The Master of the Hills: A Tale of the Georgia Mountains

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Foreword

It was during a stay in the rugged portion of the Georgia mountains that I was unexpectedly led to study the lives of the quaint people of that region, and I found them to be as entirely cut off from the rest of America as though they were a part of another hemisphere. I came to comprehend that these men understood our laws as little as Society understands the character of the man of the mountains who is forced for a living into the precarious business of moonshining. Closer touch with these silent, proud, sensitive people proved their absolute ignorance of conditions since the time of the Revolution. The code of individuality and liberty fought for by their fathers has been handed down to them untouched, and in the isolation of their mountain fastness they still fight to maintain that principle.^ The thin mountain soil has bred a poverty of conditions that is unbelievable. Away from progress and enlightenment many have degenerated hopelessly; but the majority of these men of wit and honor only await the opportunity of education to take their place among the best Americans.

The object of this book is to portray representative types from the groups that people the waste places of the mountains from Georgia to Virginia, and to awaken an interest in Americans for Americans. In these pages I leave these moimtain folk to speak for

themselves.

..

vu

Chapter I

TO think the boys have actually sailed!" And Polly Pockets turned from the cozy group in the old-fashioned library, humming under her breath as she ran to the window, "And bringing a real live Marquis home ! *On marriage bent,' too 1"

But the mood changed at sight of the unromantic lawn.

"I wish it would stop raining. First impressions always prejudice one" — she thrummed poutingly on the pane — "and dripping trees are not conducive to romance. Why can't it clear up and turn warmer?" The girl sighed, and returned to her seat before the fire. She opened her book, but her girlish imagination ran through pages of meaningless words, while outside the wind moaned drearily.

The spring of 1858 came late and moodily on the hills and valleys of central Georgia. The first March winds that should have hurried to bring into blossoms every thicket and garden swept down from the winterbound mountains of the North with chilly touch, paralyzing the trees and shrubs.

The plantations reaching out on all sides from Athens were waiting under watery skies in the aftermath of the brief winter for sunshine and the hand of the sower. From these acres the town of Athens drew its wealth, while the city homes of the gentlemen planters protectingly spread their square roofs and raised their white pillars under virgin oaks and secluded themselves in prodigal gardens.

But the gardens were now bare, except for the gay banners that the yellow jessamine flaunted from the deserted summer houses, or for the flash of purple hyacinth and golden narcissus in the borders. They sent delicious whiffs of perfume into the chilly air. The oaks, older than the oldest homes, etched their skeleton figures to the finest tips of their budded twigs against the late evening sky.

All the vistas were clear to the University buildings, the core of the life of the town. This little University was the symbol and outward evidence of the ideal which had drawn the rich farmers from their ancestral acres into the closer bonds of community life.

Ever since the University opened its doors in 1801, the lecture room and campus had defined and colored the intellectual and social life of the town. But sons of wealthy families still went to England for a finishing touch, supplemented by many visits to old-world relatives and vacations spent in continental travel. The University, however, isolated and short of many resources of the larger educational institutions, even of that day, yet sent forth an atmosphere in the little city which was felt not only in the lives of the planters who drew with proprietary intimacy close to her walls, but in the homes of merchants and trades people thriving in the expanding community.

On a rise stood the Warner Mansion, a fine type of the older builder's art. Built not for the fashion and use of a lifetime, but planned for sons and grandsons, it gave solidarity to family character, adding honor to the name.

From the Warner windows cheerful lights began to glow in the early twilight. In the library the servants fed the fire with dry hickory. Judge Warner sat close by the table, absorbed in his paper. The old Judge was a friend to man, and all the countless unremembered acts of a good man's life had wrought upon his features a fine nobility of countenance. The years had whitened his abimdant hair. His deep-set hazel eyes, that in moments of banter flashed with fun, now wore an expression of deep thought

"Oh, Uncle, put down that paper, and let's talk about the boys' coming home," and Polly Pockets pushed a stool near his feet and sat upon it, reaching as she settled herself for the paper.

"Wait! Wait a moment, little Polly; I must read this fire-eating speech of Yancy's to the end."

The Judge turned back to his paper, and silence settled again upon the group. Finally Mrs. Warner closed her book and beckoned to Polly.

"Ho, hoi What's that you two are saying?" The head of the house yawned, laid the paper on the table, and without waiting for a reply leaned forward with earnestness. "I'm afraid that in some things Yancy, fire-eater though he be, is right" He stood before the fire, holding the frock of his coat away from the blaze. "But the practical application of his ideas means the destruction of the nation. Still there must be some solution found which will harmonize conflicting thought and interests. If not, our sacrifice will have been in vain — ^and the Missouri Compromise a failure."

"Why, Uncle, you stumped the state for Governor Cobb on the sole issue of the Missouri Compromise."

"My little Polly, I espoused the cause of Governor Cobb because he strove with master loyalty to maintain the equilibrium of the states — ^to preserve the unity of the land. He did it in the face of criticism and opposition, and he accomplished it. I thank God I had a hand in his sweeping election that not only vindicated the honor of his statesmanship, but proved the majority of the state to be sane in their attitude to the Union."

"Don't talk law and politics any more. Let's read the letters again. I'm so happy, I cannot remember a thing but that they have already sailed." And Polly Pockets covered her face with her hands and laughed hysterically.

"What? Why, weVe already read them twice," and he opened one of the letters apparently as an indulgence to his niece.

"No, Aunt Mary will read them this time — ^you skip if it's hard to make out."

With mock submission he handed the two foreign

THE MASTER OF THE HILLS S

packets to his wife, and settled in the comfortable hollow of the library chair, chuckling over the figure his son and nephew made at the court of Louis Napoleon.

it

Paris, Feb. 15, 1858.

My dear Uncle:

"We returned here through an invitation amounting to a command from Cousin Louise, who was absent from Paris on our former visit. And, by the way, you would never remember she was English. Fifty years in France has turned the course of her circulation Frenchward until she is enough like the Count to be of his own blood. Both suffer from the infirmities of three-score and ten, but it is unacknowledged. They are always at their place at court.

"Needless to say we have lent ourselves to her charming demands, all except matrimonial schemes. The soft voices of our Southern girls carry across the ocean — so do not worry.

"Oh, apropos, tell Polly Pockets we are bringing home a real live Marquis! Matrimonially bent, too! He is Cousin Louise's nephew, or rather her husband's — the Marquis Henri de La)me.

"This news should put the town in a flutter. Tell Polly to whisper it confidentially to old Mrs. Williams so that it may be properly spread abroad before our arrival. Don't bother about brushing up your French ; our guest speaks English like a native — educated at Oxford. He's a splendid fellow — z. fairy godfather to us.

"Now to business — I am ready. Uncle, to assume the duties of my father's estate — both Polly Pockets's share and my own if you desire it. My conscience has sorely tormented me that I was not at home to celebrate my majority in removing this burden from you. I shall expect to go in harness on arrival, which is not far away now. For I long to prove to you and my beloved Aunt that the wisdom and love with which you have sheltered Polly Pockets and me is not lost.

"Tell Aunt and Polly they will be glad to see the trunks we are bringing. Cousin Louise insists they must have an extra one from Paris. Tell Polly she will have to arrange more potketsf

"With remembrances to friends, howdy to the servants, and love to each of you dear ones, I am

"Your affectionate nephew,

"Robert Nov."

A stillness settled upon the circle about the hearth as they sought to enjoy to the fullest the flavor of this choice bit before steeping themselves in the pleasures of the next.

"Wonderful boys — splendid men," murmured the Judge as he settled down in the deep hollow of the winged chair. "True types of the American cavalier, every six foot of them." He rubbed his hands together in happy nervousness. "I know how to raise boys — but if I had listened to my wife they would have been bridled with blinds to keep out the glare of temptation — ^would have been deprived of all the masculine prerogatives of development, and out of imusual material would have developed into a couple of insignificant girl-men. My boys are all right — I have banked on the fine temper of their hearts."

Before Mrs. Wamer^s mind there appeared the laughing faces of her two boys — ^her sister's son and her own; and surely there was no difference between them in her motherly heart. Her Joe's fair complexion and auburn hair, which Polly called red; her Robert's olive coloring and black curls with the cow-lick part on the wrong side. How she remembered the tears that cow-lick part had cost, and how Joe magnanimously consented to appease Robert by brushing his shaggy locks on the same side. Her boys, both of them. And she shook out the fluffy mass of her knitting, tuning her thoughts to the rh)rthmic click of the needles.

Polly Pockets wrestled with the thought of the Marquis. After a mental inventory of her frocks, she decided exactly how she would appear the first week of his arrival. Indeed she was already rehearsing the introduction; she could hear her brother say, And this is my little sister, Polly Pockets."

Oh," she cried out in resentment, "don't let the boys call me Polly Pockets before the Marquis !"

Her auditors started from their reveries.

"What shall we call you, Mary Elizabeth?" And Mrs. Warner laid her work aside and reached for Polly's soft little hand.

"Oh, I don't mind the Polly part of it so much," she said in gentler tones, moving her chair closer to her Aunt's and chafing nervously that lady's thin white fingers. "It's the Pockets nickname that sounds so foolish, and I will not be introduc-»d to strangers, particularly to a foreign nobleman, as *Miss Polly Pockets.' I will not ! I will not I" She rushed over to the Judge, threw herself into his lap and, fastening her arms around his neck, laid down the law of petty tyranny.

"Well, well," he laughed, "does this mean that I am to lay violent hands on any one calling you other than Mary Elizabeth?"

She released her arms about his neck, and sadly resumed her chair.

"Now, Uncle, you teasing me, too? I suppose I shall die with that terrible name still clinging to me, even inscribed on my tombstone."

"Oh, no, little Pol, little Mary Elizabeth, forgive your old Uncle, and leave those scapegoat boys to me.

Why, ru ''

But the quiet smile on Mrs. Warner's face checked the wildness of his threat. He unconsciously mopped his forehead with his big red silk handkerchief and changed the subject.

"Why, look here; we've forgotten about Joe's *Indian' letter ; this will never do ; Mary, my dear, begin Joe's letter at once."

Mrs. Warner smiled again at the two, and began :

"You see, dearest Mother, we are returning home by a different route. Certain complications made it necessary. Cousin Louise is badly upset by our sudden departure; wound up by going to bed and calling in the Doctor. A little affair of Henri's necessitated haste, but do not let this prejudice you against him. He is the most delightful and wonderful man I ever saw. He has served under five flags, and is but lately from India where, as an attache of some French general, was included in the royal entertainments the Rajah gave to some foreign prince, I do not remember who. You must get him to describe it to you. Wonderful ! I can't begin to tell his thrilling experiences nor his miraculous escapes, too — just innocent trouble. We are entranced with him, and can hardly wait to share him with you; particularly, Polly will enjoy him.

"Please have a niunber-one body servant for him. My

Zeek's brother Jim ought to be good, and don't forget to have Zeek and Tom meet us at the boat in Savannah.

"Howdy to all the servants, especially to Zeek, and with tender affection to each of you, I am

"Your son

"Joseph Warner."

The third reading of Joe's letter fotmd Polly Pockets worked up to tearful imhappiness in fear lest her nickname would spoil the first impressions of the Marquis.

The Judge looked gently reproachful.

"Why, my child, I never knew your sane little head to be so full of silly thoughts before."

*T can't help it, and you simply must meet the boat at Savannah and lay down the law to the boys before they even start up-country. You will, won't you ?"

The indulgent uncle made every concession and diplomatically intrenched himself behind a small mountain of manuscript.

"I must finish this opinion to-night. And you, little girl," pinching her cheek, "must be planning all sorts of matrimonial campaigns. Three young gentlemen on your hands — ^why bless me, one needs sleep to build up enough strength to outwit old soldiers like Mrs. Williams and her army of pretty kinswomen."

Polly walked slowly to the door, then softly crept back behind her uncle, placed her hands over his eyes and her mouth close to his ear.

"Robert and Joe must not know that I have taken up Greek. No, they mustn't" — she squeezed his neck lo THE MASTER OF THE HILLS

— "they'll make the Marquis think me a *blue stocking/ and every other sort of horrid thing.*'

Polly Noy, just seventeen years old, already realized what every woman of her generation accepted, namely, that a taste for "higher learning" and womanly charms were incompatible ideals, and romance was opening a vista to a magical domain in Polly's excited imagination. She shuddered even to recall the unlovely and unloved figure of a "literary blue stocking." She squeezed her tmde tighter and tighter around the neck.

"Promise."

"I promise that if I hear a word on the subject, even though you read Sanskrit, Vl\ cane them both."

"Cross your heart in earnest."

The oath was taken and a happy little girl ran up the steps singing.

Once in her room, PoU/s mind reverted to her wardrobe. Aggie, who had been nodding before the fire, awoke with the rustle of her mistress' skirts, and was wide-eyed at the stream of excitement that poured into her ears.

Far into the night Polly's thoughts still ran upon the new clothes in the trimks to arrive; she arranged parties with exactly the proper situations. Joe and Robert must never be near herself and the Marquis. Oh, if she could only avoid their inevitable teasing!

What if they should call her Polly Pockets to the Marquis and tell why?

Tears of anger sprang at the cruelty of such a name to follow one through life; such a foolish beginning, too, way back almost in babyhood.

THE MASTER OF THE HILLS ii

Distinctly she recalled the occasion of its be^nning ; it was at the funeral of her widowed mother. She again saw herself and Robert walking up the long church aisle between her uncle and aunt. Their minds were absorbed with the revivification of their mother, which the superstitious negroes told them would occur with a given sign from the minister. Unconsciously the plaintive dirge the negro voices had wailed took possession of her :

My Mistis gone, but she ain't never die,

O Lawd — O Lawdyl Dean put her in de groun* — caze she sho' gwinter fly,

O Lawd— O Lawdyl Whin Mars Prcach'r blow dat horn,

O Lawd — O Lawdy!

Mistis gwinter rise sho' as you is bo'n,

O Lawd— O Lawdyl

On and on the verses ran, framing a story so fantastic that their childish grief was submerged in the anticipation of alarming excitement. She felt the tired fidgety feeling of her little legs dangling from the high pews, the continuous unmeaning words of the service and no horn in sight. She remembered how she fain would have drawn her feet up and gone to sleep, but for the exciting thought of changing her home to "Joe's house," and, as though in sympathy, Robert whispered :

"Fm going to sleep in Joe's room, Polly, every night"

And she, who adored her aunt, bent close to his ear and whispered back :

I'm going to sleep in a bed right by Aunt Mar/s,

"I' too."

I'm going to sleep in Joe's room forever and ever, too. And I'm going swimming and fishing with him every day."

"I don't care; I'm going to have two pockets in all my frocks."

"I've already got two." And his hands went into his pockets and pulled them wrong side out.

"Yes, but you haven't got anything in yours. I've got my Mama's thimble and a knife and two pieces of candy," letting the candy peep from the tiny pocket.

"They're mine," softly whined Robert, but Polly fastened her hand tightly over the pocket and, cuddling closer to Mrs. Warner, drew a part of that lady's flowing crepe over her tiny face.

"Gimme my knife and candy, Polly Noy ; I just gave them to you because you said Mama was dead and you didn't have anything to play with."

Polly drew farther away, and revealed another piece of candy, this time of a brown color. The whispers threatened to become audible as the disappointed boy clutched her hand.

"You haven't eaten yours, and you've got mine, too I Gimme my candy, I tell you." This he emphasized with a pinch.

"Aunt Mary!" she cried.

"Uncle, Polly's got a dress full of pockets with "

Whereupon comforting arms drew each to a loving heart, while the congregation sobbed in audible sympathy. Robert took advantage of the confusion and taunted in Polly's ear :

"Your name's Polly Pockets ; I'm going to tell Joe ; we are going to call you old Polly Pockets forever and ever."

And so they had, and the real hurt of the situation was, she had continued to have pockets in her frocks, as many as the wide folds of her gathered skirts admitted. She loved pockets. Again the tears fell.

"Aggie— Aggie!"

"Ma'm," came the sleepy voice from the pallet.

"Please wake up, I can't sleep."

"Lawd, honey Mistis, jes tu'n yo'se'f on de uth'r side, an' play like yer got ter git up— an' yer'U go ter sleep 'fo' yer knows hit"

N

Chapter II

' I^HE gladness in Polly's heart scattered itself -■• through the University. The coming of the Marquis de Layne was a matter of ardent interest to the entire community. Touches of paint and new furnishings in staid old mansions bespoke entertainment planned for the distinguished guest.

By the end of March the red hills of Georgia were sweet with honeysuckle and the garden borders of Warner Mansion were blue with violets.

As the high-swung family coach with four irongray horses turned in through the big gates, two dozen or more negroes suddenly sprang from the house, stables and gardens, shouting: "Heah come Marster f'um Savanner wid de boys!" *'Howdy, Mars JoeT' "Howdy, Mars Robert 1" They scattered themselves all along the avenue up to the mansion.

At the sound of negro voices, Mrs. Warner and Polly rushed to the already open front doors. Polly could hardly restrain herself from flying down the steps like a child, and only the well-mapped plan of introduction to the Marquis detained her. But as the coach door opened, and the steps fell in place, and Robert's foot appeared, Polly's form of meeting was dashed to the winds.

She ran to the top step, and would have bounded down to the carriage, had not her knees given out

She leaned for an instant to steady herself against one of the high fluted pillars of the veranda, and in the next Robert and Joe had lifted her bodily from the floor. She clung with an arm on each, forgetful of the nobleman, until Judge Warner reminded her.

"I have the honor of presenting to my niece, Miss Mary Elizabeth Noy, the Marquis de Layne."

In a twinkling Polly was in the realms of romance. Her heart stopped, as she told the peeping Aggie afterwards.

She beheld him as the prince of her childish fairy stories. His low forehead hidden by brown wavy hair — ^the bluish tinge to the whites of his eyes concealed beneath long languorous lashes were unnoticed in the beauty of his mouth and teeth, which were relieved of effeminacy by a tiny waxed mustache and imperial.

At dinner he surpassed himself, not only in thrilling narratives, but also in charming anecdotes that turned on Robert and Joe at the French court.

Polly was entranced; she barely made a pretense of eating until the subject changed to politics. To her this theme fell like a blighting frost upon the conversational brilliancy.

"State Sovereignty, let us have this.** The Marquis' interest seemed to deepen as Judge Warner, without passion, expounded the principles of State's Rights.

Polly looked imploringly at her aunt, who withdrew with her to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their wine and politics.

"Isn't it a shame that politics has to ruin every conversation--every party— everything !**

"Why, Polly" — Mrs. Warner seated herself on a small rosewood sofa — "I thought you loved to hear your uncle's conservative views of our national problems."

"Yes, I did once, but now that I know all about them," she laughed, "it bores me to death."

"Are you sure it is that?"

Polly blushed, and sprang impulsively towards her aunt. She tripped in a flounce of her skirt and, falling in the circumscribed space, caused an entangling collision of hoop-skirts.

"Mercy! We are fortunate the gentlemen are not present."

Polly laughed until the tears came. Mrs. Warner retreated with dignity towards the center of the room.

"Come back, dear ; we can sit here together -perfectly ; it was my fault ; come back."

But Mrs. Warner, suspicious of the girl's high spirits, made her way still farther in the direction of the piano. She lightly ran her hands over the introduction to the Carnival of Venice, and challenged her niece to an accompaniment on the harp.

"No, dear, I cannot play prosaic selections to-night." She balanced the harp gracefully before her and touched the strings lightly. "Shall it be 'Drink to me only with thine eyes ?' "

Without waiting for response, she struck the chords. Her rich mezzo voice, blending with the delicate strains of the harp, drifted from one tender ballad to another, until interrupted by the arrival of the gentlemen, the face of the delighted Frenchman foremost among them. Instantly Polly rose, the little curls about her ears shaking in her haste to leave the instrument.

"Please, Mademoiselle, do not stop. We want the Lorelei, even though it means our destruction.**

"Have no fear. Monsieur le Marquis, the craft of hospitality sails only the safe waters of friendship."

"But there are many tempting outlets to those calm waters into which one may unconsciously drift if '*

"If the moon is bright?" She moved towards the fateful sofa. He bowed in his foreign manner before her. "Will Mademoiselle Noy sing to me one song in my native tongue ?"

Just touching the tips of her fingers, he led her back to the harp, where French songs, German, Scotch and Irish followed, inviting by their pathos, fun or sentiment the deep bass of Joe, or the clear appealing tones of Robert's tenor, and sometimes luring a chorus from all.

"As I was about to say. Monsieur le Marquis, when we were interrupted" — the Judge took up the thread of his discourse, while the Marquis regretfully turned his gaze from Polly — "my good neighbor Mr. Craigmore will show you another side of our Southern politics; he is what is called a rabid secessionist, a fire-eater, sir, a "

Polly looked hopelessly towards the boys, whose eyes snapped at the situation.

'"Uncle, it is twelve o'clock" — ^the girl faced him with a warning finger — "and you have driven us all to our rooms by your horrid politics." She kissed him on both cheeks. "Come on, Aunt Mary; he's driven us away again.''

De Layne bent and lightly touched his lips to her hand.

"To-morrow, Mademoiselle."

Polly blushed furiously, and gave a little nod of assent as she hastened from the taunting smiles of Robert and Joe.

It did not dawn upon Polly that the happy days and weeks that followed in lavish entertainment for the boys and their guests were pushing the Frenchman to an impatience difficult to hide. That behind his delight in her presence, in fact with the community in general, the desire for exciting diversion gnawed in unrelenting appetite, in fact to passion.

He missed the intrigues and hazards of his old life. He was ready at times to jeopardize the displeasure of his angry Sovereign for the sheer joy of outwitting him. But all adventures paled beside the excitement of gambling.

Through his affections for his Aunt, the old Countess, he had honestly striven against this master passion. "My dear Henri," she had wept, "would you deprive us of our power? Would you relegate our old age to poverty ? our estates to crumble in ruins as you have left the home of your father's to do? Ah, mon Dieu ! why will you not marry Julie de Livre, restore the chateau, and become a devoted husband?"

A wave of revolt had swept over him at the thought of Julie and money.

Yet even as his aunt's pleadings drifted through his thoughts, Polly strangely took the place of Julie de Livre. He started. Was it possible that he wanted to become a devoted husband after all? Had Polly really taken his heart before he had had time to calculate her wealth ? To be sure, she had left some very rich crumbs for smaller flirtations among the rare galaxy of Southern beauties, for Polly was not beautiful. Her Roman nose, strong chin and broad high forehead, effective in Robert's face, was not pretty when reproduced in feminine design. And yet her mass of reddish-brown hair, her vivacity and ready wit, nay, brilliancy, pleaded a check to criticism.

He would not be ashamed to present her at court. In fact, by her unusual mentality she would form a screen to hide certain unsightly portions of his life. But why dwell on it ? He would retrieve all his failures when he married her.

But she did not respond to his gallantries according to French custom. She was elusive, a constant contradiction. He thought her sentimental, when, contrariwise, she was practical. Nor did that young lady intend that the Marquis should know that since the gloaming of the first soft spring evening, when he had led her to the little jessamine-covered summer house, she felt the doors of her dream castle flung wide. And though she listened in rapturous fantasy, her self-esteem demanded a longer siege, a certain amount of suspense and suflFering on his part, that in the end he should really appreciate his victory.

Polly began to encourage attention from all her suitors, men she otherwise would not have troubled to entertain. From a budding "blue stocking," she blossomed into an arch-coquette.

For months Henri suffered the test of her t3rranny. Returning late from a walk one midsummer afternoon, they sauntered over the lawn, turning as though towards the rose garden. By the Marquis' direction they crossed instead to the little vine-covered retreat near by. Instinctively the girl demurred, but Henri's voice softening enticed her to recklessness.