CHAPTER V.

THE BOG-ORE TRACT.

Resolution of character and executive power had been trifled away by

Judge Custis. The trader had concluded their interview with a decision

and fierceness that left paralysis upon the gentleman's mind. He saw, in

sad fancy, the execution served upon his furniture, the amazement of his

wife, the pallor of his daughter, the indignation of his sons. He also

shrank before the impending failure of his furnace and abandonment of

the bog-ore tract, on which he had raised so much state and local fame;

people would say: "Custis was a fool, and deceived himself, while old

Steeple-top Milburn played upon the Custises' vanity, and turned them

into the street."

"No doubt," thought the Judge, "that fellow, Milburn, can get anything

when he gets my house. The poor folks' vote he may command, because he

is of their class. He is a lender to many of the rich. Who could have

suspected his intelligence? His address, too? He handled me as if I were

a forester and he a judge. A very, very remarkable man!" finished Judge

Custis, taking the last of the brandy.

He was interrupted by the entrance of Samson Hat.

"Where's your master, boy?" asked the Judge.

"He's gone up to de ole house, Judge, where his daddy and mammy died.

It's de place where I hides after my fights."

"May the ague strike him there! Let the bilious sweat from the mill-pond

be strong to-night, that, like Judas of old, his bowels may drop out!

But, no," continued the irresolute man, "I have no right to hate him."

"Judge," softly said the old negro, "my marster is a sick man. He ain't

happy like you an' me. He's 'bitious. He's lonely. Dat's enough to spile

angels. But a gooder man I never knowed, 'cept in de onpious sperrit.

He's proud as Lucifer. He's full of hate at Princess Anne and all de

people. Your darter may git a better man, not a pyorer one."

"Purity goes a very little way," exclaimed the Judge, "on the male side

of marriage contracts. It's always assumed, and never expected. You need

not remember, Samson, that I expressed any anger at your master!"

"My whole heart, judge, is to see him happy. Hard as he is, dat man has

power to make him loved. Your darter might go farder and fare wuss! I

wish her no harm, God knows!"

The negro said an humble good-night, and the Judge lay down upon his bed

to think of the dread alternatives of the coming week; but, voluptuous

even in despair, he slept before he had come to any conclusion.

Samson Hat walked up the side of the mill-pond on a sandy road, divided

from the water by a dense growth of pines. The bullfrogs and insects

serenaded the forest; the furnace chimney smoked lurid on the midnight.

At the distance of half a mile or more an old cabin, in decay, stood in

a sandy field near the road; it had no door in the hollow doorway, no

sash in the one gaping window; the step was broken leading to the sill,

and some of the weather-boarding had rotted from the skeleton. The old

end-chimney bore it toughly up, however, and the low brick props under

the corners stood plumb. Within lay a single room with open beams, a

sort of cupboard stairway projecting over the fireplace, and another

door and window were in the rear. Before this fireplace sat Meshach

Milburn on an old chair, fairly revealed by the light of some of the

burning weather-boarding he had thrown upon the hearth. On the hearth

was a little heap of the bog iron ore and a bottle.

"Come in, Samson!" he called. "Don't think me turned drunkard because I

am taking this whiskey. I drink it to keep out the malaria, and partly

as a communion cup; for to-night the barefooted ghosts who have drooped

and withered here are with me in spirit."

"Dey was all good Milburns who lived heah, marster," said the negro.

"Dey had hard times, but did no sin. Dey shook wid chills and fevers,

not wid conscience."

"I shall shake with neither," said the money-lender. "Go up into the

loft, and sleep till you are called. I want the horses early for

Princess Anne!"

The negro obeyed without remark, and disappeared behind the

cupboard-like door. Milburn sat before the fire, and looked into it

long, while a procession of thoughts and phantoms passed before it.

He saw a poor family of independent Puritans setting sail at different

dates from English seaports. Some were indentured servants, hoping for a

career; others were avoiding the civil wars; others were small political

malefactors, noisy against the oppressions of their hero, Cromwell, and

conspirators against his power; and, thrown by him in English jails,

were only delivered to be sold into slavery, driven through the streets

of market-towns, placed on troop ships between the decks, among the

horses, and set up at auction in Barbadoes, like the blacks; whence they

in time continued onward westward. One, the fortunate possessor of some

competence, sailed his own ship across the Atlantic, and delivered up to

Massachusetts her governor and gentry. Another, incapable of being

suppressed, though a servant, seized the destinies of an aristocratic

colony, and held them for a while, until accumulating enemies bore him

down, and wedlock and the gibbet followed close together. Poverty would

not relinquish its gripe upon the race; they struggled up like clods

upon the ploughshare, and fell back again into the furrow.

As Meshach Milburn thought of these things he took up a portion of the

bog ore from the hearth.

"Here is iron," he said, thoughtfully, "true iron, which makes the blood

red, moulds into infinite forms, nails houses together, binds wheels,

and casts into cannon and ball. But this iron ran into a bog, formed low

combinations, and had no other mould than twigs and leaves afforded. Its

volcanic origin was forgotten when it ran with sand and gravel away from

the mountain vein and upland ore along the low, alluvial bar, till, like

an oyster, the iron is dredged from the stagnant pool, impure,

inefficacious, corrupted. So is it with man, whose magnetic spirit

follows the dull declivity to the barren sandbars of the world, and

lodges there. I am of the bog ores; but that exists which will flux with

me, clean me of rust, and transmit my better quality to posterity. O,

youth, beauty, and station--lovely Vesta! for thee I will be iron!"

Milburn looked around the single room inquiringly. He placed his finger

upon the crevices in the weather-boarding; he opened the little closet

below the stairs, and a weasel dashed out and shot through the door; he

ascended the steep, short stairs, and with a torch examined the black

shingles, but nothing was there except a litter of young owls, whose

parents had gone poaching. Then, returning, he searched on every open

beam and rotting board, as if for writing.

"They could not write!" he thought. "Nothing is left to me, not even a

sign, down a century and a half, to tell that I had parents!"

As he spoke he felt an object move behind him, and, looking back, the

shadow of the Entailed Hat was dancing on the wall. As he threw his head

back, so did it; as he retired from it, the hat enlarged, until the

little room could hardly hold its shadow. Retiring again, he lifted it

from his head with bitter courtesy, and the shadow did the same. The man

and the shadow looked each at a peaked hat and stroked it.

"This is everything," exclaimed Milburn. "The hundred humble heads are

at rest in the sand; one grave-stone would mock them all. But once the

family brain expanded to a hat, and that survived the race. I am the

Quaker who respects his hat, the Cardinal who is crowned with it; yes,

and the dunce who must wear it in his corner!"

Then the picture of his parents arose upon his sight: a cheerful father,

with two or three old slaves, ploughing in the deep sand, to drop some

shrivelled grains of corn, or tinkering a disordered mill-wheel that

moved a blacksmith's saw. Ever full of confidence in nothing which could

increase, credulous and sanguine, tender and laborious, Milburn's sire

nursed his forest patches as if they were presently to be rich

plantations, and was ever "pricing" negroes, mules, tools, and

implements, in expectation of buying them. Nothing could diminish his

confidence but disease and old age. He heard of the great "improvement"

on the Furnace tract, and took his obedient wife and brood there. As the

laborers pulled out the tussocks and roots, encrusted with iron, from

the swamp and creek, fever and ague came forth and smote them both.

How wretched that scene when, almost too haggard to move, father and

mother, in this one bare room where Meshach sat, groaning amid their

many offspring, saw death with weakness creep upon each other--death

without priest or doctor, without residue or cleanliness--the death the

million die in lowly huts, yet, oh, how hard!

"Haste, sonny, _good_ boy," the frightened father had said, knowing not

how ill he was, in his dependence on his wife; "take the horse, and ride

into Snow Hill for the doctor. Poor mother is dreadful sick!"

Then, leaping upon the lean old horse, bare-backed and with a rope

bridle, Meshach had pushed through the deep sand, bareheaded and

barefooted, and almost crazy with excitement, until he entered the

shining streets of the sandhilled town, and sensitively rushed into the

doctor's office, crying, "Daddy and mammy is sick, at the Furnace!" and

told his name, and wheeled, and fled.

But, as the boy rode home, more slowly, past the river full of

splutter-docks, the yellow masts of vessels rising above the woods, the

flat fields of corn everywhere bounded by forest, and the small white

houses of the better farmers, and at last entered the murmurous,

complaining woods, he saw but one thing--his mother.

Was she to disappear from the lonely clearing, and leave only the hut

and its orphans? she, who kept heaven here below, and was the saints,

the arts, the all-sufficient for her child? With her there could be no

poverty; without her riches would be only more sand. With a little

molasses she made Christmas kingly with a cake. She could name a little

chicken "Meshach," and every egg it laid was a new toy. A mocking-bird

caught in the swamp became one of the family by her kindness; would it

ever sing again? The religion they knew was all of her. The poor slaves

saw no difference in mistresses while she was theirs. In sickness she

was in her sphere--health itself had come. And once, the tenderest

thing in life, when his father and she had quarrelled, and the light of

love being out made the darkness of poverty for the only time visible,

Meshach saw her weeping, and he could not comfort her.

Then, blinded by tears, he lashed his nag along, and entered the low

door. She was dead!

"Sonny, mammy's gone!" the wretched father groaned; the little children,

huddling about the form, lifted their wail; the mocking-bird could find

no note for this, and was hushed.

Milburn arose; the fire was low. He walked to the door, and there was a

sign of day; the all-surrounding woods of pine were still dark, but on

the sandy road and hummock-field some light was shining, like

hopefulness against hope; the farm was ploughed no more; the ungrateful

centuries were left behind and abandoned, like old wilderness

battle-fields, so sterile that their great events remain ever unvisited.

"Ho! Samson, boy! It is time!"

"Yes, marster!" answered the negro in the loft.

As the negro gathered himself up and passed down the stairs, he saw

Meshach Milburn before the fire, stirring the coals. Passing out, Samson

stood a moment at the gate, and lounged up the road, not to lose his

master. As he stood there, flames burst out of the old hut and glistened

on the evergreen forest, lighting the tops of the mossy cypresses in the

mill-pond, and revealing the forms of the sandy fields. Before he could

start back Samson saw his master's figure go round and round the house,

lighting the weather-boarding from place to place with a torch; and then

the low figure, capped with the long hat, came up the road as if at

mighty strides, so lengthened by the fire.

"No need of alarm, boy!" exclaimed the filial incendiary. "Henceforth my

only ancestral hall is _here_!"

He held the ancient tile up in the light of the blaze.

"Ah, marster!" said the negro, "yo' hat will never give comfort like a

home, fine as de hat may be, mean as de roof! De hat will never hold two

heads, and dat makes happiness."

"The hat, at least," answered Milburn, bitterly, "will cover me where I

go. Such rotted roofs as that was make captives of bright souls."

They looked on the fire in silence a few minutes.

"You have burnt me out, boss," said old Samson, finally. "I ain't got no

place to go an' hide when I fights, now. It makes me feel solemn."

"Peace!" replied Meshach Milburn. "Now for the horses and Princess

Anne!"