Read LITTLE COMPTON of Free Joe and Other Georgian Sketches , free online book, by Joel Chandler Harris, on

Very few Southern country towns have been more profitably influenced by the new order of things than Hillsborough in Middle Georgia.  At various intervals since the war it has had what the local weekly calls “a business boom.”  The old tavern has been torn down, and in its place stands a new three-story brick hotel, managed by a very brisk young man, who is shrewd enough to advertise in the newspapers of the neighboring towns that he has “special accommodations and special rates for commercial travelers.”  Although Hillsborough is comparatively a small town, it is the centre of a very productive region, and its trade is somewhat important.  Consequently, the commercial travelers, with characteristic energy, lose no opportunity of taking advantage of the hospitable invitation of the landlord of the Hillsborough hotel.

Not many years ago a representative of this class visited the old town.  He was from the North, and, being much interested in what he saw, was duly inquisitive.  Among other things that attracted his attention was a little one-armed man who seemed to be the life of the place.  He was here, there, and everywhere; and wherever he went the atmosphere seemed to lighten and brighten.  Sometimes he was flying around town in a buggy; at such times he was driven by a sweet-faced lady, whose smiling air of proprietorship proclaimed her to be his wife:  but more often he was on foot.  His cheerfulness and good humor were infectious.  The old men sitting at Perdue’s Corner, where they had been gathering for forty years and more, looked up and laughed as he passed; the ladies shopping in the streets paused to chat with him; and even the dry-goods clerks and lawyers, playing chess or draughts under the China trees that shaded the sidewalks, were willing to be interrupted long enough to exchange jokes with him.

“Rather a lively chap that,” said the observant commercial traveler.

“Well, I reckon you won’t find no livelier in these diggin’s,” replied the landlord, to whom the remark was addressed.  There was a suggestion of suppressed local pride in his tones.  “He’s a little chunk of a man, but he’s monst’us peart.”

“A colonel, I guess,” said the stranger, smiling.

“Oh, no,” the other rejoined.  “He ain’t no colonel, but he’d ‘a’ made a prime one.  It’s mighty curious to me,” he went on, “that them Yankees up there didn’t make him one.”

“The Yankees?” inquired the commercial traveler.

“Why, yes,” said the landlord.  “He’s a Yankee; and that lady you seen drivin’ him around, she’s a Yankee.  He courted her here and he married her here.  Major Jimmy Bass wanted him to marry her in his house, but Captain Jack Walthall put his foot down and said the weddin’ had to be in his house; and there’s where it was, in that big white house over yander with the hip roof.  Yes, sir.”

“Oh,” said the commercial traveler, with a cynical smile, “he stayed down here to keep out of the army.  He was a lucky fellow.”

“Well, I reckon he was lucky not to get killed,” said the landlord, laughing.  “He fought with the Yankees, and they do say that Little Compton was a rattler.”

The commercial traveler gave a long, low whistle, expressive of his profound astonishment.  And yet, under all the circumstances, there was nothing to create astonishment.  The lively little man had a history.

Among the genial and popular citizens of Hillsborough, in the days before the war, none were more genial or more popular than Little Compton.  He was popular with all classes, with old and with young, with whites and with blacks.  He was sober, discreet, sympathetic, and generous.  He was neither handsome nor magnetic.  He was awkward and somewhat bashful, but his manners and his conversation had the rare merit of spontaneity.  His sallow face was unrelieved by either mustache or whiskers, and his eyes were black and very small, but they glistened with good-humor and sociability.  He was somewhat small in stature, and for that reason the young men about Hillsborough had given him the name of Little Compton.

Little Compton’s introduction to Hillsborough was not wholly without suggestive incidents.  He made his appearance there in 1850, and opened a small grocery store.  Thereupon the young men of the town, with nothing better to do than to seek such amusement as they could find in so small a community, promptly proceeded to make him the victim of their pranks and practical jokes.  Little Compton’s forbearance was wonderful.  He laughed heartily when he found his modest signboard hanging over an adjacent barroom, and smiled good-humoredly when he found the sidewalk in front of his door barricaded with barrels and dry-goods boxes.  An impatient man would have looked on these things as in the nature of indignities, but Little Compton was not an impatient man.

This went on at odd intervals, until at last the fun-loving young men began to appreciate Little Compton’s admirable temper; and then for a season they played their jokes on other citizens, leaving Little Compton entirely unmolested.  These young men were boisterous, but good-natured, and they had their own ideas of what constituted fair play.  They were ready to fight or to have fun, but in neither case would they willingly take what they considered a mean advantage of a man.

By degrees they warmed to Little Compton.  His gentleness won upon them; his patient good-humor attracted them.  Without taking account of the matter, the most of them became his friends.  This was demonstrated one day when one of the Pulliam boys from Jasper County made some slurring remark about “the little Yankee.”  As Pulliam was somewhat in his cups, no attention was paid to his remark; whereupon he followed it up with others of a more seriously abusive character.  Little Compton was waiting on a customer; but Pulliam was standing in front of his door, and he could not fail to hear the abuse.  Young Jack Walthall was sitting in a chair near the door, whittling a piece of white pine.  He put his knife in his pocket, and, whistling softly, looked at Little Compton curiously.  Then he walked to where Pulliam was standing.

“If I were you, Pulliam,” he said, “and wanted to abuse anybody, I’d pick out a bigger man than that.”

“I don’t see anybody,” said Pulliam.

“Well, d - you!” exclaimed Walthall, “if you are that blind, I’ll open your eyes for you!”

Whereupon he knocked Pulliam down.  At this Little Compton ran out excitedly, and it was the impression of the spectators that he intended to attack the man who had been abusing him; but, instead of that, he knelt over the prostrate bully, wiped the blood from his eyes, and finally succeeded in getting him to his feet.  Then Little Compton assisted him into the store, placed him in a chair, and proceeded to bandage his wounded eye.  Walthall, looking on with an air of supreme indifference, uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and sauntered carelessly away.

Sauntering back an hour or so afterward, he found that Pulliam was still in Little Compton’s store.  He would have passed on, but Little Compton called to him.  He went in prepared to be attacked, for he knew Pulliam to be one of the most dangerous men in that region, and the most revengeful; but, instead of making an attack, Pulliam offered his hand.

“Let’s call it square, Jack.  Your mother and my father are blood cousins, and I don’t want any bad feelings to grow out of this racket.  I’ve apologized to Mr. Compton here, and now I’m ready to apologize to you.”

Walthall looked at Pulliam and at his proffered hand, and then looked at Little Compton.  The latter was smiling pleasantly.  This appeared to be satisfactory, and Walthall seized his kinsman’s hand, and exclaimed: 

“Well, by George, Miles Pulliam! if you’ve apologized to Little Compton, then it’s my turn to apologize to you.  Maybe I was too quick with my hands, but that chap there is such a d - clever little rascal that it works me up to see anybody pester him.”

“Why, Jack,” said Compton, his little eyes glistening, “I’m not such a scrap as you make out.  It’s just your temper, Jack.  Your temper runs clean away with your judgment.”

“My temper!  Why, good Lord, man! don’t I just sit right down, and let folks run over me whenever they want to?  Would I have done anything if Miles Pulliam had abused me?”

“Why, the gilded Queen of Sheba!” exclaimed Miles Pulliam, laughing loudly, in spite of his bruises; “only last sale day you mighty nigh jolted the life out of Bill-Tom Saunders, with the big end of a hickory stick.”

“That’s so,” said Walthall reflectively; “but did I follow him up to do it?  Wasn’t he dogging after me all day, and strutting around bragging about what he was going to do?  Didn’t I play the little stray lamb till he rubbed his fist in my face?”

The others laughed.  They knew that Jack Walthall wasn’t at all lamblike in his disposition.  He was tall and strong and handsome, with pale classic features, jet-black curling hair, and beautiful white hands that never knew what labor was.  He was something of a dandy in Hillsborough, but in a large, manly, generous way.  With his perfect manners, stately and stiff, or genial and engaging, as occasion might demand, Mr. Walthall was just such a romantic figure as one reads about in books, or as one expects to see step from behind the wings of the stage with a guitar or a long dagger.  Indeed, he was the veritable original of Cyrille Brandon, the hero of Miss Amelia Baxter’s elegant novel entitled “The Haunted Manor; or, Souvenirs of the Sunny Southland.”  If those who are fortunate enough to possess a copy of this graphic book, which was printed in Charleston for the author, will turn to the description of Cyrille Brandon, they will get a much better idea of Mr. Walthall than they can hope to get in this brief and imperfect chronicle.  It is true, the picture there drawn is somewhat exaggerated to suit the purposes of fictive art, but it shows perfectly the serious impression Mr. Walthall made on the ladies who were his contemporaries.

It is only fair to say, however, that the real Mr. Walthall was altogether different from the ideal Cyrille Brandon of Miss Baxter’s powerfully written book.  He was by no means ignorant of the impression he made on the fair sex, and he was somewhat proud of it; but he had no romantic ideas of his own.  He was, in fact, a very practical young man.  When the Walthall estate, composed of thousands of acres of land and several hundred healthy, well-fed negroes, was divided up, he chose to take his portion in money; and this he loaned out at a fair interest to those who were in need of ready cash.  This gave him large leisure; and, as was the custom among the young men of leisure, he gambled a little when the humor was on him, having the judgment and the nerve to make the game of poker exceedingly interesting to those who sat with him at table.

No one could ever explain why the handsome and gallant Jack Walthall should go so far as to stand between his own cousin and Little Compton; indeed, no one tried to explain it.  The fact was accepted for what it was worth, and it was a great deal to Little Compton in a social and business way.  After the row which has just been described, Mr. Walthall was usually to be found at Compton’s store-in the summer sitting in front of the door under the grateful shade of the China trees, and in the winter sitting by the comfortable fire that Compton kept burning in his back room.  As Mr. Walthall was the recognized leader of the young men, Little Compton’s store soon became the headquarters for all of them.  They met there, and they made themselves at home there, introducing their affable host to many queer antics and capers peculiar to the youth of that day and time, and to the social organism of which that youth was the outcome.

That Little Compton enjoyed their company is certain; but it is doubtful if he entered heartily into the plans of their escapades, which they freely discussed around his hearth.  Perhaps it was because he had outlived the folly of youth.  Though his face was smooth and round, and his eye bright, Little Compton bore the marks of maturity and experience.  He used to laugh, and say that he was born in New Jersey, and died there when he was young.  What significance this statement possessed no one ever knew; probably no one in Hillsborough cared to know.  The people of that town had their own notions and their own opinions.  They were not unduly inquisitive, save when their inquisitiveness seemed to take a political shape; and then it was somewhat aggressive.

There were a great many things in Hillsborough likely to puzzle a stranger.  Little Compton observed that the young men, no matter how young they might be, were absorbed in politics.  They had the political history of the country at their tongues’ ends, and the discussions they carried on were interminable.  This interest extended to all classes:  the planters discussed politics with their overseers; and lawyers, merchants, tradesmen, and gentlemen of elegant leisure discussed politics with each other.  Schoolboys knew all about the Missouri Compromise, the fugitive slave law, and States rights.  Sometimes the arguments used were more substantial than mere words, but this was only when some old feud was back of the discussion.  There was one question, as Little Compton discovered, in regard to which there was no discussion.  That question was slavery.  It loomed up everywhere and in everything, and was the basis of all the arguments, and yet it was not discussed:  there was no room for discussion.  There was but one idea, and that was that slavery must be defended at all hazards, and against all enemies.  That was the temper of the time, and Little Compton was not long in discovering that of all dangerous issues slavery was the most dangerous.

The young men, in their free-and-easy way, told him the story of a wayfarer who once came through that region preaching abolitionism to the negroes.  The negroes themselves betrayed him, and he was promptly taken in charge.  His body was found afterward hanging in the woods, and he was buried at the expense of the county.  Even his name had been forgotten, and his grave was all but obliterated.  All these things made an impression on Little Compton’s mind.  The tragedy itself was recalled by one of the pranks of the young men, that was conceived and carried out under his eyes.  It happened after he had become well used to the ways of Hillsborough.  There came a stranger to the town, whose queer acts excited the suspicions of a naturally suspicious community.  Professedly he was a colporteur; but, instead of trying to dispose of books and tracts, of which he had a visible supply, he devoted himself to arguing with the village politicians under the shade of the trees.  It was observed, also, that he would frequently note down observations in a memorandum book.  Just about that time the controversy between the slaveholders and the abolitionists was at its height.  John Brown had made his raid on Harper’s Ferry, and there was a good deal of excitement throughout the State.  It was rumored that Brown had emissaries traveling from State to State, preparing the negroes for insurrection; and every community, even Hillsborough, was on the alert, watching, waiting, suspecting.

The time assuredly was not auspicious for the stranger with the ready memorandum book.  Sitting in front of Compton’s store, he fell into conversation one day with Uncle Abner Lazenberry, a patriarch who lived in the country, and who had a habit of coming to Hillsborough at least once a week “to talk with the boys.”  Uncle Abner belonged to the poorer class of planters; that is to say, he had a small farm and not more than half a dozen negroes.  But he was decidedly popular, and his conversation-somewhat caustic at times-was thoroughly enjoyed by the younger generation.  On this occasion he had been talking to Jack Walthall, when the stranger drew a chair within hearing distance.

“You take all your men,” Uncle Abner was saying-“take all un ’em, but gimme Hennery Clay.  Them abolishioners, they may come an’ git all six er my niggers, if they’ll jess but lemme keep the ginnywine olé Whig docterin’.  That’s me up an’ down-that’s wher’ your Uncle Abner Lazenberry stan’s, boys.”  By this time the stranger had taken out his inevitable note-book, and Uncle Abner went on:  “Yes, siree!  You may jess mark me down that away.  ‘Come,’ sez I, ‘an’ take all my niggers an’ the olé gray mar’,’ sez I, ‘but lemme keep my Whig docterin’,’ sez I. Lord, I’ve seed sights wi’ them niggers.  They hain’t no manner account.  They won’t work, an’ I’m ablidge to feed ’em, else they’d whirl in an’ steal from the neighbors.  Hit’s in-about broke me for to maintain ’em in the’r laziness.  Bless your soul, little children!  I’m in a turrible fix-a turrible fix.  I’m that bankruptured that when I come to town, ef I fine a thrip in my britches-pocket for to buy me a dram I’m the happiest mortal in the county.  Yes, siree! hit’s got down to that.”

Here Uncle Abner Lazenberry paused and eyed the stranger shrewdly, to whom, presently, he addressed himself in a very insinuating tone: 

“What mought be your name, mister?”

“Oh,” said the stranger, taken somewhat aback by the suddenness of the question, “my name might be Jones, but it happens to be Davies.”

Uncle Abner Lazenberry stared at Davies a moment as if amazed, and then exclaimed: 

“Jesso!  Well, dog my cats ef times hain’t a-changin’ an’ a-changin’ tell bimeby the natchul world an’ all the hummysp’eres ’ll make the’r disappearance een’-uppermost.  Yit, whiles they er changin’ an’ a-disappearin’, I hope they’ll leave me my olé Whig docterin’, an’ my name, which the fust an’ last un it is Abner Lazenberry.  An’ more’n that,” the old man went on, with severe emphasis-“an’ more’n that, they hain’t never been a day sence the creation of the world an’ the hummysp’eres when my name mought er’been anything else under the shinin’ sun but Abner Lazenberry; an’ ef the time’s done come when any mortal name mought er been anything but what hit reely is, then we jess better turn the nation an’ the federation over to demockeracy an’ giner’l damnation.  Now that’s me, right pine-plank.”

By way of emphasizing his remarks, Uncle Abner brought the end of his hickory cane down upon the ground with a tremendous thump.  The stranger reddened a little at the unexpected criticism, and was evidently ill at ease, but he remarked politely: 

“This is just a saying I’ve picked up somewhere in my travels.  My name is Davies, and I am traveling through the country selling a few choice books, and picking up information as I go.”

“I know a mighty heap of Davises,” said Uncle Abner, “but I disremember of anybody named Davies.”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Davies, “the name is not uncommon in my part of the country.  I am from Vermont.”

“Well, well!” said Uncle Abner, tapping the ground thoughtfully with his cane.  “A mighty fur ways Vermont is, tooby shore.  In my day an’ time I’ve seed as many as three men folks from Vermont, an’ one un ’em, he wuz a wheelwright, an’ one wuz a tin-pedler, an’ the yuther one wuz a clock-maker.  But that wuz a long time ago.  How is the abolishioners gittin’ on up that away, an’ when in the name er patience is they a-comin’ arter my niggers?  Lord! if them niggers wuz free, I wouldn’t have to slave for ’em.”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Davies, “I take little or no interest in those things.  I have to make a humble living, and I leave political questions to the politicians.”

The conversation was carried an at some length, the younger men joining in occasionally to ask questions; and nothing could have been friendlier than their attitude toward Mr. Davies.  They treated him with the greatest consideration.  His manner and speech were those of an educated man, and he seemed to make himself thoroughly agreeable.  But that night, as Mr. Jack Walthall was about to go to bed, his body-servant, a negro named Jake, began to question him about the abolitionists.

“What do you know about abolitionists?” Mr. Walthall asked with some degree of severity.

“Nothin’ ’tall, Marse Jack, ‘cep’in’ w’at dish yer new w’ite man down dar at de tavern say.”

“And what did he say?” Mr. Walthall inquired.

“I ax ’im, I say, ’Marse Boss, is dese yer bobolitionists got horns en huffs?’ en he ’low, he did, dat dey ain’t no bobolitionists, kaze dey er babolitionists, an’ dey ain’t got needer horns ner huffs.”

“What else did he say?”

Jake laughed.  It was a hearty and humorous laugh.

“Well, sir,” he replied, “dat man des preached.  He sholy did.  He ax me ef de niggers’ roun’ yer wouldn’ all like ter be free, en I tole ’im I don’t speck dey would, kaze all de free niggers w’at I ever seed is de mos’ no-’countes’ niggers in de lan’.”

Mr. Walthall dismissed the negro somewhat curtly.  He had prepared to retire for the night, but apparently thought better of it, for he resumed his coat and vest, and went out into the cool moonlight.  He walked around the public square, and finally perched himself on the stile that led over the court-house enclosure.  He sat there a long time.  Little Compton passed by, escorting Miss Lizzie Fairleigh, the schoolmistress, home from some social gathering; and finally the lights in the village went out one by one-all save the one that shone in the window of the room occupied by Mr. Davies.  Watching this window somewhat closely, Mr. Jack Walthall observed that there was movement in the room.  Shadows played on the white window-curtains-human shadows passing to and fro.  The curtains, quivering in the night wind, distorted these shadows, and made confusion of them; but the wind died away for a moment, and, outlined on the curtains, the patient watcher saw a silhouette of Jake, his body-servant.  Mr. Walthall beheld the spectacle with amazement.  It never occurred to him that the picture he saw was part-the beginning indeed-of a tremendous panorama which would shortly engage the attention of the civilized world, but he gazed at it with a feeling of vague uneasiness.

The next morning Little Compton was somewhat surprised at the absence of the young men who were in the habit of gathering in front of his store.  Even Mr. Jack Walthall, who could be depended on to tilt his chair against the China tree and sit there for an hour or more after breakfast, failed to put in an appearance.  After putting his store to rights, and posting up some accounts left over from the day before, Little Compton came out on the sidewalk, and walked up and down in front of the door.  He was in excellent humor, and as he walked he hummed a tune.  He did not lack for companionship, for his cat, Tommy Tinktums, an extraordinarily large one, followed him back and forth, rubbing against him and running between his legs; but somehow he felt lonely.  The town was very quiet.  It was quiet at all times, but on this particular morning it seemed to Little Compton that there was less stir than usual.  There was no sign of life anywhere around the public square save at Perdue’s Corner.  Shading his eyes with his hand, Little Compton observed a group of citizens apparently engaged in a very interesting discussion.  Among them he recognized the tall form of Mr. Jack Walthall and the somewhat ponderous presence of Major Jimmy Bass.  Little Compton watched the group because he had nothing better to do.  He saw Major Jimmy Bass bring the end of his cane down upon the ground with a tremendous thump, and gesticulate like a man laboring under strong excitement; but this was nothing out of the ordinary, for Major Jimmy had been known to get excited over the most trivial discussion; on one occasion, indeed, he had even mounted a dry-goods box, and, as the boys expressed it, “cussed out the town.”

Still watching the group, Little Compton saw Mr. Jack Walthall take Buck Ransome by the arm, and walk across the public square in the direction of the court-house.  They were followed by Mr. Alvin Cozart, Major Jimmy Bass, and young Rowan Wornum.  They went to the court-house stile, and formed a little group, while Mr. Walthall appeared to be explaining something, pointing frequently in the direction of the tavern.  In a little while they returned to those they had left at Perdue’s Corner, where they were presently joined by a number of other citizens.  Once Little Compton thought he would lock his door and join them, but by the time he had made up his mind the group had dispersed.

A little later on, Compton’s curiosity was more than satisfied.  One of the young men, Buck Ransome, came into Compton’s store, bringing a queer-looking bundle.  Unwrapping it, Mr. Ransome brought to view two large pillows.  Whistling a gay tune, he ran his keen knife into one of these, and felt of the feathers.  His manner was that of an expert.  The examination seemed to satisfy him; for he rolled the pillows into a bundle again, and deposited them in the back part of the store.

“You’d be a nice housekeeper, Buck, if you did all your pillows that way,” said Compton.

“Why, bless your great big soul, Compy,” said Mr. Ransome, striking an attitude, “I’m the finest in the land.”

Just then Mr. Alvin Cozart came in, bearing a small bucket, which he handled very carefully.  Little Compton thought he detected the odor of tar.

“Stick her in the back room there,” said Mr. Ransome; “she’ll keep.”

Compton was somewhat mystified by these proceedings; but everything was made clear when, an hour later, the young men of the town, reenforced by Major Jimmy Bass, marched into his store, bringing with them Mr. Davies, the Vermont colporteur, who had been flourishing his note-book in the faces of the inhabitants.  Jake, Mr. Walthall’s body-servant, was prominent in the crowd by reason of his color and his frightened appearance.  The colporteur was very pale, but he seemed to be cool.  As the last one filed in, Mr. Walthall stepped to the front door and shut and locked it.

Compton was too amazed to say anything.  The faces before him, always so full of humor and fun, were serious enough now.  As the key turned in the lock, the colporteur found his voice.

“Gentlemen!” he exclaimed with some show of indignation, “what is the meaning of this?  What would you do?”

“You know mighty well, sir, what we ought to do,” cried Major Bass.  “We ought to hang you, you imperdent scounderl!  A-comin’ down here a-pesterin’ an’ a-meddlin’ with t’other people’s business.”

“Why, gentlemen,” said Davies, “I’m a peaceable citizen; I trouble nobody.  I am simply traveling through the country selling books to those who are able to buy, and giving them away to those who are not.”

“Mr. Davies,” said Mr. Jack Walthall, leaning gracefully against the counter, “what kind of books are you selling?”

“Religious books, sir.”

“Jake!” exclaimed Mr. Walthall somewhat sharply, so sharply, indeed, that the negro jumped as though he had been shot.  “Jake! stand out there.  Hold up your head, sir!-Mr. Davies, how many religious books did you sell to that nigger there last night?”

“I sold him none, sir; I-”

“How many did you try to sell him?”

“I made no attempt to sell him any books; I knew he couldn’t read.  I merely asked him to give me some information.”

Major Jimmy Bass scowled dreadfully; but Mr. Jack Walthall smiled pleasantly, and turned to the negro.

“Jake! do you know this man?”

“I seed ’im, Marse Jack; I des seed ’im; dat’s all I know ’bout ’im.”

“What were you doing sasshaying around in his room last night?”

Jake scratched his head, dropped his eyes, and shuffled about on the floor with his feet.  All eyes were turned on him.  He made so long a pause that Alvin Cozart remarked in his drawling tone: 

“Jack, hadn’t we better take this nigger over to the calaboose?”

“Not yet,” said Mr. Walthall pleasantly.  “If I have to take him over there I’ll not bring him back in a hurry.”

“I wuz des up in his room kaze he tole me fer ter come back en see ’im.  Name er God, Marse Jack, w’at ail’ you all w’ite folks now?”

“What did he say to you?” asked Mr. Walthall.

“He ax me w’at make de niggers stay in slave’y,” said the frightened negro; “he ax me w’at de reason dey don’t git free deyse’f.”

“He was warm after information,” Mr. Walthall suggested.

“Call it what you please,” said the Vermont colporteur.  “I asked him those questions and more.”  He was pale, but he no longer acted like a man troubled with fear.

“Oh, we know that, mister,” said Buck Ransome.  “We know what you come for, and we know what you’re goin’ away for.  We’ll excuse you if you’ll excuse us, and then there’ll be no hard feelin’s-that is, not many; none to growl about.-Jake, hand me that bundle there on the barrel, and fetch that tar-bucket.-You’ve got the makin’ of a mighty fine bird in you, mister,” Ransome went on, addressing the colporteur; “all you lack’s the feathers, and we’ve got oodles of ’em right here.  Now, will you shuck them duds?”

For the first time the fact dawned on Little Compton’s mind that the young men were about to administer a coat of tar and feathers to the stranger from Vermont; and he immediately began to protest.

“Why, Jack,” said he, “what has the man done?”

“Well,” replied Mr. Walthall, “you heard what the nigger said.  We can’t afford to have these abolitionists preaching insurrection right in our back yards.  We just can’t afford it, that’s the long and short of it.  Maybe you don’t understand it; maybe you don’t feel as we do; but that’s the way the matter stands.  We are in a sort of a corner, and we are compelled to protect ourselves.”

“I don’t believe in no tar and feathers for this chap,” remarked Major Jimmy Bass, assuming a judicial air.  “He’ll just go out here to the town branch and wash ’em off, and then he’ll go on through the plantations raising h - among the niggers.  That’ll be the upshot of it-now, you mark my words.  He ought to be hung.”

“Now, boys,” said Little Compton, still protesting, “what is the use?  This man hasn’t done any real harm.  He might preach insurrection around here for a thousand years, and the niggers wouldn’t listen to him.  Now, you know that yourselves.  Turn the poor devil loose, and let him get out of town.  Why, haven’t you got any confidence in the niggers you’ve raised yourselves?”

“My dear sir,” said Rowan Wornum, in his most insinuating tone, “we’ve got all the confidence in the world in the niggers, but we can’t afford to take any risks.  Why, my dear sir,” he went on, “if we let this chap go, it won’t be six months before the whole country’ll be full of this kind.  Look at that Harper’s Ferry business.”

“Well,” said Compton somewhat hotly, “look at it.  What harm has been done?  Has there been any nigger insurrection?”

Jack Walthall laughed good-naturedly.  “Little Compton is a quick talker, boys.  Let’s give the man the benefit of all the arguments.”

“Great God!  You don’t mean to let this d - rascal go, do you, Jack?” exclaimed Major Jimmy Bass.

“No, no, sweet uncle; but I’ve got a nicer dose than tar and feathers.”

The result was that the stranger’s face and hands were given a coat of lampblack, his arms were tied to his body, and a large placard was fastened to his back.  The placard bore this inscription: 


Passhim on, boys

Mr. Davies was a pitiful-looking object after the young men had plastered his face and hands with lampblack and oil, and yet his appearance bore a certain queer relation to the humorous exhibitions one sees on the negro minstrel stage.  Particularly was this the case when he smiled at Compton.

“By George, boys!” exclaimed Mr. Buck Ransome, “this chap could play Old Bob Ridley at the circus.”

When everything was arranged to suit them, the young men formed a procession, and marched the blackened stranger from Little Compton’s door into the public street.  Little Compton seemed to be very much interested in the proceeding.  It was remarked afterward that he seemed to be very much agitated, and that he took a position very near the placarded abolitionist.  The procession, as it moved up the street, attracted considerable attention.  Rumors that an abolitionist was to be dealt with had apparently been circulated, and a majority of the male inhabitants of the town were out to view the spectacle.  The procession passed entirely around the public square, of which the court-house was the centre, and then across the square to the park-like enclosure that surrounded the temple of justice.

As the young men and their prisoner crossed this open space, Major Jimmy Bass, fat as he was, grew so hilarious that he straddled his cane as children do broomsticks, and pretended that he had as much as he could do to hold his fiery wooden steed.  He waddled and pranced out in front of the abolitionist, and turned and faced him, whereat his steed showed the most violent symptoms of running away.  The young men roared with laughter, and the spectators roared with them, and even the abolitionist laughed.  All laughed but Little Compton.  The procession was marched to the court-house enclosure, and there the prisoner was made to stand on the sale-block so that all might have a fair view of him.  He was kept there until the stage was ready to go; and then he was given a seat on that swaying vehicle, and forwarded to Rockville, where, presumably, the “boys” placed him on the train and “passed him on” to the “boys” in other towns.

For months thereafter there was peace in Hillsborough, so far as the abolitionists were concerned; and then came the secession movement.  A majority of the citizens of the little town were strong Union men; but the secession movement seemed to take even the oldest off their feet, and by the time the Republican President was inaugurated, the Union sentiment that had marked Hillsborough had practically disappeared.  In South Carolina companies of minutemen had been formed, and the entire white male population was wearing blue cockades.  With some modifications, these symptoms were reproduced in Hillsborough.  The modifications were that a few of the old men still stood up for the Union, and that some of the young men, though they wore the blue cockade, did not aline themselves with the minutemen.

Little Compton took no part in these proceedings.  He was discreetly quiet.  He tended his store, and smoked his pipe, and watched events.  One morning he was aroused from his slumbers by a tremendous crash-a crash that rattled the windows of his store and shook its very walls.  He lay quiet a while, thinking that a small earthquake had been turned loose on the town.  Then the crash was repeated; and he knew that Hillsborough was firing a salute from its little six-pounder, a relic of the Revolution, that had often served the purpose of celebrating the nation’s birthday in a noisily becoming manner.

Little Compton arose, and dressed himself, and prepared to put his store in order.  Issuing forth into the street, he saw that the town was in considerable commotion.  A citizen who had been in attendance on the convention at Milledgeville had arrived during the night, bringing the information that the ordinance of secession had been adopted, and that Georgia was now a sovereign and independent government.  The original secessionists were in high feather, and their hilarious enthusiasm had its effect on all save a few of the Union men.

Early as it was, Little Compton saw two flags floating from an improvised flagstaff on top of the court-house.  One was the flag of the State, with its pillars, its sentinel, and its legend of “Wisdom, Justice, and Moderation.”  The design of the other was entirely new to Little Compton.  It was a pine tree on a field of white, with a rattlesnake coiled at its roots, and the inscription, “Don’t tread on me!” A few hours later Uncle Abner Lazenberry made his appearance in front of Compton’s store.  He had just hitched his horse to the rack near the court-house.

“Merciful heavens” he exclaimed, wiping his red face with a red handkerchief, “is the Olé Boy done gone an’ turned hisself loose?  I hearn the racket, an’ I sez to the olé woman, sez I:  ’I’ll fling the saddle on the gray mar’ an’ canter to town an’ see what in the dingnation the matter is.  An’ ef the worl’s about to fetch a lurch, I’ll git me another dram an’ die happy,’ sez I. Whar’s Jack Walthall?  He can tell his Uncle Abner all about it.”

“Well, sir,” said Little Compton, “the State has seceded, and the boys are celebrating.”

“I know’d it,” cried the old man angrily.  “My min’ tole me so.”  Then he turned and looked at the flags flying from the top of the court-house.  “Is them rags the things they er gwine to fly out’n the Union with?” he exclaimed scornfully.  “Why, bless your soul an body, hit’ll take bigger wings than them!  Well, sir, I’m sick; I am that away.  I wuz born in the Union, an’ I’d like mighty well to die thar.  Ain’t it mine? ain’t it our’n?  Jess as shore as you’re born, thar’s trouble ahead-big trouble.  You’re from the North, ain’t you?” Uncle Abner asked, looking curiously at Little Compton.

“Yes, sir, I am,” Compton replied; “that is, I am from New Jersey, but they say New Jersey is out of the Union.”

Uncle Abner did not respond to Compton’s smile.  He continued to gaze at him significantly.

“Well,” the old man remarked somewhat bluntly, “you better go back where you come from.  You ain’t got nothin’ in the roun’ worl’ to do with all this hellabaloo.  When the pinch comes, as come it must, I’m jes gwine to swap a nigger for a sack er flour an’ settle down; but you had better go back where you come from.”

Little Compton knew the old man was friendly; but his words, so solemnly and significantly uttered, made a deep impression.  The words recalled to Compton’s mind the spectacle of the man from Vermont who had been paraded through the streets of Hillsborough, with his face blackened and a placard on his back.  The little Jerseyman also recalled other incidents, some of them trifling enough, but all of them together going to show the hot temper of the people around him; and for a day or two he brooded rather seriously over the situation.  He knew that the times were critical.

For several weeks the excitement in Hillsborough, as elsewhere in the South, continued to run high.  The blood of the people was at fever heat.  The air was full of the portents and premonitions of war.  Drums were beating, flags were flying, and military companies were parading.  Jack Walthall had raised a company, and it had gone into camp in an old field near the town.  The tents shone snowy white in the sun, uniforms of the men were bright and gay, and the boys thought this was war.  But, instead of that, they were merely enjoying a holiday.  The ladies of the town sent them wagon-loads of provisions every day, and the occasion was a veritable picnic-a picnic that some of the young men remembered a year or two later when they were trudging ragged, barefooted, and hungry, through the snow and slush of a Virginia winter.

But, with all their drilling and parading in the peaceful camp at Hillsborough, the young men had many idle hours, and they devoted these to various forms of amusements.  On one occasion, after they had exhausted their ingenuity in search of entertainment, one of them, Lieutenant Buck Ransome, suggested that it might be interesting to get up a joke on Little Compton.

“But how?” asked Lieutenant Cozart.

“Why, the easiest in the world,” said Lieutenant Ransome.  “Write him a note, and tell him that the time has come for an English-speaking people to take sides, and fling in a kind of side-wiper about New Jersey.”

Captain Jack Walthall, leaning comfortably against a huge box that was supposed to bear some relation to a camp-chest, blew a cloud of smoke through his sensitive nostrils and laughed.  “Why, stuff, boys!” he exclaimed somewhat impatiently, “you can’t scare Little Compton.  He’s got grit, and it’s the right kind of grit.  Why, I’ll tell you what’s a fact-the sand in that man’s gizzard would make enough mortar to build a fort.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Lieutenant Ransome.  “We’ll sling him a line or two, and if it don’t stir him up, all right; but if it does, we’ll have some tall fun.”

Whereupon, Lieutenant Ransome fished around in the chest, and drew forth pen and ink and paper.  With some aid from his brother officers he managed to compose the following: 

          “LittleMr. Compton. Dear Sir-The time has
          arrived when every man should show his colors. 
          Those who are not for us are against us.  Your best
          friends, when asked where you stand, do not know
          what to say.  If you are for the North in this
          struggle, your place is at the North.  If you are
          for the South, your place is with those who are
          preparing to defend the rights and liberties of
          the South.  A word to the wise is sufficient.  You
          will hear from me again in due time. 

This was duly sealed and dropped in the Hillsborough post-office, and Little Compton received it the same afternoon.  He smiled as he broke the seal, but ceased to smile when he read the note.  It happened to fit a certain vague feeling of uneasiness that possessed him.  He laid it down on his desk, walked up and down behind his counter, and then returned and read it again.  The sprawling words seemed to possess a fascination for him.  He read them again and again, and turned them over and over in his mind.  It was characteristic of his simple nature that he never once attributed the origin of the note to the humor of the young men with whom he was so familiar.  He regarded it seriously.  Looking up from the note, he could see in the corner of his store the brush and pot that had been used as arguments on the Vermont abolitionist.  He vividly recalled the time when that unfortunate person was brought up before the self-constituted tribunal that assembled in his store.

Little Compton thought he had gaged accurately the temper of the people about him; and he had, but his modesty prevented him from accurately gaging or even thinking about, the impression he had made on them.  The note troubled him a good deal more than he would at first confess to himself.  He seated himself on a low box behind his counter to think it over, resting his face in his hands.  A little boy who wanted to buy a thrip’s worth of candy went slowly out again after trying in vain to attract the attention of the hitherto prompt and friendly storekeeper.  Tommy Tinktums, the cat, seeing that his master was sitting down, came forward with the expectation of being told to perform his famous “bouncing” trick, a feat that was at once the wonder and delight of the youngsters around Hillsborough.  But Tommy Tinktums was not commanded to bounce; and so he contented himself with washing his face, pausing every now and then to watch his master with half-closed eyes.

While sitting thus reflecting, it suddenly occurred to Little Compton that he had had very few customers during the past several days; and it seemed to him, as he continued to think the matter over, that the people, especially the young men, had been less cordial lately than they had ever been before.  It never occurred to him that the threatened war, and the excitement of the period, occupied their entire attention.  He simply remembered that the young men who had made his modest little store their headquarters met there no more.  Little Compton sat behind his counter a long time, thinking.  The sun went down, and the dusk fell, and the night came on and found him there.

After a while he lit a candle, spread the communication out on his desk, and read it again.  To his mind, there was no mistaking its meaning.  It meant that he must either fight against the Union, or array against himself all the bitter and aggressive suspicion of the period.  He sighed heavily, closed his store, and went out into the darkness.  He made his way to the residence of Major Jimmy Bass, where Miss Lizzie Fairleigh boarded.  The major himself was sitting on the veranda; and he welcomed Little Compton with effusive hospitality-a hospitality that possessed an old-fashioned flavor.

“I’m mighty glad you come-yes, sir, I am.  It looks like the whole world’s out at the camps, and it makes me feel sorter lonesome.  Yes, sir; it does that.  If I wasn’t so plump I’d be out there too.  It’s a mighty good place to be about this time of the year.  I tell you what, sir, them boys is got the devil in ’em.  Yes, sir; there ain’t no two ways about that.  When they turn themselves loose, somebody or something will git hurt.  Now, you mark what I tell you.  It’s a tough lot-a mighty tough lot.  Lord! wouldn’t I hate to be a Yankee, and fall in their hands!  I’d be glad if I had time for to say my prayers.  Yes, sir; I would that.”

Thus spoke the cheerful Major Bass; and every word he said seemed to rime with Little Compton’s own thoughts, and to confirm the fears that had been aroused by the note.  After he had listened to the major a while, Little Compton asked for Miss Fairleigh.

“Oho!” said the major.  Then he called to a negro who happened to be passing through the hall:  “Jesse, tell Miss Lizzie that Mr. Compton is in the parlor.”  Then he turned to Compton.  “I tell you what, sir, that gal looks mighty puny.  She’s from the North, and I reckon she’s homesick.  And then there’s all this talk about war.  She knows our boys’ll eat the Yankees plum up, and I don’t blame her for being sorter down-hearted.  I wish you’d try to cheer her up.  She’s a good gal if there ever was one on the face of the earth.”

Little Compton went into the parlor, where he was presently joined by Miss Fairleigh.  They talked a long time together, but what they said no one ever knew.  They conversed in low tones; and once or twice the hospitable major, sitting on the veranda, detected himself trying to hear what they said.  He could see them from where he sat, and he observed that both appeared to be profoundly dejected.  Not once did they laugh, or, so far as the major could see, even smile.  Occasionally Little Compton arose and walked the length of the parlor, but Miss Fairleigh sat with bowed head.  It may have been a trick of the lamp, but it seemed to the major that they were both very pale.

Finally Little Compton rose to go.  The major observed with a chuckle that he held Miss Fairleigh’s hand a little longer than was strictly necessary under the circumstances.  He held it so long, indeed, that Miss Fairleigh half averted her face, but the major noted that she was still pale.  “We shall have a wedding in this house before the war opens,” he thought to himself; and his mind was dwelling on such a contingency when Little Compton came out on the veranda.

“Don’t tear yourself away in the heat of the day,” said Major Bass jocularly.

“I must go,” replied Compton.  “Good-by!” He seized the major’s hand and wrung it.

“Good night,” said the major, “and God bless you!”

The next day was Sunday.  But on Monday it was observed that Compton’s store was closed.  Nothing was said and little thought of it.  People’s minds were busy with other matters.  The drums were beating, the flags flying, and the citizen soldiery parading.  It was a noisy and an exciting time, and a larger store than Little Compton’s might have remained closed for several days without attracting attention.  But one day, when the young men from the camp were in the village, it occurred to them to inquire what effect the anonymous note had had on Little Compton; whereupon they went in a body to his store; but the door was closed, and they found it had been closed a week or more.  They also discovered that Compton had disappeared.

This had a very peculiar effect upon Captain Jack Walthall.  He took off his uniform, put on his citizen’s clothes, and proceeded to investigate Compton’s disappearance.  He sought in vain for a clue.  He interested others to such an extent that a great many people in Hillsborough forgot all about the military situation.  But there was no trace of Little Compton.  His store was entered from a rear window, and everything found to be intact.  Nothing had been removed.  The jars of striped candy that had proved so attractive to the youngsters of Hillsborough stood in long rows on the shelves, flanked by the thousand and one notions that make up the stock of a country grocery store.  Little Compton’s disappearance was a mysterious one, and under ordinary circumstances would have created intense excitement in the community; but at that particular time the most sensational event would have seemed tame and commonplace alongside the preparations for war.

Owing probably to a lack of the faculty of organization at Richmond-a lack which, if we are to believe the various historians who have tried to describe and account for some of the results of that period, was the cause of many bitter controversies, and of many disastrous failures in the field-a month or more passed away before the Hillsborough company received orders to go to the front.  Fort Sumter had been fired on, troops from all parts of the South had gathered in Virginia, and the war was beginning in earnest.  Captain Jack Walthall of the Hillsborough Guards chafed at the delay that kept his men resting on their arms, so to speak; but he had ample opportunity, meanwhile, to wonder what had become of Little Compton.  In his leisure moments he often found himself sitting on the dry-goods boxes in the neighborhood of Little Compton’s store.  Sitting thus one day, he was approached by his body-servant.  Jake had his hat in his hand, and showed by his manner that he had something to say.  He shuffled around, looked first one way and then another, and scratched his head.

“Marse Jack,” he began.

“Well, what is it?” said the other, somewhat sharply.

“Marse Jack, I hope ter de Lord you ain’t gwine ter git mad wid me; yit I mos’ knows you is, kaze I oughter done tole you a long time ago.”

“You ought to have told me what?”

“‘Bout my drivin’ yo’ hoss en buggy over ter Rockville dat time-dat time what I ain’t never tole you ’bout.  But I ‘uz mos’ ‘blige’ ter do it.  I ’low ter myse’f, I did, dat I oughter come tell you right den, but I ’uz skeer’d you mought git mad, en den you wuz out dar at de camps, ’long wid dem milliumterry folks.”

“What have you got to tell?”

“Well, Marse Jack, desbout takin’ yo’ hoss en buggy.  Marse Compton ’lowed you wouldn’t keer, en w’en he say dat, I des went en hich up de hoss en kyar’d ’im over ter Rockville.”

“What under heaven did you want to go to Rockville for?”

“Who? me, Marse Jack?  ’Twa’n’t me wanter go.  Hit ’uz Marse Compton.”

“Little Compton?” exclaimed Walthall.

“Yes, sir, dat ve’y same man.”

“What did you carry Little Compton to Rockville for?”

“Fo’ de Lord, Marse Jack, I dunno w’at Marse Compton wanter go fer.  I des know’d I ‘uz doin’ wrong, but he tuck’n ’low dat hit’d be all right wid you, kaze you bin knowin’ him so monst’us well.  En den he up’n ax me not to tell you twell he done plum out’n yearin’.”

“Didn’t he say anything?  Didn’t he tell you where he was going?  Didn’t he send any word back?”

This seemed to remind Jake of something.  He clapped his hand to his head, and exclaimed: 

“Well, de Lord he’p my soul!  Ef I ain’t de beatenest nigger on de top side er de yeth!  Marse Compton gun me a letter, en I tuck’n shove it un’ de buggy seat, en it’s right dar yit ef somebody ain’t tored it up.”

By certain well-known signs Jake knew that his Marse Jack was very mad, and he was hurrying out.  But Walthall called him.

“Come here, sir!” The tone made Jake tremble.  “Do you stand up there, sir, and tell me all this, and think I am going to put up with it?”

“I’m gwine after dat note, Marse Jack, des ez hard ez ever I kin.”

Jake managed to find the note after some little search, and carried it to Jack Walthall.  It was crumpled and soiled.  It had evidently seen rough service under the buggy seat.  Walthall took it from the negro, turned it over and looked at it.  It was sealed, and addressed to Miss Lizzie Fairleigh.

Jack Walthall arrayed himself in his best, and made his way to Major Jimmy Bass’s, where he inquired for Miss Fairleigh.  That young lady promptly made her appearance.  She was pale and seemed to be troubled.  Walthall explained his errand, and handed her the note.  He thought her hand trembled, but he may have been mistaken, as he afterward confessed.  She read it, and handed it to Captain Walthall with a vague little smile that would have told him volumes if he had been able to read the feminine mind.

Major Jimmy Bass was a wiser man than Walthall, and he remarked long afterward that he knew by the way the poor girl looked that she was in trouble, and it is not to be denied, at least, it is not to be denied in Hillsborough, where he was known and respected, that Major Bass’s impressions were as important as the average man’s convictions.  This is what Captain Jack Walthall read: 

Dear Miss Fairleigh-When you see this I shall be on my way home.  My eyes have recently been opened to the fact that there is to be a war for and against the Union.  I have strong friendships here, but I feel that I owe a duty to the old flag.  When I bade you good-by last night, it was good-by forever.  I had hoped-I had desired-to say more than I did; but perhaps it is better so.  Perhaps it is better that I should carry with me a fond dream of what might have been than to have been told by you that such a dream could never come true.  I had intended to give you the highest evidence of my respect and esteem that man can give to woman, but I have been overruled by fate or circumstance.  I shall love you as long as I live.  One thing more:  should you ever find yourself in need of the services of a friend-a friend in whom you may place the most implicit confidence-send for Mr. Jack Walthall.  Say to him that Little Compton commended you to his care and attention, and give him my love.”

Walthall drew a long breath and threw his head back as he finished reading this.  Whatever emotion he may have felt, he managed to conceal, but there was a little color in his usually pale face, and his dark eyes shone with a new light.

“This is a very unfortunate mistake,” he exclaimed.  “What is to be done?”

Miss Fairleigh smiled.

“There is no mistake, Mr. Walthall,” she replied.  “Mr. Compton is a Northern man, and he has gone to join the Northern army.  I think he is right.”

“Well,” said Walthall, “he will do what he thinks is right, but I wish he was here to-night.”

“Oh, so do I!” exclaimed Miss Fairleigh, and then she blushed; seeing which, Mr. Jack Walthall drew his own conclusions.

“If I could get through the lines,” she went on, “I would go home.”  Whereupon Walthall offered her all the assistance in his power, and offered to escort her to the Potomac.  But before arrangements for the journey could be made, there came the news of the first battle of Manassas, and the conflict was begun in earnest; so earnest, indeed, that it changed the course of a great many lives, and gave even a new direction to American history.

Miss Fairleigh’s friends in Hillsborough would not permit her to risk the journey through the lines; and Captain Walthall’s company was ordered to the front, where the young men composing it entered headlong into the hurly-burly that goes by the name of war.

There was one little episode growing out of Jack Walthall’s visit to Miss Fairleigh that ought to be told.  When that young gentleman bade her good evening, and passed out of the parlor, Miss Fairleigh placed her hands to her face and fell to weeping, as women will.

Major Bass, sitting on the veranda, had been an interested spectator of the conference in the parlor, but it was in the nature of a pantomime.  He could hear nothing that was said, but he could see that Miss Fairleigh and Walthall were both laboring under some strong excitement.  When, therefore, he saw Walthall pass hurriedly out, leaving Miss Fairleigh in tears in the parlor, it occurred to him that, as the head of the household and the natural protector of the women under his roof, he was bound to take some action.  He called Jesse, the negro house-servant, who was on duty in the dining-room.

“Jess!  Jess!  Oh, Jess!” There was an insinuating sweetness in his voice as it echoed through the hall.  Jesse, doubtless recognizing the velvety quality of the tone, made his appearance promptly.  “Jess,” said the major softly, “I wish you’d please fetch me my shotgun.  Make ’aste, Jess, and don’t make no furse.”

Jesse went after the shotgun, and the major waddled into the parlor.  He cleared his throat at the door, and Miss Fairleigh looked up.

“Miss Lizzie, did Jack Walthall insult you here in my house?”

“Insult me, sir!  Why, he’s the noblest gentleman alive.”

The major drew a deep breath of relief, and smiled.

“Well, I’m mighty glad to hear you say so!” he exclaimed.  “I couldn’t tell, to save my life, what put it into my mind.  Why, I might ‘a’ know’d that Jack Walthall ain’t that kind of a chap.  Lord!  I reckon I must be getting old and weak-minded.  Don’t cry no more, honey.  Go right along and go to bed.”  As he turned to go out of the parlor, he was confronted by Jesse with the shotgun.  “Oh, go put her up, Jess,” he said apologetically; “go put her up, boy.  I wanted to blaze away at a dog out there trying to scratch under the palings; but the dog’s done gone.  Go put her up, Jess.”

When Jess carried the gun back, he remarked casually to his mistress: 

“Miss Sa’h, you better keep yo’ eye on Marse Maje.  He talkin’ mighty funny, en he doin’ mighty quare.”

Thereafter, for many a long day, the genial major sat in his cool veranda, and thought of Jack Walthall and the boys in Virginia.  Sometimes between dozes he would make his way to Perdue’s Corner, and discuss the various campaigns.  How many desperate campaigns were fought on that Corner!  All the older citizens, who found it convenient or necessary to stay at home, had in them the instinct and emotions of great commanders.  They knew how victory could be wrung from defeat, and how success could be made more overwhelming.  At Perdue’s Corner, Washington City was taken not less than a dozen times a week, and occasionally both New York and Boston were captured and sacked.  Of all the generals who fought their battles at the Corner, Major Jimmy Bass was the most energetic, the most daring, and the most skilful.  As a strategist he had no superior.  He had a way of illustrating the feasibility of his plans by drawing them in the sand with his cane.  Fat as he was, the major had a way of “surroundering” the enemy so that no avenue was left for his escape.  At Perdue’s Corner he captured Scott, and McClellan, and Joe Hooker, and John Pope, and held their entire forces as prisoners of war.

In spite of all this, however, the war went on.  Sometimes word would come that one of the Hillsborough boys had been shot to death.  Now and then one would come home with an arm or a leg missing; so that, before many months had passed, even the generals conducting their campaigns at Perdue’s Corner managed to discover that war was a very serious business.

It happened that one day in July, Captain Jack Walthall and his men, together with quite an imposing array of comrades, were called upon to breast the sultry thunder of Gettysburg.  They bore themselves like men; they went forward with a shout and a rush, facing the deadly slaughter of the guns; they ran up the hill and to the rock wall.  With others, Captain Walthall leaped over the wall.  They were met by a murderous fire that mowed down the men like grass.  The line in the rear wavered, fell back, and went forward again.  Captain Walthall heard his name called in his front, and then some one cried, “Don’t shoot!” and Little Compton, his face blackened with powder, and his eyes glistening with excitement, rushed into Walthall’s arms.  The order not to shoot-if it was an order-came too late.  There was another volley.  As the Confederates rushed forward, the Federal line retreated a little way, and Walthall found himself surrounded by the small remnant of his men.  The Confederates made one more effort to advance, but it was useless.  The line was borne back, and finally retreated; but when it went down the slope, Walthall and Lieutenant Ransome had Little Compton between them.  He was a prisoner.  Just how it all happened, no one of the three could describe, but Little Compton was carried into the Confederate lines.  He was wounded in the shoulder and in the arm, and the ball that shattered his arm shattered Walthall’s arm.

They were carried to the field hospital, where Walthall insisted that Little Compton’s wounds should be looked after first.  The result was that Walthall lost his left arm and Compton his right; and then, when by some special interposition of Providence they escaped gangrene and other results of imperfect surgery and bad nursing, they went to Richmond, where Walthall’s money and influence secured them comfortable quarters.

Hillsborough had heard of all this in a vague way-indeed, a rumor of it had been printed in the Rockville “Vade Mecum”-but the generals and commanders in consultation at Perdue’s Corner were astonished one day when the stage-coach set down at the door of the tavern a tall, one-armed gentleman in gray, and a short, one-armed gentleman in blue.

“By the livin’ Lord!” exclaimed Major Jimmy Bass, “if that ain’t Jack Walthall!  And you may put out my two eyes if that ain’t Little Compton!  Why, shucks, boys!” he exclaimed, as he waddled across the street, “I’d ‘a’ know’d you anywheres.  I’m a little short-sighted, and I’m mighty nigh took off wi’ the dropsy, but I’d ‘a’ know’d you anywheres.”

There were handshakings and congratulations from everybody in the town.  The clerks and the merchants deserted their stores to greet the newcomers, and there seemed to be a general jubilee.  For weeks Captain Jack Walthall was compelled to tell his Gettysburg story over and over again, frequently to the same hearers; and, curiously enough, there was never a murmur of dissent when he told how Little Compton had insisted on wearing his Federal uniform.

“Great Jiminy Craminy!” Major Jimmy Bass would exclaim; “don’t we all know Little Compton like a book?  And ain’t he got a right to wear his own duds?”

Rockville, like every other railroad town in the South at that period, had become the site of a Confederate hospital; and sometimes the hangers-on and convalescents paid brief visits of inspection to the neighboring villages.  On one occasion a little squad of them made their appearance on the streets of Hillsborough, and made a good-natured attempt to fraternize with the honest citizens who gathered daily at Perdue’s Corner.  While they were thus engaged, Little Compton, arrayed in his blue uniform, passed down the street.  The visitors made some inquiries, and Major Bass gave them a very sympathetic history of Little Compton.  Evidently they failed to appreciate the situation; for one of them, a tall Mississippian, stretched himself and remarked to his companions: 

“Boys, when we go, we’ll just about lift that feller and take him along.  He belongs in Andersonville, that’s where he belongs.”

Major Bass looked at the tall Mississippian and smiled.

“I reckon you must ‘a’ been mighty sick over yander,” said the major, indicating Rockville.

“Well, yes,” said the Mississippian; “I’ve had a pretty tough time.”

“And you ain’t strong yet,” the major went on.

“Well, I’m able to get about right lively,” said the other.

“Strong enough to go to war?”

“Oh, well, no-not just yet.”

“Well, then,” said the major in his bluntest tone, “you better be mighty keerful of yourself in this town.  If you ain’t strong enough to go to war, you better let Little Compton alone.”

The tall Mississippian and his friends took the hint, and Little Compton continued to wear his blue uniform unmolested.  About this time Atlanta fell; and there were vague rumors in the air, chiefly among the negroes, that Sherman’s army would march down and capture Hillsborough, which, by the assembly of generals at Perdue’s Corner, was regarded as a strategic point.  These vague rumors proved to be correct; and by the time the first frosts fell, Perdue’s Corner had reason to believe that General Sherman was marching down on Hillsborough.  Dire rumors of fire, rapine, and pillage preceded the approach of the Federal army, and it may well be supposed that these rumors spread consternation in the air.  Major Bass professed to believe that General Sherman would be “surroundered” and captured before his troops reached Middle Georgia; but the three columns, miles apart, continued their march unopposed.

It was observed that during this period of doubt, anxiety, and terror, Little Compton was on the alert.  He appeared to be nervous and restless.  His conduct was so peculiar that some of the more suspicious citizens of the region predicted that he had been playing the part of a spy, and that he was merely waiting for the advent of Sherman’s army in order to point out where his acquaintances had concealed their treasures.

One fine morning a company of Federal troopers rode into Hillsborough.  They were met by Little Compton, who had borrowed one of Jack Walthall’s horses for just such an occasion.  The cavalcade paused in the public square, and, after a somewhat prolonged consultation with Little Compton, rode on in the direction of Rockville.  During the day small parties of foragers made their appearance.  Little Compton had some trouble with these; but, by hurrying hither and thither, he managed to prevent any depredations.  He even succeeded in convincing the majority of them that they owed some sort of respect to that small town.  There was one obstinate fellow, however, who seemed determined to prosecute his search for valuables.  He was a German who evidently did not understand English.

In the confusion Little Compton lost sight of the German, though he had determined to keep an eye on him.  It was not long before he heard of him again; for one of the Walthall negroes came running across the public square, showing by voice and gesture that he was very much alarmed.

“Marse Compton!  Marse Compton!” he cried, “you better run up ter Marse Jack’s, kaze one er dem mens is gwine in dar whar olé Miss is, en ef he do dat he gwine ter git hurted!”

Little Compton hurried to the Walthall place, and he was just in time to see Jack rushing the German down the wide flight of steps that led to the veranda.  What might have happened, no one can say; what did happen may be briefly told.  The German, his face inflamed with passion, had seized his gun, which had been left outside, and was aiming at Jack Walthall, who stood on the steps, cool and erect.  An exclamation of mingled horror and indignation from Little Compton attracted the German’s attention, and caused him to turn his head.  This delay probably saved Jack Walthall’s life; for the German, thinking that a comrade was coming to his aid, leveled his gun again and fired.  But Little Compton had seized the weapon near the muzzle and wrested it around.  The bullet, instead of reaching its target, tore its way through Compton’s empty sleeve.  In another instant the German was covered by Compton’s revolver.  The hand that held it was steady, and the eyes that glanced along its shining barrel fairly blazed.  The German dropped his gun.  All trace of passion disappeared from his face; and presently seeing that the crisis had passed, so far as he was concerned, he wheeled in his tracks, gravely saluted Little Compton, and made off at a double-quick.

“You mustn’t think hard of the boys, Jack, on account of that chap.  They understand the whole business, and they are going to take care of this town.”

And they did.  The army came marching along presently, and the stragglers found Hillsborough patrolled by a detachment of cavalry.

Walthall and Little Compton stood on the wide steps, and reviewed this imposing array as it passed before them.  The tall Confederate, in his uniform of gray, rested his one hand affectionately on the shoulder of the stout little man in blue, and on the bosom of each was pinned an empty sleeve.  Unconsciously, they made an impressive picture.

The Commander, grim, gray, and resolute, observed it with sparkling eyes.  The spectacle was so unusual-so utterly opposed to the logic of events-that he stopped with his staff long enough to hear Little Compton tell his story.  He was a grizzled, aggressive man, this Commander, but his face lighted up wonderfully at the recital.

“Well, you know this sort of thing doesn’t end the war, boys,” he said, as he shook hands with Walthall and Little Compton; “but I shall sleep better to-night.”

Perhaps he did.  Perhaps he dreamed that what he had seen and heard was prophetic of the days to come, when peace and fraternity should seize upon the land, and bring unity, happiness, and prosperity to the people.