The Prodigal Judge
CHAPTER I
THE BOY AT THE BARONY
The Quintards had not prospered on the barren lands of the pine woods whither
they had emigrated to escape the malaria of the low coast, but this no longer
mattered, for the last of his name and race, old General Quintard, was dead in
the great house his father had built almost a century before and the thin acres
of the Barony, where he had made his last stand against age and poverty, were to
claim him, now that he had given up the struggle in their midst. The two or
three old slaves about the place, stricken with a sense of the futility of the
fight their master had made, mourned for him and for themselves, but of his own
blood and class none was present.
Shy dwellers from the pine woods, lanky jeans-clad men and sunbonneted women,
who were gathering for the burial of the famous man of their neighborhood,
grouped themselves about the lawn which had long since sunk to the uses of a
pasture lot. Singly or by twos and threes they stole up the steps and across the
wide porch to the open door. On the right of the long hall another door stood
open, and who wished could enter the drawing-room, with its splendid green and
gold paper, and the wonderful fireplace with the Dutch tiles that graphically
depicted the story of Jonah and the whale.
Here the general lay in state. The slaves had dressed their old master in the
uniform he had worn as a colonel of the continental line, but the thin shoulders
of the wasted figure no longer filled the buff and blue coat. The high-bred
face, once proud and masterful no doubt, as became the face of a Quintard, spoke
of more than age and poverty—it was infinitely sorrowful. Yet there was
something harsh and unforgiving in the lines death had fixed there, which might
have been taken as the visible impress of that mystery, the bitterness of which
had misshaped the dead man's nature; but the resolute lips had closed for ever
on their secret, and the broken spirit had gone perhaps to learn how poor a
thing its pride had been.
Though he had lived continuously at the Barony for almost a quarter of a
century, there was none among his neighbors who could say he had looked on that
thin, aquiline face in all that time. Yet they had known much of him, for the
gossip of the slaves, who had been his only friends in those years he had chosen
to deny himself to other friends, had gone far and wide over the county.
That notable man of business, Jonathan Crenshaw—and this superiority was
especially evident when the business chanced to be his own—was closeted in the
library with a stranger to whom rumor fixed the name of Bladen, supposing him to
be the legal representative of certain remote connections of the old general's.
Crenshaw sat before the flat-topped mahogany desk in the center of the room
with several well-thumbed account-books open before him. Bladen, in riding
dress, stood by the window.
"I suppose you will buy in the property when it comes up for sale?" the
latter was saying.
Mr. Crenshaw had already made it plain that General Quintard's creditors
would have lean pickings at the Barony, intimating that he himself was the
chiefest of these and the one to suffer most grievously in pocket. Further than
this, Mr. Bladen saw that the old house was a ruin, scarcely habitable, and that
the thin acres, though they were many and a royal grant, were of the slightest
value. Crenshaw nodded his acquiescence to the lawyer's conjecture touching the
ultimate fate of the Barony.
"I reckon, sir, I'll want to protect myself, but if there are any of his own
kin who have a fancy to the place I'll put no obstacle in their way."
"Who are the other creditors?" asked Bladen.
"There ain't none, sir; they just got tired waiting on him, and when they
began to sue and get judgment the old general would send me word to settle with
them, and their claims passed into my hands. I was in too deep to draw out. But
for the last ten years his dealings were all with me; I furnished the supplies
for the place here. It didn't amount to much, as there was only him and the
darkies, and the account ran on from year to year."
"He lived entirely alone, saw no one, I understand," said Bladen.
"Alone with his two or three old slaves—yes, sir. He wouldn't even see me;
Joe, his old nigger, would fetch orders for this or that. Once or twice I rode
out to see him, but I wa'n't even allowed inside that door; the message I got
was that he couldn't be disturbed, and the last time I come he sent me word that
if I annoyed him again he would be forced to terminate our business relations.
That was pretty strong talk, wa'n't it, when you consider that I could have sold
the roof from over his head and the land from under his feet? Oh, well, I just
put it down to childishness." There was a brief pause, then Crenshaw spoke
again. "I reckon, sir, if you know anything about the old general's private
affairs you don't feel no call to speak on that point?" he observed, and with
evident regret. He had hoped that Bladen would clear up the mystery, for
certainly it must have been some sinister tragedy that had cost the general his
grip on life and for twenty years and more had made of him a recluse, so that
the faces of his friends had become as the faces of strangers.
"My dear sir, I know nothing of General Quintard's private, history. I am
even unacquainted with my clients, who are distant cousins, but his nearest
kin—they live in South Carolina. I was merely instructed to represent them in
the event of his death and to look after their interests."
"That's business," said Crenshaw, nodding.
"All I know is this: General Quintard was a conspicuous man in these parts
fifty years ago; that was before my time, Mr. Crenshaw, and I take it, too, it
was before yours; he married a Beaufort."
"So he did," said Crenshaw, "and there was one child, a daughter; she married
a South Carolinian by the name of Turberville. I remember that, fo' they were
married under the gallery in the hall. Great folks, those Turbervilles, rolling
rich. My father was manager then fo' the general—that was nearly forty years
ago. There was life here then, sir; the place was alive with niggers and the
house full of guests from one month's end to another." He drummed on the
desktop. "Who'd a thought it wa'n't to last for ever!"
"And what became of the daughter who married Turberville?"
"Died years ago," said Crenshaw. "She was here the last time about thirty
years back. It wa'n't so easy to get about in those days, no roads to speak of
and no stages, and besides, the old general wa'n't much here nohow; her going
away had sort of broken up his home, I reckon. Then the place stood empty fo' a
few years, most of the slaves were sold off, and the fields began to grow up. No
one rightly knew, but the general was supposed to be traveling up yonder in the
No'th, sir. As I say, things ran along this way quite a while, and then one
morning when I went to my store my clerk says, 'There's an old white-headed
nigger been waiting round here fo' a word with you, Mr. Crenshaw.' It was Joe,
the general's body servant, and when I'd shook hands with him I said, 'When's
the master expected back?' You see, I thought Joe had been sent on ahead to open
the house, but he says, 'General Quintard's at the Barony now,' and then he
says, 'The general's compliments, sir, and will you see that this order is
filled?' Well, Mr. Bladen, I and my father had factored the Barony fo' fifteen
years and upward, but that was the first time the supplies fo' the general's
table had ever been toted here in a meal sack!
"I rode out that very afternoon, but Joe, who was one of your mannerly
niggers, met me at the door and says, 'Mr. Crenshaw, the general appreciates
this courtesy, but regrets that he is unable to see you, sir.' After that it
wa'n't long in getting about that the general was a changed man. Other folks
came here to welcome him back and he refused to see them, but the reason of it
we never learned. Joe, who probably knew, was one of your close niggers; there
was, no getting anything out of him; you could talk with that darky by the hour,
sir, and he left you feeling emptier than if he'd kept his mouth shut."
They were interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Come in," said Crenshaw, a trifle impatiently, and in response to his
bidding the door opened and a small boy entered the room dragging after him a
long rifle. Suddenly overcome by a speechless shyness, he paused on the
threshold to stare with round, wondering eyes at the two men. "Well, sonny, what
do you want?" asked Mr. Crenshaw indulgently.
The boy opened his mouth, but his courage failed him, and with his courage
went the words he would have spoken.
"Who is this?" asked Bladen.
"I'll tell, you presently," said Crenshaw. "Come, speak up, sonny, what do
you want?"
"Please, sir, I want this here old spo'tin' rifle," said: the child. "Please,
sir, I want to keep it," he added.
"Well, you run along on out of here with your old spo'tin' rifle!" said
Crenshaw good-naturedly.
"Please, sir, am I to keep it?"
"Yes, I reckon you may keep it—least I've no objection." Crenshaw glanced at
Bladen.
"Oh, by all means," said the latter. Spasms of delight shook the small
figure, and with a murmur that was meant for thanks he backed from the room,
closing the door. Bladen glanced inquiringly at Crenshaw.
"You want to know about him, sir? Well, that's Hannibal Wayne Hazard."
"Hannibal Wayne Hazard?" repeated Bladen.
"Yes, sir; the general was the authority on that point, but who Hannibal
Wayne Hazard is and how he happens to be at the Barony is another mystery—just
wait a minute, sir—" and quitting his chair Mr. Crenshaw hurried from the room
to return almost immediately with a tall countryman. "Mr. Bladen, this is Bob
Yancy. Bob, the gentleman, wants to hear about the woman and the child; that's
your story."
"Howdy, sir," said Mr. Yancy. He appeared to meditate on the mental effort
that was required of him, then he took a long breath. "It was this a-ways—" he
began with a soft drawl, and then paused. "You give me the dates, Mr. John, fo'
I disremember."
"It was four year ago come next Christmas," said Crenshaw.
"Old Christmas," corrected Mr. Yancy. "Our folks always kept the old
Christmas like it was befo' they done mussed up the calendar. I'm agin all
changes," added Mr. Yancy.
"He means the fo'teenth of December," explained Mr. Crenshaw.
"Not wishin' to dispute your word, Mr. John, I mean Christmas," objected
Yancy.
"Oh, very well, he means Christmas then!" said Crenshaw.
"The evening befo', it was, and I'd gone to Fayetteville to get my Christmas
fixin's; there was right much rain and some snow falling." Mr. Yancy's guiding
light was clearly accuracy. "Just at sundown I hooked up that blind mule of mine
to the cart and started fo' home. As I got shut of the town the stage come in
and I seen one passenger, a woman. Now that mule is slow, Mr. John; I'm free to
say there are faster mules, but a set of harness never went acrost the back of a
slower critter than that one of mine." Yancy, who thus far had addressed himself
to Mr. Crenshaw, now turned to Bladen. "That mule, sir, sees good with his right
eye, but it's got a gait like it was looking fo' the left-hand side of the road
and wondering what in thunderation had got into it that it was acrost the way;
mules are gifted with some sense, but mighty little judgment."
"Never mind the mule, Bob," said Crenshaw.
"If I can't make the gentleman believe in the everlasting slowness of that
mule of mine, my story ain't worth a hill of beans," said Yancy.
"The extraordinary slowness of the mule is accepted without question, Mr.
Yancy," said Bladen.
"I'm obliged to you," rejoined Yancy, and for a brief moment he appeared to
commune with himself, then he continued. "A mile out of town I heard some one
sloshing through the rain after me; it was dark by that time and I couldn't see
who it was, so I pulled up and waited, and then I made out it was a woman. She
spoke when she was alongside the cart and says, 'Can you drive me on to the
Barony?' and it came to me it was the same woman I'd seen leave the stage. When
I got down to help her into the cart I saw she was toting a child in her arms."
"What did the woman look like, Bob?" said Crenshaw.
"She wa'n't exactly old and she wa'n't young by no manner of means; I
remember saying to myself, that child ain't yo's, whose ever it is. Well, sir, I
was willing enough to talk, but she wa'n't, she hardly spoke until we came to
the red gate, when she says, 'Stop, if you please, I'll walk the rest of the
way.' Mind you, she'd known without a word from me we were at the Barony. She
give me a dollar, and the last I seen of her she was hurrying through the rain
toting the child in her arms."
Mr. Crenshaw took up the narrative.
"The niggers say the old general almost had a fit when he saw her. Aunt
Alsidia let her into the house; I reckon if Joe had been alive she wouldn't have
got inside that door, spite of the night!"
"Well?" said Bladen.
"When morning come she was gone, but the child done stayed behind; we always
reckoned the lady walked back to Fayetteville sometime befo' day and took the
stage. I've heard Aunt Alsidia tell as how the old general said that morning,
pale and shaking like, 'You'll find a boy asleep in the red room; he's to be fed
and cared fo', but keep him out of my sight. His name is Hannibal Wayne Hazard.'
That is all the general ever said on the matter. He never would see the boy,
never asked after him even, and the boy lived in the back of the house, with the
niggers to look after him. Now, sir, you know as much as we know, which is just
next door to nothing."
The old general was borne across what had once been the west lawn to his
resting-place in the neglected acre where the dead and gone of his race lay, and
the record of the family was complete, as far as any man knew. Crenshaw watched
the grave take shape with a melancholy for which he found no words, yet if words
could have come from the mist of ideas in which his mind groped vaguely he would
have said that for themselves the deeds of the Quintards had been given the
touch of finality, and that whether for good or for evil, the consequences, like
the ripple which rises from the surface of placid waters when a stone is
dropped, still survived somewhere in the world.
The curious and the idle drifted back to the great house; then the memory of
their own affairs, not urgent, generally speaking, but still of some casual
interest, took them down the disused carriage-way to the red gate and so off
into the heat of the summer day. Crenshaw's wagon, driven by Crenshaw's man,
vanished in a cloud of gray dust with the two old slaves, Aunt Alsidia and Uncle
Ben, who were being taken to the Crenshaw place to be cared for pending the
settlement of the Quintard estate. Bladen parted from Crenshaw with expressions
of pleasure at having had the opportunity of making his acquaintance, and
further delivered himself of the civil wish that they might soon meet again.
Then Crenshaw, assisted by Bob Yancy, proceeded to secure the great house
against intrusion.
"I make it a p'int to always stay and see the plumb finish of a thing,"
explained Yancy. "Otherwise you're frequently put out by hearing of what
happened after you left; I can stand anything but disapp'intment of that kind."
They passed from room to room securing doors and windows, and at last stepped
out upon the back porch.
"Hullo!" said Yancy, pointing.
There on a bench by the kitchen door was a small figure. It was Hannibal
Wayne Hazard asleep, with his old spo'tin' rifle across his knees. His very
existence had been forgotten.
"Well, I declare to goodness!" said Crenshaw.
"What are you going to do with him, Mr. John?"
This question nettled Crenshaw.
"I don't know as that is any particular affair of mine," he said. Now, Mr.
Crenshaw, though an excellent man of business, with an unblinking eye on number
one, was kindly, on the whole, but there was a Mrs. Crenshaw, to whom he
rendered a strict account of all his deeds, and that sacred institution, the
home, was only a tolerable haven when these deeds were nicely calculated to fit
with the lady's exactions. Especially was he aware that Mrs. Crenshaw was averse
to children as being inimical to cleanliness and order, oppressive virtues that
drove Crenshaw himself in his hours of leisure to the woodshed, where he might
spit freely.
"I reckon you'd rather drop a word with yo' missus before you toted him
home?" suggested Yancy, who knew something of the nature of his friend's
domestic thraldom.
"A woman ought to be boss in her own house," said Crenshaw.
"Feelin' the truth of that, I've never married, Mr. John; I do as I please
and don't have to listen to a passel of opinion. But I was going to say, what's
to hinder me from toting that boy to my home? There are no calico petticoats
hanging up in my closets."
"And no closets to hang 'em in, I'll be bound!" rejoined Crenshaw. "But if
you'll take the boy, Bob, you shan't lose by it."
Yancy rested a big knotted hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Come, wake up, sonny! Yo' Uncle Bob is ready fo' to strike out home," he
said. The child roused with a start and stared into the strange bearded face
that was bent toward him. "It's yo' Uncle Bob," continued Yancy in a wheedling
tone. "Are you the little nevvy what will help him to hook up that old blind
mule of hisn? Here, give us the spo'tin' rifle to tote!"
"Please, sir, where is Aunt Alsidia?" asked the child.
Yancy balanced the rifle on his great palm and his eyes assumed a speculative
cast.
"I wonder what's to hinder us from loading this old gun, and firing this old
gun, and hearing this old gun go-bang! Eh?"
The child's blue eyes grew wide.
"Like the guns off in the woods?" he asked, in a breathless whisper.
"Like the guns a body hears off in the woods, only louder—heaps louder," said
Yancy. "You fetch out his plunder, Mr. John," he added in a lower tone.
"Do it now, please," the child cried, slipping off the bench.
"I was expectin' fo' to hear you name me Uncle Bob, sonny; my little nevvies
get almost anything they want out of me when they call me that-a-ways."
"Please, Uncle Bob, make it go bang!"
"You come along, then," and Mr. Yancy moved off in the direction of his mule,
the child following. "Powder's what we want fo' to make this old spo'tin' rifle
talk up, and I reckon we'll find some in a horn flask in the bottom of my cart."
His expectations in this particular were realized, and he loaded the rifle with
a small blank charge. "Now," he said, shaking the powder into the pan by a
succession of smart taps on the breech, "sometimes these old pieces go off and
sometimes they don't; it depends on the flint, but you stand back of your Uncle
Bob, sonny, and keep yo' fingers out of yo' ears, and when you say—bang!—off she
goes."
There was a moment of delightful expectancy, and then—
"Bang!" cried the child, and on the instant the rifle cracked. "Do it again!
Please, Uncle Bob!" he cried, wild with delight.
"Now if you was to help yo' Uncle Bob hook up that old mule of hisn and ride
home with him, fo' he's going pretty shortly, you and Uncle Bob could do right
much shootin' with this old rifle." Mr. Crenshaw had appeared with a bundle,
which he tossed into the cart. Yancy turned to him. "If you meet any inquiring
friends, Mr. John, I reckon you may say that my nevvy's gone fo' to pay me a
visit. Most of his time will be agreeably spent shootin' with this rifle at a
mark, and me holdin' him so he won't get kicked clean off his feet."
Thereafter beguiling speech flowed steadily from Mr. Yancy's bearded lips, in
the midst of which relations were established between the mule and cart, and the
boy quitted the Barony for a new world.
"Do you reckon if Uncle Bob was to let you, you could drive, sonny?"
"Can she gallop?" asked the boy.
Mr. Yancy gave him a hurt glance.
"She's too much of a lady to do that," he said. "No, I 'low this ain't 'so
fast as running or walking, but it's a heap quicker than standing stock-still."
The afternoon sun waned as they went deeper and deeper into the pine woods, but
at last they came to their journey's end, a widely scattered settlement on a
hill above a branch.
"This," said Mr. Yancy, "are Scratch Hill, sonny. Why Scratch Hill? Some say
it's the fleas; others agin hold it's the eternal bother of making a living
here, but whether fleas or living you scratch fo' both."