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ON THE PLANTATION

A Story Of A Georgia Boy's Adventures During The War

By Joel Chandler Harris

Author Of Uncle Remus

With Twenty-Three Illustrations By E. W. Kemble

New York

D. Appleton And Company

1892


JOSEPH ADDISON TURNER

LAWYER, EDITOR, SCHOLAR, PLANTER,

AND PHILANTHROPIST THIS MIXTURE

OF FACT AND FICTION IS INSCRIBED




INTRODUCTORY NOTE.


Some of my friends who have read in serial form the chronicles that
follow profess to find in them something more than an autobiographical
touch. Be it so. It would indeed be difficult to invest the commonplace
character and adventures of Joe Maxwell with the vitality that belongs
to fiction. Nevertheless, the lad himself, and the events which are
herein described, seem to have been born of a dream. That which is
fiction pure and simple in these pages bears to me the stamp of truth,
and that which is true reads like a clumsy invention. In this matter
it is not for me to prompt the reader. He must sift the fact from the
fiction and label it to suit himself.

J. C. H.




ON THE PLANTATION.




CHAPTER I--JOE MAXWELL MAKES A START


The post-office in the middle Georgia village of Hillsborough used
to be a queer little place, whatever it is now. It was fitted up in
a cellar; and the postmaster, who was an enterprising gentleman from
Connecticut, had arranged matters so that those who went after their
letters and papers could at the same time get their grocery supplies.

Over against the wall on one side was a faded green sofa. It was not an
inviting seat, for in some places the springs peeped through, and one of
its legs was broken, giving it a suspicious tilt against the wall. But
a certain little boy found one corner of the rickety old sofa a very
comfortable place, and he used to curl up there nearly every day,
reading such stray newspapers as he could lay hands on, and watching the
people come and go.

To the little boy the stock of goods displayed for sale was as curious
in its variety as the people who called day after day for the letters
that came or that failed to come. To some dainty persons the mingled
odor of cheese, cam-phene, and mackerel would have been disagreeable;
but Joe Maxwell--that was the name of the little boy--had a healthy
disposition and a strong stomach, and he thought the queer little
post-office was one of the pleasantest places in the world.

A partition of woodwork and wire netting cut off the post-office and the
little stock of groceries from the public at large, but outside of that
was an area where a good many people could stand and wait for their
letters. In one corner of this area was the rickety green sofa, and
round about were chairs and boxes and barrels on which tired people
could rest themselves.

The Milledgeville papers had a large circulation in the county. They
were printed at the capital of the State, and were thought to be very
important on that account. They had so many readers in the neighborhood
that the postmaster, in order to save time and trouble, used to pile
them up on a long shelf outside the wooden partition, where each
subscriber could help himself. Joe Maxwell took advantage of this
method, and on Tuesdays, when the Milledgeville papers arrived, he could
always be found curled up in the corner of the old green sofa reading
the _Recorder_ and the _Federal Union_. What he found in those papers to
interest him it would be hard to say. They were full of political essays
that were popular in those days, and they had long reports of political
conventions and meetings from all parts of the State. They were papers
for grown people, and Joe Maxwell was only twelve years old, and small
for his age.

There was another place that Joe found it pleasant to visit, and that
was a lawyer's office in one of the rooms of the old tavern that looked
out on the pillared veranda. It was a pleasant place to him, not because
it was a law-office, but because it was the office of a gentleman
who was very friendly to the youngster. The gentleman's name was Mr.
Deometari, and Joe called him Mr. Deo, as did the other people of
Hillsborough. He was fat and short and wore whiskers, which gave him a
peculiar appearance at that time. All the rest of the men that Joe knew
wore either a full beard or a mustache and an imperial. For that reason
Mr. Deometari's whiskers were very queer-looking. He was a Greek, and
there was a rumor among the people about town that he had been compelled
to leave his country on account of his politics. Joe never knew until
long afterward that politics could be a crime. He thought that politics
consisted partly in newspaper articles signed "Old Subscriber" and "Many
Citizens" and "Vox Populi" and "Scrutator," and partly in arguments
between the men who sat in fine weather on the dry-goods boxes under the
china-trees. But there was a mystery about Mr. Deometari, and it pleased
the lad to imagine all sorts of romantic stories about the fat lawyer.
Although Mr. Deometari was a Greek, there was no foreign twang to his
tongue. Only as close an observer as the boy could have told from his
talk that he was a foreigner. He was a good lawyer and a good speaker,
and all the other lawyers seemed to like him. They enjoyed his company
so well that it was only occasionally that Joe found him in his office
alone.

[Illustration: 0026]

Once Mr. Deometari took from his closet a military uniform and put it
on. Joe Maxwell thought it was the most beautiful uniform he had ever
seen. Gold braid ran down the sides of the trousers, gold cords hung
loosely on the breast of the coat, and a pair of tremendous epaulets
surmounted the shoulders. The hat was something like the hats Joe had
seen in picture-books. It was caught up at the sides with little
gold buttons, and trimmed with a long black feather that shone like a
pigeon's breast. Fat as Mr. Deometari was, the lad thought he looked
very handsome in his fine uniform. This was only one incident. In his
room, which was a large one, Mr. Deometari had boxes packed with books,
and he gave Joe leave to ransack them. Many of the volumes were in
strange tongues, but among them were some quaint old English books,
and these the lad relished beyond measure. After a while Mr. Deometari
closed his office and went away to the war.

It would not be fair to say that Joe was a studious lad. On the
contrary, he was of an adventurous turn of mind, and he was not at all
fond of the books that were in his desk at Hillsborough Academy. He was
full of all sorts of pranks and capers, and there were plenty of people
in the little town ready to declare that he would come to some bad end
if he was not more frequently dosed with what the old folks used to call
hickory oil. Some of Joe Maxwell's pranks were commonplace, but others
were ingenious enough to give him quite a reputation for humor, and
one prank in particular is talked of by the middle-aged people of
Hillsborough to this day.

The teacher of the academy had organized a military company among the
pupils--it was just about the time when rumors and hints of war had
begun to take shape--and a good deal of interest was felt in the
organization, especially by the older boys. Of this company Joe Maxwell
was the fourth corporal, a position which gave him a place at the foot
of the company. The Hillsborough Cadets drilled every school-day, and
sometimes on Saturdays, and they soon grew to be very proud of their
proficiency.

At last, after a good deal of manoeuvring on the playgrounds and in the
public square, the teacher, who was the captain, concluded that the boys
had earned a vacation, and it was decided that the company should go
into camp for a week on the Oconee River, and fish and hunt and have a
good time generally. The boys fairly went wild when the announcement was
made, and some of them wanted to hug the teacher, who had hard work to
explain that an attempt of this sort was not in accord with military
tactics or discipline.

All the arrangements were duly made. Tents were borrowed from the
Hillsborough Rifles, and the drum corps of that company was hired to
make music. A half-dozen wagons carried the camp outfit and the small
boys, while the larger ones marched. It was an entirely new experience
for Joe Maxwell, and he enjoyed it as only a healthy and high-spirited
boy could enjoy it. The formal and solemn way in which the guard was
mounted was very funny to him, and the temptation to make a joke of it
was too strong to be resisted.

The tents were pitched facing each other, with the officers' tent at the
head of the line thus formed. At the other end of the lane and a little
to the rear was the baggage-tent, in which the trunks, boxes, and
commissaries were stored. Outside of all, the four sentinels marched
up and down. The tents were pitched in an old field that was used as
a pasture, and Joe noticed during the afternoon two mules and a horse
browsing around. He noticed, too, that these animals were very much
disturbed, especially when the drums began to beat, and that their
curiosity would not permit them to get very far from the camp, no matter
how frightened they were.

It happened that one of Joe's messmates was to go on guard duty at
twelve o'clock that night. He was a fat, awkward, good-natured fellow,
this messmate, and a heavy sleeper, too, so that, when the corporal
of the guard undertook to arouse him, all the boys in the tent
were awakened. All except Joe quickly went to sleep again, but this
enterprising youngster quietly put on his clothes, and, in the confusion
of changing the guard, slipped out of the lines and hid in a convenient
gully not far from the camp.

It was his intention to worry if not to frighten his messmate, and while
he lay there trying to think out the best plan to pursue, he heard the
horse and mules trampling and snorting not very far off. Their curiosity
was not yet satisfied, and they seemed to be making their way toward the
camp for the purpose of reconnoitering.

Joe's mind was made up in an instant.

He slipped down the gully until the animals were between him and the
camp, and then, seizing a large pine brush that happened to be lying
near, he sprang toward them. The mules and horse were ripe for a
stampede. The camp itself was an object of suspicion, and this attack
from an unexpected quarter was too much for them. Snorting with terror
they rushed in the direction of the tents. The sleepy sentinel, hearing
them coming, fired his gun in the air and ran yelling into the camp,
followed by the horse and one of the mules. The other mule shied to the
right when the gun was fired, and ran into the baggage-tent. There was
a tremendous rattle and clatter of boxes, pots, pans, and crockery ware.
The mule, crazed with fright