The Bishop of Cottontown: A Story of the Southern Cotton Mills
few straggling strands of beard into the under jaw of the same
animal. Three big negroes had led him, blind-folded, into the circle,
chanting a peculiar song, the music of which was weird and uncanny.
And now as he sat on the ground the others regarded him with the
greatest reverence and awe. It was in one of the most dismal portions
of the swamp, a hundred yards or two from the road that led to the
ferry at the river. Here the old people had been brought from their
homes and tied to this spot where the witch council was to be held.
Before seating himself the Witch Finder had drawn three rings within
a circle on the ground with the thigh bone of a dog. Then,
unbuttoning his red flannel shirt, he took from his bosom, suspended
around his neck, a kind of purse, made from the raw-hide of a calf,
with white hair on one side and red on the other, and from this bag
he proceeded to take out things which would have given Shakespeare
ideas for his witch scene in Macbeth. A little black ring, made of
the legs of the black spider and bound together with black horse
hair; a black thimble-like cup, not much longer than the cup of an
acorn, made of the black switch of a mule containing the liver of a
scorpion. The horny head and neck of the huge black beetle, commonly
known to negroes as the black Betsy Bug; the rattle and button of a
rattlesnake; the fang-tooth of a cotton-mouth moccasin, the left hind
foot of a frog, seeds of the stinging nettle, and pods of peculiar
plants, all incased in a little sack made of a mole's hide. These
were all given sufficient charm by a small round cotton yarn, in the
center of which was a drop of human blood. They were placed on the
ground around him, but he held the ball of cotton yarn in his hand,
and ordered that the child be brought into the ring. The poor thing
was frightened nearly to death at sight of the Witch Finder, and when
he began slowly to unwind his ball of cotton thread and chant his
monotonous funeral song, she screamed in terror. At a signal from the
"Witch Finder," Aunt Charity was dragged into the ring, her hands
tied behind her. The sight of such brutality was too much for the
child, and she promptly had another fit. No other evidence was
needed, and the Witch Finder declared that Aunt Charity was Queen of
Witches. The council retired, and in a few minutes their decision was
made: Uncle Bisco was to be beaten to death with hickory flails and
his old wife hung to the nearest tree. Their verdict being made, two
stout negroes came forward to bind the old man to a tree with his
arms around it. At sight of these ruffians the old woman broke out
into triumphant song:
"O we mos' to de home whar we all gwi' res',
Cum, dear Lord, cum soon!
An' take de ole weary ones unto yo' bres',
Cum, dear Lord, cum soon!
Fur we ole an' we tired an' we hungry fur yo' sight,
An' our lim's dey am weary, fur we fou't er good fight,
An' we longin' fur de lan' ob lub an' light--
Cum, dear Lord, cum soon."
And it was well that she sang that song, for it stopped three
horsemen just as they forded the creek and turned their horses' heads
into the lane that led to the cabin. One who was tall and with square
shoulders sat his horse as if born in the saddle. Above, his dark
hair was streaked with white, but the face was calm and sad, though
lit up now with two keen and kindly eyes which glowed with suppressed
excitement. It was the face of splendid resolve and noble purpose,
and the horse he rode was John Paul Jones. The other was the village
blacksmith. A negro followed them, mounted on a raw-bone pony, and
carrying his master's Enfield rifle.
The first horseman was just saying: "Things look mighty natural at
the old place, Eph; I wonder if the old folks will know us? It seems
to me--"
He pulled up his horse with a jerk. He heard singing just over to his
left in the wood. Both horsemen sat listening:
O we mos' to de do' ob our Father's home--
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
An' we'll nurver mo' sorrer an' nurver mo' roam--
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
An' we'll meet wid de lam's dat's gohn on befo'
An' we lie in de shade ob de good shepherd's do',
An' he'll wipe away all ob our tears as dey flow--
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
"Do you know that voice, Eph?" cried the man in front to his body
servant. "We must hurry"; and he touched the splendid horse with the
heel of his riding boot.
But the young negro had already plunged two spurs into his pony's
flanks and was galloping toward the cabin.
It was all over when the white rider came up. Two brutes had been
knocked over with the short heavy barrel of an Enfield rifle. There
was wild scattering of others through the wood. An old man was
clinging in silent prayer to his son's knees and an old woman was
clinging around his neck, and saying:
"Praise God--who nurver lies--it's little Ephrum--come home ag'in."
Then they looked up and the old man raised his hands in a pitiful
tumult of joy and fear and reverence as he said:
"An' Marse Tom, so help me God--a-ridin' John Paul Jones!"
CHAPTER IX
THE PEDIGREE OF ACHIEVEMENT
Man may breed up all animals but himself. Strive as he may, the laws
of heredity are hidden. "Like produces like or the likeness of an
ancestor" is the unalterable law of the lower animal. Not so with
man--he is a strange anomaly. Breed him up--up--and then from his
high breeding will come reversion. From pedigrees and plumed hats and
ruffled shirts come not men, but pygmies--things which in the real
fight of life are but mice to the eagles which have come up from the
soil with the grit of it in their craws and the strength of it in
their talons.
We stop in wonder--balked. Then we see that we cannot breed men--they
are born; not in castles, but in cabins.
And why in cabins? For therein must be the solution. And the solution
is plain: It is work--work that does it.
We cannot breed men unless work--achievement--goes with it.
From the loins of great horses come greater horses; for the pedigree
of work--achievement--is there. Unlike man, the race-horse is kept
from degeneracy by work. Each colt that comes must add achievement
to pedigree when he faces the starter, or he goes to the shambles or
the surgeon.
Why may not man learn this simple lesson--the lesson of work--of
pedigree, but the pedigree of achievement?
The son who would surpass his father must do more than his father
did. Two generations of idleness will beget nonentities, and three,
degenerates.
The preacher, the philosopher, the poet, the ruler--it matters not
what his name--he who first solves the problem of how to keep mankind
achieving will solve the problem of humanity.
And now to Helen Conway for the first time in her life this simple
thing was happening--she was working--she was earning--she was
supporting herself and Lily and her father. Not only that, but
gradually she was learning to know what the love of one like Clay
meant--unselfish, devoted, true.
If to every tempted woman in the world could be given work, and to
work achievement, and to achievement independence, there would be few
fallen ones.
All the next week Helen went to the mill early--she wanted to go. She
wanted to earn more money and keep Lily out of the mill. And she went
with a light heart, because for the first time in her life since she
could remember, her father was sober. Helen's earnings changed even
him. There was something so noble in her efforts that it uplifted
even the drunkard. In mingled shame and pride he thought it out:
Supported by his daughter--in a mill and such a daughter! He arose
from it all white-lipped with resolve: "_I will be a Conway again!_"
He said it over and over. He swore it.
It is true he was not entirely free from that sickening, sour,
accursed smell with which she had associated him all her life. But
that he was himself, that he was making an earnest effort, she knew
by his neatly brushed clothes, his clean linen, his freshly shaved
face, his whole attire which betokened the former gentleman.
"How handsome he must have been when he was once a Conway!" thought
Helen.
He kissed his daughters at the breakfast table. He chatted with them,
and though he said nothing about it, even Lily knew that he had
resolved to reform.
After breakfast Helen left him, with Lily sitting on her father's
lap, her face bright with the sunshine of it:
"If papa would always be like this"--and she patted his cheek.
Conway started. The very intonation of her voice, her gesture, was of
the long dead mother.
Tears came to his eyes. He kissed her: "Never again, little daughter,
will I take another drop."
She looked at him seriously: "Say with God's help--" she said simply.
"Mammy Maria said it won't count unless you say that."
Conway smiled. "I will do it my own self."
But Lily only shook her head in a motherly, scolding way.
"With God's help, then," he said.
Never was an Autumn morning more beautiful to Helen as she walked
across the fields to the mill. She had learned a nearer way, one
which lay across hill and field. The path ran through farms, chiefly
The Gaffs, and cut across the hills and meadow land. Through little
dells, amid fragrant groves of sweet gum and maples, their beautiful
many-colored leaves now scattered in rich profusion around. Then down
little hollows where the brooks sputtered and frothed and foamed
along, the sun all the time darting in and out, as the waters ran
first in sunshine and then in shadow. And above, the winds were so
still, that the jumping of the squirrel in the hickories made the
only noise among the leaves which still clung to the boughs.
All so beautiful, and never had Helen been so happy.
She was earning a living--she was saving Lily from the mill and her
father from temptation.
Her path wound along an old field and plunged into scrub cedar and
glady rocks. A covey of quail sprang up before her and she screamed,
frightened at the sudden thunder of their wings.
Then the path ran through a sedge field, white with the tall silvered
panicled-leaves of the life-everlasting.
Beyond her she saw the smoke-stack of the mill, and a short cut
through a meadow of The Gaffs would soon take her there.
She failed to see a warning on the fence which said: _Keep
out--Danger._
Through the bars she went, intent only on soon reaching the mill
beyond and glorying in the strong rich smell of autumn in leaf and
grass and air.
"What a beautiful horse that is in the pasture," she thought, and
then her attention went to a meadow lark flushed and exultant. She
heard shouts, and now--why was Jim, the stable boy, running toward
her so fast, carrying a pitchfork in his hands and shouting:
"Whoa--there, Antar--Antar,--you, sir!"
And the horse! One look was enough. With ears laid back, and mouth
wide open, with eyes blazing with the fire of fury he was plunging
straight at her.
Helpless, she turned in sickening doubt, to feel that her limbs were
limp in the agony of fear. She heard the thunder of the man-eating
stallion's hoofs just behind her and she butted blindly, as she sank
down, into some one who held bravely her hand as she fell, and the
next instant she heard a thundering report and smelt a foul blast of
gunpowder. She looked up in time to see the great horse pitch back on
his haunches, rear, quiver a moment and strike desperately at the air
with his front feet and fall almost upon her.
When she revived, the stable boy stood near by the dead stallion,
pale with fright and wonder. A half-grown boy stood by her, holding
her hand.
"You are all right now," he said quietly as he helped her to arise.
In his right hand he held a pistol and the foul smoke still oozed up