Chronicles of Pineville embracing sketches of Georgia scenes, incidents, and characters |
 |
BOSS ANKLES,
THE MAN WHAT GOT BLOWED UP WITH A
SKY-RACKET. |
 | Chronicles of Pineville |  |
BOSS ANKLES,
THE MAN WHAT GOT BLOWED UP WITH A
SKY-RACKET.
Long time ago, when Pineville was “another sort
of a place” to what it is now—I do not mean the
term in the superlative sense in which it is usually
applied, but in its literal meaning—when, indeed, it
was a very different sort of a place—long before the
“Great Attraction” made its appearance, or Parson
Storr's Temperance Society was organized, and when
Dr. Peter Jones was a little flaxen-headed boy, it was
customary for Mr. Harley and Mr. Coonsey, and the rest
of the store-keepers, to have a little back room in the
rear of their stores, where they usually kept a barrel
of whisky or rum on tap, just merely for convenience
of sampling. It was the practice, in those days, to
take customers into the little back apartment, and
give them a sample or two of the liquor before
they commenced trading. Sometimes these samples
amounted to good round “horns,” but these were
only given to test the wearing qualities of the liquor,
for those who use the article assert, that some liquors
that are well enough to the taste, do not rest so well
on the stomach, especially when taken in large doses.
Among those who visited Pineville, there were not a
few connoisseurs in rum, some of whom often found
trial of every store in town, at each of which they
obtained considerable samples, as an inducement to
expend a portion of the change which they had
brought with them to purchase homespun, calico,
salt, rum and tobacco, and such other “truck” as
their necessities called for.
Mr. Harley was a considerable store-keeper for the
time, and was one of the most accommodating sort
of men. He usually kept three or four different barrels
on tap, and not only gave large samples, but
took every pains to suit the taste of his customers by
commending to them the liquor of each barrel. It
was, perhaps, owing to this circumstance, that his
door was usually surrounded with the various kinds
of vehicles then in use among the country people.
It was not uncommon to see a score of sore-backed,
wind-broken rosinantes, and as many burr-tailed
donkeys, “hanging,” as we say in Georgia, to the
horse-rack, with some eight or ten little carts, each
composed of two wheels and a quantity of pine staves,
drawn sometimes by a mule, sometimes by a pair of
“critters,” and not unfrequently by a single steer,
both the plural and singular number being guided by
means of a rope or chain about the horns, the method
by which cattle of the bovine genus are awkwardly
guided at the South, even at this day.
But the proprietors of these grotesque establishments
were decidedly the rarest creatures in the animal
kingdom. When they came in the morning
they looked the most harmless beings on earth; their
bilious-looking eyes, and tanney, shrivelled faces—
largely into their daily provender, of whom there were
not a few in those days—wore a meek and pensive
expression, which led one to doubt if the combative
principle in them found animal spirits sufficient to
nourish and keep it alive. But towards noon, when
they had indulged pretty freely in sampling Mr. Harley's
liquor, they became quite another sort of beings,
and many a scene occurred about the store-door which
would have afforded ample field for the graphic pen
of the popular sketcher of “Georgia Scenes and Characters.”
Then might be seen the cadaverous looking
wiregrass boy in his glory, as he leaped out into
the sand before the door, and tossing his linsey jacket
into the air, proclaimed himself the best man in the
county. Then, too, might be seen the torpid clay-eater,
his bloated, watery countenance illuminated by
the exhilarating qualities of Mr. Harley's rum, as he
closed in with his antagonist, and showed by his performances
that he could eat clay as well in its animate
as in its inanimate form. Then there was such bitter
cursing and swearing, and biting, and gouging, and
such home-sent “licks”—such a war of words among
the women, squalling among the little tallow-faced
scions—(all under the influence of the samples)—and
such a rearing and pitching, kicking and braying,
and spilling of carts, and turning things upside down
and breaking them, among the mules and cattle—all
of which would afford us material for a thrilling scene,
were not the business of the present sketch to record
an affair of quite a different character.
On those occasions—generally Saturdays of each
and towards evening a general evacuation of the
town took place. The different lanes leading out
of Pineville were studded with China trees, and it
was no unusual thing for Mr. Harley's customers to
become so oppressed with the heat on their way
home, that they were compelled to rest beneath the
friendly shade of the trees. There they were almost
certain to fall asleep, and from some reason or other
—for they never could satisfactorily account to themselves
for such indiscretions—slept so soundly that
they were as often waked by the rising sun of the
following morning, as by the dews of the intervening
night. While thus wrapped in the embrace of
the drowsy god, they were often made the victims
of the village wags, who played such pranks upon
the unsuspecting sleepers, that they not unfrequently
awoke as thoroughly metamorphosed as was the
renowned Billy Button, and as much at a loss to
recognise themselves as her of whom the old ballad
speaks—
Who went to market her eggs for to sell,”
high-way,” and was afterwards only enabled to
identify herself by the aid of a favourite dog, of
whom she said—
And if it is me, he'll wag his little tail.”
These marvellous mystifications were wrought in
various ways, by the use of the marking-pot and the
himself minus the pendulous portion of his upper
garment, together with the legs or some other portion
of his unmentionables, and tattooed like a Carib
chief; another perhaps would rouse from his slumbers
to find his face as black as lampblack and oil
could make it, his wearing apparel altered to an
entirely different fashion, and one side, if not his
entire head, cropped to the skin. Very few permitted
themselves to get caught in this manner a second
time, but there was for ever some new victim skulking
back into town under cover of the night, in order
to repair damages before venturing home to his settlement,
who, if he were discovered in season, was
sure to be regarded as a proper subject upon which
to practise all the deviltry that could be devised by
his mischievous tormentors.
One day, in mid-summer, a small party visited
Mr. Harley and sampled his liquor as usual, among
whom was an individual who answered to the name
of Boss Ankles. It was a matter of some speculation
how he came by so singular and unmeaning a
nom de guerre. There was nothing peculiar about
his ankles, save that they were uncommonly black,
and as he repudiated socks and straps, and was in
the habit of thrusting his legs somewhat farther
through his copperas-coloured linseys than fashion
required, he exhibited rather more of the native
shank than is usually exposed to view. The prefix
Boss was doubtless acquired from the fact of his
affecting to be a leading character in his settlement,
and Ankles was probably a corruption of his surname,
had forgotten the original himself, for he had been
called Boss Ankles, Mr. Ankles, Ankles, or Boss,
from time immemorial.
As we have intimated, Mr. Boss Ankles was in
the habit of taking some state upon himself both at
home and abroad, basing his claim to consideration
on the ground of his being a “school-keeper” and
a professor of music. He performed on the fife,
and taught the mysteries of Dillworth's Spelling-book
to the rising generation of his settlement; but
it is not known that he ever aspired to any thing
higher in the scale of educational science.
Boss was what his neighbours called a “monstrous
ugly varmint.” It would afford us pleasure
to set him before the reader, but degrees of ugliness
are only to be ascertained by comparison, and having
nothing in nature with which to institute such
an investigation of Boss's frontispiece, we feel confident
that we should fail in any attempt to do him
justice; we must, therefore, content ourself by
stating, that his face more nearly resembled some
distorted human visage than that of any particular
animal to which we can liken him. True, his eyes
somewhat resembled those of the owl; there was a
wildness of expression about those organs which
would have done credit to the bird; but here the
resemblance ceased, and as the beholder contemplated
the next important feature, the mouth, he was
at a loss to decide which it resembled most, that of
the catfish or sucker—it was decidedly fishy in its
structure, and seemed to combine the characteristic
large at the base, the lips protruded inordinately,
and had a downward inclination, which,
together with his little red nose, large pale eyes,
standing in their circular fields of purple, high cheek
bones and long flaxen hair, rendered him an object
of curiosity.
We have said that Boss performed on the fife—
so he did. On muster-days he was in great requisition
in his beat, and when once he succeeded in
getting his mouth in readiness, few could beat him
on that soul-stirring, ear-piercing instrument. But
these performances were attended with much inconvenience
to Boss, as he was obliged to consume some
time in crimping up and folding away the surplus
leather about his mouth, before he could adjust the
instrument to his lips, which, when he had arranged
them, resembled more the kicking end of a squaretoed
boot with a hole in it, than any thing else we
can think of. When once snugly fixed, he retained
his mouth in the same pucker, and seldom took the
fife from his face during the parade, unless some one
chanced to pass with liquor, a temptation he could
not resist. When music was again wanted, it was
necessary to give Boss a precautionary word in advance,
when he would turn his head under his left
arm until the plaiting process was again accomplished,
then, with a stamp or two of the foot to
mark time, he would strike up, perhaps, “Yankee
Doodle,” and away they marched again.
But our business now is not with the militia-muster,
or Boss's musical powers. Leaving these to form
we will return to the evening of the mid-summer day
aforesaid.
There had been a considerable party in town that
day, but all had gone off unusually quiet—no fighting,
and none so drunk but that they knew the way
home. Boss had been among the last to leave town,
and was, perhaps, the heaviest sampler in the party
—but he had gone long before sundown.
It was early in the evening, just after tea, that
some six or eight loungers of the town dropped into
the store as usual—for it was a sort of rendezvous
for idlers, as one might see by the mangled pine
boxes about the door—to interchange the news of
the day and smoke a few of Mr. Harley's cigars.
They had been engaged in such frivolous pastime
but a few minutes, when a very strange-looking
figure entered the door, and inquired for Mr. Harley.
“Hellow, Boss, is that you? I thought you had
gone home long ago.”
“Why, Mr. Harley, I never was sarved such a
trick afore in all my born days!”
“Eh, what's the matter with you, Boss?”
“Man alive! can't you see?” exclaimed Boss, as
he rolled up his great white eyes, and tried to suck
in a sigh with his hanging lips.
“Where's your shoes?” inquired Mr. Harley, observing
that he was barefooted.
“They tuck them too—oh, they tuck every thing
they could lay their hands on,” replied he.
“And your hat?” inquired Mr. Harley.
“Oh, they tuck that too! Man alive, Mr. Harley,
they've tititiatiously ruinated me, so they is!”
“Who?”
“You knows as well as I does, Mr. Harley.”
“Have you been robbed, Boss?” asked one.
“Where did it happen?” inquired another.
“I'll tell you all how it was,” replied Mr. Ankles,
grateful for the apparent sympathy of the crowd.
“You see, gentlemen, arter I left here to-day, I was
gwine right straight home with the truck what I
bought of Mr. Harley tied up in a bundle, and it was
monstrous heavy, and it was ding hot, too, down
thar in the lane, so I sot down to rest a bit under the
trees, and somehow or other I got asleep, and—and
—you can jest see what happened to me. Some
oudacious cus-o'thunder,” continued he, warming up
as he approached the climax, “jest come and tuck
my bundle, and the jug of spirits and every thing,
and left me in this here fix.”
“And stole your bundle and jug?'
“Yes, and the very shoes off my feet, and my hat
off my head, as was a bran new one I bought here
to-day.”
“Well, that was rather a rough joke, that's a fact.”
“Man alive, I never heard of sich a oudacious
perceedin' in all my life. This town's got a monstrous
bad name for meanery and shecoonery of all
sorts, but I never know'd they 'low'd pirates here
afore.”
“It truly is a bad business, Boss.”
“Jest look at my sitivation—I can't go home in
this here fix. The folks would swar I was tossicated—
a little with the heat, and know'd jest as well what
I was about when I sot down under them trees as I
does now. It aint the valley of the plun er, but it's
the principle of the thing I looks at. Whar's the use
o' laws and preachin,' if people's to be sarved in this
way. Cus the luck—what a pity I didn't wake up
—thar'd been old works down thar in the lane if I'd
jest happen'd to come to 'bout that time.” He concluded
with a significant twist of his neck, at the
same time clinching his fist, and casting a wild scowl
round the room.
“Never mind, Boss, you know accidents will happen.
Take something to drink, to keep you from
catching cold, and console yourself that it is no worse.
They might have taken your coat, you know.”
“To be sure they mought—that's a fact,” rejoined
Boss, with a stare of his owl-eyes, as much as to say
he wondered why they didn't.
Boss approved the precautionary suggestion of his
comforter, and the clerk having brought some liquor,
of which he took a good swig “to keep off the cold,”
he began to grow familiar, and, sideling up to the
counter, assumed a comfortable lounging position,
where he soon forgot his misfortunes in the social
enjoyment of the hour. He had a great deal to say
about matters and things in general—among other
topics he dwelt upon the verdancy of his neighbours,
and the “shecoonery” which had been practised
upon them by the town-boys. For his own part, he
never got into “that sort o' difficulty,” for people
always knew who to project with.
“Why thar's Bill Willson—you know that ugly
cock-eyed feller,” he continued, “come down to the
settlement tother day, with the legs of his trowsers
split clear up to the waistband and his coat-tail crapt
close off; all the hair off his head, and his face as
black as the very old blazes. He liked to skecred
his aunt Tobitha Biers out of her senses, and the dogs
tuck hold of him jest like he'd been some wild varmint.
`Ha, ha,' ses I, `Bill, you's been—' ouch!
whew! man alive! what's that?” shouted the speaker,
and he lifted his feet from under him so suddenly,
that he came near pitching on the floor. A lighted
cigar-stump had been, accidentally of course, rolled
against them. After the two or three first steps of a
fandango, and rubbing the spot with his hand, he
resumed his position, and would have taken up the
thread of his story, but a drink round was proposed
after the laugh had subsided, in which Boss had
joined out of pure politeness.
After the liquor, came cigars—his friends were
very particular to select a large one for Mr. Ankles.
Boss wallowed it in his mouth preparatory to smoking.
Biting off one end, he was about to light it,
when his attention was attracted by a single India-cracker,
as they are usually called, which was lying
upon the counter. Taking it up and examining it,
he asked—
“What on yeath is this?”
“That! why, that,” said the one nearest him,
casting an inquiring look around, “that's a—a—”
“Cigar-lighter,” added a mischievous fellow on
the opposite side, with a wink to the crowd.
“Yes, a patent cigar-lighter,” continued the first.
“Man alive!” exclaimed Boss,—“well, well,
what wont them Yankees make next?” he added,
turning it in his fingers.
“They're capital things, Boss; try one.”
“How do you fix 'em—how do they do?”
“Why, you see that little string there at the
end.”
“Yes.”
“Well, just light the tip end of that in the candle,
and then hold it to the end of your cigar, till you see
it begin to fiz a little, and it will light your cigar as
quick as a flash. First rate, I tell you.”
“Man alive! why, what a thing!”
Boss did as he was directed—he held it patiently
to the end of his cigar, upon which he occasionally
gave a draw, as he noticed the flashes of the match.
He stood statue-like and still during the interesting
process—the company sat in mute expectation. Suddenly
there was a loud explosion—the cigar, save
the stump, which he still convulsively held in his
teeth, was shattered to atoms, and his mouth, eyes,
and nose, filled with smoke and tobacco. The cigar
had been charged, and the powder had singed and
blinded him. He sprang into the middle of the floor
at a bound, where for a minute he stood utterly bewildered,
rubbing his distended eyes, and spitting
and gasping from the effects of the explosion.
“Man alive!” gasped he, at length. “What
upon yeath was that?—why, it went just like a blaze
of fire rite in my face. It like to tuck the wind out
o' me.”
Boss did not observe the laugh which this strange
phenomenon had excited.
“It must have been a bad cigar,” suggested one.
“Try another, Boss,” said a second.
“No, I thank you, squire, I don't keer to smoke
no more to-night,” replied Boss, still endeavouring
to rectify his disturbed countenance, and all the
while wearing that wild look, so peculiar to himself.
He began to entertain some vague suspicions that
a trick had been played off upon him, and spoke of
retiring; another horn, however, disabused his mind,
or rather so totally fermented what little brains he
possessed, as to render him incapable of arranging
his thoughts on that or any other subject. One suggested
the idea that perhaps the persons who had
robbed him, having overheard his disclosures, were
desirous of taking his life, and had fired in upon
him as he was lighting his cigar. Some men, when
they are drunk, are apt to imagine themselves beset
by thieves, assassins, and all manner of evil doers.
Boss was of this sort, and the latter suggestion took
at once.
“Yes,” said he, “that 'counts for it—some infernal
pirate is dodgin' about arter my life now, but he
dasent show his face. Let any man, what wants
any thing out o' Boss Ankles, just make his 'pearance
'fore his face.”
Then stepping to the door, with a mouthful of
oaths, he called out—
“Come on with your Booyer-knives and your
double-barrelled pistols, you thieves-o'-thunder, and
from me out o' ye, then I aint Boss Ankles.”
“Go it, Boss, I'll stand to your back.”
“I don't ax no odds of nobody,” shouted Boss,
smacking his fists together, and leaping about the
floor like a cat.
“Boss aint afraid of sky-rockets.”
“D—n your sky-rackets,” said Boss, “who's
them?”
“Look out they don't put 'em to you, Boss—
they're sudden death, if they get hold of you
once.”
“Who is they, gentlemen?—whar is they?”
“There! there! look out!”
Pop, pop, pop, went a whole pack of “cigar-lighters”
about Boss's ears. With a loud yell of
terror he tore away from his friends and dashed into
the street, shouting for life, while the poppers at his
back shone brilliantly in the darkness, as they kept
up a sort of irregular feu-de-joy until they were all
exploded. By this time he had half the village-boys
at his heels, whooping and screaming like a
pack of hounds in full cry. As the last squib exploded,
Boss stopped in his headlong flight, almost
out of breath from fright and fatigue, for he had
flown on the wings of terror at what he supposed to
be an application of the fatal “sky-rackets.” When
the crowd came up, two or three gathered round
with expressions of sympathy and friendship, and
ordered the rest to keep at a distance; declaring
they would chastise the first man that attempted to
harm their friend, Mr. Boss Ankles. Boss was completely
and he stood in amazement and fear.
“Who is I done any harm to?—what is I done to
be mislisted in sich a way, gentlemen?—I haint no
grudge agin nobody.”
The response was a shout.
“Stand your ground, Boss,” said his friends,
“we'll see you out.”
Boss plucked up courage.
“Now you try that agin, if you like it, cus yer
picters. The first man that touches me, I'll whip,
'cept I die tryin'. I gives you all warnin', and if
you —”
But another rattling report assailed his ears, and
again he was flying down the street, like a comet
with a fiery tail, shouting in accents of terror, which
were drowned by the clamours of the pursuing crowd.
Coming to a halt as before, his zealous friends
again joined him.
“Now, who was that?” demanded one, as soon
as they reached him—“Come here, Mr. Ankles,
and the first man that attempts to harm you—”
“Gentlemen,” interrupted Boss, “them infernal
sky-rackets will be the death o' me—won't nobody
keep 'em off me. Do, gentlemen, keep 'em off this
time, for heaven's sake.”
“Stand off, you scoundrels—the first man that
comes near Mr. Ankles—”
Pop, fiz, pop, pop, and away darted Mr. Ankles
like a quarter-horse.
The same scene was repeated ten or a dozen
times, and, at each discharge of the poppers, Ankles
speed until the entire pack was exploded. Twelve
o'clock found him still running the gauntlet, bare-headed
and bare-footed, and quite exhausted from
fatigue, notwithstanding the potent draughts of rum
which he was from time to time prevailed upon to
take.
The sport was about drawing to a close. The
last pack had been exploded, when Boss brought
himself to a halt, and announced his intention to die
in his tracks. The crowd, as usual, pressed round
him; those most conspicuous as his friends placing
themselves at his side, declaring their willingness to
sacrifice themselves in his defence; when, suddenly,
there was a tremendous explosion in their midst!
For an instant a livid flame illuminated the scene,
which the next moment was shrouded in darkness.
There was a moment's panic—a moment's death-like
silence, followed by a loud cry of wonder from
the flying mob. Then there was some coughing
and hard breathing to be heard, and many extravagant
expressions of surprise. Some had been
knocked down and blinded—these were gathering
themselves up and making off as fast as possible.
Some three or four of the “ring-leaders” had been
more or less burned, and were loud in demanding—
“Who done that?” But amid all the confusion that
ensued, poor Boss, who lay upon the ground near
where he had been standing, was distinctly heard,
shouting “Murder! murder!” with the earnestness
of a dying man. His clothes had been nearly all
blown off him, and the few shreds of his coat
They were soon extinguished, however, by such as
were not busied in brushing the crisped hair from
about their own faces, or feeling for their eye-brows
and winkers in the dark; and those who had so
recently been cruelly engaged in making him the
subject of their mirth, now did every thing in their
power to promote his comfort.
The mystery was soon explained. Boss had, during
the day, purchased a quantity of gun-powder,
which he had deposited in his coat pocket. This
having been ignited by the squibs, had occasioned
the extraordinary blow up. Luckily, no serious
damage had been done—but Boss was quite sure
that his time had come.
“You see now, gentlemen,” said he in a gasping
tone, “what you's done with yer dratted sky-rackets.
You's fixed me off and made a widder of my wife
and children. I's a dead man! You see what you
all's done, and I s'pose you's satisfied.”
By this time 'squire Rogers, near whose residence
the explosion took place, made his appearance, and
after rebuking the boys, and telling them how wrong
it was to use “any poor critter that-a-way,” and
reminding them that they “didn't know what they
mought come to yet afore they died,” took the poor
fellow in charge and kept him till morning.
On the following day, Boss was enabled to see
into the whole matter. He was in a sorry plight,
indeed, but a subscription being made up for him,
he was fully indemnified for all losses sustained, and
departed in a good humour, considering the circumstances;
asseveration over a sample of Mr. Harley's best, that
he would never take another snooze under the Pineville
China trees, or permit himself again to be
“blowed up with a sky-racket.”
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