The Starbucks.
by Opie Percival Read.
CHAPTER I.
THE PEOPLE OF THE HILLS.
In every age of the world people who live close to nature have, by the more cultivated, been cla.s.sed as peculiar. An ignorant nation is brutal, but an uneducated community in the midst of an enlightened nation is quaint, unconsciously softened by the cultivation and refinement of inst.i.tutions that lie far away. In such communities live poets with lyres attuned to drollery. Moved by the grandeurs of nature, the sunrise, the sunset, the storm among the mountains, the tiller of the gullied hill-side field is half dumb, but with those apt "few words which are seldom spent in vain," he charicatures his own sense of beauty, mingling rude metaphor with the language of "manage" to a horse.
I find that I am speaking of a certain community in Tennessee. And perhaps no deductions drawn from a general view of civilization would apply to these people. Some of their feuds, it is said, may be traced back to the highlands of Scotland, and it is true that many of their expressions seem to come from old books which they surely have never read, but they do not eat oats, nor do they stand in sour awe of Sunday.
What religion they have is a pleasure to them. In the log meeting-house they pray and sing, sometimes with a half-open eye on a fellow to be "thrashed" on the following day for not having voted as he agreed; "Amen" comes fervently from a corner made warm by the ardor of the repentant sinner; "Hallelujah!" is shouted from the mourner"s bench, and a woman in nervous ecstasy pops her streaming hair; but the average man has come to talk horse beneath the trees, and the young fellow with sun-burnt down on his lip is there slily to hold the hand of a maid frightened with happiness and boastingly to whisper shy words of love.
"Do you like Sam Bracken?" he inquires.
"Not much."
"If you like him much, I bet I can whup him. Like Steve Smith?"
"Not so powerful well."
"I can whup him."
"Bet you can"t."
"You wait."
And the chances are that unless she modifies her statement the Smith boy will be compelled to answer for the crime of her compliment.
In this community, in the edge of what is known as East Tennessee, the memory of Andrew Jackson is held in deepest reverence. To those people he was as a G.o.d-like hero of antiquity. Single-handed he defeated the British at New Orleans. Nicholas Biddle, a great banker somewhere away off yonder, had gathered all the money in the land, and it was Jackson who compelled him to disgorge, thus not only establishing himself as the master of war, but as the crusher of men who oppress the poor.
Prominent in the neighborhood of Smithfield, a town of three or four hundred inhabitants, was Jasper Starbuck. Earlier in his life he had whipped every man who stood in need of that kind of training. Usually of a blythesome nature, he was subject to fits of melancholy, only to be relieved by some sort of physical entanglement with an enemy. Then, his "spell" having pa.s.sed, he would betake himself to genial affairs, help a neighbor with his work, lend his chattels to shiftless farmers, cut wood and haul it for widows, and gathering children about him entertain them with stories of the great war.
And how dearly that war had cost him. East Tennessee did not tear itself loose from the Union; Andrew Johnson and Parson Brownlow, one a statesman and the other a fanatic, strangled the edicts of the lordly lowlanders and sent regiment after regiment to the Federal army. Among the first to enlist were old Jasper Starbuck and his twin boys. The boys did not come back. In the meantime their heart-broken mother died, and when the father returned to his desolate home, there was a grave beneath the tree where he had heard a sweet voice in the evening.
Years pa.s.sed and he married again, a poor girl in need of a home; and at the time which serves as the threshold of this history, he was sobered down from his former disposition to go out upon a "pilgrimage" of revenge. His "spells" had been cured by grief, but nothing could kill his humor. Drawling and peculiar, never boisterous, it was stronger than his pa.s.sion and more enduring than the memory of a wrong. He was not a large man. A neighbor said that he was built after the manner of a wild-cat. He was of iron sinew and steel nerve. His eyes were black with a glint of their youthful devilishness. His thick hair was turning gray.
Margaret, his wife, was a tender scold. She was almost a foundling, but a believer in heredity could trace in her the evidences of good blood.
From some old mansion, long years in ruin, a grace had escaped and come to her. An Englishman, traveling homeward from the defunct colony of Rugby, declared that she was an uncultivated d.u.c.h.ess.
"This union was blessed,"--say the newspapers and story-books, speaking of a marriage,--"with a beautiful girl," or a "manly boy." Often this phrase is flattery, but sometimes, as in this instance, it is the truth.
Lou Starbuck was beautiful. In her earlier youth she was a delicious little riot of joy. As she grew older, she was sometimes serious with the thought that her father and mother had suffered. She loved the truth and believed that bravery was not only akin to G.o.dliness, but the right hand of G.o.dliness.
In Starbuck"s household, or at least attached to his log-house establishment, there were two other persons, an old black mammy who had nursed Jasper, and a trifling negro named Kintchin.
One day in summer there came two notable visitors, Mrs. Mayfield, and her nephew Tom Elliott, both from Nashville, sister and son of a United States Judge. When they came to Jasper"s house, they decided to go no further.
"Tom," said the woman, "this is the place we are looking for."
Tom caught sight of Lou Starbuck, standing in the doorway, and replied: "Auntie, I guess you are right."
The mere suggestion of taking boarders threw the household into a flurry, but Mrs. Mayfield, tall, graceful, handsome, threw her charm upon opposition and it faded away. Old Jasper was not over cordial to "store clothes," at least he was not confidential, and with the keen whip of his eye he lashed Tom Elliott, but the boy appeared to be frank and manly.
"Of course you can stay as long as you want to," said Jasper, "but I reckon you"ll have to put on some homespun and a checked hickory shirt or two, befo" you kin put up with our fare."
"Now, please, don"t worry about that," Mrs. Mayfield spoke up. "We can eat parched corn if necessary. We have come from the city to rest, and--"
"Rest," Jasper broke in, looking at the young fellow. "Why, he don"t look like he ever done anythin". Never plowed a day in your life, did you?"
"I must confess that I haven"t," Tom replied.
"Thar, I knowed it." And then speaking to Mrs. Mayfield, he added: "All right, mam, we"ll do the best we kin fur you. Got the same names here that you had down whar you come from?"
Tom laughed. His aunt reproved him with a look. "Why, of course. What object would we have in changing them?"
"Don"t ask me, mam. I never know what object n.o.body has--ain"t my business. Here, Kintchin," he called to the negro, "take them trunks outen the wagin and then you may go to sleep ag"in."
Kintchin came round a corner of the house, rubbing his eyes. "Talkin"
ter me, suh?"
"You hearn me."
"Said suthin" erbout gwine ter sleep. I jest wanter tell you dat I ain"t slep" none fur er week, an" ef you "sinuate at me--"
"Go on there. Now mam, ef you"ll jest step in we"ll do the best we kin."
"Oh, thank you. How courteous you are."
"How what? I reckon you better git along without much o" that. Don"t want n.o.body put on a strain. Margaret, here are some folks," he continued as his wife made her appearance. "Jest tell "em howdy and let "em alone."
She bowed to Tom and to Mrs. Mayfield. "And befo" you make yo"selves at home," she said, "I hope you"ll l"arn not to pay no attention to Jasper.
Lou, haven"t you spoke to the folks?"
"No"m, but I can. Howdy."
CHAPTER II.
JIM, THE PREACHER.