Cudjo's Cave

  XXXIV.

  _CAPTAIN LYSANDER'S JOKE._

  Since the time when she lost her best feather-bed and her boarder, theworthy widow Sprowl had suffered serious pecuniary embarrassment. Shemissed sadly the regular four dollars a week, and the irregulargratuities, she had received from Penn. So much secession had cost her,without yielding as yet any of its promised benefits. The Yankees hadnot stepped up with the alacrity expected of them, and thrust theirservile necks into the yoke of their natural masters. The slave tradewas not reopened. Niggers were not yet so cheap that every poor widowcould, at a trifling expense, provide herself with several, and growrich on their labor. In the pride of seeing her son made what she calleda "capting," and in the hope of enjoying some of the golden fruits ofhis valor, she had given him her last penny, and received up to thepresent time not a penny from him in return. In short, Lysander wasungrateful, and the widow was a disappointed woman.

  So it happened that the sugar-bowl and tea-canister were often empty,and the poor widow had no legitimate means of replenishing them. In thisextremity she resorted to borrowing. She borrowed of everybody, andnever repaid. She borrowed even of the hated Unionists in theneighborhood, and confessed with bitterness to her son that she foundthem more ready to lend to her than the families of secessionists.

  Again, on the morning of the events related in the last chapter, shefound herself in want of many things--tea, sugar, meal, beans, potatoes,snuff, and tobacco; for this excellent woman snuffed, "dipped," andsmoked.

  "Where shall I go and borry to-day?" said she, counting her patrons, andthe number of times she had been to borrow of each, on her fingers."Thar's Mis' Stackridge. I hain't been to her but oncet. I'll go agin,and carry the big basket."

  With her basket on her arm, and an ancient brown bonnet (which had beenblack at the time of the demise of the late lamented Sprowl,) on herhead, and a multitude of excuses on her tongue, she set out, and walkedto the farmer's house. This had one of those great, shed-like openingsthrough it, so common in Tennessee. A door on the left, as you enteredthis covered space, led to the kitchen and living-room of the family.Here the widow knocked.

  There was no response. She knocked again, with the same result. Then shepulled the latch-string--for the door even of this well-to-do farmer hada latch-string. She entered. The house was deserted.

  "Ain't to home, none of 'em, hey?" said the widow, peering about herwith a disagreeable scowl. "House wan't locked, nuther. Wonder if Mis'Stackridge and the childern have gone to the mountains too? And whar'sold Aunt Deb?"

  Her first feeling was that of resentment. What right had Mrs. Stackridgeto be absent when she came to borrow? As she explored the pantry andclosets, however, and became convinced that she was absolutely alone ina well-provisioned farm-house, her countenance lighted up with a smile.

  "I can borry what I want jest exac'ly as well as if Mis' Stackridge warto home," thought the widow.

  And she proceeded to fill her basket. She helped herself to a pan ofmeal, borrowing the pan with it. "I'll fetch home the pan," said she,"when I do the meal,"--exposing her craggy teeth with a grim smile. "IfI don't before, I'm a feared Mis' Stackridge'll haf to wait for't aconsiderable spell! What's in this box? Coffee! May as well take box andall. Bring back the box when I do the coffee. Wish I could find sometobacky somewhars--wonder whar they keep their tobacky!"

  Now, the excellent creature did not indulge in these liberties withoutsome apprehension that Mrs. Stackridge might return suddenly andinterrupt them. Perhaps she had not followed Mr. Stackridge to themountains. Perhaps she had only gone into the village to buy shoes forher children, or to call on a neighbor. "If she should come back andketch me at it,--why, then, I'll tell her I'm only jest a borryin', andsee what she'll do about it. The prop'ty of these yer durnedUnion-shriekers is all gwine to be confisticated, and I reckon I may aswell take my sheer when I can git it. Thar's a paper o' black pepper,and I'll take it jest as 'tis. Thar's a jar o' lump butter,--wish Icould tote jar and all!--have some of the lumps on a plate anyhow!"

  She had soon filled her basket, and was regretting she had not broughttwo, or a larger one, when a handsome, new tin pail, hanging in thepantry, caught her eye. "Been wantin' jest sich a pail as that, thislong while!" And she proceeded to fill that also.

  Just as she was putting the cover on, she was very much startled byhearing footsteps at the door.

  "O, dear me! What shall I do? If it should be Mr. Stackridge! But itcan't be him! If it's only Mis' Stackridge or one of the niggers, I'llface it out! They won't das' to make a fuss, for they'reUnion-shriekers, and my son's a capting in the confederate army!"

  Thump, thump, thump!--loud knocking at the door.

  "My, it's visitors! Who can it be?" She set down her pail and basket."I'll act jest as if I had a right here, anyhow!"

  She was hesitating, when the string was pulled, and two strangers,stout, square built, with foreign looking faces, carrying muskets, anddressed in confederate uniform, entered.

  "Mrs. Stackridge?" said they, in a heavy Teutonic accent.

  "Ye--ye--yes--" stammered the widow, trying to hide the guilty basketand pail behind her skirts. "What do you want of Mis' Stackridge?"

  One of the strangers said to the other, in German, indicating theplunder,--

  "This is the woman. She is getting provisions ready to send to herhusband in the mountains."

  "Let us see what there is good to eat," said the other.

  Mrs. Sprowl, although understanding no word that was spoken, perceivedthat the borrowed property formed the theme of their remarks.

  "Have some?" she hastened to say, with extreme politeness, as theGermans approached the provisions.

  "Tank ye," said they, finding some bread and cold meat. And they atewith appetite, exchanging glances, and grunting with satisfaction.

  "O, take all you want!" said the widow. "You're welcome to anythingthere is in the house, I'm shore!"--adding, within herself, "I am soglad these soldiers have come! Now, whatever is missing will be laid tothem."

  "You de lady of de house?" said the foreigners, munching.

  "Yes, help yourselves!" smiled the hospitable widow.

  "You Mrs. Stackridge?" they inquired, more particularly.

  "Yes; take anything you like!" replied the widow.

  "Where your husband?"

  "My husband! my poor dear husband! he has been dead these----"

  She checked herself, remembering that the soldiers took her for Mrs.Stackridge. If she undeceived them, then they would know she had beenstealing.

  "Dead?" The Germans shook their heads and smiled. "No! He was here lastnight. He was seen. You take dese tings to him up in de mountain."

  "Would you like some cheese?" said the embarrassed widow.

  "Tank ye. Dis is better as rations."

  Mrs. Sprowl returned to the pantry, in order to replace the provisionsshe had so generously given away, and prepared to depart with the basketand pail; inviting the guests repeatedly to make themselves quite athome, and to take whatever they could find.

  "Wait!" said they. Each had a knee on the floor, and one hand full ofbread and cheese. They looked up at her with broad, complacent, unctuousfaces, smiling, yet resolute. And one, with his unoccupied hand, laidhold of the handle of the basket, while the other detained the pail."You will tell us where is your husband," said they.

  "O, dear me, I don't know! I'm a poor lone woman, and where my husbandis I can't consaive, I'm shore!"

  "You will tell us where is your husband," repeated the men; and one ofthem, getting upon his feet, stood before her at the door.

  "He's on the mountain somewhars. I don't know whar, and I don't keer,"cried the widow, excited. There was something in the stolid, determinedlooks of the brothers she did not like. "He's a bad man, Mr. Stackridgeis! I'm a secessionist myself. You are welcome to everything in thehouse--only let me go now."

  "You will not go," said the soldier at the door, "till you tell us. Wecome for dat."

  O
n entering, they had placed their muskets in the corner. The speakertook them, and handed one to his comrade. And now the widow observedthat out of the muzzle of each protruded the butt-end of a smallcowhide. Each soldier held his gun at his side, and laying hold of thesaid butt-end, drew out the long taper belly and dangling lash of thewhip, like a black snake by the neck.

  The widow screamed.

  "It's all a mistake. Let me go! I ain't Mis' Stackridge"

  Nothing so natural as that the wife of the notorious Unionist shoulddeny her identity at sight of the whips. The soldiers looked at eachother, muttered something in German, smiled, and replaced their musketsin the corner.

  "You tell us where is your husband. Or else we whip you. Dat is ourorders."

  This they said in low tones, with mild looks, and with a calmness whichwas frightful. The widow saw that she had to do with men who obeyedorders literally, and knew no mercy.

  "I hain't got no husband. I ain't Mis' Stackridge. I'm a poor lonewidder, that jest come over here to borry a few things, and that's all."

  "Ve unterstan. You say shust now you are Mrs. Stackridge. Now you saynot. Dat make no difruns. Ve know. You tell us where is your husband, orve string you up."

  This speech was pronounced by both the foreigners, a sentence by each,alternately. At the conclusion one drew a strong cord from his pocket,while the other looked with satisfaction at certain hooks in theplastering overhead, designed originally for the support of a kitchenpole, but now destined for another use.

  "Don't you dast to tech me!" screamed the false Mrs. Stackridge. "I'm asecessionist myself, that hates the Union-shriekers wus'n you do, andI've got a son that's a capting, and a poor lone widder at that!"

  "Dat we don't know. What we know is, you tell what we say, or we whipyou. Dat's Captain Shprowl's orders."

  "Capting Sprowl! That's my son! my own son! If he sent you, then it'sall right!"

  "So we tink. All right." And the soldiers, seizing her, tied her thumbsas Lysander had taught them, passed the cords over the hook as they hadpassed the clothesline over the crossbeam the night before, and drew theshrieking woman's hands above her head, precisely as they had hauled upToby's. They then turned her skirts up over her head, and fastened them.This also they had been instructed to do by Lysander. It was, you willsay, shameful; for this woman was free and white. Had she been a slave,with a different complexion, although perhaps quite as white, would ithave been any the less shameful? Answer, ye believers in the divinerights of slave-masters!

  "Now you vill tell?" said the phlegmatic Teutons, measuring out theirwhips.

  "Go for my son! My son is Capting Sprowl!" gasped the stifled andterror-stricken widow.

  "Dat trick won't do. You shpeak, or we shtrike."

  "It is true, it is true! I am Mrs. Sprowl, and my husband is dead, andmy son is Capting Sprowl, and a poor lone widder, that if you strike hera single blow he'll have you took and hung!"

  "If he is your son, den by your own son's orders we whip you. He villnot hang us for dat. You vill not tell? Den we give you ten lash."

  Blow upon blow, shriek upon shriek, followed. The soldiers counted thestrokes aloud, deliberately, conscientiously, as they gave them, "Vun,two, tree," &c, up to ten. There they stopped. But the screams did notstop. This punishment, which it was sport to inflict upon a faithful oldnegro, which it would have been such a good joke to have bestowed uponthe wife of a stanch Unionist, was no sport, no joke, but altogether atragic affair to thy mother, O Lysander!

  Then she, who had so often wished that she too owned slaves, that whenshe was angry she might have them strung up and flogged, knew by fearfulexperience what it was to be strung up and flogged. Then she, whosympathized with her son in his desire to see every man, woman, andchild, that loved the old Union, served in this fashion, felt in her ownwrithing and bleeding flesh the stings of that inhuman vengeance.Terrible blunder, for which she had only herself to thank! Robbery ofher neighbor's house--the dishonest "borrowing," not of these ill-gottengoods only, but also of her neighbor's name--had brought her, by what wecall fatality, to this strait.

  Fatality is but another name for Providence.

  The soldiers waited for a lull in the shrieks, then put once more thequestion.

  "You tell now? Where is your husband? No? Den you git ten lash more.Always ten lash till you tell."

  A storm of incoherent denial, angry threats, sobs, and screams, was theresponse. One of the soldiers drew her skirts over her head again, andgave another pull at the cords that hauled up her thumbs, while theother stood off and measured out his whip.

  Just then the door opened, and Captain Sprowl looked in.

  "How are you getting on, boys?"

  The question was accompanied by an approving smile, which seemed to say,"I see you are getting on very well."

  "We whip her once. We give her ten lash. She not tell."

  "Very well. Give her ten more."

  The widow struggled and screamed. Had she recognized her son's voice?Muffled as she was, he did not recognize hers. Nor was it surprisingthat, in the unusual posture in which he found her, he did not know herfrom Mrs. Stackridge.

  He stood in the door and smiled while the soldier laid on.

  "Make it a dozen," he quietly remarked. "And smart ones, to wind upwith!"

  So it happened that, thanks to her son's presence, the screeching victimgot two "smart ones" additional.

  "Now uncover her face. Ease away on her thumbs a little. I'll questionher mys--Good Lucifer!" exclaimed the captain, finding himself face toface with his own mother.

  Twenty-two lashes and the torture of the strung-up thumbs had proved toomuch even for the strong nerves of Widow Sprowl. She fell down in aswoon.

  Lysander, furious, whipped out his sword, and turned upon the soldiers.They quietly stepped back, and took their guns from the corner. He wouldcertainly have killed one of them on the spot had he not seen by theglance of their eyes that the other would, at the same instant, ascertainly have killed him.

  "You scoundrels! you have whipped my own mother!"

  "Captain," they calmly answered, "we opey orders."

  "Fools!"--and Lysander ground his teeth,--"you should have known!"

  "Captain," they replied, "if you not know, how should we know? We neversee dis woman pefore. We come. We find her taking prowisions from dehouse. We say, 'She take dem to her husband in de mountains.' We say,'You Mrs. Stackridge?' She say yes to everyting. We not know she lie. Wenot know she steal. We not say, 'You somepody else.' We opey orders. Wetake and we whip her. You come in and say, 'Whip more.' We whip more.Now you say to us, 'Scoundrels!' You say, 'Fools!' We say, 'Captain, itwas your orders; we opey.'"

  Having by a joint effort at sententious English pronounced this speech,the brothers stood stolidly awaiting the result; while the captain,still gnashing his teeth, bent over the prostrate form of his mother.

  "Bring some water and throw on her! you idiots!" he yelled at them."Would you see her die?"

  They looked at each other. "Water?" Yes, that was what was wanted. Theyremembered their practice of the previous evening. One found a woodenpail. The other emptied upon the floor the contents of the tin pail thewidow had "borrowed." They went to the well. They brought water. "Tothrow on her?" Yes, that was what he said. And together they dashed asudden drenching flood over the poor woman, as if the swoon were anotherfire to be extinguished.

  These fellows obeyed orders literally--a merit which Lysander now failedto appreciate. He swore at them terribly. But he did not countermand hislast order. Accordingly they proceeded stoically to bring more water.Lysander had got his mothers head on his knee, and she had just openedher eyes to look and her mouth to gasp, when there came another doubleice-cold wave, blinding, stifling, drowning her. Too much of water hadstthou, poor lone widow!

  Lysander let fall the maternal head, and bounded to his feet, roaringwith wrath. The brothers, imperturbable, with the empty pails at theirsides, stared at him with mute wonder.

&
nbsp; "Captain, dat was your orders. You say, 'Pring vasser and trow on.' Wepring vasser and trow on. Dat is all."

  "But I didn't tell you to fetch pailfuls!"

  This sentence rushed out of Lysander's soul like a rocket, culminated ina loud, explosive oath, and was followed by a shower of fiery cursesfalling harmless on the heads of the unmoved Teutons.

  They waited patiently until the pyrotechnic rain ceased, then answered,speaking alternately, each a sentence, as if with one mind, but with twoorgans.

  "Captain, you hear. Last night vas de house afire. You say, 'Pringvasser.' We pring a little. Den you say to us, 'Tarn you! why in hellyou shtop?' And you say, 'Von I tell you pring vasser, pring till I sayshtop.' Vun time more to-day you say, 'Pring vasser,' and you never sayshtop. You say, 'Trow on.' We trow on. Vat you say we do. You not sayvat you mean, dat is mishtake for you."

  It is not to be supposed that Lysander listened meekly to the end ofthis speech. He had caught the sound of voices without that interestedhim more; and, looking, he saw Mrs. Stackridge returning, with herchildren.

  The Pepperill young-one had faithfully done her errand; and the farmer'swife, believing something important was meant by it, had hastened toaccept the singular and urgent invitation. But, arrived at the poorman's shanty, she was astonished to find Mrs. Pepperill astonished tosee her. They talked the matter over, questioned the child, and finallyconcluded that Daniel had said something quite different, which thechild had misunderstood.

  "Well," said Mrs. Stackridge, after sitting a-while, "I reckon I may aswell be going back, for I've left only old Aunt Deb to home, and she'sscar't to death to be left alone these times; thinks the seceshsoldiers'll kill her. But I tell her not to be afeared of 'em. I ain't!"

  So this woman, little knowing how much real cause she had to be afraid,returned home with her family. When near the house she met Gaff andJake, negroes belonging to the farm, who had been in the field at work,running towards her, in great terror, declaring that they heard somebodykilling Aunt Deb.

  "Nonsense!" said she; and in spite of their assurances and entreaties,she marched straight towards the door through which the captain saw hercoming.

  "Clear out!" said Lysander to the soldiers. "Go to your quarters. I'llhave your case attended to!" This was spoken very threateningly. Then,as soon as they were out of hearing, he said to Mrs. Stackridge, "I'msorry to say a couple of my men have been plundering your house. ThemDutchmen you just saw go out. Worse, than that, my mother was going by,and she came in to save your stuff, and they, it seems, took her foryou, and beat her. You see, they have beat her most to death," saidLysander.

  "Lordy massy!" said Mrs. Stackridge.

  "Do help me! do take off my clo'es! a poor lone widder!" faintly moanedMrs. Sprowl.

  "When I got here," added the captain, "she had fainted, and they hadused her basket to pack things in, as you see, and filled this pail,which they emptied afterwards, so as to bring water and fetch her to.Scoundrels! I'm glad they ain't native-born southerners!"

  "And where is Aunt Deb?" said Mrs. Stackridge, hastening to raise thewidow up.

  "I dono'; I hain't seen her. O, dear, them villains!" groaned Mrs.Sprowl. "I was just comin' over to borry a few things, you know."

  "Going by; she wasn't coming here," said Lysander.

  "Going by," repeated the widow. "O, shall I ever git over it! O, dearme, I'm all cut to pieces! A poor forlorn widder, and my only son--O,dear!"

  "Her only son," cried Lysander in a loud voice, "couldn't get here intime to prevent the outrage. That's what she wants to say. I leave herin your care, Mrs. Stackridge. She was doing a neighborly thing for youwhen she came in to stop the pillaging, and I'm sure you'll do as muchfor her."

  And the captain retired, his appetite for woman-whipping cloyed for thepresent.

  "Where is Aunt Deb?" repeated Mrs. Stackridge. "Aunt Deb!" she called,"where are you? I want you this minute!"

  "Here I is!" answered a voice from heaven, or at least from thatdirection.

  It was the voice of the old negress, who had hid herself in thechambers, and now spoke through a stove-pipe hole from which she hadobserved all that was passing from the time when the widow entered withher empty basket.