University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Notwithstanding the difference between the
colour and years of Robert Gammon and Pompey,
the formal old negro coachman of Mr. Fitzhurst, to
whom we called the attention of our readers in our
first chapter, they held quite a partiality for each
other. When Bobby was thrown from the horse on
the race course, Pompey was the first to hasten to
his assistance; and the faithful old negro frequently
called at Granny Gammon's during her grandson's
confinement, to inquire after, and have a talk with
him. 'Twas by Pompey's hand, too, that Miss Rachellina
sent him many little delicacies; when the
coachman never failed to take a seat, and hold long
discourses about horses and races—for the boy's fall,
poor fellow, had not changed his partialities for the
race course and the stable.

Bobby, too, a short time after he was able to go
out had done Pompey an essential service. A neighbour
of Mr. Fitzhurst named Thompson, had had
with that gentleman a lawsuit, concerning a certain
tract of land, in which he was defeated. Thompson
was a malicious man, and the result rankled in his
bosom, and aroused feelings of intense hatred within
him towards the victor. One day as Pompey was
returning from market his wagon broke down; and
with a hatchet and rope that he happened to have
with him, he entered a wood belonging to Thompson,
which skirted the road, to cut a sapling with which
to mend his vehicle, and proceed homeward. While
Pompey was in the act of cutting it Thompson came
through the wood with two of his slaves; and, knowing

the intruder to be the slave of Mr. Fitzhurst, he
determined to inflict revenge on him. He charged
Pompey with the intention of stealing his wood; said
he believed he was sent to do it by his master; and,
in spite of his prayers and entreaties, ordered his
slaves to seize, and tie him to a tree, while he, himself,
proceeded to cut a stick of no inconsiderable size,
with which to inflict the castigation. At this very
moment Bobby, who had borrowed a gun from Jack
Gordon, for the purpose of a little sport, came up to
the group just as Thompson was trimming his weapon,
and swearing that he would flog Pompey within an
inch of his life.

“What's the matter?” said Bobby, in astonishment.
—“What's the matter, Pompey?”

“O, my mercy, Mister Bobby,” exclaimed the
affrighted black, “indeed I meant no harm—O! do
beg Master Thompson for me.”

“Beg for you!” exclaimed Thompson, furiously,
“You're past begging for, you black rascal—I'll
learn you to steal. Tie him up, you knaves—strip
him, strip him, I'll make you beg.”

“What's he done, Mr. Thompson?” inquired Bobby.

“Done! what's it your business?” exclaimed
Thompson—“I've caught him stealing my wood,
and, by G—d, I believe he's at it by his Master's
orders.”

“What,” says Bobby, “do you mean to say that
Mr. Fitzhurst sent him to steal your wood?”

“Yes, I do.” replied Thompson, flourishing his
stick and advancing towards Pompey.

“Mr. Thompson; I don't believe you think that
yourself,” exclaimed Bobby, indignantly.

“Begone, you limping little rascal—quit my presence
immediately,—or I'll serve you the same as I
mean to serve him.”

“Limping rascal! Try it if you dare!” said
Bobby, lifting his gun from his shoulder.

Thompson looked at Bobby for a moment, firmly,
and said, “Dont you mean to quit my ground? are
you stealing too?”

“Look here,” said Bobby, who was a boy of high
spirits when aroused, and who was stung deeply by
Thompson's taunts on his lameness, and his last remark;
“I'm no negro, mind that; if you hit that
old fellow, if I don't shoot you it will be because my
arm is as lame as my leg.”

Thompson was an arrant coward; and he knew
the character of the boy. He, however, exclaimed;
with an effort at fierceness. “Do you mean to say
you'll commit murder—I'll have you hung, Robert
Gammon—mind that, my boy.”

“Try it,” said Bobby; “I'll abide by the law; and
if Pompey's been stealing let him abide by the law
too.”

“Seize him,” said Thompson to his slaves; “seize
the boy.” But the negroes, notwithstanding their
dread of their master, dared not obey his mandate.

“I'll make you sweat for this,” exclaimed Thompson,
firmly, to Bobby; but seeing the fixed resolution
of the boy's manner, he ordered his slaves to follow
him, and hastened through the wood, swearing as he
went that he would put Bobby in the Penitentiary for
life. Bobby speedily released Pompey. The black
hurried off, leaving his rope and hatched in his fright.

“Stop, Pompey,” said Bobby to the negro, as he
was hastening from the fatal wood, “take your things,
now. Thompson can't scare me if I am a weakly
boy. He insulted Cousin Peggy one day, an' if I'd
a been by them with this gun he'd a caught a load
to a certainty; you see, Pompey, being that I'm cripple
I won't put up with these things from nobody.”

Pompey hurried out of the wood without attending

to what Bobby said. The boy, however, picked up
the hatchet and rope; and following after him observed;
“I always thought Thompson was a coward,
and now I know it.”

Pompey begged Bobby in mercy not to leave him;
and with the boy's assistance he soon repaired the
wagon, and, attended by him, reached home in safety.
Pompey told the matter to his master, who was most
indignant at the treatment which his favourite servant
had received at the hands of Thompson, and loud in
the praise of Bobby.

Thompson, in the meantime repaired to Squire Morris,
to obtain a warrant against Bobby for threatening
his life, but the Squire, on hearing the whole affair
advised him to drop it, which he reluctantly did. The
story nevertheless became the talk of the neighbourhood;
and Bobby was as highly praised as Thompson,
who was generally unpopular, was censured.

Merrily, in the bright moonlight of a mellow autumn
evening Bobby proceeded to Holly. As he walked
round the house to enter the kitchen he met Pompey,
and asked him if he would not go to Mr. Elwood's
to the husking match.

“Mister Bobby, that's the very place I purpose
visiting. Don't you see I've got my violin,” said
Pompey, with an air of self-respect, holding out at the
same time the instrument which he carried in his
hand, and which was carefully covered in a green
baize bag. I thought at first I should not be able to
enjoy myself fully, 'cause Miss Fanny, I thought,
would want me to drive her over to Mr. Elwood's
this afternoon; but Master Sidney drive her over,
with company that we have, in the open carriage; so
I can go—Its a good distance from here, let's proceed.”

Pompey was an aristocratic, old family servant,
who by personal attendance on his master had heard
the best conversation among “the quality,” as

he called his master's acquaintance; and he had
no slight ambition in the way of correct phraseology.
He held himself as far above the field negroes as his
master held himself above the daily labourers. Pompey
was generally known by the title, and answered
to the name of Pompey Fitzhurst.

“You observe, Mister Bobby, I don't care much
bout playing the violin at these places, because I play's
for the quality at all their parties, and it is a descention,
but I suppose Nat Ramsey, being that his leg is
as big as his body with whisky, won't be there; and
if he is, you know he can't give the company any
satisfaction, for he's only a squeaker. You disciver
Mister Bobby, a coloured gentleman, no more an' any
other gentleman, should never demean himself. If
old master had kept me to driving the coach, what I
was brought up to, and not put me to that market-wagon,
that are affair in Thompson's wood would
never have begun to happen.”

“That's true,” rejoined Bobby, as he limped along
beside the old negro. “But, Pompey, I like some of
old Nat's tunes.”

“Not meaning to disparage your liking, Master
Bobby, replied Pompey, with the air of a connoisseur,
“but you disciver and observe that you have an
uncultivated taste, else you would like some of the
quality tunes better. When I am in Room I does as
Room does, Mister Bobby, and I am not gainsaying
that I like some of our husking tunes after all. I am
going to give 'em to the boys to-night, with a little quality
touch to set 'em off. Its to be a pretty big husking
they tell me; and when I gets tired about the big house
here, I like the relaxation of going about among the
Africans.

Proceeding along the lane, that led by the mansion
through the estate, to the foot of the hills, and there
terminated in a country road that led up a valley,
our worthies continued their conversation. Every

now and then a wild halloo, uttered by an individual,
perchance by a party, bound to the same point, would
reach the ears of our characters, at which they would
hasten their speed with increased hilarity. The
moon had by this time arisen and o'er topped the
hills. The moonbeams, struggling through the trees
that skirted the road, shed their checkerd light
upon their path, and added to their cheerfulness. To
an observer of character it would have been amusing
to have seen Bobby limping by the side of Pompey,
with Towzer following close at his heels; while the
old negro walked very erect with his snub more
elevated, and holding his violin under his arm in a
professional manner, like a dancing master, as he trips
it to a fashionable party. Bobby held his head down,
with an old hat cocked careless on the side of it,
which every now and then he would take off for a
moment, and bear in his hand while he glanced up
at Pompey.

“There's fun in husking, Pompey,” observed the
boy, as a loud halloo broke over the silence; “them
fellows are ahead of us.”

“Yes, Mister Bobby, I like it, considerably; it is
a harmless gathering, as old master says, and he likes
to see it going on.”

“I wonder if Jack Gordon will be there.”

“I don't know, Mister Bobby; you observe and
discover that Mr. Jack Gordon ain't liked among the
folks much; they say hard things agin him.”

“I know they do.”

“Yes, he has a power of money for one who haint
got any property; and it's all got by gambling, if it
ain't got in a worse way. We'll soon be there
now.”

In a bend of the valley to the left, and joining the
estate of Mr. Fitzhurst, lay the farm of Mr. Elwood.
He was a plain, rough farmer, and owned some hundred

or more acres, which he prided himself in keeping
in a high state of cultivation. He was a widower,
and childless. An orphan neice was living with him;
the mistress of his household: her name was Sarah
Grattan; and she was remarkable for her mental as
well as personal attractions. Though she had received
none of the advantages of a city education, her manners,
from the native delicacy of her mind, were prepossessing;
she was strangely timid and shy, and easily
influenced by those around her. She scarcely ever
went to the city; seldom to Springdale, and she shrinkingly
received the attentions of those who visited her.
Fanny Fitzhurst occasionally went to see her, and
would have gone much oftener had her visits been
sooner returned. But while Miss Grattan was delighted
to see her, and entertained her each time with
less embarrasment, she hesitated to return the call
until requested to do so by her uncle. And when she
did visit Holly, the splendour of that establishment
compared with her uncle's dwelling, together with the
superior beauty, intelligence, ease, and fashion of Fanny,
without exciting her envy, awoke all her diffidence,
and kept her in a state of nervous inquietude for fear
her demeanor should not be proper, and might excite
ridicule. For hours after she had returned home
she would sit and think over every thing she had said
and done, and torture herself with the idea that she
had committed some impropriety. Her situation
was lonely, and she seemed deeply to feel it. It was
thought, too, that her uncle was not as kind to her as
he might have been; and those who esteemed themselves
gifted with penetration thought they could at
times observe that she brooded over some secret sorrow.
There existed no particular reason for believeing
it, however. Her uncle—a rough, blunt man, somewhat
addicted to his cups, and when excited fierce
in his speech, and severe to his slaves—appeared kind
to her, and anxious to press her into society. He gave
her not only every comfort, but every elegance of
dress; yet he seemed to expect that she was to have
no will of her own. Mr. Elwood was unpopular in
his neighbourhood; though fond of company it was not
always of a character to interest his neice. When
Fanny has been at Mr. Elwood's he would often jest his
neice, doubtless with a view of showing her off, about
certain persons whom he asserted were her beaux;
which would make the maiden glance at Fanny, and
blush as much with a sense of shame at the characters
and standing of her imputed admirers, as from any other
feeling. Her uncle did not understand such to be her
feelings, or if he did he paid very little regard to them.
Some held the opinion that Colonel Bentley was not
indifferent to Miss Grattan's charms. On this afternoon
the colonel had visited Holly; and when Sidney
made the proposition that his sister, with Mr. Pinckney
and himself, should visit Mr. Elwood's, he agreed with
alacrity. Perhaps the pleasure though of Miss Fanny's
company of itself influenced the colonel. There was a
person named Joseph Bronson, a store keeper in Springdale,
and reputed wealthy, who boasted himself a most
honest and pious citizen, who, it was notorious in the
neighbourhood, aspired to Miss Grattan's favour.
He was a large, raw-boned, freckled-face man, and he
wore an immense sandy wig, that did not, certainly,
subtract from his homeliness, though he was not himself,
as might be supposed, aware of the fact. It was
gossipped around that Mr. Elwood favoured Mr. Bronson's
suit, Bronson's modest assurance was proverbial.
He had repeatedly transacted business for Miss
Deborah Amelia Bentley, and the colonel's friends used
jocosely to tell him, that this worthy only wanted encouragement
from his aunt to forsake Miss Grattan
for the much larger and surer fortune.