THE STARBUCKS

[5]

A New Novel by Opie Read

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[7]

ILLUSTRATIONS

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"THE STARBUCKS."

[From the Drama of the Same Name.]

CHAPTER I.

THE PEOPLE OF THE HILLS.

In every age of the world people who live close to nature have, by the more cultivated, been classed as peculiar. An ignorant nation is brutal, but an uneducated community in the midst of an enlightened nation is quaint, unconsciously softened by the cultivation and refinement of institutions that lie far away. In such communities live poets with lyres attuned to drollery. Moved by the grandeurs of nature, the sunrise, the sunset, the storm among the mountains, the tiller of the gullied hill-side field is half dumb, but with those apt "few words which are seldom spent in vain," he charicatures his own sense of beauty, mingling rude metaphor with the language of "manage" to a horse.

I find that I am speaking of a certain community in Tennessee. And perhaps no deductions drawn from a general view of civilization would apply to[10] these people. Some of their feuds, it is said, may be traced back to the highlands of Scotland, and it is true that many of their expressions seem to come from old books which they surely have never read, but they do not eat oats, nor do they stand in sour awe of Sunday. What religion they have is a pleasure to them. In the log meeting-house they pray and sing, sometimes with a half-open eye on a fellow to be "thrashed" on the following day for not having voted as he agreed; "Amen" comes fervently from a corner made warm by the ardor of the repentant sinner; "Hallelujah!" is shouted from the mourner's bench, and a woman in nervous ecstasy pops her streaming hair; but the average man has come to talk horse beneath the trees, and the young fellow with sun-burnt down on his lip is there slily to hold the hand of a maid frightened with happiness and boastingly to whisper shy words of love.

"Do you like Sam Bracken?" he inquires.

"Not much."

"If you like him much, I bet I can whup him. Like Steve Smith?"[11]

"Not so powerful well."

"I can whup him."

"Bet you can't."

"You wait."

And the chances are that unless she modifies her statement the Smith boy will be compelled to answer for the crime of her compliment.

In this community, in the edge of what is known as East Tennessee, the memory of Andrew Jackson is held in deepest reverence. To those people he was as a god-like hero of antiquity. Single-handed he defeated the British at New Orleans. Nicholas Biddle, a great banker somewhere away off yonder, had gathered all the money in the land, and it was Jackson who compelled him to disgorge, thus not only establishing himself as the master of war, but as the crusher of men who oppress the poor.

Prominent in the neighborhood of Smithfield, a town of three or four hundred inhabitants, was Jasper Starbuck. Earlier in his life he had whipped every man who stood in need of that kind of train[12]ing. Usually of a blythesome nature, he was subject to fits of melancholy, only to be relieved by some sort of physical entanglement with an enemy. Then, his "spell" having passed, he would betake himself to genial affairs, help a neighbor with his work, lend his chattels to shiftless farmers, cut wood and haul it for widows, and gathering children about him entertain them with stories of the great war.

And how dearly that war had cost him. East Tennessee did not tear itself loose from the Union; Andrew Johnson and Parson Brownlow, one a statesman and the other a fanatic, strangled the edicts of the lordly lowlanders and sent regiment after regiment to the Federal army. Among the first to enlist were old Jasper Starbuck and his twin boys. The boys did not come back. In the meantime their heart-broken mother died, and when the father returned to his desolate home, there was a grave beneath the tree where he had heard a sweet voice in the evening.

Years passed and he married again, a poor girl in need of a home; and at the time which serves[13] as the threshold of this history, he was sobered down from his former disposition to go out upon a "pilgrimage" of revenge. His "spells" had been cured by grief, but nothing could kill his humor. Drawling and peculiar, never boisterous, it was stronger than his passion and more enduring than the memory of a wrong. He was not a large man. A neighbor said that he was built after the manner of a wild-cat. He was of iron sinew and steel nerve. His eyes were black with a glint of their youthful devilishness. His thick hair was turning gray.

Margaret, his wife, was a tender scold. She was almost a foundling, but a believer in heredity could trace in her the evidences of good blood. From some old mansion, long years in ruin, a grace had escaped and come to her. An Englishman, traveling homeward from the defunct colony of Rugby, declared that she was an uncultivated duchess.

"This union was blessed,"—say the newspapers and story-books, speaking of a marriage,—"with a beautiful girl," or a "manly boy." Often this phrase is flattery, but sometimes, as in this instance, it is the truth. Lou Starbuck was beautiful. In her[14] earlier youth she was a delicious little riot of joy. As she grew older, she was sometimes serious with the thought that her father and mother had suffered. She loved the truth and believed that bravery was not only akin to godliness, but the right hand of godliness.

In Starbuck's household, or at least attached to his log-house establishment, there were two other persons, an old black mammy who had nursed Jasper, and a trifling negro named Kintchin.

One day in summer there came two notable visitors, Mrs. Mayfield, and her nephew Tom Elliott, both from Nashville, sister and son of a United States Judge. When they came to Jasper's house, they decided to go no further.

"Tom," said the woman, "this is the place we are looking for."

Tom caught sight of Lou Starbuck, standing in the doorway, and replied: "Auntie, I guess you are right."

The mere suggestion of taking boarders threw the household into a flurry, but Mrs. Mayfield, tall, graceful, handsome, threw her charm upon opposi[15]tion and it faded away. Old Jasper was not over cordial to "store clothes," at least he was not confidential, and with the keen whip of his eye he lashed Tom Elliott, but the boy appeared to be frank and manly.

"Of course you can stay as long as you want to," said Jasper, "but I reckon you'll have to put on some homespun and a checked hickory shirt or two, befo' you kin put up with our fare."

"Now, please, don't worry about that," Mrs. Mayfield spoke up. "We can eat parched corn if necessary. We have come from the city to rest, and—"

"Rest," Jasper broke in, looking at the young fellow. "Why, he don't look like he ever done anythin'. Never plowed a day in your life, did you?"

"I must confess that I haven't," Tom replied.

"Thar, I knowed it." And then speaking to Mrs. Mayfield, he added: "All right, mam, we'll do the best we kin fur you. Got the same names here that you had down whar you come from?"

Tom laughed. His aunt reproved him with a look. "Why, of course. What object would we have in changing them?"[16]

"Don't ask me, mam. I never know what object nobody has—ain't my business. Here, Kintchin," he called to the negro, "take them trunks outen the wagin and then you may go to sleep ag'in."

Kintchin came round a corner of the house, rubbing his eyes. "Talkin' ter me, suh?"

"You hearn me."

"Said suthin' erbout gwine ter sleep. I jest wanter tell you dat I ain't slep' none fur er week, an' ef you 'sinuate at me—"

"Go on there. Now mam, ef you'll jest step in we'll do the best we kin."

"Oh, thank you. How courteous you are."

"How what? I reckon you better git along without much o' that. Don't want nobody put on a strain. Margaret, here are some folks," he continued as his wife made her appearance. "Jest tell 'em howdy and let 'em alone."

She bowed to Tom and to Mrs. Mayfield. "And befo' you make yo'selves at home," she said, "I hope you'll l'arn not to pay no attention to Jasper. Lou, haven't you spoke to the folks?"

"No'm, but I can. Howdy."[17]

CHAPTER II.

JIM, THE PREACHER.

During the rest of the day the visitors were permitted to amuse themselves. Lou was shy, Margaret was distantly respectful and the old man went about in leisurely attendance upon his affairs, not yet wholly unsuspicious. A week before the arrival of the "folks from off yander," as the strangers were termed, there had come to Jasper's house a nephew, Jim Starbuck, a mountain-side preacher. His air bespoke that gentleness resultant of passion bound and gagged. At eighteen he had been known as the terror of the creek. Without avail old Jasper had argued with him, with fresh scalps dangling at his own belt. One night Jim turned a revival meeting into a fight with bench legs, beat a hard-hearted money lender until he was taken home almost a mass of pulp. At nineteen he turned a hapless school teacher out of the school house, nailed up the door, and because the teacher muttered against it, threw the pedagogue into the[18] creek. At twenty he seemed to hear a voice coming from afar. A man going to mill said that he saw Jim beside a log on his knees in the

woods, praying; he was called a liar, knocked down his insulter and went on with his grist. He had spoken the truth, for on the night following, Jim arose in the congregation, renounced his reckless ways, and with a defiance of the world that among the righteous awaked applause, he came forward and knelt at the mourners' bench. His religion "took," they said, as if speaking of vaccination, and before long he entered the pulpit, ready gently to crack the irreligious heads of former companions still stubborn in the ways of iniquity. From behind a plum bush, in the corner of the fence, he had seen Mrs. Mayfield and had blinked, as if dazzled by a great light. Nor was it till the close of day that he had the courage to come into her presence, and then for a moment he gazed—and vanished. Old Jasper found him mumbling beneath the moon.

"Lost anythin', Jim?"

"Nothing that I ever thought I had, Uncle Jasper."[19]

"Look like a man that is huntin' fur his terbacker."

"I've quit tobacco long ago, Uncle Jasper."

"Huh, give that up, too? Then you have been hit hard. But atter all, my boy, a lick that ain't hard don't count fur much. Understand I believe in yo' Book all right, but not as the most of 'em reads it. The most of 'em reads it so as to make you do the things you don't want to do, and what they want you to do. A good many of 'em think it was writ fur them ag'in you. Findin' new picturs on the moon, Jim? I don't see nuthin' new; same old feller a burnin' of his bresh, allus a puttin' 'em on the fire an' never gittin' through."

"I'm thinking, that's all, Uncle Jasper."

"Comes from readin' them books up on the hill-top, I reckon. They make me think, too, when I git a holt of 'em, 'specially them about the war—looks like it's a mighty hard matter for a man to tell the truth the minit he grabs holt of a pen. Don't see why a pen is such a liar, but it is. And yit, the biggist liar I ever seed couldn't more than[20] write his name. What do you think of them folks in thar, Jim?"

Jim strode off, came back and standing with one hand resting on the rail fence that surrounded the old man's door yard, hung his head and replied: "Old Satan sometimes puts good clothes on his temptations, Uncle Jasper."

"Why, you don't think that young feller's a nosin' round to—"

"I don't see anything mysterious in him, Uncle Jasper. It's the woman that—that strikes so hard."

"Huh. I didn't think you cared anythin' about women, Jim."

"Oh, I don't and you musn't think I do. Did you ever have a feller catch a spear out of the sun with a lookin' glass and shoot it through yo' eyes? That's the way she done me, as she was a standing there at the door."

"Wall, as game a feller as you are ain't afeared of a woman."

"I don't know about that. The gamer a feller is among men the fearder he is among women, it seems like. But what am I talking about? She[21] won't take any notice of me and in fact it won't make any difference if she does. I tell you, though, I don't like to be treated that way by a woman."

"Why, how did she treat you?"

"Looked something at me that made me dissatisfied with myself. I reckon I must be a good deal of a fool, Uncle Jasper."

"Wall, I don't reckon you are as smart as old Henry Clay was. Still you ain't no slouch. Come on in and I'll give you a knockin' down to her. She can't no mo' than hit you with somethin'."

When introduced Jim shied off into a corner and there during the evening he remained, gazing at the woman from "off yander," with scarcely courage enough to utter a word. Mrs. Mayfield inquired as to his church among the hills, and his countenance flared with a silly light and old Jasper ducked his head and snorted in the sleeve of his home-spun shirt. But the next morning Jim had the courage to appear at the breakfast table, still gazing; and later when Tom and his aunt went out for a walk, he followed along like a dog waiting to be scolded.[22]

Several days later, while old black mammy was ironing in the sitting room, Kintchin came in at the door which always stood open, and looking about, slowly went up to the old woman and inquired if she needed any more wood.

"No," she answered, not looking at him, "I's nearly done."

Kintchin scratched his head. "Wall, I jest come ter tell you dat ef you does need any mo' I knows er man dat'll git it fur you. Me. An' w'en er man fetches er lady de sort o' wood I'd fetch you, w'y she kin tell right dar whut he think o' her. Does you hyarken ter me?"

Mammy, slowly moving her iron, looked at him. "Whut de matter wid you, man? Ain't habin' spells, is you?"

"I's in lub, lady, dat's whut de matter wid me."

"In lub? In lub wid who?"

He leaned toward her. "Wid you."

"W'y you couldn't lub me," she said. "I's eighty odd an' you ain't but sixty. I's too old fur you. I doan want ter fool wid no chile."

Kintchin came closer and made an attempt to[23] take her hand, shrewdly watching the hot iron slowly moving over the bosom of a shirt. "I'll burn da black hide ef you doan git erway. You bodders me."

The old rascal assumed an air of great astonishment. "Whut, er man bodder er lady dat he lubs?"

"Didn't I tole you you couldn't lub me?"

"Couldn't lub you? Ain't you been er savin' yo' money all deze years, an' ef er man kain't lub er lady dat's been er savin' her money, who kin he lub?"

She gave him a look of contempt. "Oh, I knowd dar wuz er bug in de milk pan. It's my little bit o' money you's atter, but you ain't gwine ter git it. Dat money's ter bury me wid." And in a self-satisfied way she nodded at him and resumed her work.

Kintchin stepped back, the word 'bury' having thrown a temporary pall upon his cupidity, but soon he rallied and renewed his attack. "Funny dat er lady will save all her life long jest ter be buried. I doan blebe in deze yere 'spensive funuls nohow. Huh, an' you oughter hab ernuff by dis time ter[24] bury bof o' us. An' ef you says de word I'll be buried side o' you ter keep you comp'ny."

She ceased her work and looked at him. "I won't need no comp'ny. I'll be busy tellin' de Lawd 'bout de folks down yere. An, I gwine tell him, w'in I goes home."

She gathered up the clothes basket and went into an adjoining room, leaving Kintchin to muse alone. He heard the low whistle of a backwoodsman's improvised tune, and looking up, saw a man leaning against the door-facing. To the old negro the new comer was not a stranger. Once that big foot had kicked him out of the road, and lying in his straw bed the poor wretch had burned with resentment, cowed, helpless; and sleeping, had dreamed of killing the brute and awoke with a tune on his black lips. He knew Lije Peters, neighborhood bully without being a coward, a born black-mailer, a ruffian with the touch of humor, ignorant with sometimes an allegorical cast of speech. As he entered the room he looked about and seeing no one else, spoke to Kintchin:

"Whar's Jasper Starbuck?"[25]

"I seed Miss Margaret an' Miss Lou out yander jest now," Kintchin answered, backing off as Peters advanced toward him.

"I didn't ask about them. Whew, what you got sich a hot fire in here for?"

"Mammy's been ironin'."

"Yes. Been a meltin iron I should think. Is Starbuck at home? Answer me, you scoundrel." He made a threatening gesture and Kintchin, backing further off, cried out, "Doan rush me, suh. Ef I'se er scoundul you hatter give me time. Er scoundul hatter be keerful whut he say. I seed Mr. Starbuck dis mawnin', suh."

Peters turned as if to go out, but halted and looked at Kintchin. The old negro nodded. "Say, is that young feller and that woman here yit?"

"Gimmy time—gimmy time. I's er scoundul, you know."

"Do you want me to mash your head?"

Kintchin put his hand to his head. "Whut, dis one right yere? No, suh, I doan blebe I does."

"Well, then answer me. That woman and young chap here yet?"[26]

"Yas, suh, da's yere."

"She's his aunt, I understand."

"Yas, suh, dat's whut you un'erstand."

"Why did they come here? What are they doin'?"

"Gimmy time. Da come caze da wanter ter, an' now dat da's yere, da's jest er bo'din'; dat's all."

"You are an old fool."

"Yas, suh," replied Kintchin, "dat's whut I yere."

Mammy came in and said to Kintchin, "De steers broke down de fence an' is eatin' up de co'n. See, through de winder?"

"Dat won't do," Kintchin exclaimed with hurry in his voice but with passive feet. "No, it won't do. Steer ain't got no right ter come roun' er eatin' up de co'n."

"But w'y doan you go on, man? Mars Jasper'll git arter you."

"I's gwine. Allus suthin' ter make er man work his j'ints," he moved off toward the door, and turning just before going out, said to Peters: "Yere come Miss Lou now."

The girl came in singing, but seeing Peters, hushed, and turned to go out.[27]

"One minute, Miss Lou," said Peters, bowing awkwardly.

She halted, looked at him and said, "Well?"

"Won't you sit down," said Peters, making a great show of politeness.

"I'm not tired," Lou replied.

Peters smiled. "I've got suthin' I want to say to you."

"Then I may be tired," she said, sitting down. "Well?"

Peters stood for a moment, looking at her and then inquired: "Did yo' father tell you suthin' I said to him?"

Slowly rocking she looked up at him. "He always has enough talk of his own without repeatin' what other folks say."

"But what I told him was about you."

"Well, if what you said wasn't good you wouldn't be here to tell about it, so it don't concern me."

He attempted to smile, but failed. "I don't know about that."

"You don't know about anything—much."

"Enough to know what I think of you."[28]

"Hope you know what I think of you."

"Ah," said Peters, "I don't reckon you think of me very often."

Lou got up and went to him, looked straight into his eyes and said: "Think of you! Why, I never know you are on earth till you come where I am and then I spend my time tryin' to forget you are there."

"Well, now," replied Peters, "that ain't very polite."

She stepped back and looked at him in pretended astonishment. "Was anybody ever polite to you?"

"Well, not many of the Starbucks, that's a fact—none, come to think of it 'cept yo' cousin Jim, the preacher, and he believes that the Lord made all things for a purpose."

"Yes, he believes that God made the devil."