The Man in Gray | Page 7

to the
orchard in triumph.
Custis laughed.
"He'd rather play with that little, poor white rascal than any boy in the
country."
"Don't blame him," Phil replied. "He may be dirty and ragged but he's a
real boy after a real boy's heart. And the handsomest little beggar I ever
saw--who is he?"
"The boy of a poor white family, the Doyles. They live just outside our
gate on a ten-acre farm. His mother's trying to make him go to school.
His father laughs and lets him go hunting and fishing."
They were strolling past the first neat row of houses in the servants'
quarters. Phil thought of them as the slave quarters. Yet he had not
heard the word slave spoken since his arrival. These black people were
"servants" and some of them were the friends and confidants of their
master and his household. Phil paused in front of a cottage. The yard

flamed with autumn flowers. Through the open door and windows
came the hum of spinning wheels and the low, sweet singing of the
dark spinners, spinning wool for the winter clothing of the estate. From
the next door came the click and crash of the looms weaving the warm
cloth.
"You make your own cloth?" the Westerner asked in surprise.
"Of course, for the servants. It takes six spinners and three weavers
working steadily all year to keep up with it, too."
"Isn't it expensive?"
"Maybe. We never thought of it. We just make it. Always have in our
family for a hundred years."
They passed the blacksmith's shop and saw him shoeing a blooded colt.
Phil touched the horse's nostrils with a gentle hand and the colt nudged
him.
"It's funny how a horse knows a horseman instinctively--isn't it, Phil?"
"Yes. He knows I'm going to join the cavalry."
They moved down the long row of whitewashed cottages, each with its
yard of flowers and each with a huge pile of wood in the rear--wood
enough to keep a sparkling fire through the winter. Chubby-faced
babies were playing in the sanded walks and smiling young mothers
watched them from the doors.
Phil started to put a question, stammered and was silent.
"What is it?" Custis asked.
"You'll pardon my asking it, old boy, but are these black folks
married?"
The Southern boy laughed heartily.

"I should say so. A negro wedding is one of the joys of a plantation
boy's life."
"But isn't it awful when they're separated?"
"They're not separated."
"Never?"
"Not on this plantation. Nor on any estate whose master and mistress
are our friends. It's not done in our set."
"You keep them when they're old, lazy and worthless?"
"If they're married, yes. It's a luxury we never deny ourselves, this
softening of the rigor of the slave regime. It's not business. But it's the
custom of the country. To separate a husband and wife is an unheard-of
thing among our people."
The thing that impressed the Westerner in those white rows of little
homes was the order and quiet of it all. Every yard was swept clean.
There was nowhere a trace of filth or disease-breeding refuse. And
birds were singing in the bushes beside these slave cottages as sweetly
as they sang for the master and mistress in the pillared mansion on the
hill. They passed the stables and paused to watch a dozen colts playing
in the inclosure. Beyond the stable under the shadows of great oaks was
the dog kennel. A pack of fox hounds rushed to the gate with loud
welcome to their young master. He stooped to stroke each head and call
each dog's name. A wagging tail responded briskly to every greeting. In
another division of the kennel romped a dozen bird-dogs, pointers and
setters. The puppies were nearly grown and eager for the fields. They
climbed over Custis in yelping puppy joy that refused all rebuffs.
Phil looked in vain for the bloodhounds. He was afraid to ask about
them lest he offend his host. Custis had never seen a bloodhound and
could not guess the question back of his schoolmate's silence.
Sam entered the inclosure with breakfast for the dogs.

Phil couldn't keep his eyes off the sunlit, ebony face. His smile was
contagious. His voice was music.
The Westerner couldn't resist the temptation to draw him out.
"You were certainly dressed up last night, Sam!"
"Yer lak dat suit I had on, sah?"
"It was a great combination."
"Yassah, dat's me, sah," the negro laughed. "I'se a great
combination--yassah!"
He paused and threw his head back as if to recall the words. Then in a
voice rich and vibrant with care-free joy he burst into song:
"Yassah!"
"When I goes out ter promenade I dress so fine and gay I'm bleeged to
take my dog