CAROLINA CHANSONS
LEGENDS OF THE LOW COUNTRY
BY
DuBOSE HEYWARD AND HERVEY ALLEN
1922
PREFACE
In a continent but recently settled, many parts of which have
as yet little historical or cultural background, the material for
this volume has been gathered from a section that was one of the
first to be colonized. Here the Frenchman, Spaniard, and
Englishman all passed, leaving each his legend; and a brilliant
and more or less feudal civilization with its aristocracy and
slaves has departed with the economic system upon which it
rested.
From this medley of early colonial discovery and romance, from
the memories of war and reconstruction, it has been as difficult
to choose coherently as to maintain restraint in selection among
the many grotesque negro legends and superstitions so rich in
imagery and music. Coupled with this there has been another task;
that of keeping these legends and stories in their natural
matrix, the semi-tropical landscape of the Low Country,
which somehow lends them all a pensively melancholy yet fitting
background. Not to have so portrayed them, would have been to
sacrifice their essentially local tang. To the reader unfamiliar
with coastal Carolina, the unique aspects of its landscapes may
seem exaggerated in [10]these
pages; the observant visitor and the native will, it is hoped,
recognize that neither the colors nor the shadows are too strong.
These poems, however, are not local only, they are stories and
pictures of a chapter of American history little known, but
dramatic and colorful, and in the relation of an important part
to the whole they may carry a decided interest to the country at
large.
Local color has a fatal tendency to remain local; but it is
also true that the universal often borders on the void. It has
been said, perhaps wisely, that the immediate future of American
Poetry lies rather in the intimate feeling of local poets who can
interpret their own sections to the rest of the country as
Robinson and Frost have done so nobly for New England, rather
than in the effort to yawp universally. Hence there is no
attempt here to say, "O New York, O Pennsylvania," but simply, "O
Carolina."
The South, however, has been "interpreted" so often, either
with condescending pity or nauseous sentimentality, that it is
the aim of this book to speak simply and carefully amid a babel
of unauthentic utterance. Nevertheless, the contents of this
volume do not pretend to exact historical accuracy; this is
poetry rather than history, although the legends and facts upon
which it rests have been gathered with much painstaking research
and careful verification. It should be kept in mind that these
poems are [11]impressionistic attempts to present
the fleeting feeling of the moment, landscape moods, and the
ephemeral attitudes of the past. Legends are material to be
moulded, and not facts to be recorded. Above all here is no
pretence of propaganda.
As some of the material touched on is not accessible in
standard reference, prose notes have been included giving the
historical facts or background of legend upon which a poem has
been based. These notes together with a bibliography will be
found at the back of the volume.
If the only result of this book is to call attention to the
literary and artistic values inherent in the South, and to the
essentially unique and yet nationally interesting qualities of
the Carolina Low Country, its landscapes and legends, the labor
bestowed here will have secured its harvest.
DuBose Heyward—Hervey
Allen.
Charleston, S.C.
December, 1921.
[12]
[13-14]
CONTENTS
[15]
CAROLINA CHANSONS
LEGENDS OF THE LOW COUNTRY
[16]
[17]
SÉANCE AT SUNRISE
Place the new
hands
In the old hands
Of the old generation,
And let us tilt tables
In the
high room
Of our
imagination.
Let the thick veil glow
thin,
At sunrise—at
sunrise—
Let the strange eyes
peer in,
The red, the black, and
the white faces
Of the still living
dead
Of the three
races.
Let a quaint voice
begin:
Voice of an
Indian
"Gone from the
land,
We leave the music of our
names,
As pleasant as the sound of
waters;
Gone is the log-lodge and
the skin tepee,
And moons ago the
ghost-canoe brought home
The latest
of our sons and daughters—
Yet still we linger in tobacco smoke
[18]And in the rustling fields
of maize;
Faint are the tracks our
moccasins have left,
But they are
there, down all your ways."
Voice of a
Slave
"We do not
talk
Of hours in the
rice
When days were
long,
Nor of old
masters
Who are with us
here
Beyond all right or
wrong.
Only white afternoons come
back,
When in the
fields
We reached the Mercy
Seat
On wings of
song."
Voice of a
Planter
"Nothing moves there
but the night wind,
Blowing the
mosses like smoke;
All would be
silent as moonlight
But for the owl
in the oak—
Stairways that
lead up to nothing—
Windows
like terrible scars—
Snakes
on a log in the cistern
Peering at
stars...."
Spirit of
Prophecy
"Dawn with its
childish colors
[19]Stipples the solemn vault of
night;
Behind the horizon the sun
shakes a bloody fist;
Mysteries
stand naked by the lakes of mist;
Spirits take flight,
The
medicine man,
The voodoo
doctor—
Witches mount
brooms.
The day looms.
Faster it comes,
Bringing young giants
Who hate
solitude,
And march with
drums—
Beat—beat—beat,
Down every ancient street,
The
young giants! Minded like boys:
Action for action's sake they love
And noise for noise."
Voice of a
Poet
"The fire of the
sunset
Is remembered at
midnight,
But forgotten at
dawn.
While the old stars
set,
Let us speak of their
glory
Before they are
gone."
H.A.
[20]
SILENCES[1]
You who have known my city
for a day
And heard the music of
her steepled bells,
Then laughed,
and passed along your vagrant way,
Carrying only what the city tells
To those who listen solely with their ears;
You know St. Matthew's swinging
harmonies,
And old St. Michael's
tale of golden years
Far less like
bells than chanted memories.
Yet there is something
wanting in the song
Of lyric youth
with voice unschooled by pain.
And
there are breathing stillnesses that throng
Dim corners, and that only stir
again
When bells are dumb. Not even
bronze that beats
Our heart-throbs
back can tell of old defeats.
But you who take the city
for your own,
Come with me when the
night flows deep and kind
Along
these narrow ways of troubled stone,
And floods the wide savannas of the mind
With tides that cool the fever of the
day:
[21] One with
the dark, companioned by the stars,
We'll seek St. Philip's, nebulous and gray,
Holding its throbbing beacon to the
bars,
A prisoned spirit vibrant in
the stone
That knew its empire of
forgotten things.
Then will the
city know you for her own,
And feel
you meet to share her sufferings;
While down a swirl of poignant memories,
Herself shall find you in her
silences.
Once coaches waited row on
shining row
Before this door; and
where the thirsty street
Drank the
deep shadow of the portico
The
Sunday hush was stirred by happy feet,
Low greetings, and the rustle of brocade,
The organ throb, and warmth of sunny
eyes
That flashed and smiled
beneath a bonnet shade;
Life with
the lure of all its swift disguise.
Then from the soaring lyric
of the spire,
Like the composite
voice of all the town,
The bells
burst swiftly into singing fire
That wrapped the building, and which showered
down
Bright cadences to flash along
the ways
Loud with the splendid
gladness of the days.
War took the city, and the
laughter died
From lips that pain
had kissed. One after one
[22]All lovely things went down the sanguine
tide,
While death made moaning
answer to the gun.
Then, as a
golden voice dies in the throat
Of
one who lives, but whose glad heart is dead,
The bells were taken; and a sterner
note
Rang from their bronze where
Lee and Jackson led.
The rhythmic seasons chill
and burn and chill,
Cooling old
angers, warming hearts again.
The
ancient building quickens to the thrill
Of lilting feet; but only singing rain
Flutters old echoes in the portico;
Those who can still remember love it
so.
D.H.
[23]
PRESENCES
Despise the garish presences
that flaunt
The obvious possession
of today,
To wear with me the
spectacles that haunt
The optic
sense with wraiths of yesterday—
These cobbled shores through which the traffic
streams
Have been the stage-set of
successive towns,
Where coffined
actors postured out their dreams,
And harlot Folly changed her thousand gowns.
This corner-shop was Bull's Head
Tavern,
When names now dead on
marble lived in clay;
Its rooms
were like a sanded cavern,
Where
candles made a sallow jest of day,
And drovers' boots came grinding like a quern,
While merchants drank their steaming cups of
"tay."
Here pock-marked Black Beard
covenanted Bonnet
To slit the Dons'
throats at St. Augustine,
And
bussed light ladies, unknown to this sonnet,
Whose names, no doubt, would rime with
Magdalene.
And English parsons, who
had lost their fames,
Sat tippling
wine as spicy as their joke,
Larding bald texts with bets on cocking mains,
And whiffing pipes churchwardens used to
smoke.
Here macaronis, hands
a-droop with laces,
[24]Dealt knave to knave in picquet
or écarté,
In
coats no whit less scarlet than their faces,
While bullies hiccuped healths to King and
Party,
And Yankee slavers, in from
Barbadoes,
Drove flinty bargains
with keen Huguenots.
Then Meeting Street first
knew St. Michael's steeple,
When
redcoats marched with royal drums a-banging,
Or merchants stopped gowned tutors to
inquire
Why school let out to see a
pirate hanging;
And gentlemen took
supper in the street,
When
candle-shine from tables guled the dark,
While others passing by would be
discreet
And take the farther side
without remark,
Pausing perhaps to
snuff the balmy savor
Of
turtle-soup mulled with the bay-leaves' flavor:
These walls beheld them, and these lingering
trees
That still preempt the middle
of the gutter;
They are the
backdrops for old comedies—
If leaves were tongues—what stories they might
utter!
H.A.
[25]
THE
PIRATES[2]
I stood once where these
rows of deep piazzas
Frown on the
harbor from their columned pride,
And saw the gallant youngest of the cities
Lift from the jealous many-fingered
tide.
Flanked by the multi-colored
sweeping marshes,
Among the little
hummocks choked with thorn,
I saw
the first, small, dauntless row of buildings
Give back the rose and orange of the
dawn.
Above them swayed the shining
green palmettoes
Vocal and
plaintive at the winds' caress;
While, at the edge of sight, the fluent silver
Of sea and bay framed the wide
loneliness.
Out of the East came gaunt
razees of commerce
Troubling the
dappled azure of the seas;
While
sleeping marsh awoke, and vanished under
The thrusting open fingers of the
quays.
Ever, and more, came ships,
while others followed.
Feeling
their way among unsounded bars,
Heaping their freights upon the groaning
wharf-heads,
Filling their holds
with turpentines and tars,
[26]Until the little twisting streets all
vanished
Into a blur of interwoven
spars.
II
One with the rest, I saw the
commerce dwindle,
High-bosomed,
sturdy vessels take the main
And
leave us, with the morning in their faces,
Never to come to any port again.
Slowly an ominous and pregnant
silence
Grew deep upon the wharves
where ships had lain.
Laughter rang hollow in
those days of waiting,
And nameless
fears came drifting down the night.
The tides swung in from sea, hung, and
retreated,
Bearing their secrets
back beyond our sight;
Till, like
the sudden rending of a curtain,
The East reeled with the lightnings of a
fight.
Never was a night so long
with waiting.
Never was the dark
more prone to stay.
And, in the
whispering gloom, taut, listening faces
Hung in a pallid line along the bay.
Slowly at last the mists dissolved,
revealing
A fearful silhouette
against the day.
Blue on a saffron dawn, a
frigate lifted
Out of the fog that
veiled her fold on fold,
[27]Taking the early sunlight on her
cannon
In running spurts and rings
of molten gold;
No flag of any
nation at her masthead.
Small
wonder that our pulses fluttered cold.
Never a shot she fired on
the city,
But, when the night came
blowing in from sea,
And our ruddy
windows warmed the darkness,
Through the surrounding gloom we heard the free
Strong sweep and clank of rowing in the
harbor,
And on the wharves raw jest
and revelry.
She was the first, but many
others followed;
Insolent, keen,
and swift to come-about,
I have
seen them go smashing down the harbor,
Loud with the boom of canvas and the shout
Of lusty voices at the crowded
bulwarks,
Where tattooed hands were
swinging long-boats out.
Up through the streets the
roisterers would swagger,
Filling
the narrow ways from wall to wall,
Scattering gold like ringing summer showers,
Ready with song and jest and cheery
call
For those who passed; buying
the little taverns
At any cost;
opening wine for all.
There were rare evenings
when we used to gather
Down in a
coffee-house beside the square.
[28]Morgan knew well our little favored
corner;
Black Beard the sinister
was often there;
And we have
watched the night blur into morning
While Bonnet, quiet-voiced and
debonnaire,
Would throw the glamor of
the seas about us
In archipelagoes
of mad romance;
Pointing a story
with a line from Shakespeare,
Quoting a Latin proverb; while his glance,
Flashing across the eager, listening
circle,
Fettered—blinded—held us in a
trance.
Their bags of Spanish gold
bribed our juries,
Bought dignified
officials of the Crown;
Money and
wine were ours for the asking;
The
Orient flamed out in shawl and gown,
Until a sudden and unholy splendor
Irradiated all the quiet town.
Those were the days when
there was open gaming,
And roaring
song in tongue of every race.
Evil,
as colorful as poison weeds,
Bloomed in the market place.
And those who should have known, shared in the
revels,
And passed their neighbors
with averted face.
Until one day a frigate
entered harbor,
And passed the
city, with a Spanish prize,
[29]Then insolently came-about, despoiled
her,
And fired her before our very
eyes,
While the vagrant breezes
left the streaming vapor
Like red
rust on the clean steel of the skies.
III
All in the sullied
hours,
While the pirates stood
away
Out of the murk and
horror
In a sheer white burst of
spray,
Leaving the wreck to
settle
Under its winding
sheet,
I felt the city
shudder
And stir beneath my
feet.
Thrilling against the
morning,
As audible as
song,
I heard the city
waken
Out of her night of
wrong.
That was a day to
cherish
When Rhett and a gallant
few
Summoned the best among
us;
Called for a daring
crew.
New and raw at the
business,
To the smithy's roar and
clang,
[30]We drove
our aching muscles
And as we worked
we sang,
Until one blowing
morning
With summer on the
sea,
The Henry to the
windward,
The Sea Nymph down
alee,
Flecking the wide
Atlantic
With a flaring, lacy
track,
We went, as glad as the
winds are glad,
To buy our honor
back.
IV
Over the wooded
shore-line,
Where the hidden rivers
stray
Down to the sea like timid
girls,
I saw in the first faint
gray
A burst of cloudy
topsails
Go blowing swiftly
by,
With the stars aswirl behind
them
Like bright dust down the
sky.
Gone were the days of
waiting,
And the long, blind search
was gone;
With a cheer we swung to
meet them
On the forefoot of the
dawn.
[31]
Out of the screening woodland
Into the open sound
The frigate crashed, then staggered
Careening, fast aground.
White water tugged behind
us,
We felt the Henry
reel
And spin as the hard impartial
sand
Closed on her vibrant
keel.
All through the high white
morning,
While the lagging tide
crawled out,
Fate held us bound and
waiting,
While, turn and turn
about,
We manned the fuming
cannon
And bartered hell for
hell,
While the scuppers sang with
coursing life
Where the dead and
dying fell.
Till, like the break of
fever
When life thrills up through
pain,
We felt the current
stirring
Under the keel
again.
Then it was hand to
cutlass,
And pistols in the
sash.
"All hands stand by for
boarding,—
Now, close abeam
and lash!"
[32]
But the ensign that had mocked us
With its symbol of the dead
Fluttered and dropped to the bloody
deck,
And a white square spoke
instead.
Home from the kill we
thundered
On the tail of the
equinox,
To the thrum of straining
canvas,
And the whine and groan of
blocks.
Leaping clear of the
shallows,
Chancing the creaming
bars,
We heard the first faint
cheering
As the late sun limned our
spars.
Safe in the lee of the
city
We moored in the
afterglow,
The Sea Nymph and
the Henry
With the
buccaneers in tow.
Glad we had been in the
going,
But God! it was good to
come
Out of the sky-wide
loneliness
To the walls and lights
of home.
V
Under these shouldering rows
of stone
That notch the quiet
sky;
[33]Under the
asphalt's transient seal
The same
old mud-flats lie;
And I have felt
them surge and lift
At night as I
passed by.
Yes, I have seen them
sprawling nude
While an Autumn moon
hung chill,
And the tide came
shuddering in from sea,
Lift by
lift, until
It held them under a
silver mesh,
Responsive to its
will.
Then slowly out from the
crowding walls
I have seen the
gibbets grow,
And stand against the
empty sky
In a desolate, windblown
row,
While their dancers swayed,
and turned, and spun,
Tripping it
heel and toe;
With a flash of gold where
the peering moon
Saw an earring as
it swung,
And a silver line that
leapt and died
Where the salt-white
sea-boots hung,
And the pitiful,
nodding, silent heads,
With half of
their songs unsung.
D.H.
[34]
THE SEWEES OF SEWEE BAY[3]
"And these squaws, waiting in vain the return of their
husbands, sought out braves among the other tribes, and so men
say the Sewees have become Wandos."
"One flask of rum for fifty
muskrat skins!
A horn of powder for
a bear's is not enough;
A whole
winter's hunting for some blanket stuff—
Ugh!" said the Sewee Chief,
"The pale-face is a thief!"
Ever, from the
north-north-east,
The great winged
canoes
Swept landward from the
shining water
Into Bull's
Bay,
Where the poor Sewees trapped
the otter,
Or took the giant
oysters for their feast—
Ever
the ships came from the north and east.
Surely, at morning, when
they walked the beaches,
Over the
smoky-silver, whispering reaches,
Where the ships came from, loomed a land,
Far-off, one mountain-top, away
Where the great camp-fire sun made
day:
[35]
"There are the pale-face lodges," they would
say.
So all one winter
Was great hunting on that shore;
Much maize was pounded,
And of acorn oil great store
Was tried;
And
collops of smoked deer meat set aside,
And skins and furs,
And furs
and skins,
And bales of furs
beside.
And all that winter,
too,
The smoke eddied
From many a huge canoe,
Hollowed by flame from cypress
trees
That with stone ax and
fire
The Sewee shaped to the good
shape
Of his
desire.
So when next
spring
The traders came from
Charles Town,
Bringing a gift of
blankets from the king,
The Sewees
would not trade a pelt—
Saying, "We go to see
The
Great White Father in his own tepee—
Heap, heap much rum!"
And then they passed the pipe of peace,
And puffed it, and looked glum.
[36] The traders thought
the redskins must be daft;
They saw
the huge canoes,
And, wondering at
their use,
Asked, "What will you do
with these?"
And the chief pointed
east across the seas;
And then the
pale-face laughed.
And yet—
There was a story told
By one of Black Beard's men
Who had done evil things for gold,
That one morning, out at sea,
The fog made a sudden lift,
And from the high poop, looking through the
rift,
He saw
Twenty canoes, each with six
warriors,
Paddling straight toward
the rising sun,
Where the wind made
a flaw—
He swore he
saw
And counted twenty
hulls,
Circled about by screaming
gulls—
Then such a storm came
down
That some prayed on that
hellion ship,
But he did
not—
He was not born to
drown.
This was the
tale
Told with much
bluster,
[37]Over ale
And oaths,
At Charles
Town.
He swore he saw the
Indians in the dawn,
And he'd be
danged!
And by Christ's
Mother—
Take his rings
in pawn!
But he was
hanged
With poor Stede Bonnet,
later on.
H.A.
[38]
LA
FAYETTE LANDS[4]
That evening, gathered on
the vessel's poop,
They saw the
glimmering land,
And far lights
moved there,
As once Columbus saw
them, winking, strange;
Around the
ship two darkies in a small canoe
Paddled and grinned, and held up silver
fish.
Over the high ship's
tumble-home
A pinnace
slid,
Slow, lowered from the
squealing davit-ropes,
And from a
port a-square with lantern light,
The little, leather trunks were passed,
Ironbound and quaint; while down the vessel's
side
With voluble advice, bon
voyage and au revoir,
The chatting Frenchmen came—
Click-clap of rapiers clipping on hard boots,
Cocked hats and merry eyes.
The great ship backs its
yards,
With drooping sails,
await,
A spider-web of spars and
lantern-lights,
While like a pilot
shark, the slim canoe,
[39]
A
V-shaped ripple wrinkling from its jaws,
Slides noiselessly across the
swells,
Leading the swinging boat's
crew to the beach;
And all the
world slides up—
And then the
stars slide down—
As ocean
breathes; while evening falls,
And
destiny is being rowed ashore.
The twilight-muffled bells
of town, the bark of dogs,
The
distant shouts, and smell of burning wood,
Fall graciously upon their sea-tired
sense.
Wide-trousered, barefoot
sailors carry them to land,
Tho'
snake-voiced waves flaunt frothing up the beach;
The horse-hide trunks are piled upon a
dune;
And there a little Frenchman
takes his stand,
Hawk-faced and
ardent,
While his brown cloak
droops about him
Like young falcon
plumes.
Gray beach, gray twilight,
and gray sea—
How strange the
scrub palmettoes down the coast!
No
purple-castled heights, like dear Auvergne,
Against the background of the Puy de
Dome,
But land as level as the
sea, a sandy road
That twists
through myrtle thickets
Where the
black boys lead.
[40]
Far down
a moss-draped avenue of oaks
There
is a flash of torches, and the lights
Go flitting past the bottle panes;
A cracked plantation bell dull-clangs;
The beagles bay,
Black faces swarm, with ivory eyeballs
glazed—
Court dwarfs that
served thick chocolate, on their knees
In damasked, perfumed rooms at grand
Versailles,
Were all the blacks the
French had ever seen.
Major Huger, lace-ruffled
shirt, knee-breeks,
A saddle-pistol
in his hand,
Waits on the
terrace,
Ready for "hospitality" to
British privateers;
But now no
London accent takes his ears,
No
English bow so low, "Good evening, sair;
I am de la Fayette, and these,
monsieur,
My friends, and this, le
Baron Kalb."
Welcome's the custom of the
time and land—
And these are
noblemen of France!
Now is
Bartholomew for turkeycocks,
Old
wines decant, the chandeliers flare up,
The slave row brims with lights;
And horses gallop off to summon guests.
After the ship—how
good the spacious rooms!
How
strange mosquito canopies on beds!
[41]Knights of St. Louis sniff the frying
yams,
Venison, and
turtle,—
The old green turtle
died tonight—
The children's
eyes grow wider on the stairs.
Down in the
library,
The Marquis, writing back
to old Auvergne,
Has sanded down
the ink;
Again the quill pen
squeaks:
"A ship will sail tomorrow
back to France,
By special
providence for you, dear wife;
Tonight there will be toasts to Washington,
To our good Louis and his
Antoinette—
There will be
toasts tonight for la Fayette...."
He melts the wax;
Look, how
the candle gutters at the flame!
And now he seals the letter with his
ring.
H.A.
[42]
THE PRIEST AND THE
PIRATE[5]
a ballad of theodosia burr
And must the old priest wake
with fright
Because the wind is
high tonight?
Because the yellow
moonlight dead
Lies silent as a
word unsaid—
What dreams had
he upon his bed?
Listen—the
storm!
The winter moon scuds high
and bare;
Her light is old upon his
hair;
The gray priest muses in a
prayer:
"Christ Jesus, when I come
to die
Grant me a clean, sweet,
summer sky,
Without the mad wind's
panther cry.
Send me a little
garden breeze
To gossip in magnolia
trees;
For I have heard, these
fifty years,
Confessions muttered
at my ears,
Till every mumble of
the wind
Is like tired voices that
have sinned,
[43]
And
furtive skirling of the leaves
Like
feet about the priest-house eaves,
And moans seem like the unforgiven
That mutter at the gate of heaven,
Ghosts from the sea that passed
unshriven.
And it was just this time of
night
There came a boy with lantern
light
And he was linen-pale with
fright;
It was not hard to guess my
task,
Although I raised the sash to
ask—
'Oh, Father,' cried the
boy, 'Oh, come!
Quickly with the
viaticum!
The sailor-man is
going to die!'
The thirsty silence
drank his cry.
A starless stillness
damped the air,
While his shrill
voice kept piping there,
'The
sailor-man is going to die'—
The huge drops splattered from the sky.
I shivered at my midnight
toil,
But took the elements and
oil,
And hurried down into the
street
That barked and clamored at
our feet—
And as we ran there
came a hum
Of round shot slithered
on a drum,
While like a lid of
sound shut down
The thunder-cloud
upon the town;
[44]
Jalousies
banged and loose roofs slammed,
Like hornbooks fluttered by the damned;
And like a drover's whip the rain
Cracked in the driving
hurricane.
Only the lightning showed
the door
That like two cats we
darted for;
It almost gave a man a
qualm
To find the house inside so
calm.
I sloshed all dripping up
the stair,
Up to an attic room
a-glare
With candle-shine and
lightning-flare—
With little
draughts that moved its hair
A
wrinkled mummy sat a-stare,
Rigid,
huddling in a chair.
I thought at
first the thing was dead
Until the
eyes slid in its head.
It seemed as if the Banshee
storm
Knocked screaming for his
withered form;
It shrieked and
whistled like a parrot,
Clucking
and stuttering through the garret.
With-out, the mailéd hands of hail
Battered the casements, and the
gale
About his low roof shuddered,
sighing,
As if it knew that he was
dying.
[45]
It
breathed like waiting beasts outside,
While soft feet made the shingles slide.
Then, like a blow upon the
cheek,
The mummy's voice began to
speak:
'Give me a priest! I'm
going to die!'
The Banshee wind
took up the cry:
'Give him a
priest, he's going to die!'
The old
house seemed to rock with laughter,
Shaking its sides and every rafter.
There was a terror in that
room
Like faint light streaming
from a tomb.
I tried three times
before I spoke,
And then the bald
words made me choke:
'Be quiet,
man, for I am come
To bring you the
viaticum!'—
I made the
sign of holiness.
He rattled out a
startled cry.
I whispered low,
'Confess, confess!'
His thin hands
quivered with distress.
It is a
bitter thing to die.
Just when a blast fell on
the town,
I felt his lean claws
clutch me down.
It seemed as if the
hands of death
Were beating at my
breast for breath;
[46]
His arms
were like a twisted rope
Of rotten
strands that tugged at hope.
'Listen, my father, listen well!'
The wind went tolling like a
bell:
'She's lying fifty
fathoms deep,
Where fishes
like white birds go by
Through water-air in ocean-land;
She has a prayer-book in her
hand—
Tonight she
walks; tonight she spoke;
Her hair goes floating out and up,
Blown one way, with the water
weeds,
Always one way, like
amber smoke.
She asks the gift she
gave to me—
This
ring—I cannot get it off!'
His hand and hand fought like two claws—
'I hear her calling from the
sea!'
His terror made my own
heart pause.
His voice went moaning with
the wind,
And groaned and rattled,
'I have sinned,'
And moaned
and murmured at my ear
Of
bat-winged angels standing near.
'The little schooner
"Patriot"—
I can't
forget the vessel's name;
[47]We met her rounding Naggs Head
Bank;
We made her people
walk the plank,
Twelve men
whose faces I forgot.
But there was one sweet
lady there,
With lovely eyes
and lovely hair,
Whose face
has stayed like pain and care.
For every man she made a prayer;
And when the last had found the
sea,
I cried to her to pray
for me.
She prayed—and took
this ring, and said:
"Wear
this for me when I am dead."
She bowed her head, then steadfastly
She walked into the hungry
sea.
But silent words were
on her lips,
And there was
comfort in her hand;
It was
as if she walked a bridge
That led into a pleasant land.
All that was long and long
ago,
So long ago this ring
has grown
To be a very part
of me,
One with my finger
and the bone:'
His voice went
trailing in a moan.
'This is her
ring—
This is her
ring!
[48]I dare not die and wear the
thing!'
His hand plucked at his
finger thin
As if to ease him of
his sin.
I gave a sudden gasping
shout—
The wind that blew the
window in
Had blown the candle
out.
'Quick, father,
quick!
The ring ... her
name....'
There came a jagged
spurt of flame;
The window seemed a
furnace door
That gave upon a bed
of ore;
The thunder rumbled out the
muttered
Words that his failing
tongue had uttered—
Another
flash, a rending crack—
The
old man crumpled like a sack;
I
felt his stringy arms go slack.
How
could he sit so dead, so still!
While wind snouts snuffed along the sill?
White shone his glimmering
face, and dull
The sodden silence
of the lull,
For when he died the
wind had dropt;
And with his heart
the storm had stopt,
All but a
far-off mouthing sound
That seemed
to sough from underground;
While
silence paused to plan some ill,
Thwarted by thunder growling still.
[49]
All in the darkness of the place
With lightning playing on its face,
I fumbled with the corpse's ring
To which the dead hands seemed to
cling;
The stiffening joints were
loth to play—
After awhile it
came away!
Out, like a sneak-thief
through the gloom,
I tiptoed from
the dead man's room;
The door
behind me like a hatch
Banged—the white splash of my match
Made shadow shapes dance on the
wall
As if the devil pulled the
string.
The light ran melting round
the ring;
Inside the worn script
scrawled a-blur:
'J.A. to
Theodosia Burr'
Confession is a
sacred thing!
I'll keep his secret
like the sea;
The ring goes to the
grave with me."
H.A.
[50]
PALMETTO
TOWN
Sea-island winds sweep
through Palmetto Town,
Bringing
with piney tang the old romance
Of
Pirates and of smuggling gentlemen;
And tongues as languorous as southern France
Flow down her streets like water-talk at
fords;
While through iron gates
where pickaninnies sprawl,
The
sound floats back, in rippled banjo chords,
From lush magnolia shade where mockers
call.
Mornings, the flower-women
hawk their wares—
Bronze
caryatids of a genial race,
Bearing
the bloom-heaped baskets on their heads;
Lithe, with their arms akimbo in wide
grace,
Their jasmine nods jestingly
at cares—
Turbaned they are,
deep-chested, straight and tall,
Bandying old English words now seldom heard,
But sweet as Provençal.
Dreams peer like prisoners through her harp-like
gates,
From molten gardens mottled
with gray-gloom,
Where lichened
sundials shadow ancient dates,
And
deep piazzas loom.
Fringing her
quays are frayed palmetto posts,
Where clipper ships once moored along the ways,
[51]And fanlight doorways,
sunstruck with old ghosts,
Sicken
with loves of her lost yesterdays.
Often I halt upon some gabled walk,
Thinking I see the ear-ringed
picaroons,
Slashed with a
sash or Spanish folderols,
Gambling for moidores or for gold doubloons.
But they have gone where night goes after
day,
And the old streets are gay
with whistled tunes,
Bright with
the lilt of scarlet parasols,
Carried by honey-voiced young octoroons.
H.A.
[52]
CAROLINA SPRING SONG
Against the swart magnolias'
sheen
Pronged maples, like a stag's
new horn,
Stand gouted red upon the
green,
In March when shaggy buds
are shorn.
Then all a mist-streaked,
sunny day
The long sea-islands lean
to hear
A water harp that shallows
play
To lull the beaches' fluted
ear.
When this same music wakes
the gift
Of pregnant beauty in the
sod,
And makes the uneasy vultures
shift
Like evil things afraid of
God,
Then, then it is I love to
drift
Upon the flood-tide's lazy
swirls,
While from the level rice
fields lift
The spiritu'ls of darky
girls.
I hear them singing in the
fields
Like voices from the
long-ago;
They speak to me of
somber worlds
And sorrows that the
humble know;
[53]
Of sorrow—yet their tones
release
A harmony of larger
hours
From easy epochs long at
peace
Amid an irony of
flowers.
So if they sometimes seem a
choir
That cast a chill of doubt on
spring,
They have still higher
notes of fire
Like cardinals upon
the wing.
H.A.
[54]
THE LAST
CREW[6]
I
Spring found us early that
eventful year,
Seeming to know in
her clairvoyant way
The bitterness
of hunger and despair
That lay upon
the town.
Out of the
sheer
Thin altitudes of
day
She drifted down
Over the grim blockade
At the harbor mouth,
Trailing
her beauty over the decay
That war
had made,
Gilding old ruins with
her jasmine spray,
Distilling warm
moist perfume
From chill winter
shade.
Out of the
south
She brought the
whisperings
Of questing
wings.
Then, flame on
flame,
The cardinals
came,
Blowing like driven
brands
[55]Up from
the sultry lands
Where Summer's
happy fires always burn.
Old
silences, that pain
Had held too
close and long,
Stirred to the
mocker's song,
And hope looked out
again
From tired
eyes.
Down where the White Point
Gardens drank the sun,
And rippled
to the lift of springing grass,
The
women came;
And after them the
aged, and the lame
That war had
hurled back at them like a taunt.
And always, as they talked of little things,
How violets were purpling the shade
More early than in all remembered
Springs,
And how the tides seemed
higher than last year,
Their gaze
went drifting out across the bay
To
where,
Thrusting out of the
mists,
Like hostile
fists,
Waited the close
blockade—
Then, dim to left
and right,
The curving islands with
their shattered mounds
That had
been forts;
Mounds, which in
spite
Of four long years of rending
agony
Still held against the
light;
[56]Faint
wraiths of color
For the breeze to
lift
And flatten into faded red and
white.
These sunny islands were not
meant for wars;
See, how they curve
away
Before the bay,
Bidding the voyager pause.
Warm with the hoarded suns of
centuries,
Young with the garnered
youth of many Springs,
They laugh
like happy bathers, while the seas
Break in their open arms,
And
the slow-moving breeze
Draws
languid fingers down their placid brows.
Even the surly ocean knows their
charms,
And under the shrill
laughter of the surf,
He booms and
sings his heavy monotone.
II
There are rare nights among
these waterways
When Spring first
treads the meadows of the marsh,
Leaving faint footprints of elusive green
To glimmer as she strays,
Breaking the Winter silence with the
harsh
Sharp call of
waterfowl;
Rubbing dim shifting
pastels in the scene
With white of
moon
[57]And blur
of scudding cloud,
Until the myrtle
thickets
And the sand,
The silent streams,
And the substantial land
Go
drifting down the tide of night
Aswoon.
On such a night as
this
I saw the last crew
go
Out of a world too beautiful to
leave.
Only a chosen
few
Beside the crew
Were gathered on the pier;
And in the ebb and flow
Of dark and moon, we saw them fare
Straight past the row of coffins
Where the fifth crew lay
Waiting their last short voyage
Across the bay.
And, as they went, not one
among them swerved,
But eyes went
homing swiftly to the West,
Where,
faint and very few,
The windows of
the town called out to them
Yet
held them nerved
And ready for the
test.
Young every one, they brought
life at its best.
[58] In the taut stillness,
not a word
Was uttered, but one
heard
The deep slow orchestration
of the night
Swell and relapse; as
swiftly, one by one,
Cutting a
silhouette against the gray,
They
rose, then dropped out softly like a dream
Into the rocking shadows of the
stream.
A sudden grind of metal
scarred the hush;
A marsh-hen
threshed the water with her wings,
And, for a breath, the marsh life woke and
throbbed.
Then, down beneath our
feet, we caught the gleam
Of folded
water flaring left and right,
While, with a noiseless rush,
A shadow darker than the rest
Drew from its fellows swarming round the quay,
Took an oncoming breaker,
Shook its shoulders free,
And faced the sea.
Then came an interval that
seemed to be
Part of
eternity.
Years might have passed,
or seconds;
No one
knew!
Close in the dark we huddled,
each to each,
Too stirred for
speech.
Our senses, sharpened to an
agony,
Drew out across the water
till the ache
[59]Was more than we could
bear;
Till eyes could almost
see,
Ears almost hear.
And waiting there,
I seemed to feel the beach
Slip from my reach,
While all
the stars went blank.
The smell of
oil and death enveloped me,
And I
could feel
The crouching figures
straining at a crank,
Knees under
chins, and heads drawn sharply down,
The heave and sag of shoulders,
Sting of sweat;
An eighth
braced figure stooping to a wheel,
Body to body in the stifling gloom,
The sob and gasp of breath against an
air
Empty and damp and fetid as a
tomb.
With them I seemed to
reel
Beneath the spin and
heel
When combers took them
fair,
Bruising their
bodies,
Lifting black water
where
Their feet clutched desperate
at the floor.
And as each body spent out
of its ebbing store
Of strength and
hope,
I felt the forward
thrust,
At first so
sure,
[60]Fail in
its rhythm,
Falter
slow,
And
slower—
Hang an endless
moment—
Till in a rush came
fear—
Fear of the sea, that
it might win again,
Gathering one
crew more,
Making them pay in
vain.
Then through the horror of
it, like a clear
Sweet wind among
the stars,
I felt the
lift
And drive of heart and
will
Working their miracles
until
Spent muscles tensed again to
offer all
In one transcendent
gift.
III
A sudden flood of moonlight
drenched the sea,
Pointing the
scene in sharp, strong black and white.
Sumter came shouldering through the night,
Battered and grim.
The curve of ships shook off their dim
Vague outlines of a dream;
And stood, patient as death,
So certain in their pride,
So satisfied
[61]To wait
The slow inevitableness of Fate.
Close, where the
channel
Narrowed to the
bay,
The Housatonic
lay
Black on the moonlit
tide,
Her wide
High sweep of spars
Flaunting their arrogance among the
stars.
Darkness again,
Swift-winged and absolute,
Gulping the stars,
Folding the ships and sea,
Holding us waiting, mute.
Then, slowly in the void,
There grew a certainty
That
silenced fear.
The very
air
Was stirring to the march of
Destiny.
One blinding second out of
endless time
Fell, sundering the
night.
I saw the Housatonic
hurled,
A ship of
light,
Out of a molten
sea,
Hang an unending
pulse-beat,
[62]Glowing, stark;
While the hot clouds flung back a sullen
roar.
Then all her pride, so
confident and sure,
Went reeling
down the dark.
Out of the blackness wave on
livid wave
Leapt into
being—thundered to our feet;
Counting the moments for us, beat by beat,
Until the last and smallest dwindled
past,
Trailing its pallor like a
winding-sheet
Over the last crew
and its chosen grave.
IV
Morning swirled in from the
sea,
And down by the low
river-wall,
In a long unforgettable
row,
Man faces tremulous,
old;
Terrible faces of
youth,
Broken and seared by the
war,
Where swift fire kindled and
blazed
From embers hot under the
years,
While hands gripped a cane
or a crutch;
Patient dumb faces of
women,
Mothers, sisters, and
wives:
And the vessel hull-down in
the sea,
Where the waters, just
stirring from sleep,
Lifted bright
hands to the sun,
[63]Hiding their lusty young
dead,
Holding them jealously
close
Down to the cold harbor
floor.
There would be eight of
them.
Here in the gathering
light
Were waiting eight women or
more
Who were destined forever to
pay,
Who never again would laugh
back
Into the eyes of
life
In the old glad, confident
way.
Each huddled dumbly to
each;
But eyes could not lift from
the sea,
Only hands touched in the
dawn.
"He would have gone, my
man;
He was like that. In
the night
When I awoke with
a start,
And brought his
voice up from my dream:
That
was goodbye and godspeed.
I
know he is there with the rest."
Brave, but with quivering
lips,
Each alone in the press of
the crowd,
Was saying it over and
over.
The day flooded all of the
sky;
And the ships of the sullen
blockade
[64]Weighed anchor and drew down the
wind,
Leaving their wreck to the
waves.
Hour heaved slowly on
hour,
Yet how could the city
rejoice
With the women out there by
the wall!
Night grew under the
wharves,
And crept through the
listening streets,
Until only the
red of the tiles
Seemed warm from
the breath of the day;
And the
faces that waited and watched
Blurred into a wavering line,
Like foam on the curve of the dark,
Down there by the reticent
sea.
What if the darkness should
bring
The lean blockade-runners
across
With food for the hungry and
spent....
Who could joy in the
sudden release
While the faces,
still-smiling, but wan,
Turned
slowly to hallow the town?
D.H.
[65]
LANDBOUND
Bring me one breath from the
deep salt sea,
Ye vagrant upland
airs!
Over your forest and field
and lea,
From the windy deeps that
have mothered me,
To the heart of
one who cares.
Clear to the peace of the
sunlit park,
You bring with your
evening lull
The vesper song of the
meadow lark;
But my soul is sick
for the seething dark,
And the
scream of a wind-blown gull.
And bring to me from the
ocean's breast
No crooning
lullaby;
But the shout of a bleak
storm-riven crest
As it shoulders
up in the sodden West
And hurtles
down the sky.
That, breathing deep, I may
feel the sweep
Of the wind and the
driving rain.
For so I know that my
heart will leap
To meet the call of
the strident deep,
And will thrill
to life again.
D.H.
[66]
TWO PAGES
FROM THE BOOK OF THE SEA ISLANDS
page one
Shadows
There is deliberateness in
all sea-island ways,
As alien to
our days as stone wheels are.
The
Islands cannot see the use of life
Which only lives for change.
There days are flat,
And all
things must move slowly;
Even the
seasons are conservative—
No
sudden flaunting of wild colors in the fall,
Only a gradual fading of the green,
As if the earth turned slowly,
Or looked with one still face upon the
sun
As Venus
does—
Until the trees, the
fields, the marshes,
All turn dun,
dull Quaker-brown,
And a mild
winter settles down,
And mosses are
more gray.
All human souls are glasses
which reflect
The aspects of the
outer world;
[67]See what terrible gods the huge
Himalayas bred!
And the fierce
Jewish Jaywah came
From the hot
Syrian deserts
With his inhibitory
decalogue.
The gods of little hills
are always tame;
Here God is dull,
where all things stay the same.
No change on these
sea-islands!
The huge piled clouds
range
White in the cobalt
sky;
The moss hangs,
And the strong, tiring sea-winds
blow—
While day on glistering
day goes by.
The horses plow with hanging
heads,
Slow, followed by a
black-faced man,
Indifferent to the
sun;
The old cotton bushes hang
with whitened heads;
And there
among the live-oak trees,
Peep the
small whitewashed cabins,
Painted
blue, perhaps, and scarlet-turbaned women,
Ample-hipped, with voices soft and
warm
With the lean hounds and
chocolate children swarm.
Day after day the ocean
pumps
The awful valve-gates of his
heart,
Diastole and systole through
these estuaries;
The tides flow in
long, gray, weed-streaked lines;
[68]The salt water, like the planet's
lifeblood, goes
As if the earth
were breathing with long-taken breaths
And we were very near her heart.
No wonder that these faces
show a tired dismay,
Looking on
burning suns, and scarcely blithe in May;
Spring's coming is too fierce with
life;
And summer is too
long;
The stunted pine trees
struggle with the sand
Till the
eyes sicken with their dwarfing strife.
There are old women here
among these island homes,
With dull
brown eyes that look at something gray,
And tight silver hair, drawn back in lines,
Like the beach grass that's always blown one
way;
With such a melancholy in
their faces
I know that they have
lived long in these places.
The
tides, the hooting owls, the daylight moons,
The leprous lights and shadows of the
mosses,
The funereal woodlands of
these coasts,
Draped like a
perpetual hearse,
And memories of
an old war's ancient losses,
Dwell
in their faces' shadows like gray ghosts.
And worse—
The terror of the black man always near—
The drab level of the ricefields and the
marsh
Lends them a mask of
fear.
[69]
page two
Sunshine
This is a different
page.
Do you suppose the sun here
lavishes his heat
For nothing, in
these islands by the sea?
No! The
great green-mottled melons ripen in the fields,
Bleeding with scarlet, juicy pith
deliriously;
And the exuberant yams
grow golden, thick and sweet;
And
white potatoes, in grave-rows,
With
leaves as rough as cat tongues;
And
pearly onions, and cabbages
With
white flesh, sweet as chicken meat.
These the black boatmen
bring to town
On barges, heaped
with severed breasts of leaves,
Driven by put-put engines
Down the long canals, quavering with song,
With hail and chuckle to the docks
along,
Seeing their dark faces down
below
Reduplicated in the sunset
glow,
While from the shore stretch
out the quivering lines
Of the
flat, palm-like, reflected pines
That inland lie like ranges of dark hills in
lines.
And so to
town—
Weaving odd baskets of
sweet grass,
Lazily and
slow,
To sell in the arcaded
market,
Where men sold their
fathers not so long ago.
[70]
For all
their poverty,
These patient black
men live
A life rich in warm colors
of the fields,
Sunshine and hearty
foods,
Delighted with the gifts
that earth can give,
And old tales
of Plateye and Bre'r Rabbit;
While the golden-velvet cornpone
browns
Underneath the lid among hot
ashes,
Where the groundnuts
roast,
Round shadowy fires at
nights,
With tales of graveyard
ghost,
While eery spirituals
ring,
And organ voices
sing,
And sticks knock maddening
rhythms on the floor
To shuffling
youngsters "cutting" buck-and-wing;
Dogs bark;
And dog-eyed
pickaninnies peek about the door.
Sundays, along the
moss-draped roads,
The beribboned
black folk go to church
By threes
and twos, carrying their shoes,
With orange turbans, ginghams, rainbow hats;
Then bucks flaunt tiger-lily ties and watchet
suits,
Smoking cob pipes and
faintly sweet cheroots.
Wagons with
oval wheels and kitchen chairs screech by,
Where Joseph-coated white-teethed maidens
sit
Demurely,
While the old mule rolls back the ivory of his
eye.
[71]
Soon from
the whitewashed churches roll away
Among the live oak trees,
Rivers of melancholy harmonies,
Full of the sorrows of the centuries
The white man hears, but cannot
feel.
But it is always Sunday on
sea-islands.
Plantation bells,
calling the pickers from the fields,
Are like old temple gongs;
And
the wind tells monodies among the pines,
Playing upon their strings the ocean's
songs;
The ducks fly in long,
trailing lines;
Skeows
squonk and marsh-hens quank
Among the tidal flats and rushes rank on
rank;
On island tufts the heron
feeds its viscid young;
And the
quick mocker catches
From lips of
sons of slaves the eery snatches,
And trolls them as no lips have ever
sung.
Oh! It is good to be here in
the spring,
When water still stays
solid in the North,
When the first
jasmine rings its golden bells,
And
the "wild wistaria" puts forth;
But
most because the sea then changes tone;
Talking a whit less drear,
It
gossips in a smoother monotone,
Whispering moon-scandal in the old earth's
ear.
H.A.
[72]
MODERN PHILOSOPHER
They fight your battles for
you every day,
The zealous ones,
who sorrow in your life.
Undaunted
by a century of strife,
With urgent
fingers still they point the way
To
drawing rooms, in decorous array,
And moral Heavens where no casual wife
May share your lot; where dice and ready
knife
Are barred; and feet are
silent when you pray.
But you have music in your
shuffling feet,
And spirituals for
a lenient Lord,
Who lets you sing
your promises away.
You hold your
sunny corner of the street,
And
pluck deep beauty from a banjo chord:
Philosopher whose future is today!
D.H.
[73]
UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS
The judge, who lives
impeccably upstairs
With dull
decorum and its implication,
Has
all his servants in to family prayers,
And edifies his soul with
exhortation.
Meanwhile his blacks live
wastefully downstairs;
Not always
chaste, they manage to exist
With
less decorum than the judge upstairs,
And find withal a something that he
missed.
This painful fact a Swede
philosopher,
Who tarried for a
fortnight in our city,
Remarked,
one evening at the meal, before
We
paralyzed him silent with our pity—
Saying the black man living
with the white
Had given more than
white men could requite.
H.A.
[74]
HAG-HOLLERIN' TIME
Black Julius peered out from
the galley fly;
Behind Jim Island,
lying long and dim;
An infra
owl-light tinged the twilight sky
As if a bonfire burned for cherubim.
Dark orange flames came
leering through the pines,
And then
the moon's face, struggling with a sneeze,
Along the flat horizon's level
lines
Her nostrils fingered with
palmetto trees.
Her platinum wand made water
wrinkles buckle;
Old Julius gave
appreciative chuckle;
"It's jes
about hag-hollerin' time," he said.
I watched the globous buckeyes in his
head
Peer back along the bloody
moon-wash dim
To see the
fish-tailed water-witches swim.
H.A.
[75]
MACABRE IN MACAWS
After the hurricane of the
late forties,
Peter Polite says, in
the live-oak trees
Were weird,
macabre macaws
And ash-colored
cockatoos, blown overseas
From
Nassau and the West Indies.
These
hopped about like dead men's thoughts
Among the draggled Spanish moss,
Preening themselves, all at a loss,
Preening faint caws,
And shrieking from nostalgia—
With dull screams like a child
Born with neuralgia—
And this seems true to me,
Fitting the landscape's drab
grotesquery.
H.A.
[76]
GAMESTERS
ALL[7]
The river boat had loitered
down its way;
The ropes were
coiled, and business for the day
Was done. The cruel noon closed down
And cupped the town.
Stray voices called across the blinding heat,
Then drifted off to shadowy retreat
Among the sheds.
The waters of the bay
Sucked
away
In tepid swirls, as listless
as the day.
Silence closed about
me, like a wall,
Final and
obstinate as death.
Until I longed
to break it with a call,
Or barter
life for one deep, windy breath.
A mellow laugh came
rippling
Across the stagnant
air,
Lifting it into little waves
of life.
Then, true and
clear,
I caught a snatch of
harmony;
Sure lilting tenor, and a
drowsing bass,
Elusive chords to
weave and interlace,
[77]
And
poignant little minors, broken short,
Like robins calling June—
And then the tune:
"Oh, nobody
knows when de Lord is goin ter call,
Roll dem bones.
It may
be in de Winter time, and maybe in de Fall,
Roll dem bones.
But yer got ter leabe yer baby an yer home an
all—
So roll dem
bones,
Oh my
brudder,
Oh my
brudder,
Oh my
brudder,
Roll dem
bones!"
There they squatted,
gambling away
Their meagre
pay;
Fatalists all.
I heard the muted fall
Of dice, then the assured,
Retrieving sweep of hand on roughened
board.
I thought it good to
see
Four lives so free
From care, so indolently sure of each
tomorrow,
And hearts attuned to
sing away a sorrow.
Then, like a
shot
Out of the hot
[78]Still air, I heard a
call:
"Throw up your hands! I've
got you all!
It's thirty days for
craps.
Come, Tony,
Paul!
Now, Joe, don't be a
fool!
I've got you
cool."
I saw Joe's eyes, and knew
he'd never go.
Not Joe, the
swiftest hand in River Bow!
Springing from where he sat, straight, cleanly
made,
He soared, a leaping shadow
from the shade
With fifty feet to
go.
It was the stiffest hand he
ever played.
To win the corner
meant
Deep, sweet
content
Among his laughing
kind;
To lose, to suffer
blind,
Degrading slavery upon "the
gang,"
With killing suns, and
fever-ridden nights
Behind
relentless bars
Of prison
cars.
He hung a breathless second
in the sun,
The staring road before
him. Then, like one
Who stakes his
all, and has a gamester's heart,
His laughter flashed.
He
lunged—I gave a start.
God!
What a man!
[79]
The
massive shoulders hunched, and as he ran
With head bent low, and splendid length of
limb,
I almost felt the
beat
Of passionate life that surged
in him
And winged his spurning
feet.
And then my eyes went
dim.
The Marshal's gun was
out.
I saw the grim
Short barrel, and his face
Aflame with the excitement of the
chase.
He was an honest sportsman,
as they go.
He never shot a
doe,
Or spotted fawn,
Or partridge on the ground.
And, as for Joe,
He'd wait until he had a yard to go.
Then, if he missed, he'd laugh and call it
square.
My gaze leapt to the
corner—waited there.
And now
an arm would reach it. I saw hope flare
Across the runner's face.
Then, like a
pang
In my own heart,
The pistol rang.
The form I watched soared
forward, spun the curve.
"By God,
you've missed!"
[80]
The
Marshal shook his head.
No, there
he lay, face downward in the road.
"I reckon he was dead
Before
he hit the ground,"
The Marshal
said.
"Just once, at fifty
feet,
A moving target
too.
That's just about as
good
As any man could
do!
A little tough;
But, since he ran,
I call it fair enough."
He mopped his head, and
started down the road.
The silence
eddied round him, turned and flowed
Slowly back and pressed against the ears.
Until unnumbered flies set it to
droning,
And, down the heat, I
heard a woman moaning.
D.H.
[81]
ECLIPSE
Once melodies of
street-cries washed these walls,
Glad as the refluent song
Of
cheerful waters from a happy spring
That shout their way along;
Such cries were born in other days from lips
A spirit taught to sing. Now it is
gone!
Memory expects those hymns
for shrimp and prawn,
Or the
mellifluous chaunt from the black gorge
Of Orpheus inside a murky skin,
Who looked the gold sun in the eye
While garden mists grew thin,
And intoned "Hoppin' John!"
As when the shadow of the
gray eclipse
Haggards the
countryside,
When moon-fooled birds
have nothing more to say,
And soft
untimely bats begin to slide;
As
darkness sweeps the morning light away,
So silence brushes music now from lips.
Oh! Can it be the songless
spirit of this age
Has slain the
ancient music, or that ears
[82]Have harsher thresholds? Only this I
know:
The streets grow more
discordant with the years;
And that
which bids the huckster sing no more,
Will drive the flower-woman from the
door.
H.A.
[83]
EDGAR
ALLAN POE[8]
Once in the
starlight
When the tides were
low,
And the surf fell
sobbing
To the
undertow,
I trod the windless
dunes
Alone with Edgar
Poe.
Dim and far behind
us,
Like a fabled
bloom
On the myrtle
thickets,
In the swaying
gloom
Hung the clustered
windows
Of the
barrack-room.
Faint on the
evening
Tenuous and
far
As the beauty
shaken
From a vagrant
star,
Throbbed the ache and
passion
Of an old
guitar.
Life closed behind
us
Like a swinging
gate,
[84]Leaving
us unfettered
And
emancipate;
Confidants of
Destiny,
Intimates of
Fate.
I could only
cower,
Silent, while the
night,
Seething with its
planets,
Parted to our
sight,
Showing us
infinity
In its breadth and
height.
But my chosen
comrade,
Tossing back his
hair
With the old loved
gesture,
Raised his face, and
there
Shone the agony that
those
Loved of God must
bear.
Oh, we heard the many
things
Silence has to
say;
He and I together
As alone we lay
Waiting for the slow, sweet
Miracle of day.
When the bugle's
silver
Spiralled up the
dawn,
[85]Dew-dear,
night-cool,
And the stars were
gone,
I arose
exultant,
Like a man new
born.
But my friend and
master,
Heavy-limbed and
spent,
Turned, as one must turn at
last
From the
sacrament;
And his eyes were deep
with God's
Burning
discontent.
D.H.
[86]
ALCHEMY[9]
Some souls are strangers in
this bourne;
Beauty is born from
such men's discontent;
Earth's
grass and stones,
Her seas, her
forests, and her air
Are seas and
forests till they mirror on some pool
Unusually reflecting in an exile's mind,
Who tarries here protesting and
alone;
And then they get strange
shapes from memories of other stars
The banished knew, or spheres he dreams will
be.
Thus is the fivefold vision of
the earth recast
By ghostly
alchemy.
But there are favored
spots
Where all earth's moods
conspire to make a show
Of things
to be transmuted into beauty
By
alchemic minds.
Such is this island
beach where Poe once walked,
And
heard the melic throbbing of the sea,
With muffled sound of harbor bells—
Bells—he loved bells!
[87]And here are drifting
ghosts of city chimes
Come over
water through the evening mist,
Like knells from death-ships off the coasts of spectral
lands.
I think some dusk their
metal voices
Yet will call him
back
To walk upon this magic beach
again,
While Grief holds carnival
upon the harbor bar.
Heralded by
ravens from another air,
The master
will pass, pacing here,
Wrapped in
a cape dark as the unborn moon.
There will be lightning underneath a star;
And he will speak to me
Of archipelagoes forgot,
Atolls in sailless seas, where dreams have
married thought.
H.A.
[88]
An Epitaph
The feathers of the
eagle-bonnets ride upon the north wind;
The sachems and their totems have perished in the
fire;
Through the valleys and the
rivers and the mountains that you fought for
Beats the quick desire.
In the happy hunting ground of proven
warriors,
You have passed the pipe
of peace at council fire
With the
pale-face and the Zulus' mighty chieftains—
Rest with dead desire.
H.A.
[89]
MAGNOLIA
GARDENS
A Prose-Poem
In the spring when the first midges dance and warm days lure
the last-year's butterfly, the scarlet of the cardinals begins to
flicker through the ivory smoke of the mosses. Then the alligator
leaves his winter ooze, and the widening "O" of the ripple which
his gar-like nose makes, travels slowly across the sullen ponds,
where the pendant gonfalons of the mosses kiss their imaginary
duplicates, hanging head downward in the red water.
When the first frog honks with the bull-voiced trumpet of
resurgent spring, the jasmine rings its little hawk-bells, golden
harp notes through the forest; and the usurping wistaria assumes
the purple, reigning imperial and alone, flaunting its
palidementum in a cascade of lilac amid the matrix of the
mosses. Its sleek, muscular vine-arms writhe round the clasped
bodies of live oaks as if two lovers slept beneath a cloak, and
the cloisonné pavilion of their dalliance drips a
blue-glaze of shadows overhead.
Underneath this motley canopy of gray and blue, lush with the
early tenderness of leaves, the pink [90]azaleas
open light-shy eyes like pupils of albinos, sloughing off
delicate pods that smoulder, when the wind blows, live coals
among the gray of furnace ashes. Here are magenta carpets fit for
leprechauns, when crescent moons glimmer upon the ocher ponds,
and the slow fireflies light their phantom lanterns, weaving to
and fro about the ivory-orange marble of the tomb.
Each April day brings opalescent waves of birds that dart like
living brands about the aisles to light the flower lamps;
nonpareils, orioles, and hummingbirds, a mist of speed upon their
wings, while the blue heron stands one-leggéd by the
ponds, watching the garden till it seethes and flames with colors
from the cloaks of mandarins.
High in the ancient forest the magnolias burn the perfect
alban lucence of their lamps; white are their ivory cups like
priestly linen, and fragrant with the tang of foreign citrons. An
esoteric, mirrored swan slides by like Cleopatra's barge, while
drums of color beaten by a maniac blend with old tints of
Leonardo's dreams, colors that God might see if his own lightning
blasted out his eyes.
This march of color chants a strange barbaric fitness of
dithyrambic chords, and moves processional
[91]across the days like some encarnadined
durbar, where a huge Ethiopian eunuch in red moon-shaped slippers
and an orange turban walks with a glittering scimetar, leading a
brace of sleepy leopards drugged and golden eyed; the caparisoned
elephants swing down a latticed street; silk shawls hang from
balconies, brushing the domed gilt of howdahs; and ruby-roped,
the maharajahs sway behind the mahout with his peavey-goad.
The stark denial of the blue-ribbed sky looks down upon this
garden, where the wantonness of earth is flaunted in the spring
against the face of heaven's void sterility. Here stolid faces
look ashamed. When the sun leans on boreal wings, there is a
month that lovers walk here justified, while flower throats cry
in vast choirs, "Glory to life!" and the uplifted trumpets of
vine tubas shout with noise of color set to notes of bloom.
[92]
MIDDLETON GARDEN
This is a garden where the
Son of Heaven
Well might
walk,
With all his dragon-broidered
mandarins,
To the plucked sound of
tenor instruments,
With peacocks,
kites, and little red balloons,
Mirrored with incense and rice-paper lights,
And old bronze lanterns on the full moon
nights,
Upon the lacquered,
porcelain-pink lagoons.
If cardinals in sun-blood
robes were here
To kiss the ring of
gorgeous Borgia popes;
Or bold de
Gama's loot from Malabar:
Topaz and
ruby, chrysolite and beryl,
The
golden idol with a thousand hands,
And ropes of pearl;
They would
seem lesser than these flowers are,
Whose masculine magnificence makes riches
pale.
And yet with all its
oriental hue
There is a touch of
Holland,
Of canals at
Loo,
Where Orange William planned a
boxwood maze.
The house has Flemish
curves upon its eaves;
[93]
Its
doorways yearn for buckle-shoed young bloods,
Smoking clay pipes, with lace a-droop from
sleeves—
Moonlight on
terraces is like a story told
By
sleepy link-boys 'round old sedan chairs
In days when tulip bulbs were
gold.
The faint, crisp rustle of
magnolia leaves
Rasps with the
crackling scratch of old brocade,
The low bird-voices ripple like the laugh
Of Watteau beauties coiffured, with
pomade;
Here ribboned dandies
offered scented snuffs
To other
ghosts, beneath the giant trees—
Was that a flash of rose-flamingo stuffs—
Azaleas?—was a sneeze blown down the
breeze?
This terrace is a stage set
by the years,
Fit for the pageants
of the centuries;
That fire-scarred
ruin marks an act of tears—
Charm is more winsome coped with tragedies.
Here flaunted tilted hats and
crinolines,
Small parasols,
hoopskirts, and bombazines,
When
turbaned slaves walked dykes in single file,
And rice-fields made horizons,
otherwhile.
All, all has passed, but
change,
Gnawed by the rat-like
teeth of avid years,
The masters,
through the door, to mysteries
Beyond blind panels 'mid the moss-scarved
trees,
[94]Uncanny
gates, where negroes faintly bold,
At high noon in the tide of summer heat,
Stand in the draught of tomb-air deathly
cold
That flows like glacial water
'round their feet.
H.A.
[95]
THE GOOSE CREEK VOICE
This is the low-doored house
among funereal trees,
Where one May
dusk they brought Louise,
With
music slow,
And sobbing
low,
The old slaves crooning
eerily.
She died asleep and weeping
wearily.
She had a poppy-strange
disease;
A beauty that was more
than carnal,
How durst they leave
her in the charnel?
She might be
sleeping eerily!
Hush! They have locked her
in the tomb,
Among the silences and
wilting bloom;
Life's melody of
voices drifts away—
Mistaken!
Was it an owlet in
the thorns that moaned?
The
churchyard moonlight turns ash-gray—
Hush! Pale Louise!
The dead must not awaken.
Something a twittering cry is uttering.
Is that a bird there on her breast,
Lost in the fragrant gloom,
Wakening to morning twilight in the
tomb?
No bird—it is her
folded hands a-fluttering!
[96]
I think I
should have died to see her rise
Among the withered wreaths
And
spider-cluttered palls
Of her dead
uncles' funerals,
While streams of
horror fed the blue lakes of her eyes.
I known I would have died to see her
rise.
Over the fields a voice
calls from the tomb,
Pleading and pleading drearily,
But all the slaves have fled
And left her talking to her coffined
dead,
And whimpering
eerily.
The young birds
die
To see old hands thrust
from the window-slit,
Clutching the light in handfuls of
despair;
Stark fear has
stroked the color from her hair,
While from the window comes
The babbled whisper of her prayer.
Night is like spiders in her
mouth;
By day they spin a
film across her eyes.
Now
night; now day—
The
birds come back;
It is
another year:
The withering
voice they fear
Has nothing
more to say.
But yet once
more
Her kinsmen came
[97]With nodding plume and
pall
And music slow,
And, sobbing low,
They fluttered back the door, and lo!—
She leaned against the slit-window
Her web-like, bony hands against the
wall,
And all about her, like a
summer cloud
Rippled her leprous
hair,
One bleached and shuddering
shroud.
H.A.
[98]
THE
LEAPING POLL
At early morning when the
earth grows cold,
When river mists
creep up,
And those asleep are
nearest death,
She
died.
The feather would not flutter
in her breath;
And those who long
had watched her slipped away,
Too
weary then to weep;
They could do
that next day—
They left her
lonely on the bed,
Under a long,
glistening sheet, in feeble tallow-shine,
Rigid from muffled feet to swathèd
head.
This in old days before the
Turkish cure
Had driven out the
pox;
Next morning, while slave
carpenters
Were hammering at the
oblong box,
The sun revived her and
she breathed again,
Like Lazarus,
and in later years grew beautiful,
And was the mother of strong men.
These things her father,
master of an ancient place,
Pondered, and read of men in antique times
Who wakened in the charnel from a
trance.
Often his eyes would rest
on her askance,
And fear grew on
him, and strange dreams he had a-bed,
[99]
Till
waking and asleep he turned his head,
Front-back, front-back, from side to side,
Looking for Death. At last, one
night
He heard crisp footfalls in
his room,
And stared his soul out
in the gloom,
Peering until he
died.
But when they broke the
seals upon his will,
They found
each codicil and long bequest
Was
held in trust until
The heirs
should carry out his last request—
To burn his body (naming
witnesses);
And they, all eagerness
to share,
Prepared to carry out
this strange behest.
A pile of lightwood on the
river bank,
Neighbors on horseback,
and the slaves,
With teeth as white
as eyeballs, rank on rank,
Watched
on the pyre the form wrapped in a shroud,
Lonely among the lolling tongues of
flames—
The smoke streamed,
trailing in a saffron cloud,
The
greedy noise of fire grew loud,
Then, "whiff," the shroud burned with a flare:
The dead man's eyes looked down
Like china moons upon the crowd.
They saw him slowly shake his head,
The thing denied that it was dead,
While from the blacks arose a babblement of
prayer.
[100]
Surely
the head must stop—
Not till
the fire caved!
Then from the very
top
The loosened poll came with a
leap,
Bounding three times, it took
the river-steep;
Down, down the
river bank—all they
Ran after
it like school boys for a ball.
God! How the thing could roll!
It seemed the devil kicked the leaping poll.
At last it stopped at bay,
Staring across a tidal flat,
Where spider lilies frightened
day.
They buried it within a
lonesome wood,
With trembling
hands, beneath a foreign stone.
But
there were some who said
It moved
its lips;
And when they went away,
the earth stirred
And they heard it
moan.
Now it comes leaping down the
tunnel roads
Where the moss hangs
like stalactites,
Screaming out
curses, snapping at the toads;
Negroes who pass there on the moonless nights
Behind them hear a sound that stops their
breath.
The keen wind whistles
through its teeth,
And the white
skull goes bounding by
Looking for
Death.
H.A.
[101]
THE BLOCKADE RUNNER
I
Three years!
Since I had seen the city, in the
time
We waited through the
tenseness of the hours,
While
nerves were zither strings
For fate
to jar upon:
All through that night
we counted old St. Michael's chimes
Now three o'clock—
The
bells spoke as they had on marriage days,
With high and silver-happy tongues
Yet somehow they had gained an
irony,
For out across the quiet
April bay
Grim, new-built forts
grinned at old Sumter
Through the
morning mist—
One—two—three—four—
And no sound yet! Then—
Thirty minutes like a life too
long;
A red flash dirked the
night;
I thought a voice cried,
"DOOM";
That was the gun that
killed a million men.
God! How the city
woke!
With what a rush of wonder in
her streets,
[102]"Burr" of strained voices,
earthquakes of feet,
Tramping to
rolling drums,
The crowd swept to
the Battery.
Roofs were black with
gazing folk in knots,
Leveling
their spyglasses
Like phalanx
spears,
From sea wall to the
chimney tops.
Over the rippling harbor
came
The growling, bull-dog bark of
culverins,
Red rockets curved and
plunged
Across the
dawn.
The world seemed drunk with
confidence
That
day—
Some secret nervousness
about the slaves;
What they might
think or say;
But they did
neither;
The bugles shouted at the
Citadel.
Hours were punctuated by
glad bells,
Soon to be hid
away,
And gales of laughter came
from gardens,
Where bright
tear-dashed eyes must weep farewells
The braver lips refused to falter—
Mouths then seemed only made to
kiss
For men in gray,
Who left the ancient houses of proud
names,
Through magic gates upon
that magic day
When the lost cause
was still-born in its hope.
[103]
II
And I had
gone—
It seemed no man's work
then—
To buy supplies from
"good friends" at the North—
Two years at old St. Louis and then down the
river,
Past winking lights of towns
and federal rams,
In flat-boats
with a precious freight of barrels,
Marked for the Yankees; but one night
We supped past their last fort
And floated down to Vicksburg through the
dark.
How dull the lanterns
glimmered at the quay!
But there
was welcome, too,
Proud, thankful
hands,
To take the medicine and
powder,
And unload sorghum
barrels
That we might change to
quinine and to gold,
If we could
ever get them to Nassau.
The column
which they printed in the "News"
On
wall-paper, first made me think
That it was worth-while man's work after
all.
Then, out across the miles
of leaguered states,
Through
pine-barrens where frowsy men in gray
Lay with their wounded in the haggard
camps—
A glimpse of old times
in Atlanta
Like a last febrile glow
in well-loved eyes.
Now rolling in
flat cars, trundling to the sea,
Back of the bull-head, wood-devouring engines.
[104]
At last by night to Charleston
Just before the iron ring
closed—
Ours was the last
freight train of the war,
Before
the anaconda squeezed;
But I had
won (perhaps) if we could get
Those
precious barrels to England or Nassau.
How changed my city
was—
The grass grew in her
streets,
And there were blackened
ruins raw with fire;
A few old
darkies crept along her ways;
The
busy thunder of the drays was gone;
And ruin spoke with statue lips.
Only a glimmering candle lurked in landward
windows,
Dim through shimmering
shutter chinks—
Silence—silence was over all—no
bells—
St. Michael's were in
hiding,
And St. Philip's spoke
another voice,
And rung a blatant
dirge to bluecoats, far
[11]In old Virginia, with
Lee's batteries.
The miles of
cotton rotted on the wharfs,
And
the Swamp Angel belled with distant shocks
Like earthquake jars;
There was heat-lightning in the sky
That God had never made,
From our sea-island batteries;
[105]And once a shell fell
somewhere in the town
With a
despairing scream that hope was dead.
Such were the
streets—
And it was starving
time in houses
Where fat generosity
once ran amuck,
No fires in inns,
no cheerful bark of hounds,
Or
stroke of social hoofs upon the stones.
And the long docks bit the black water
Like old loosened fangs that held the
sea
In one last grinning jaw-clamp
of despair.
I knew those
docks
When at the hour of
noon
A molten clangor shivered
cheerful air
And thousand
ship-bells rang—
And
now—only a drifting buoy-bell rung
The knell of hope with its emphatic
tongue,
Cut loose by the
blockaders
To wander down the
harbor in despair.
III
Close in the shadow of a
warehouse lay
The blockade-runner
with her smokestacks gray,
Back-raking like her masts, and up her hatches
Came voices, and the furnace-light in
patches
Beat on the sails, and
there alone was life—
[106] The stevedores
sang muffled snatches, and a strife
Of bales and barrels streamed down her yawning
hold;
Cotton more valuable than
money,
And barrels of the St. Louis
sorghum and molasses,
Honey to lure
the bees of English gold.
Three days she lay, this
arrow-pointed boat,
With a light
gold necklace, beaded at her throat,
Something there was about her like a stoat
That lies in wait to make a silent
rush,
And there was something in
her like a thrush,
For she had
paddle-wheels, each like a wing.
She had a long hornet stern that seemed to hold a
sting.
Sometimes her paddles slowly
turned,
For they kept steam up,
waiting for a gale.
It seemed as if
the slim boat chafed and yearned
To
go hell-tearing under steam and sail.
The oily water churned
And
made a slap-slap to the paddles' stroke;
And a high painted canvas screen cut
off
The blue haze of the lightwood
smoke.
On the third evening, just
at sunset, came
A scud of driving
cloud; the lightning's flame;
The
sun glared from a vicious, misty socket,
And in the moaning twilight curved a
rocket
While a blue flame blurred
and frayed
[107]At Castle Pinckney; thus we knew the
storm
Had shifted the
blockade.
IV
Out from the docks we
shot
Into the screaming
night;
We steered by lightning's
light;
The paddles beat a mad
tattoo;
The gridded
walking-beam
Pumped up, pumped
down,
Against the misty
gleam;
Faster and faster jets the
stand-pipes' steam.
And the white
water whirls
Astern in
phosphorescent whorls—
It
swirls
And then leads backward
green with light
Of streaming foam
across the velvet night.
By the last lightning
flare,
That must be Sumter,
bare
Against a torn cloud like a
rag;
But now the wind begins to
flag,
And as it fails the engines
lag;
Then comes a low hail from the
mast
"Avast"—
Again the engines slow—
Then stop—
And we were drifting like a log
[108]As silent as a drowned
corpse
In the sea-set
tide,
Muffled in dripping
fog.
No word from all the
ship—
She seemed
asleep—
Only the cluck of
water and the feel
Of grim Atlantic
rollers at the keel,
Nuzzling two
fathoms deep;
They made her
heel.
The porpoise played about our
copper lip.
It seemed as if they
were
The only living things in all
that blur,
And
we—
The only ship upon an
ancient sea.
When suddenly a laugh broke
through the spell;
It was so
near
Our pulses lapsed a
heart-beat,
Struck with
fear.
The curtains of the fog were
blown apart;
Stark in the sallow
moonlight's metal day,
The white
decks of a Yankee frigate lay.
I
saw the glint of moonlight on her bell;
She was not twenty fathoms length away.
A man's face leaped out in the cherry
glow
Of match flame in the hands he
cupped
About the pipe whose curling
wreaths he supped.
[109]
"Clang!" like a fireman's gong
Our engine signals rang;
The
paddles thrashed into a frothy song;
Five ship's lengths we had forged along
Before their bugles sang.
We had ten long lengths on
them
Before their ship began to
swerve.
The rabid screw was
frothing at her stern;
But I could
feel the verve
Of our blithe
timbers tremble; every nerve
Of our
good race-horse ship
For open water
seemed to yearn.
That was a Titan's
race;
The answering rockets snaked
it down the coast,
Dying like
scarlet worms
Among the
fog-wreaths; but we gained,
And
when her flaming cannon stabbed the mist
They thundered at our ghost.
So we were
gone,
With cotton in our
furnace,
Once the aft-stacks
flared,
And then we plied
pitch-pine
Dampened with
turpentine,
Until the black sea
glared—
But we had
gone—
[110]
Over
the world's round shoulder
Thrust
the dawn,
Their ugly, black masts
dipping it hull down.
Three days
the paddles beat while we drove on!
And I had won;
For on the fourth day as I sat
In the black coffin-shadow of a
boat,
The burning decks a-wash with
lime-white sun,
I saw the graybeard
lookout swell his throat
And utter
forth a glad and bronze hurrah,
"Land Ho!" he cried—
We lined the windward side
To
cheer the washing palm tops of Nassau.
H.A.
[111]
BEYOND
DEBATE
Out from the wrought-iron
gate
Miss Perdee drives in
state;
Miss Perdee wears the thin
smile
And the sleeves of
1888.
Miss Perdee's face is
stifled as a sonnet;
Upon her
wire-tight hair a duck-shaped bonnet
Nests, nodding with a cachepeigne
Of violets on it.
East Bay, some tea and talk,
them home by King.
The horses have
an antiquated plod;
The team is
old, but not too old to balk
If
driven north of Broad.
Miss Perdee wears the sure
air of a queen,
Which only queens
and Perdees can achieve.
The
Perdees had blue blood in Adam's veins
When Adam had the rib he gave to Eve.
Back through the
wrought-iron gate
Miss Perdee
drives in state.
Miss Perdee lives
down on the Battery!
Beyond
debate.
H.A.
[112]
MARSH
TACKIES[12]
Browsing on the salty marsh
grass,
Barrel-ribbed and
blowsy-bellied,
With a neigh as
shrill as whistles
And their mouths
red-raw from thistles,
I have seen
the brown marsh tackies,
Hiding in the swamps at Kiawah,
With the gray mosquito patches
Gory on their shaggy thatches.
Balky, vicious, and degenerates,
They are small as Spanish jennets,
But their sires were with El Tarab,
When he conquered Andalusia
For the Prophet and the Arab;
And they came with Ponce de Leon,
When the Spaniard made a
peon
And a Christian of the
Carib.
Peering from palmetto
thickets
At some fort's coquina
wickets,
Startled Indians saw them
grazing,
Thunder-stamping and
amazing
As the beasts from other
stars,
When they galloped down
savannas,
And their masters seemed
centaurs
With the new white metal
blazing.
[113]
Thus
they came, these little beasts,
With the men-at-arms and priests,
In the west with Coronado
When
he reached the Colorado,
In the
east with bold De Soto
In the
search for El Dorado,
And they
packed the bells and toys
That the
chieftains loved like boys;
Struggling through the swamps and briars
After dons and tonsured friars;
Dying in the forests dismal,
Till the shrill of silver clarion
Brought the buzzards to the carrion
Round the smoke of lonely fires
In a continent abysmal.
So De Soto left them
dying,
Heedless of their human
crying;
Here he turned them loose
to die
Underneath a foreign
sky;
But they lived on thicket
dross,
On the leaves and Spanish
moss—
And I wonder, and I
wonder,
When I hear the startled
thunder
Of their hoofs die down the
reaches
Of these Carolina
beaches.
H.A.
[114]
BACK RIVER
"Medway Plantation"
Back River! What a
name
For yesterdays come back again
today,
Reborn to be tomorrows still
the same—
A landgrave built
it when the English came;
Then men
made houses well
With cunning
hands.
And service wore a nearer,
feudal guise—
Witness the
stone where "Rose,
A faithful
servant," lies.
Parnassus stretches
east, beyond that
The plantation
once called Ararat;
But they
have gone,
Forgotten as an ancient
drinking song;
And the old houses,
dull and roofless,
Gape, with their
doorways
Like a dumb mouth
toothless,
With snake-engendering
rooms that wall in fear,
Silent,
down forest roadways loved by deer.
Sometimes at
nights
These skeletons of houses
flash with lights,
[115]And shadow-horsemen ride,
Chasing wraith-deer
With eery cry of hounds
And
shuddering cheer;
While the moon
makes her rounds,
Glimmering
through windows dead
As the dead
eyes in a dead man's head;
And
there is heard a misty horn—
Down in the woods,
Among the
moss-draped solitudes,
The voodoo
rooster crows,
While owls hoot on
forlorn.
But Back River wears
a different face;
It has not
changed;—
Time seems to love
the place;
Though all about it he
has ranged,
Here he has
not
Touched with his wand of
rot—
Something of its
immortal live-oak sap suffuses
Its
sturdy men and houses and transfuses
Change into state.
The sunny
hours wait at strange behest.
Here
restless Time himself has come to rest.
The golden ivory of primeval
light
Dwells in its Spanish
moss,
Falling in living cascades
from the trees,
[116]And who goes there in summer hears the
bees
Booming among the Pride of
India trees,
Dull grumbling
tones,
A deaf man
dreams,
Like far-off rumbling sound
of boulder-stones
Washed down by
headlong streams.
This is Time's
temple;
Here he sleepy
lies,
Watching the buzzards circle
in the skies,
While shrubs slough
off the pod,
Making a carpet
delicate
Of petals strewn upon the
sod,
Fit for the silver slippers of
the moon
Upon the streets of
Nod.
I saw him once
asleep
Down by the dark
ponds
Where alligators
creep.
He had been fishing with a
willow withe,
And by him lay his
hourglass and scythe,
Resting upon
the grass;
They lay there in the
sun,
And through the glass the
sands had ceased to run.
H.A.
[117]
DUSK
They tell me she is
beautiful, my City,
That she is
colorful and quaint, alone
Among
the cities. But I, I who have known
Her tenderness, her courage, and her pity,
Have felt her forces mould me, mind and
bone,
Life after life, up from her
first beginning.
How can I think of
her in wood and stone!
To others
she has given of her beauty,
Her
gardens, and her dim, old, faded ways,
Her laughter, and her happy, drifting hours,
Glad, spendthrift April, squandering her
flowers,
The sharp, still wonder of
her Autumn days;
Her chimes that
shimmer from St. Michael's steeple
Across the deep maturity of June,
Like sunlight slanting over open water
Under a high, blue, listless
afternoon.
But when the dusk is
deep upon the harbor,
She finds
me where her rivers meet and speak,
And while the constellations ride the
silence
High overhead, her cheek is
on my cheek.
I know her in
the thrill behind the dark
When
sleep brims all her silent thoroughfares.
She is the glamor in the quiet park
[118]That kindles simple
things like grass and trees.
Wistful and wanton as her sea-born airs,
Bringer of dim, rich, age-old
memories.
Out on the gloom-deep
water, when the nights
Are choked
with fog, and perilous, and blind,
She is the faith that tends the calling lights.
Hers is the stifled voice of harbor
bells
Muffled and broken by the
mist and wind.
Hers are the eyes
through which I look on life
And
find it brave and splendid. And the stir
Of hidden music shaping all my
songs,
And these my songs, my all,
belong to her.
D.H.
[119]
NOTES AND BIBLIOGRAPHY
[120]
[121]
NOTES
NOTE ON THE CHIMES
To Accompany
"Silences"
The bells of Charleston, like the bells of London Town, have a
peculiar interest. St. Michael's bells and clock were brought
from England in 1764. When the British evacuated Charleston in
1782 they took the bells with them. A Mr. Ryhineu bought them in
England and returned them. They were rehung in November, 1783.
During the Civil War, St. Michael's steeple was the target for
Federal artillery and fleet guns. In 1861 the bells were taken to
Columbia, S.C., where two of them were stolen, and the rest
injured by fire when the city was burned. Those left were again
sent to England, and recast in the original moulds. In March,
1867, they once again rang out from the spire.
St. Phillip's Church stands in the old part of the town.
During the Civil War its bells were cast into cannon. For a long
time its steeple was used as a lighthouse. It is the center of
forgotten things.
The bells of St. Matthew's are modern and speak of
[122]a new order, but all the bells are the
voice of the town. They speak for her silences, which are
eloquent.
NOTE ON "THE PIRATES"
The many inlets and sheltering coves of the Carolina coasts
very early made the "low country" seaboard a rendezvous for
pirates and a shelter to refit, and to bury their treasure.
As early as 1565 the French from Ribault's settlement
succumbed to the temptation to plunder their rich Spanish
neighbors; and in the century before the coming of the English,
the lonely bays and estuaries saw strange ships from time to
time. There was a pirate settlement by 1664 at Cape Fear River,
where Governor Sayle did not arrive until 1670 to take formal
possession for the Lords Proprietors of the colony.
The Peace of Utrecht turned many privateers into pirates,
ships which had been habitually preying upon Spanish commerce
since Blake's victory at Santa Cruz in 1657, and these gentlemen
of fortune were at first welcome in the Carolinas. Nearly all the
coin in circulation then was at first brought by such doubtful
adventurers, and they were regarded as the natural protectors of
the Carolinas against their powerful enemy, the Spaniard, to the
south.
[123]Gradually, however, this cordial
attitude changed. It was a small step from attacking Spanish to
plundering English commerce, and with the cultivation and export
of rice and indigo, the demand for a safe sea passage grew
overwhelming, while the coasts continued to be ravaged. The royal
government was slow to act. In 1684 we learn that "the governor
will not in all probability always reside in Charles Town, which
is so near the sea as to be in danger of sudden attack by
pirates;" nor was this an idle thought, for the town was
blockaded by pirate ships at the harbor's mouth, and medicines
and supplies demanded while citizens were held as hostages.
In 1718 Governor Spotswood of Virginia sent an expedition to
North Carolina, which succeeded in surprising, capturing, and
beheading the notorious "Black Beard," who in company with one
Stede Bonnet, had long ravaged the coast with impunity.
In August of the same year word was brought to Charlestown
that Bonnet with his ship the Royal James was refitting in
the Cape Fear River. Colonel William Rhett volunteered to attack
him. With two sloops of eight guns each, the Henry and the
Nymph, and about 130 men in all, he set sail, and found
Bonnet at anchor in the Cape Fear River. In making the attack,
and during the encounter, all three ships ran aground. The fight
raged desperately all day between the Henry and the
Royal James, [124]the
Nymph being unable to get off the shoal and come to the
help of her companion ship. Bonnet finally surrendered and was
taken prisoner to Charlestown. It is this adventure which the
poem celebrates.
Bonnet escaped, but was afterwards recaptured by Colonel Rhett
on Sullivan's Island. He and about thirty of his crew were hanged
about the corner of Meeting and Water Streets. Bonnet, himself,
was hanged later than his crew, after a masterpiece of invective
by the judge, who painted hell vividly. This pirate leader was
dragged fainting to the gallows, and there was much sympathy for
him, as it was said, "His humor of going a-pirating proceeded
from a disorder of the mind ... occasioned by some discomforts he
found in the married state."
NOTE ON "THE SEEWEES OF
SEEWEE BAY"
The Seewee Indians, who lived on the shores of what is now
known as Bull's Bay, S.C., but was formerly called Seewee Bay,
became discontented with the small prices obtained from the white
traders for pelts. Seeing the ships constantly coming into the
Bay from England, they conceived the idea of building large
canoes and reaching England over the ocean. Several huge canoes,
larger than any hereto[125]fore
built by Indians, were accordingly constructed; these were loaded
with the proceeds of a season's hunting, and, manned by all the
braves of the tribe, set out in the direction from which the
ships came. A gale came up and the braves were never seen again.
Their squaws gradually wandered off to other tribes. This event
took place about 1696.
NOTE ON LA FAYETTE
To Accompany "La Fayette
Lands"
The Marquis de la Fayette, under the name of Gilbert du
Motier, sailed from Bordeaux on the 26th of March, 1777,
accompanied by the Baron Kalb and several French Army Officers.
On the 14th of June, 1777, he first landed in America on North
Island in Winyah Bay, near Georgetown, S.C., and was received at
the house of Major Huger. In a letter to his wife, written soon
after his landing, La Fayette says, "I first saw and judged of
the life of the country at the house of a Major Huger." Detailed
accounts of La Fayette's landing and reception still exist.
[126]
NOTE ON THEODOSIA BURR
To Accompany "The Priest
and the Pirate"
In 1801 Theodosia, daughter of Aaron Burr, Vice-President of
the United States, married Joseph Alston of "The Oaks," Hobcaw
Barony, S.C. They had one son, Aaron Burr Alston, who died in
1812, the same year that Joseph Alston was elected Governor of
the State. On December 30th, 1812, at the urgent solicitation of
her father, who had just returned from Europe, and who awaited
her eagerly in New York, Theodosia set sail from Georgetown,
S.C., in the pilot-boat schooner, "Patriot." Those on board were
never seen again.
The vessel, which was being fitted out as a privateer, was
carrying dismounted guns under her deck, and may have foundered
in the severe gale of January 1st, 1813.
In 1869, however, a Dr. W.C. Pool attended a fisher family at
Naggs Head, Kittyhawk, N.C. In the fisherman's hut hung an oil
painting of a beautiful woman, which had been taken from an
abandoned pilot-built schooner that drifted onto the North
Carolina coast in that vicinity in January, 1813. No one was
aboard and the vessel had evidently been looted. Ladies' clothes
were found in great disorder in the cabin.
[127]There was also a story told by a dying
sailor who confessed that he had seen the crew of such a boat
walk the plank, and that among them was a beautiful woman who
walked into the sea with a Bible or prayer-book in her hand.
The painting is in the possession of the Burr-Alston
connection, and is thought by them, on account of its striking
family resemblance, to be a picture of Theodosia Burr. The
painting story has often been scouted, but there is too much
circumstantial evidence to ignore it in treating the legend.
NOTE TO "THE LAST CREW"
The "Fish-Boat" of the Confederate Navy, which exhaustive
research indicates to have been the first submarine vessel to
sink an enemy ship in time of war, was designed by Horace L.
Hundley in 1863. This boat was twenty feet long, three and
one-half feet wide, and five feet deep. Her motive power
consisted of eight men whose duty it was to turn the crank of the
propeller shaft by hand until the target had been reached. When
this primitive craft was closed for diving there was only
sufficient air to support life for half an hour. Since the
torpedo was attached to the boat itself there was no chance of
escape. The only hope was to reach and destroy the
[128]enemy vessel before the crew were
suffocated or drowned.
Five successive volunteer crews died without reaching their
objectives. But the sixth crew was successful in sinking the
Federal blockading ship "Housatonic," their own craft being
caught and crushed beneath the foundering vessel. These crews
went to certain death in the night time, in such secrecy that it
was often months before their own families knew the names of the
men. And now, with the lapse of scarcely more than half a
century, it has been possible to find the names of only sixteen
of those who paid the price.
Because no nation of any time can point to a more inspiring
example of self-sacrifice, and because now, in a country reunited
and indissoluble, the traditions of both the North and the South
are a common, glorious heritage, the poem, which presents the
final episode in the drama, is written as a memorial to all who
gave their lives in the venture.
D.H.
NOTE
ON POE
To Accompany "Edgar Allan Poe" and
"Alchemy"
In May, 1828, Poe enlisted in the army under the name of Edgar
A. Perry, and was assigned to Battery
[129] "H" of the First Artillery at Fort
Independence. In October his battery was ordered to Fort
Moultrie, Charleston, S.C. Poe spent a whole year on Sullivan's
Island. Professor C. Alphonso Smith, the well-known Poe
authority, says, "So far as I know, this was the only tropical
background that Poe had ever seen." That the susceptible nature
of the young poet was vastly impressed by the weirdness and
melancholy scenery of the Carolina coast country, there can be
very little doubt. The dank tarns and funereal woodlands of his
landscapes, or at least the strong suggestion of them, may all be
found here, and the scene of The Goldbug is definitely
laid on Sullivan's Island. Here are dim family vaults, and tracts
of country in which the House of Usher might well stand.
"Dim vales and shadowy
floods
And cloudy-looking
woods
Whose forms we can't
discover,
From the tears that drip
all over"
was written while Poe was in the army at Fort Moultrie, and
appeared in his second volume in 1829. There are later
echoes.
"Around by lifting winds
forgot
Resignedly beneath the
sky
The melancholy waters
lie."
H.A.
[130]
"MARSH TACKIES"
"Marsh Tackies" is the name given by the negroes to the
little, wild horses of the Carolina coast country's swamps and
sea islands. Early traditions say that these horses were found by
the English when they first came and that they are the
descendants of runaways from the Spanish settlements to the South
about St. Augustine, or horses turned loose by DeSoto upon his
ill-fated march to the Mississippi. These horses pick up a
precarious living in out-of-the-way sections along the coast, and
are occasionally taken and broken in by the negroes. They are the
"poor horse trash" of the section.
[131]
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Alstons and Allstons of South Carolina |
S.C. Graves |
Annual Report of the Am. Hist. Ass. |
1913 |
Aaron Burr, Memoirs, Life, and Letters |
Charleston Courier |
Old Files |
Charleston Mercury |
Old Files |
Charleston the Place and the People |
Ravenel |
Colonial History of South Carolina |
Lawson |
Defense of Charleston Harbor |
Johnson |
Diary from Dixie |
Chestnut |
Edgar Allan Poe |
Woodbury |
Edgar Allan Poe, How to Know Him |
Smith |
Edgar Allen Poe |
Harrison |
Mobile Mercury |
Old Files |
Proceedings of the American Philos. Soc. |
Vol. XXVI |
Pirates, The Carolina |
Hughson, Johns
Hopkins |
|
Press Pamphlet |
Submarines |
Pamphlet, Smythe, A.T.,
Jr. |
South Carolina Historical and Genealogical
Magazine |
Vol. XIV |
Theodosia |
Pidgin |
***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAROLINA CHANSONS***