He always said he never knew which was worse, his name or his nose; but as he could get rid of neither, he accepted both in his own bright, happy way, and that ended the matter with him.
Peter Black had given him the name of Mars’ Bobbie to distinguish him from Mars’ Robert, his father, and it seemed to fit so exactly and suit so well his cheery, lovable little self as a baby, and later as a boy, and even on to young manhood, that no one thought of calling him anything else, or loved any other name half so well for him.
He was such a long time in coming, he used to say laughingly, that when he did get here his parents and friends and relatives, together with all the negroes on the plantation, thought he was going to be something extra; and then to be called “Bobbie,” and to have a broken nose, was so hurtful to his vanity, that, after thinking the matter over, he settled it by deciding that never again would he allow the subject to enter his mind, with the result that he became more lovable and loving than ever, and the secret of the charm all lay in the decision about his nose and name—he never thought of himself, but always of every one else first; and that is why he was so loved—he was so brave and true and honest and glad always.
“White Point,” where he was born, was the centre of the Rockland district; and while the neighborhood in that section of the country was tolerably well settled, still the “quality folks” were not very numerous, and in a radius of some twenty miles there were scarcely half a dozen families that kept up any kind of an establishment. Consequently, with the exception of “Grey Cliffs”—Dr. Trevillian’s place—“White Point” stood alone for a synonym of all that was grand and elegant, and as a gathering place for all the “bus heads” of the neighboring counties, as well as many cities.
Over two hundred slaves were owned by the master, and the stables were reckoned the finest in the State, for the stock included many animals of well-known and enviable records. There was a private race-track at one end of the plantation, and when at the spring and fall meets the neighbors from his own and adjoining counties met at Mars’ Robert Tayloe’s, there were times to be remembered, and good old times they were!
The gentlemen brought their own horses and dogs, and in the morning after breakfast it was no unusual sight to see fifty or more blooded animals brought out by the stable boys and walked up and down for the inspection and discussion of the gentlemen who had come down to see their favorites; and it was owing to one of these occasions that Bobbie made his nose immortal.
Though his eighth birthday had not yet been reached, he knew every detail of stable matters to what his mother thought an alarming degree, and the ambition of his life was to get astride a race horse. Never had he been allowed that privilege, though he had ridden bareback everything else on the place; and when he heard his father discussing, the night before the big race, the relative merits of his special pride—Dare Devil—as compared with Major Dalrymple’s Lady Virginia, he could stand it no longer, and he crept out to look for Peter Black.
Had Bobbie known what an alter ego was, he would have said that Peter Black was it; for one was the substance, the other the shadow; and when Bobbie was wanted Peter Black was generally called.
By right of birth he really belonged to Sallie Tom, Bobbie’s mammy; but for all other intents and purposes he was owned body and soul by little Mars’ Bobbie, to whom Mars’ Robert had given him on the morning of the great day when the little master “done come.” The big master had made him creep softly in the missus’ beautiful room, and had shown him the new wonder, and told him that he was to belong to him hereafter, and that he must always be very careful, and never let any harm come to him; and Peter Black had promised solemnly, and walked out of the room as one would come out of a holy place, and no king on his coronation day was ever half so proud as he.
Sallie Tom, his mother, was present at this installation into office, and she tried hard to conceal the pride she felt at the selection of the little marsa’s body servant. She said no word at the time, but when she got down to her cabin she put Peter Black on a chair and had a conversation with him.
Peter was her one and only offspring, and though she loved him very much in her own peculiar way, it was something very different from the absolute idolatry she had for her master and mistress, and now for the little stranger that for ten long years she had hoped and prayed would come to fill the sore need of a child up in the big house.
There was a strain of Indian blood somewhere in Sallie Tom, it was thought, and the rest of the negroes were far more afraid than fond of her. They declared she “cungered” them, and some would have nothing to do with her; and for that reason, though the best worker on the place, she had been put in the house by her mistress. At the birth of the baby she had been installed as nurse-in-chief, and from that hour she ruled as despot of the nursery kingdom.
In more ways than one did she assert her Indian peculiarities. No one knew for certain that she possessed a drop of such blood; but her hate once aroused was implacable, and her devotion once given was as intense as it was enduring and genuine.
After the birth of the baby Sallie Tom moved up into the house altogether, but she was still allowed to retain her cabin, and there Peter Black slept at night, and there in her hours of recreation or investigation she went to look after her private matters and to see that all things continued in their usual spotless condition.
On the afternoon of the day that made Peter Black henceforth the property of the few-hours-old heir, Sallie Tom interviewed her offspring as to the responsibilities and obligations now resting upon him as a body servant; and if at the end of the interview Peter Black failed to understand what he was to be and to do, it was because he was only six years old, and not yet equal to taking life altogether seriously.
One thing, however, he fully appreciated, and that was the old horse-hair whip that hung near the chimney corner. Sallie Tom took it down and shook it out in the air.
“You see dis?” she said, as she arose from her seat to go back to the house. “You see dis heah, Peter Black? Mars’ Robert told you to-day dat you b’long to de little marsa, now, and so you does. Yo’ foots is to run for him, yo’ han’s is to work for him, yo’ tongue is to talk up for him, yo’ eyes is to look out for him; but you b’long to me, too, Peter Black, and when yo’ foots don’t run, and yo’ hands don’t work, and yo’ eyes don’t see, and you gets to any foolin’, den me and dis heah frien’ of yourn will hav’ suppin to say to you, Peter Black, and now go long wid you,” and Sallie Tom turned and threw her arms around him and hugged him passionately, and then sent him out to play.
From the day of his induction into office Peter Black never gave cause for any regret as to his selection. His idolatry of his little master was almost pathetically absurd. It was he who called him Mars’ Bobbie, the day he crowed so lustily in his face, and the name seemed to fit so well the rollicking, laughing, happy little soul that it just stayed, and no one wanted it changed. When he first began to crawl it was over Peter Black’s back, and Peter’s was the only hand he would touch when he tried to make his first steps, and almost before he could call his mother he would cry for “B’ Bac,” and “B’ Bac” was always there.
On up through the days of infancy the comradeship continued to grow, and though Bobbie’s was the imperious one of babyhood, he loved Peter Black better than anything on earth, and shared faithfully every piece of cake or candy that was given him, and it was due to this absolute and complete submission to his will that Peter Black let his young master have his way about the horses, an indulgence which resulted in Bobbie’s broken nose. When the latter crept out of his room the night before the big race he made Peter Black promise to wake him up the next morning at 4 o’clock. “I’m not going to tell you what for,” said Bobbie, “but you wake me up;” and Peter Black did as he was bidden.
Together they crept through the house and down to the stables, and then Bobbie told his plans. “Major Dalrymple said last night he knowed Lady Virginia was a-going to beat the whole place, and I know there ain’t a horse in the world that can beat my father’s Dare Devil, and I just want to tell him so, and I’m going to try and see. You must get on Lady Virginia and I will ride Dare Devil; and don’t let’s have any saddles, ’cause my feet don’t touch.”
They almost ran as they talked, and it was in vain that Peter Black protested and begged his little master not to do so dreadful a thing; but Bobbie’s blood was up, and words had no effect. They opened the stable and led out their favorites to the track, and slipped up on their backs. “Now, when I count three you let her go, and you make her go, ’cause I don’t want to win easy. If I come back here first, I beat; if you first, then I’ll tell father it’s no use. Now, listen. One, two”—Bobbie’s voice trembled with excitement—“three!”—and they were off.