Chapter XXIII. News of Juno."To reign is worth ambition, though in hell; MIDWAY church was closed after the war. But a coloured Baptist preacher gained permission to preach in its classic-carved oaken pulpit, on condition that the cemetery be kept in order. Accordingly, at the end of his first service, he proceeded to appoint a committee to attend to this matter. A woman arose in the congregation and spoke. It was Nannie. "Brothers an' sisterens," said she, "wid your consent I'll promise ter care fer we enclosure where massa an' missus lies. Bro' Molbro an' Amos put we captain dere too." "Amen, amen, sister! God bless you!" responded more than one voice. At recollections of the past, many shed tears. Nannie's care for two decades was unremitting. She kept the
sweeping grey moss festooned to the
limbs above, as if the spot were too sacred for touch. Feebleness and age has now interrupted her attentions. The devotion of slaves from Green Forest is not exceptional. Many other authentic instances could be given to prove my words. I cite but one. Not long ago, in a hotel in Massachusetts, I often met in the hall a coloured maid who reminded me of our Lydia. I greeted her with a Good-morning one day. She stopped. "Missy," she asked, "ain't you from the south? Do you know my Miss Annie and Miss Sallie?" She had been educated in a negro university. "Where do they live?" I asked. "In Virginia, ma'am. I hear Miss Annie is getting feeble. Sometimes I think it's my duty to go and live with them. We wouldn't have anything to live on, because they are poor and weren't brought up to work. I always share my wages with them." "How comes it you are so fond of these ladies, you must have been born after freedom." "Yes, ma'am. It was when Mars Stonewall Jackson was tenting near
our plantation. There was a big fight. Bluecoats were killing
everything on the place. Missus got in a carriage to go to Miss
Randolph's, across the river, when my pa came wringing his hands.
Missus jumped out and said, 'Ben, drive the children to Miss Randolph's; tell her I will come in the morning if Ginnie is better.' Our white house was full of soldiers cutting up jack, and my mother has told me how old missus put on me the first clothes I ever wore. She named me Patience. Massa was brought from Gettysburg and missus planted snow-drops on his grave; but before they was blooming she was layin alongside. When my mother took her last sickness she called me one night. 'Patience,' says she, 'my appointed time is come. There is a rumbling of chariot wheels, the archangel is singing; heaven bells are a-ringing my soul engage. Promise me, Patience, when I'm gone you will always share your wages with Miss Annie and Miss Sallie. If it hadn't been for their mother you nor me would be here to-day.' Lady, do you think I could ever forget my duty to Miss Annie and Miss Sallie?" The pathos in her voice was of itself convincing. I give now a letter from Juno, received during my residence abroad: Siberty Co., Ga., Aug., '94. My Dear Missy: I cannot begin to tell you how glad I am to
hear of you once more. Your letter reached one from Switzerland. I
don't know which was greater,
my surprise or joy. I am so glad to hear you are restored to health: we never thought you would be well; Miss Letha has told us of all your sorrow. You want to know about your people. I have had ten children, seven living. Boy (Joe) is a big man, and has three children and a good wife, Sis: Natilda is also married. She is the little one, remember, who used to beg for your balmoral, and you said "All right, I'll give it to you when it's old." I often tell the children about you. They love to hear me talk of old times. My sister Georgia died five years ago, leaving four sons and daughter. Lawrence and Edward are still living. Mother's husband, Robin, has been married twice since mother's death. Molbro has been dead for many years. Uncle Belfast and his wife are both dead. Daniel and Phoebe are living. Many of the others have moved away or I have lost sight of them. I have no photo of mother. But I have one my sister, who resembles her. I will send it to you. I am glad you are writing about mother. When it is in print send me a copy, and the kind white friend who is writing this letter will read a aloud for me. Every day I kiss your photograph you sent me;
it is so precious to me! You ask if you were ever unkind to me? No, my
dear missy; but you
taught me many useful lessons I'm trying to teach my children. I would love to see you once more. We are getting on tolerably well. Times are dreadfully hard some years. Do write me again. Your loving servant, Juno. |