CHAPTER X

SUBJUGATION

"Take heed, that ye despise not one of these little ones."--Matt. xviii, 10

For days after that terrifying experience the little flock of suffering children went about with white, shocked facets, almost afraid to speak to one another lest they incur another outbreak of rage.

Returning, tired and tearful to their loft each night after their pitiful exertions in the field, there was no one to comfort them, none to ease their misery but Mollie.

And how Mollie loved them! There was Johnnie, whose right foot was mis-shapen and who always used a little, home-made crutch. And Willie, the tree-climbing wonder! When the ogre was not at home he thrilled them all by his exploits. Little Leathie, just as big as Mollie was when she first came to the farm, and Leon, her twin brother, though he was half a head taller; tongue-tied Bobbie, still grieving over the loss of his red wagon and building blocks; Jimmie, who came to the farm priding himself upon the "fine wallop" he could give with his sturdy fist and who always "made snoots" at the ogre behind the latter's back.

All were as dear to Mollie as if they were her own brothers and sisters. They were her babies--her dolls. Cynthy and Stephen were her comrades, near her own age. On them she depended for help and encouragement in whatever she undertook to carry out for the comfort and benefit of all.

Five years had passed since she and Stephen had been so treacherously dealt with by those in whom they had placed trust and confidence. Five years during which neither had any idea what had transpired in the world beyond the awful moat which barred their escape from the human fiend to whom they had been consigned.

They did not know it was five years. They had no way of computing time. They were too young and untutored when they entered upon their exile to think of checking off days and weeks in any manner that might enable them to know one day of the week from another. Now they could not even tell how old they were.

Stephen, after his beating had lapsed into a state of melancholy that was pitiful. In appearance he was little larger than when he came to the farm. But with the failing of his strength physically his tendency to mental concentration had increased. He was thinking, thinking, thinking every minute of the day and even in his disturbed dreams at night. The terrific tension was fast reaching a breaking point. Strange visions came frequently before his eyes. There were moments when he felt dazed and did not quite know where he was. Once he did not know Mollie when she spoke to him.

"I reckon I'm goin' ter die," he said, wearily, as she placed cool wet cloths on his head after they had all mounted to the loft in the evening.

And Mollie, fighting back her tears, assembled the children about her and told them for the hundredth time the story of the sparrows.

"God never does nothin' wrong," she assured her rapt little auditors. "I know, because my Mammy told me afore she went to sleep, that time I tol' yo' about. An' she said thet when folks thinks He's done whut ain't right, or ain't a-goin' ter give 'em whut they want, ef yo' jes' wait an' keep on thinkin' 'bout how He loves His sparrows, some day yo'll see a mighty lot o' good come out o' whut yo' war thinkin' war all wrong'.

"Now we've ben a-sayin' our pra'rs ever sense we ben here--me an' Splutters an' yo'all,--an' God hain't done nothin' yit, ter help us."

Tears were rolling down Mollie's cheeks. She paused to wipe them away.

"I ain't a-faultin' Him," she continued, softly, "for my Mammy knowed Him an' she never tol' lies. But Stevie's gettin' most wore out, an' yo'-all es hungry an' sumpin's got ter be did. Now me an' you-uns is a-goin' ter ast God ter please git a soon start an' send thet mighty lot o' good out o' what shorely es all wrong now. We'll say all th' pra'rs we know, an' atterward we'll git ter work an' make us another kite--a bigger one with a longer tail. An' we'll send hit up the fust day old Pete's away. Thet other kite mos' likely got ketched in a tree."

It was a pitiful little group, for then, as ever, there was a baby, a "least one", for Mollie to hold in her arms. Little Amy, so near the age of the unfortunate Buddy that Mollie would not trust the infant out of her sight a moment, lay across her knee, sleeping fitfully.

Mollie arose and placed the sleeping baby upon a pile of bedding, then knelt, with the children about her, near the pallet of straw on which poor Stephen lay, too ill and weary to comprehend what was going on about him.

Down below, Walter, the horse, whinnied softly in his sleep. Outside, the watch-dog Peter had procured after Cynthy's attempt to run away bayed dismally. He was as lonely and homesick as the children. He would have liked to be with them.

Mollie, who had been surreptitiously feeding the forlorn animal, remembered him in the fervent appeal which she poured forth for their deliverance from the hands of their captor and tormentors.

"An' please, God," she begged in conclusion, "when yo' hev looked atter us children, don't fergit Tige, fer he wants ter be a good dawg an' Pete won't giv' him a chanst."

Then, scanning the pathetic little faces before her, she called upon the children singly, according to the amount of religious instruction each had received, and listened lovingly to their petitions. Jimmie recited what he said was a "Cath'lic pra'r--three or four on 'em." Johnnie knew "a 'Piscopal one." Willie's "Baptis' pra'r" came next. Leathie, Leon and Bobbie lisped "Now I lay me down to sleep," and each received a kiss from Mollie when the prayer was finished. Then came the "Our Father" prayer, which they said in unison, Mollie leading and even poor Splutters trying to join.

"'Tain't every night we kin pray so much," said Mollie as she dispersed the children to bed, "but this was special. All God's sparrows make a lot o' fuss an' mebbe thet's why they git all th' 'tention. But I reckon we beat 'em ter-night."

Work on the "bigger and better kite" progressed under difficulties but they finished it at last. It was sent up, as the reader already knows, with a success that argued well for the future. Mollie was sure that at last they had, by the very persistency of their efforts, brought their deplorable situation to the attention of One able to combat even the terrible Peter Grimes.

"Yo' jes' wait an' see," she would reiterate as they bent their youthful backs over their imposed tasks in the garden. "Sumpin's a'goin' ter happen right soon. I feel hit a-comin'."

Then Peter strode in among them and turned his terrible eyes upon Cynthy.

"Yo' come with me," he muttered, grasping her roughly by the arm.

With a scream the child tried to wrench herself loose. She thought he meant to kill her.

"Shet up," he commanded, increasing the pressure on her arm and dragging her, regardless of her struggles, back toward the barn. There he released her, with a final warning to keep quiet.

"G'wan an' wash yer face an' git yer shoes," he told her. She fled to do his bidding. But the shoes she had brought with her were far too small. She had to carry them, as before, over her arm. Where he purposed taking her, Cynthy did not know; she dared not ask. Meekly she followed Peter through the gate and, at his command, climbed into the ramshackle buggy. He writhed down into the seat beside her.

"I laid off ter fling yo' ter th' hawgs," he grumbled, as he picked up the lines that hung loosely on old Walter's back, "but yer paw's a-waitin fer yo' in Chicawgy. Thar you'll be so plumb fur away 'twon't hurt nawthin'. Yo' kin tell yer Paw th' leetle feller died."

Cynthy heard the words but they fell unheeded after the first sentence which told her that her father was still alive. He was waiting for her! She was going to him! He had sent for her!

"Oh, glory!" she gasped, as the tears trickled slowly over her pale cheeks. "An' I was th' only one who didn't feel ter b'lieve Mollie when she tol' us sumpin' jes' nachully was gwine fer ter happen, once God tuk a soon start."

"What's thet?" roared Peter, bringing the horse to a halt and glaring around at the little girl.

"Nawthin'," she whimpered. "I was jes' thinkin' 'bout my Pappy."

"Well, shet up," ordered Peter. "Giddep!"

The horse moved on.