"And you expect me to give you money you haven't won," declared Nan.

"What's the difference between Battercakes and m.u.f.fins? A m.u.f.fin is a battercake if you pour three big spoonfuls in a pan and spread it out, and a battercake is a m.u.f.fin if you pen it up in a tin-thing like a napkin ring. Anybody can tell you that, Uncle Plato--yes, anybody."

What reply the old negro would have made to this bit of home-made casuistry will never be known. That it would have been reasonable, if not entirely adequate, may well be supposed, but just as he had given his head a preliminary shake, the rattle of a kettle-drum was heard, and above the rattle a fife was shrilling.

The shrilling fife, and the roll and rattle of the drums! These were sounds somewhat new to Shady Dale in 1860; but presently they were to be heard all over the land.

"I can see dem n.i.g.g.e.rs right now!" exclaimed Uncle Plato, as we hustled out of his waggon. "Riley playin' de fife, Green beatin' on de kittledrum, an' Ike Varner bangin' on de big drum. Ef de white folks pay much 'tention ter dem n.i.g.g.e.rs, dey won't be no livin' in de same county wid um. But dey better not come struttin' 'roun' me!"

The drums were beating the signal for calling together the men whose names had been signed to the roll of a company to be called the Shady Dale Scouts, and the meeting was for the purpose of organizing and electing officers. All this was accomplished in due time; but meanwhile Nan and Gabriel and Cephas, as well as Tasma Tid and all the rest of the children in the town, went tagging after the fife and drums listening to Riley play the beautiful marching tunes that set Nan's blood to tingling. Riley was a master hand with the fife, and we had never known it, had never even suspected it! Nan thought it was very mean in Riley not to tell somebody that he could play so beautifully.

Well, in a very short time, the company was rigged out in the finest uniforms the children had even seen. All the men, even the privates, had plumes in their hats and epaulettes of gold on their shoulders; and on their coats they wore stripes of glowing red, and shiny bra.s.s b.u.t.tons without number. And at least twice a week they marched through the streets and out into the Bermuda fields, where they had their drilling grounds. These were glorious days for the youngsters. Nan was so enthusiastic that she organised a company of little negroes, and insisted on being the captain. Gabriel was the first lieutenant, and Cephas was the second. When the company was ready to take the field, it was discovered that Nan would also have to be orderly sergeant and color-bearer. But she took on herself the duties and responsibilities of these positions without a murmur. She wore a paper hat of the true Napoleonic cut, and carried in one hand her famous sword-gun, and the colors in the other. The oldest private in Nan's company was nine; the youngest was four, and had as much as he could do to keep up with the rest. The uniforms of these sun-seasoned troops was the regulation plantation fatigue dress--a shirt coming to the knees. Two or three of the smaller privates had evidently fallen victims to the pot-liquor and b.u.t.termilk habits, for their bellies stuck out black and glistening from rents in their shirts.

Their accoutrements prefigured in an absurd way the resources of the Confederacy at a later date. They were armed with broomsticks, and what-not. The file-leader had an old pair of tongs, which he snapped viciously when Nan gave the word to fire. The famous sword-gun, with which Nan did such execution, had once seen service as an umbrella handle.

One afternoon, as Nan was drilling her troops, she chanced to glance down the road, and saw a waggon coming along. Deploying her company across the highway, she went forward in person to reconnoitre. She soon discovered that the waggon was driven by Uncle Plato. Running back to her veterans, she placed herself in front of them, and calmly awaited events. Slowly the fat horses dragged the waggon along, when suddenly Nan cried "Halt!" whereupon the drummer, obeying previous instructions, began to belabour his tin-pan, while Nan levelled her famous sword-gun at Uncle Plato. "Bang!" she exclaimed, and then, "Why didn't you fall off the waggon?" she cried, as Uncle Plato remained immovable. "Why, you don't know any more about real war than a baby," she said scornfully.

If the truth must be told, Uncle Plato had been dozing, and when he awoke he viewed the scene before him with astonishment. There was no need to cry "Halt!" or exclaim "Bang!" for as soon as the drummer began to beat his tin-pan, the horses stood still and craned their necks forward, with a warning snort, trying to see what this strange and unnatural proceeding meant. Uncle Plato had involuntarily tightened the reins when he was so rudely awakened, and the horses took this for a hint that they must avoid the danger, and, as the shortest way is the best way, they began to back, and had the waggon nearly turned around before Uncle Plato could tell them a different tale.

"Ef I'd 'a' fell out'n de waggon, honey, who gwine ter pick me up?" he asked, laughing.

"Why, no one is picked up in war!"

"Is dis war, honey?"

"Of course it is," Nan declared.

"Does bofe sides hafter take part in de rucus?" asked Uncle Plato, making a terrible face at the little negroes.

"Why, of course," said Nan.

Seeing the scowl, Nan's veteran troops began to edge slowly toward the nearest breach in the fence. Uncle Plato seized his whip and pretended to be clambering from the waggon. At this a panic ensued, and Nan's army dispersed in a jiffy. The seasoned troops dropped their arms and fled.

The four-year-old became lost or entangled in a thick growth of jimson weed, seeing which, Uncle Plato cried out in terrible voice, "Ketch um dar! Fetch um here!"

Then and there ensued a wild scene of demoralisation and anarchy; loud shrieks and screams filled the air; the dogs barked, the hens cackled, and the neighbours began to put their heads out of the windows. Mrs.

Absalom, who had charge of the Dorrington household, and who had raised Nan from a baby, came to the door--the defeat of the troops occurred right at Nan's own home--crying, "My goodness gracious! has the yeth caved in?" Then, seeing the waggon crosswise the road, and mistaking Nan's shrieks of laughter for cries of pain, she bolted from the house with a white face.

Mrs. Absalom's reactions from her daily alarms about Nan usually resulted in bringing her into open and direct war with everybody in sight or hearing, except the child; but on this occasion, her fright had been so serious that when Nan, somewhat sobered, ran to her the good woman was shaking.

"Why, Nonny!" cried Nan, hugging her, "you are all trembling."

"No wonder," said Mrs. Absalom in a subdued voice; "I saw you under them waggon wheels as plain as I ever saw anything in my life. I'm gittin'

old, I reckon."

And yet there were some people who wondered how Nan could endure such a foster-mother as Mrs. Absalom.

But the complete rout of Nan's army made no change in the general complexion of affairs. The Shady Dale Scouts continued to perfect themselves in the tactics of war, and after awhile, when the great controversy began to warm up--the children paid no attention to the pa.s.sage of time--the company went into camp. This was a great hour for the youngsters. Here at last was something real and tangible. The marching and the countermarching through the streets and in the old field were very well in their way, but Nan and Gabriel and the rest had grown used to these man[oe]uvres, and they longed for something new.

This was furnished by the camp, with its white tents, and the grim sentinels pacing up and down with fixed bayonets. No one, not even an officer, could pa.s.s the sentinels without giving the pa.s.sword, or calling for the officer of the guard.

All this, from the children's point of view, was genuine war; but to the members of the company it was a veritable picnic. The citizens of the town, especially the ladies, sent out waggon loads of food every day--boiled ham, barbecued shote, chicken pies, and cake; yes, and pickles. Nan declared she didn't know there were as many pickles in the world, as she saw unloaded at the camp.

Mr. Goodlett, who was Mrs. Absalom's husband, went out to the camp, looked it over with the eye of an expert, and turned away with a groan.

This citizen had served both in the Mexican and the Florida wars, and he knew that these gallant young men would have a rude awakening, when it came to the real tug of war.

"Doesn't it look like war, Mr. Ab?" Nan asked, running after the veteran.

Mr. Goodlett looked at the bright face lifted up to his, and frowned, though a smile of pity showed itself around his grizzled mouth. He was a very deliberate man, and he hesitated before he spoke. "You think that looks like war?" he asked.

"Why, of course. Isn't that the way they do when there's a war?"

"What! gormandise, an' set in the shade? Why, it ain't no more like war than sparrergra.s.s is like jimson weed--not one ioter." With that, he sighed and went on his way.

But when did the precepts of age and experience ever succeed in chilling the enthusiasm of youth? With the children, it was "O to be a soldier boy!" and Nan and her companions continued to linger around the edges of the spectacle, taking it all in, and enjoying every moment. And the Scouts themselves continued to live like lords, eating and drilling, and dozing during the day, and at night dancing to the sweet music of Flavian Dion's violin. Nan and Gabriel thought it was fine, and, as well as can be remembered, Cephas was of the same opinion. As for Tasma Tid, she thought that the fife and drums, and the general glare and glitter of the affair were simply grand, very much nicer than war in her country, where the Arab slave-traders crept up in the night and seized all who failed to escape in the forest, killing right and left for the mere love of killing. Compared with the jungle war, this pageant was something to be admired.

And many of the older citizens held views not very different from those of the children, for enthusiasm ran high. The Shady Dale Scouts went away arrayed in their holiday uniforms. Many of them never returned to their homes again, but those that did were arrayed in rags and tatters.

Their gallantry was such that the Shady Dale Scouts, disguised as Company B, were always at the head of their regiment when trouble was on hand. But all this is to antic.i.p.ate.

CHAPTER TWO

_A Town with a History_

Before, during, and after the war, Shady Dale presented always the same aspect of serene repose. It was, as you may say, a town with a history.

Then, as now, there were towns all about that had no such fortunate appendage behind them to explain their origin. No one could tell what they were begun for; no one could say whether they had for their nucleus an old field or a cross-roads grocery, or whether a party of immigrants pitched their tents there because the gra.s.s was fine and the water abundant. There is one city in Georgia, and it is the most prosperous of all, that was built on the idea that the cattle-paths and the old government roads afford the most convenient and picturesque contours for the streets; and to this day, the thoroughfares of that city afford a most interesting study to those who are interested in either topography or human nature; for it is possible to go to that city, and, with half an eye, discover the places where the waggons and other vehicles turned aside nearly a hundred years ago to avoid the mudholes, the fallen trees, and other temporary obstructions. They have been preserved in the conformation of the streets.

Shady Dale is no city, and it may be that its public-spirited citizens stretch the meaning of the term when they call it a town. Nevertheless, the community has a well-defined history. When Raleigh Clopton, shortly after the signing of the treaty of peace between the United States and Great Britain, crossed the Oconee, and settled on the lands of the hostile Creeks, his friends declared that he was tempting Providence; and so it seemed; but the event proved that from first to last, his adventure was under the direct guidance of Providence. He demonstrated anew the truth of two ancient maxims: he who risks nothing, gains nothing; heaven helps those who help themselves. Raleigh Clopton risked everything and gained the most beautiful domain in all the land. He had, indeed, one stormy interview with General McGillivray, the great Creek chief and statesman, but after that all was peace and prosperity.

General McGillivray was one of the most remarkable men of his time, and his time was during an era of remarkable men. He possessed a genius that enabled him to cope successfully with the ablest statesmen of his day.

He drew Washington into a secret treaty with the Creek Nation, and when McGillivray died, the Father of his country referred to him as "my friend," and deplored his taking off. Courageous and adventurous himself, McGillivray was no doubt attracted by the att.i.tude and personality of the fearless Virginian. He became the warm friend of Raleigh Clopton, and marked that friendship by deeding to the first white settler two thousand acres of land lying between the Little River hills on one side, and the meadows of Murder Creek on the other.

Moreover, he named the estate Shady Dale, and aided Raleigh Clopton to establish a trading-post where the court-house of the town now stands; and on a pine near by, he caused to be made the semblance of a broken arrow, a token that between the Creeks and the Master of Shady Dale a lasting peace had been established.

This was the beginning. When the multifarious and long-disputed treaties between the United States and the Creek Nation had been signed, and a general peace was a.s.sured, Raleigh Clopton communicated with his friends in Wilkes, Burke, Columbia and Richmond counties--the choice spirits who had fought by his side in the bloodiest battles of the War for Independence--informed them of his good fortune, and invited them to share it. The response was all that he could have desired. His old friends and comrades lost no time in joining him--the Dorringtons, the Tomlins, the Gaithers, the Awtrys, the Terrells, the Odoms, the Lumsdens, and, later, the friends and relatives of these. For the most part they were men of substance and character.

Well, perhaps not all. There are black sheep in every flock, and wherever the nature of Adam survives, there we may behold wisdom and folly dancing to the same tune, and sin and repentance occupying the same couch. So it has been from the first, and so it will be to the end.

But, take them all in all, making due allowance for the tendencies of human nature, the men and women who responded to the invitation of Raleigh Clopton may be described as the salt of the earth. They had all, women and men, been subjected to the trials and hardships of a war in which no quarter was asked or given; and their experiences had given them a strength of character, and a versatility in dealing with unexpected events, that could hardly be matched elsewhere. To each of those who responded to his invitation, Raleigh Clopton gave a part of his domain, and laid out their settlement for them.

This was the origin of Shady Dale. But to set forth its origin is not to describe its beauty, which is of a character that refuses to submit to description. You go down to the old town from the city, and you say to yourself and your friends that you are enjoying the delights of the country. You visit it from the plantations, and you feel that you are breathing the kind of atmosphere that should be found in the social life of a large, refined and perfectly h.o.m.ogeneous community. But whether you go there from the city, or from the plantations, you are inevitably impressed with a sense of the attractiveness of the place; you fall under the spell of the old town--it was old even in the old times of the sixties. And yet if you were called upon to define the nature of the spell, what could you say? What name could you give to the tremulous beauty that hovers about and around the place, when the fresh green leaves of the great trees are fluttering in the cool wind, and everything is touched and illumined by the tender colours of spring?

Under what heading in the catalogue of things would you place the vivid richness which animates the town and the landscape all around when the summer is at its height? And how could you describe the harmony that time has brought about between the fine old houses and the setting in which they are grouped?

All these things are elusive; they make themselves keenly felt, but they do not lend themselves to a.n.a.lysis.

It is a pity that those who are interested in traditions that are truer than history could not have all the facts in regard to Shady Dale from the lips of Mr. Obadiah Tutwiler, who had const.i.tuted himself the oral historian of the community. Mr. Tutwiler was alive as late as 1869, and had at his fingers'-ends all the essential facts relating to the origin and growth of the town, and he related the story with a fluency, an accuracy, and a relish quite surprising in so old a man.

As was fitting, the old court-house, the temple of justice, had been reared in the centre of the town, and the square that surrounds it took the shape of a park of considerable dimensions. On two sides were some of the more pretentious dwellings; the tavern, with a few of the more modest houses took up a third side; while the fourth side was taken up by the shops and stores; and so careful had the early settlers been with the trees, that it was possible to stand in a certain upper window of the court-house, and look out upon the town with not a house in sight.

Naturally, the most interesting feature of Shady Dale was the Clopton Place. It had been the home of the First Settler, and in 1860, when Nan and Gabriel were enjoying their happiest days, it was owned and occupied by the son, Meriwether Clopton.