawge?"

"No," says I, "I don't."

"Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed she has. She run off in de night,
sometime—nobody don't know jis' when—run off to git married to dat young
Harney Shepherdson, you know—leastways, so dey 'spec. De fambly foun' it
out, 'bout half an hour ago—maybe a little mo'—en' I tell you dey warn't no time
los'. Sich another hurryin' up guns en hosses you never see! De women folks
has gone for to stir up de relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey guns en
rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin
git acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty rough
times."

"Buck went off 'thout waking me up."

"Well I reck'n he did! Dey warn't gwyne to mix you up in it. Mars
Buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home a Shepherdson or
bust. Well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n, en you bet you he'll fetch one
ef he gits a chanst."

I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By-and-by I begin to hear
guns a good ways off. When I come in sight of the log store and the wood-pile
where the steamboats lands, I worked along under the trees and brush till I got
to a good place, and then I clumb up into the forks of a cotton-wood that was out
of reach, and watched. There was a wood-rank four foot high, a little ways in

front of the tree, and first I was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was
luckier I didn't.

There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open
place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of
young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of the steamboat landing—
but they couldn't come it. Every time one of them showed himself on the river
side of the wood-pile he got shot at. The two boys was squatting back to back
behind the pile, so they could watch both ways.

[ILLUSTRATION]

"behind the wood pile."

By-and-by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They started
riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady bead over
the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. All the men jumped
off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry him to the store;
and that minute the two boys started on the run. They got half-way to the tree
I was in before the men noticed. Then the men see them, and jumped on their
horses and took out after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn't do no
good, the boys had too good a start; they got to the wood-pile that was in front

of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge on the men again.
One of the boys was Buck, and the other was a slim young chap about nineteen
years old.

The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as they was
out of sight, I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't know what to make of
my voice coming out of the tree, at first. He was awful surprised. He told me
to watch out sharp and let him know when the men come in sight again; said
they was up to some devilment or other—wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was
out of that tree, but I dasn't come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed
that him and his cousin Joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for
this day, yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or
three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons laid for them, in ambush. Buck
said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations—the Shepherdsons
was too strong for them. I asked him what was become of young Harney and
Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across the river and was safe. I was glad of
that; but the way Buck did take on because he didn't manage to kill Harney
that day he shot at him—I hain't ever heard anything like it.

All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns—the men had
slipped around through the woods and come in from behind without their horses!
The boys jumped for the river—both of them hurt—and as they swum down the
current the men run along the bank shooting at them and singing out, "Kill
them, kill them!" It made me so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't agoing
to tell all that happened—it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I
wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night, to see such things. I ain't ever
going to get shut of them—lots of times I dream about them.

I staid in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down. Sometimes
I heard guns away off in the woods; and twice I seen little gangs of men gallop
past the log store with guns; so I reckoned the trouble was still agoing on. I
was mighty down-hearted; so I made up my mind I wouldn't ever go ancar
that house again, because I reckoned I was to blame, somehow. I judged that
that piece of paper meant that Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at
half-past two and run off; and I judged I ought to told her father about that

paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would a locked her up
and this awful mess wouldn't ever happened.

When I got down out of the tree, I crept along down the river bank a
piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and tugged
at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up their faces, and got away as
quick as I could. I cried a little when I was covering up Buck's face, for he
was mighty good to me.

It was just dark, now. I never went near the house, but struck through the
woods and made for the swamp. Jim warn't on his island, so I tramped off in
a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows, red-hot to jump aboard
and get out of that awful country—the raft was gone! My souls, but I was
scared! I couldn't get my breath for most a minute. Then I raised a yell. A
voice not twenty-five foot from me, says—

"Good lan'! is dat you, honey? Doan' make no noise."

It was Jim's voice—nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along the
bank a piece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so
glad to see me. He says—

"Laws bless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho' you's dead agin. Jack's been
heah, he say he reck'n you's ben shot, kase you didn' come home no mo'; so
I's jes' dis minute a startin' de raf' down towards de mouf er de crick, so's to be
all ready for to shove out en leave soon as Jack comes agin en tells me for certain
you is dead. Lawsy, I's mighty glad to git you back agin, honey."

I says—

"All right—that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll think I've
been killed, and floated down the river—there's something up there that'll help
them to think so—so don't you lose no time, Jim, but just shove off for the big
water as fast as ever you can."

I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the middle
of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we was
free and safe once more. I hadn't had a bite to eat since yesterday; so Jim he got
out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage, and greens—
there ain't nothing in the world so good, when it's cooked right—and whilst I eat

my supper we talked, and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away
from the feuds, and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said there
warn't no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and
smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on
a raft.