I shrink from putting on paper the sentimental side of my nature, and indeed I could give no adequate idea of my affection for that drum.And then there was Nick, who had been lost to me for five years! My impulse was to charge the procession, seize Nick and the drum together, and drag them back to my room; but the futility and danger of such a course were apparent, and the caution for which I am noted prevented my undertaking it.The procession, augmented by all those to whom sufficient power of motion remained, cheered by the helpless but willing ones on the ground, swept on down the street and through the town.Even at this late day I shame to write it! Behold me, David Ritchie, Federalist, execrably sober, at the head of the column behind the leader.Was it twenty minutes, or an hour, that we paraded? This Iknow, that we slighted no street in the little town of Louisville.What was my bearing,--whether proud or angry or carelessly indifferent,--I know not.The glare of Joe Handy's torch fell on my face, Joe Handy's arm and that of another gentleman, the worse for liquor, were linked in mine, and they saw fit to applaud at every step my conversion to the cause of Liberty.We passed time and time again the respectable door-yards of my Federalist friends, and I felt their eyes upon me with that look which the angels have for the fallen.Once, in front of Mr.
Wharton's house, Mr.Handy burned my hair, apologized, staggered, and I took the torch! And I used it to good advantage in saving the drum from capture.For Mr.
Temple, with all the will in the world, had begun to stagger.At length, after marching seemingly half the night, they halted by common consent before the house of a prominent Democrat who shall be nameless, and, after some minutes of vain importuning, Nick, with a tattoo on the drum, marched boldly up to the gate and into the yard.A desperate cunning came to my aid.Iflung away the torch, leaving the head of the column in darkness, broke from Mr.Handy's embrace, and, seizing Nick by the arm, led him onward through the premises, he drumming with great docility.Followed by a few stragglers only (some of whom went down in contact with the trees of the orchard), we came to a gate at the back which Iknew well, which led directly into the little yard that fronted my own rooms behind Mr.Crede's store.Pulling Nick through the gate, I slammed it, and he was only beginning to protest when I had him safe within my door, and the bolt slipped behind him.As I struck a light something fell to the floor with a crash, an odor of alcohol filled the air, and as the candle caught the flame I saw a shattered whiskey bottle at my feet and a room which had been given over to carousing.In spite of my feelings Icould not but laugh at the perfectly irresistible figure my cousin made, as he stood before me with the drum slung in front of him.His hat was gone, his dust-covered clothes awry, but he smiled at me benignly and without a trace of surprise.
``Sho you've come back at lasht, Davy,'' he said.``You're --you're very--irregular.You'll lose--law bishness.
Y-you're worse'n Andy Jackson--he's always fightin'.''
I relieved him, unprotesting, of the drum, thanking my stars there was so much as a stick left of it.He watched me with a silent and exaggerated interest as I laid it on the table.From a distance without came the shouts of the survivors making for the tavern.
``'Sfortunate you had the drum, Davy,'' he said gravely, `` 'rwe'd had no procession.''
``It is fortunate I have it now,'' I answered, looking ruefully at the battered rim where Nick had missed the skin in his ardor.
``Davy,'' said he, ``funny thing--I didn't know you wash a Jacobite.Sh'ou hear,'' he added relevantly, ``th'
Andy Jackson was married?''
``No,'' I answered, having no great interest in Mr.
Jackson.``Where have you been seeing him again?''
``Nashville on Cumberland.Jackson'sh county sholicitor,--devil of a man.I'll tell you, Davy,'' he continued,laying an uncertain hand on my shoulder and speaking with great earnestness, ``I had Chicashaw horse--Jackson'd Virginia thoroughbred--had a race--'n' Jackson wanted to shoot me 'n' I wanted to shoot Jackson.'N' then we all went to the Red Heifer--''
``What the deuce is the Red Heifer?'' I asked.
``'N'dishtillery over a shpring, 'n' they blow a horn when the liquor runsh.'N' then we had supper in Major Lewish's tavern.Major Lewis came in with roast pig on platter.
You know roast pig, Davy?...'N' Jackson pulls out's hunting knife n'waves it very mashestic....You know how mashestic Jackson is when he--wantshtobe?'' He let go my shoulder, brushed back his hair in a fiery manner, and, seizing a knife which unhappily lay on the table, gave me a graphic illustration of Mr.Jackson about to carve the pig, I retreating, and he coming on.``N' when he stuck the pig, Davy,--''
He poised the knife for an instant in the air, and then, before I could interpose, he brought it down deftly through the head of my precious drum, and such a frightful, agonized squeal filled the room that even I shivered involuntarily, and for an instant I had a vivid vision of a pig struggling in the hands of a butcher.I laughed in spite of myself.But Nick regarded me soberly.
``Funny thing, Davy,'' he said, ``they all left the room.''
For a moment he appeared to be ruminating on this singular phenomenon.Then he continued: `` 'N' Jackson was back firsht, 'n' he was damned impolite...'n' he shook his fist in my face'' (here Nick illustrated Mr.Jackson's gesture), `` 'n' he said, `Great God, sir, y' have a fine talent but if y' ever do that again, I'll--I'll kill you.'...
That'sh what he said, Davy.''
``How long have you been in Nashville, Nick?'' Iasked.
``A year,'' he said, ``lookin' after property I won rattle-an'-shnap--you remember?''
``And why didn't you let me know you were in Nashville?''
I asked, though I realized the futility of the question.
