"Of course--why of course," said Travis. "Old Bisco and his kind are liable to get all you negroes put back into slavery--if the Democrats succeed again as they have just done. Give them a good scare."

"We'll fix him to-night, boss," said the black one, grinning good naturedly. Then he added to himself: "Yes, I'll whip 'em--to death."

"I heard a good deal of talk among the boys, to-night, sir," said the mulatto. "They all want you for Congress next time."

"Well, we'll talk about that, Silos, later. I must hurry on."

He started, then wheeled suddenly:

"Oh, say, Silos--"

The latter came back.

"Do your work quietly to-night--Just a good scare--If you disturb"--he pointed to the roof of Westmoreland in the distance showing above the beech tops. "You know how foolish they are about old Bisco and his wife--"

"They'll never hear anything." He walked off, saying to himself: "A n.i.g.g.e.r who is a traitor to his race ought to be shot, but for fear of a noise and disturbin' the ladies--I'll hang 'em both,--never fear."

Travis touched his mare with the spur and galloped off.

Uncle Bisco and his wife were rudely awakened. It was nearly midnight when the door of their old cabin was broken open by a dozen black, ignorant negroes, who seized and bound the old couple before they could cry out. Bisco was taken out into the yard under a tree, while his wife, pleading and begging for her husband's life, was tied to another tree.

"Bisco," said the leader, "we c.u.m heah to pay you back fur de blood you drawed frum our backs whilst you hilt de whip ob slabery an'

oberseed fur white fo'ks. An' fur ebry lick you giv' us, we gwi' giv'

you er dozen on your naked back, an' es fur dis ole witch," said the brute, pointing to old Aunt Charity, "we got de plain docyments on her fur witchin' Br'er Moses' little gal--de same dat she mek hab fits, an' we gwi' hang her to a lim'."

The old man drew himself up. In every respect--intelligence, physical and moral bravery--he was superior to the crowd around him. Raised with the best cla.s.s of whites, he had absorbed many of their virtues, while in those around him were many who were but a few generations removed from the cowardice of darkest Africa.

"I nurver hit you a lick you didn't deserve, suh, I nurver had you whipped but once an' dat wus for stealin' a horg which you sed yo'se'f you stole. You ken do wid me es you please," he went on, "you am menny an' kin do it, an' I am ole an' weak. But ef you hes got enny soul, spare de po' ole 'oman who ain't nurver dun nothin' but kindness all her life. De berry chile you say she witched hes hed 'leptis fits all its life an' Cheerity ain't dun nuffin' but take it medicine to kwore it. Don't hurt de po' ole 'oman," he exclaimed.

"Let 'em do whut dey please wid me, Bisco," she said: "Dey can't do nuffin' to dis po' ole body but sen' de tired soul on dat journey wher de buterful room is already fix fur it, es you read dis berry night. But spare de ole man, spare 'im fur de secun' blessin' which Gord dun promised us, an' which boun' ter c.u.m bekase Gord can't lie.

O Lord," she said suddenly, "remember thy po' ole servants dis night."

But her appeals were fruitless. Already the "witch council" of the blacks was being formed to decide their fate. And it was an uncanny scene that the moon looked down on that night, under the big trees on the banks of the Tennessee. They formed in a circle around the "Witch Finder," an old negro whose head was as white as snow, and who was so ignorant he could scarcely speak even negro dialect.

Both his father and mother were imported from Africa, and the former was "Witch Finder" for his tribe there. The negroes said the African Witch Finder had imparted his secret only to his son, and that it had thus been handed down in one family for many generations.

The old negro now sat upon the ground in the center of the circle. He was a small, bent up, wiry-looking black, with a physiognomy closely resembling a dog's, which he took pains to cultivate by drawing the plaits of his hair down like the ears of a hound, while he shaped his 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, unb.u.t.toning 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 h.o.r.n.y head and neck of the huge black beetle, commonly known to negroes as the black Betsy Bug; the rattle and b.u.t.ton 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', c.u.m, dear Lord, c.u.m soon!

An' take de ole weary ones unto yo' bres', c.u.m, dear Lord, c.u.m 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-- c.u.m, dear Lord, c.u.m soon."

And it was well that she sang that song, for it stopped three hors.e.m.e.n 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 n.o.ble 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 G.o.d--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' Ma.r.s.e Tom, so help me G.o.d--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 surpa.s.s his father must do more than his father did. Two generations of idleness will beget nonent.i.ties, 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 n.o.ble 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 a.s.sociated 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.