Sally Dows | Page 7

this matter for the company, I have satisfied myself from
personal observation that the negro--even more than his master--cannot
handle his new condition. He is accustomed to his old traditional
task-master, and I doubt if he will work fairly for any
other--particularly for those who don't understand him. Don't mistake
me: I don't propose to go back to the whip; to that brutal institution, the
irresponsible overseer; to the buying and selling, and separation of the
family, nor any of the old wrongs; but I propose to make the old master
OUR OVERSEER, and responsible to US. He is not a fool, and has
already learned that it is more profitable to pay wages to his old slaves
and have the power of dismissal, like any other employer, than be
obliged, under the old system of enforced labor and life servitude, to
undergo the cost of maintaining incompetence and idleness. The old
sentiment of slave-owning has disappeared before natural
common-sense and selfishness. I am satisfied that by some such
process as this utilizing of the old master and the new freedom we will
be better able to cultivate our lands than by buying up their estates, and
setting the old owners adrift, with a little money in their pockets, as an

idle, discontented class to revive old political dogmas, and foment new
issues, or perhaps set up a dangerous opposition to us.
"You don't mean to say that those infernal niggers would give the
preference to their old oppressors?"
"Dollar for dollar in wages--yes! And why shouldn't they? Their old
masters understand them better--and treat them generally better. They
know our interest in them is only an abstract sentiment, not a real liking.
We show it at every turn. But we are nearing Redlands, and Major
Reed will, I have no doubt, corroborate my impressions. He insists
upon our staying at his house, although the poor old fellow, I imagine,
can ill afford to entertain company. But he will be offended if we
refuse."
"He is a friend of yours, then?" asked Drummond.
"I fought against his division at Stony Creek," said Courtland grimly.
"He never tires of talking of it to me--so I suppose I am."
A few moments later the train glided beside the Redlands platform. As
the two travelers descended a hand was laid on Courtland's shoulder,
and a stout figure in the blackest and shiniest of alpaca jackets, and the
whitest and broadest of Panama hats, welcomed him. "Glad to see yo',
cun'nel. I reckoned I'd waltz over and bring along the boy," pointing to
a grizzled negro servant of sixty who was bowing before them, "to tote
yo'r things over instead of using a hack. I haven't run much on
horseflesh since the wah--ha! ha! What I didn't use up for remounts I
reckon yo'r commissary gobbled up with the other live stock, eh?" He
laughed heartily, as if the recollections were purely humorous, and
again clapped Courtland on the back.
"Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Drummond, Major Reed," said
Courtland, smiling.
"Yo' were in the wah, sir?"
"No--I"--returned Drummond, hesitating, he knew not why, and angry

at his own embarrassment.
"Mr. Drummond, the vice-president of the company," interposed
Courtland cheerfully, "was engaged in furnishing to us the sinews of
war."
Major Reed bowed a little more formally. "Most of us heah, sir, were in
the wah some time or other, and if you gentlemen will honah me by
joining in a social glass at the hotel across the way, I'll introduce you to
Captain Prendergast, who left a leg at Fair Oaks." Drummond would
have declined, but a significant pressure on his arm from Courtland
changed his determination. He followed them to the hotel and into the
presence of the one-legged warrior (who turned out to be the landlord
and barkeeper), to whom Courtland was hilariously introduced by
Major Reed as "the man, sir, who had pounded my division for three
hours at Stony Creek!"
Major Reed's house was but a few minutes' walk down the dusty lane,
and was presently heralded by the baying of three or four foxhounds
and foreshadowed by a dilapidated condition of picket-fence and
stuccoed gate front. Beyond it stretched the wooden Doric columns of
the usual Southern mansion, dimly seen through the broad leaves of the
horse-chestnut-trees that shaded it. There were the usual listless black
shadows haunting the veranda and outer offices-- former slaves and
still attached house-servants, arrested like lizards in breathless attitudes
at the approach of strange footsteps, and still holding the brush, broom,
duster, or home implement they had been lazily using, in their fixed
hands. From the doorway of the detached kitchen, connected by a
gallery to the wing of the mansion, "Aunt Martha," the cook, gazed also,
with a saucepan clasped to her