About this book

The Bishop of Cottontown: A Story of the Southern Cotton Mills

John Trotwood Moore

How proud Ben Butler seemed to feel! How much lighter and how smoothly it ran! They got the word at the first score, Trumps and Lizzette going at it hammer and tongs--Ben Butler, as usual, trailing. The old man sat pale and ashy, but driving like the born reinsman that he was. "Steady, old hoss, steady agin'--jes' save our distance, that's all--they've done forgot us--done forgot us--don't know we're here. They'll burn up each other an' then, oh, Ben Butler, God he'p us! Cap'n Tom, Cap'n Tom an' Shiloh! Steady, whoa there!--Lord, how you're lar'nin'! How the old clip is comin' agin! Ho--hi--there ole hoss--here we are--what a bresh of speed he's got--hi--ho!" And the grand-stand was cheering again, and as the old man rode up the judges hung out: _2nd Heat:_ _Trumps, 1st_; _Lizzette, 2nd_; _Ben Butler, 3rd._ _Time_, 2:15-1/2. The old man looked at it in wonder: "Two fifteen an' not shet out, Ben Butler? Only five lengths behind? My God, can we make it--can we make it?" His heart beat wildly. For the first time he began to hope. Trumps now had two heats. As the race was best three out of five, one more heat meant that Flecker of Tennessee would win the race and the purse. But when the old man glanced at Trumps, his experienced eye told him the gallant gelding was all out--he was distressed greatly--in a paroxyism of thumps. He glanced at Lizzette. She was breathing freely and was fresh. His heart fell. "Trumps is done fur, Ben Butler, but Lizzette--what will Travis do?--Ah, ole hoss, we're up ag'in it!" It was too true, as the next heat proved. Away Trumps and Lizzette went, forgetful of all else, while the old man trailed behind, talking to, soothing, coaxing the old horse and driving him as only a master could. "They're at it ag'in--ole hoss, what fools! Whoa--steady there! Trumps is done fur, an' you'll see--No sand left in his crops, cooked--watch an' see, oh, my, Ben Butler--there--he's up now--up an' done fur--Go now--move some--hi--" Trumps and Lizzette had raced it out to the head of the stretch. But Trumps was not equal to the clip which Travis had made cyclonic, knowing the horse was sadly distressed. Trumps stood it as long as flesh and blood could, and then jumped into the air, in a heart-broken, tired break. It was then that the old man began to drive, and moving like well-balanced machinery, the old pacer caught again the spirit of his youth, as the old time speed came back, and leaving Trumps behind he even butted his bull-dog nose into the seat of Lizzette's sulky, and clung determinedly there, right up to the wire, beaten only by a length. Lizzette had won the heat. The judge hung out: _3rd Heat:_ _Lizzette, 1st_; _Ben Butler, 2nd_; _Trumps distanced._ _Time_, 2:20. Lizzette had won, but the crowd had begun to see. "The old pacer--the old pacer!"--they yelled. Travis bit his lip--"what did it all mean? He had won the heat. Trumps was shut out, and there they were yelling for the old pacer!" The Bishop was pale to the roots of his hair when he got out of the sulky. "Great hoss! great! great!" yelled Bud as he trotted along bringing the blanket. The old man bowed his head in the sulky-seat, a moment, amid the crash of the band and the noise of the crowd: "Dear God--my Father--I thank Thee. Not for me--not for Ben Butler--but for life--life--for Shiloh--and Cap'n Tom. Help us--old and blind--help us! O God--" Col. Troup grasped his hand. The Tennesseans, followers of Flecker, flocked around him. Flecker, too, was there--chagrined, maddened--he too had joined his forces with the old Bishop. "Great Scott, old man, how you do drive! We've hedged on you--me and the Colonel--we've put up a thousand each that you'll win. We've cooked ourselves good and hard. Now drive from hell to breakfast next heat, and Travis is yo' meat! Fools that we were! We've cut each other to pieces like a pair of cats tied by the tails. Travis is at your mercy." "Yes, sah, Flecker is right. Travis is yo' meat, sah," said the Colonel, solemnly. The old man walked around with his lips moving silently, and a great pulsing, bursting, gripping pain in his heart--a pain which was half a hope and half despair. The crowd was on tip-toe. Never before had such a race been paced in the Tennessee Valley. Could he take the next heat from Lizzette? If he could, he had her at his mercy. Grimly they scored down. Travis sullen that he had to fight the old pacer, but confident of shutting him out this time. Confident and maddened. The old man, as was his wont in great emergencies, had put a bullet in his mouth to clinch his teeth on. He had learned it from Col. Jeremiah Travis, who said Jackson did it when he killed Dickinson, and at Tallapoosa, and at New Orleans. "GO!" And he heard Travis whirl away with a bitter curse that floated back. Then the old man shot out in the long, stealing, time-eating stride the old pacer had, and coming up just behind Lizzette's sulky he hung there in a death struggle. One quarter, half, three-quarters, and still they swung around--locked--Travis bitter with hot oaths and the old man pale with prayer. He could see Travis's eyes flashing lightning hatred across the narrow space between them--hatred, curses, but the old man prayed on. "The flag--now--ole hoss--for Jesus' sake!--" He reached out in the old way, lifted his horse by sheer great force and fairly flung him ahead!-- "Flu-r-r-r!" it was Lizzette's breath as he went by her. He shot his eyes quickly sideways as she flailed the air with her forefeet within a foot of his head. Her eyes glowed, sunken,--beat--in their sockets; with mouth wide open, collapsed, frantic, in heart-broken dismay, she wabbled, staggered and quit! "Oh, God bless you, Ben Butler!--" But that instant in the air with her mouth wide open within a foot of the old man's head her lower teeth exposed, the old driver saw she was only four years old. Why had he noticed it? What mental telepathy in great crises cause us to see the trifles on which often the destiny of our life hangs? Ben Butler, stubborn, flying, was shaking his game old head in a bull-dog way as he went under the wire. It maddened him to be pulled up. "So, softly, softly old fellow! We've got 'em licked, you've got religin' in yo' heels, too. Ain't been goin' to church for ten years for nothin'!" The old man wanted to shout, and yet he was actually shedding tears, talking hysterically and trembling all over. He heard in a dazed way the yells and thunder from the grand-stand. But he was faint and dizzy, and worst of all, as he laughed to himself and said: "Kinder sissy an' soft in spots." Jack and Bud had Ben Butler and were gone. No wonder the grand-stand pulsed with human emotion. Never before had anything been done like this. The old, blind pacer,--the quaint old preacher--the thing they were going to shut out,--the pathos, the splendor of it all,--shook them as humanity will ever be shaken when the rejected stone comes up in the beauty of purest marble. Here it was: _4th Heat:_ _Ben Butler, 1st_; _Lizzette, 2nd._ _Time_, 2:19-1/2. What a record it was for the old pacer! Starting barely able to save his distance, he had grown in speed and strength and now had the mare at his mercy--the two more heats he had yet to win would be a walk around for him. Oh, it was glorious--glorious! "Oh, by gad, sah," shouted Col. Troup, pompously. "I guess I've hedged all right. Travis will pay my thousand. He'll know how to shet out gentlemen the nex' time. Oh, by gad, sah!" Flecker and the Tennesseans took drinks and shouted themselves hoarse. Then the old preacher did something, but why he never could explain. It seemed intuition when he thought of it afterwards. Calling Col. Troup to him he said: "I'm kinder silly an' groggy, Col'nel, but I wish you'd go an' look in her mouth an' see how old Lizzette is." The Colonel looked at him, puzzled. "Why?" "Oh, I dunno, Col'nel--but when a thing comes on me that away, maybe it's because I'm so nervous an' upsot, but somehow I seem to have a second sight when I git in this fix. I wanted you to tell me." "What's it got to do with the race, sah! There is no bar to age. Have you any susp--" "Oh, no--no--Col'nel, it's jes' a warnin', an intuition. I've had 'em often, it's always from God. I b'leeve it's Him tellin' me to watch, watch an' pray. I had it when Ben Butler come, thar, come in answer to prayer--" Colonel Troup smiled and walked off. In a short while he sauntered carelessly back: "Fo' sah, she was fo' years old this last spring." "Thank ye, Col'nel!" The Colonel smiled and whispered: "Oh, how cooked she is! Dead on her feet, dead. Don't drive yo' ole pacer hard--jes' walk around him, sah. Do as you please, you've earned the privilege. It's yo' walk over an' yo' money." The fifth heat was almost a repetition of the fourth, the old pacer beating the tired mare cruelly, pacing her to a standstill. It was all over with Lizzette, anyone could see that. The judges hung out: _5th Heat:_ _Ben Butler, 1st_; _Lizzette, 2nd._ _Time_, 2:24. Travis's face was set, set in pain and disappointment when he went to the stable. He looked away off, he saw no one. He smoked. He walked over to the stall where they were cooling Lizzette out. "Take the full twenty minutes to cool her, Jim." In the next stall stood Sadie B. She had been driven around by Jud Carpenter, between heats, to exercise her, he had said. She was warmed up, and ready for speed. Travis stood watching Lizzette cool out. Jud came up and stood looking searchingly at him. There was but a glance and a nod, and Travis walked over to the grand-stand, light-hearted and even jolly, where he stood in a group of society folks. He was met by a protest of feminine raillery: "Oh, our gloves, our candy! Oh, Mr. Travis, to get beat that way!" He laughed: "I'll pay all you ladies lose. I was just playing with the old pacer. Bet more gloves and candy on the next heat!" "Oh--oh," they laughed. "No--no-o! We've seen enough!" Travis smiled and walked off. He turned at the gate and threw them back a bantering kiss. "You'll see--" was all he said. The old man spent the twenty minutes helping to rub off Ben Butler. "It does me good--kinder unkeys me," he said to Bud and Jack. He put his ear to the old horses' flank--it pulsed strong and true. Then he laughed to himself. It vexed him, for it was half hysterical and he kept saying over to himself: "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty-- All Thy works shall praise Thy name, in earth and sky and sea; Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty--" Some one touched his arm. It was Jack: "Bishop, Bishop, time's up! We're ready. Do you hear the bell clanging?" The Bishop nodded, dazed: "Here, you're kinder feeble, weak an', an' sorter silly. Why, Bishop, you're recitin' poetry--" said Jack apologetically. "A man's gone when he does that--here!" He had gone to the old man's saddle bags, and brought out his ancient flask. "Jes' a swaller or two, Bishop," he said coaxingly, as one talking to a child--"Quick, now, you're not yo'self exactly--you've dropped into poetry." "I guess I am a little teched, Jack, but I don't need that when I can get poetry, sech poetry as is now in me. Jack, do you want to hear the gran'est verse ever writ in poetry?" "No--no, Bishop, don't! Jack Bracken's yo' friend, he'll freeze to you. You'll be all right soon. It's jes' a little spell. Brace up an' drop that stuff." The old man smiled sadly as if he pitied Jack. Then he repeated slowly: "Holy, holy, holy, all the saints adore Thee Castin' down their golden crowns around the glassy sea;