VIII.

GRUNTER, THE WHITE PIG.

When the children awoke the next morning, they found that they were as much puzzled as ever about Aaron. He had escaped from Mr. Gossett and the patrol, and he had gone into the woods; but what then? What did he do there? How long did he stay? There were a thousand questions they wanted to ask. So the next time they saw Aaron, and each time thereafter, they begged him to tell them this and tell them that, until finally he said he would take them over to the two-mile place some fine day, and show them the White Pig.

Now, on that plantation, the White Pig was a well-known character. His history was a short one, but it was enough. A good many years before that, an old sow, with thirteen pigs following her, concluded to go traveling. She refused to come up to be fed when the other hogs were called. Nobody knew the reason. The hog feeder had a beautiful song to call them with, and a strong, melodious voice with which to sing the song—a voice that could be heard from one end of the plantation to the other. But however long or however loud he might call, the old sow with her thirteen pigs kept close in the swamp.

Day after day the hog feeder called; day after day he expected them to come; and day after day they failed to come. After so long a time he went to hunt them. The old sow he found, but her pigs were missing. Some said the foxes and wildcats had caught the young ones, and some said they had gone wild in the swamp. But when the negroes planted their watermelon and goober patches, they soon found out that not all of the pigs had been caught.

Then a great effort was made to catch them. Some were run down and caught with dogs, and some were shot; but one, the most mischievous of all, was never caught. He kept out of the way of the guns, and he ripped open and killed all the dog’s that came within reach of him. He was fleet of foot and cunning. He never came out of the canebrake except at night, and he was so white and swift that the negroes came to be afraid of him. They said to themselves that a pig that could fool the white people and outrun a pack of foxhounds must be something more than a common pig.

Consequently, when they were going through the fields at dead of night and heard the White Pig crunching goobers, or chewing sugar-cane, or smacking his mouth over a yam potato, they said nothing, but slipped away as fast as they could, and left him to the enjoyment of his feast. This went on until the White Pig grew to be strong and dangerous. His tusks, or tushes, as the negroes called them, were long and sharp. He could kill as many dogs as could be piled upon him. When a catch dog was sent after him, he had a great trick of running until the dog came close enough, and then wheeling and ripping the pursuer’s hide open.

[Illustration: THE WHITE PIG GREW STRONG AND DANGEROUS]

It came to pass that the sport of hunting the White Pig grew too dangerous to be indulged in, so he was left to roam in the swamps and cane-brakes with no one to molest. It happened, too, that as soon as he was left alone, the White Pig ceased to molest the watermelons, sugar-canes, sweet potatoes, goobers, and other truck, which the negroes were allowed to raise in order to make themselves a little pocket money. For a long time this was the wonder of the plantation, and yet none of the patches planted by the negroes were torn up and destroyed. Then, as everybody got used to this state of things, it ceased to be astonishing, and was no longer talked of. And some of the negroes even forgot that the White Pig was still at large, ready and willing to kill and cripple the biggest pack of dogs that could be sent against him.

This, then, was the White Pig that Aaron said he would have to show the children. Many and many a time they had been told not to go too far from the house for fear the White Pig would catch them. They had been taught to regard the White Pig as the Booger-Bear of the plantation, and they, as well as the negroes, stood greatly in awe of him, the more so as they had never seen him. It is no wonder, therefore, that they looked at one another with some astonishment when Aaron told them that he would have to take them to the two-mile place and show them the White Pig.

“I speck he’s tired of foolin’ ’long wid us,” said Drusilla, by way of explanation, “an’ I don’t blame him much, kaze you-all been a-follerin’ atter him an’ a-ding-dongin’ at him twel he done plum’ wo’ out.”

“You too!” exclaimed Buster John.

“Not me!” protested Drusilla. “No, suh! I ain’t been a-ding-dongin’ atter Unk A’on; I ben a-follerin’ atter you-all, an’ dat what Mistiss tol’ me ter do. Ef I don’t do it, she’ll make me tote water fer mammy ter wash de cloze wid, an’ I know mighty well I don’t want ter do dat.”

But Aaron, as it turned out, was not joking at all. So, one pleasant morning, when he saw them playing in the spring lot, he gave them to understand that the time had come for them to make the acquaintance of the White Pig, and Buster John said he was quite ready; but Sweetest Susan looked at Drusilla and hesitated a little. Drusilla looked at Sweetest Susan and hesitated a good deal. In fact, she drew back.

“Now, I tell you what,” she said, “you-all kin go on out dar in de swamp an’ le’ me stay here, an’ den when you come back you kin set down an’ tell me all ’bout it.”

“But mamma said you were to go with us wherever we went,” Sweetest Susan reminded her.

“Dat what she say,” replied Drusilla, “yit she ain’t tell me to go wid you out dar whar dat ar wil’ hog is, which he done cripple a hoss an’ kilt a yardful er dogs. Unk A’on kin take keer er you lots better dan what I kin.”

“Come on,” said Buster John to Sweetest Susan. “Let her stay if she wants to.”

“Yes,” remarked Aaron, “she’s big enough to go to the field now. We need her there right now.”

This didn’t suit Drusilla at all, so she ran toward the others, laughing.

“I wuz des foolin’,” she said. “I des wanted ter see what you-all gwine ter do. You may not need me, but I’m gwine anyhow, an’ ef de White Pig git me, you’ll hatter answer to Mistiss for it.”

Aaron hitched a mule to the plantation cart, and in this rig they made their way to the two-mile place. They jogged along the little-used road, the journey being enlivened by some of the queer songs that Aaron was in the habit of singing when he was in a good humor. They went nearly to the river—the Oconee—and then Aaron turned out of the plantation road, and drove straight through the woods and bushes until they came in sight of a big cane-brake. Here he stopped, took the mule from the cart, and fastened him with a long tether, so that he could browse around, and nibble the grass and bushes. Then he lifted Sweetest Susan to his broad shoulders, took Buster John by the hand, and went toward the cane-brake. He went on until he came to the damp ground near the edge of the swamp. Selecting a dry place—a little knoll higher than the rest—Aaron stationed the children there, and then went to the verge of the cane-brake. Here he paused, placed his two hands to his mouth, and gave utterance to a peculiar call, or cry. It sounded as if he were trying to say, “Goof—goof—goof!” but had smothered the noise with his hands. It was loud enough to be heard a considerable distance, however, for after he had repeated the call three times there was a reply from the farther side of the swamp, and presently the children heard a rushing, crashing sound among the canes.

Sweetest Susan crept a little closer to Buster John, and Drusilla snuggled up to Sweetest Susan. The children were not frightened, but they were filled with unknown anticipations. They knew not what to expect next. The crashing noise in the canes seemed to come nearer, and then it suddenly stopped. If it was the White Pig, he was listening.

“Come, White Pig! Come, Grunter, come!” called Aaron. “Are you then afraid?”

The crashing sound in the canes was renewed more violently than ever, and in a moment the White Pig—the terror of the plantation—burst from the reeds with a grunt that was nearly a roar.

“I dunner what they call him a pig fer,” whispered Drusilla, “he big enough for two hogs.”

And this was true. The White Pig was not fat, but he was lean and tall. He was not a pretty pig by any means. There was a vicious twinkle in his eye. His body was nearly covered with mud, and one of his ears was gone, having been torn away by dogs when he was less able to defend himself than now.

“It is long since I’ve seen you, Son of Ben Ali. Humph! No wonder! What am I?”

Aaron was about to say something, but the quick, restless eye of the White Pig caught sight of the children, and, with a snort of mingled fear and rage, he plunged into the cane-brake again. He ran a little way, as the children could see by the shaking of the reeds, and then stopped to listen. He heard nothing but the loud laugh Aaron sent after him.

“Go, then!” cried Aaron. “Go and stay. In the light here your shadow will catch you. Go, then! The White Pig that used to roam these fields with me had neither the heart nor the feet of a fox.”

Presently, when everything was quiet, the children could see by the shaking of the reeds, that the White Pig was coming out again. But this time he came no further than the edge of the swamp. Nothing could be seen except his head and shoulders, and these, with one ear gone, were not as pretty as a picture. His bristles stood up straight and stiff, from fear or anger, giving him a ragged appearance, and he opened and closed his mouth viciously.

“Humph! humph!” he said. “Who are these, Son of Ben Ali, and what trap have you set for me?”

“Some little children armed with broom straws,” laughed Aaron. “Run, White Pig, run. They will catch you, sure!”

“Boof!” cried the White Pig contemptuously. “The Spotted Sow goes about with her children squealing behind her. When did the Son of Ben Ali take up that trade? Boof!”

“When the White Pig became afraid of his shadow,” replied Aaron.

“Then why call me?” asked the White Pig.

Aaron shook his head slowly. “You are right,” he replied. “Why should I call you at night, when I have a basket of new corn scattered for you?”

“Humph!” grunted the White Pig.

“I call you because I choose to. The children yonder have seen the sign; they have been touched. They know who we are and what we are. Two belong by blood to the Little Master. That is enough for me.”

“Humph! Boof! Son of Ben Ali, it is also enough for me. Goof! I have seen them—they have seen me—what more can I do? Why should I stay? The mud in the swamp is soft and cool, but here the sun shines hot.”

“If I had a bag of corn,” suggested Aaron.

“I say nothing, Son of Ben Ali. I see no corn, and the sun shines hot. What am I to do?”

“These who have been touched and who have seen the sign are here to speak with you. They came to hear you tell of the time when you and I lived in these fields together, sleeping and hiding in the daytime, and slipping about at night.”

The White Pig’s bristles no longer stood up.

“Humph!” he grunted. “I will go wallow in the branch and wash the mud off.”

“He gone ter wash his face and hands, an’ comb his hair,” whispered Drusilla. “I speck he gwine ter come buljin’ out’n dat swamp terreckly, an’ den what we gwine do? Ef he look hard at me, I’m gwine ter fall right flat on de groun’ an’ holler loud ez I kin squall.”

“Well, if you do that,” said Buster John, “you’ll scare him, and they say that when a wild hog is scared he gets mad.”

“I do’ know what I’m gwine ter do,” remarked Drusilla, after a pause, during which she seemed to be thinking. “But I tell you now, I feel mighty quare. Ef dey wuz any tree ’roun’ here I’d climb it er break my neck tryin’. You-all is de outdoinest white chillun I ever hear tell un—comin’ way out here from yo’ pa an’ ma des ter be ripped up an’ kilt by a great big ol’ wil’ hog.”

“You know the way back to the wagon,” said Buster John. “Just go there and wait till we come. You make too much fuss anyhow.”

“Go dar by myself!” exclaimed Drusilla. “No, suh! You don’ know me! I wouldn’t go ’cross dat hill dar by myse’f, not fer ham! Uh-uh! I know I ain’t got much sense, but I got mo’ sense dan dat. I wouldn’t mo’ dan git out er sight er you-all fo’ dat ar White Pig would have me. He may be gwine ter ketch me anyhow, but ef he do I’ll be right here where you-all kin see me. You done brung me, en ef I git kilt, you-all will be de ’casion un it. Ef Marster an’ Mistiss done come ter de pass whar dey want de niggers fed ter hogs, an’ wil’ hogs at dat, den I ain’t got no complaints ter make.”

But Buster John and Sweetest Susan were paying the smallest attention to Drusilla. They were watching Aaron, and waiting for the White Pig to make his appearance again. Finally Aaron turned away from the swamp and came to the children, and presently they heard the White Pig coming up behind them, grunting and “goofing,” though not so fiercely as before.

Drusilla turned and saw him coming, and exclaimed: “Dar now! what I tell you. Ef I’d a-started to’rds dat wagon, he’d a got me sho ez de worl’. An’ he may git me yit.” She jumped up and ran towards Aaron for protection. But he shook her in a way to convince her that she would do well to keep quiet.

The White Pig had gone into the swamp, wallowed in the clean water of the branch, and had then come out and gone around half a mile to see that there was no ambuscade. He seemed to be very well satisfied, for he grunted in a good-humored way as he trotted up.

“You didn’t go far enough, White Pig,” said Aaron, “I forgot you were growing old. My men are hid behind the wagon on the other hill. Next time I will bring them nearer—even to the edge of the swamp.”

“Goof—goof!” replied the White Pig. “What would you have? I am alone. You are yonder. I am here. How do I know that the Son of Ben Ali remains the same? Humph! let me see for myself. Once you would go far to scratch my back till I fell asleep in the shade. Once you would shake down the scalybarks in the woods. Now you fling corn here and there and go your way. And sometimes many suns and moons come between the baskets of corn. Do I complain? Goof! I go into the cool swamp and tell the red squirrels that the Son of Ben Ali is sick, or away on a journey. And they say ‘Come,’ and we go into the woods beyond the swamp, and then the red squirrels shake down the scalybarks and the hickory nuts. Goof! goof!”

Aaron laid his hand on the White Pig’s back and passed it gently through the thick bristles.

“That is so,” said Aaron, “but you forget about the yams that are left buried in the field for you. You forget the goobers, the turnips, and the bank of sugar-cane. You forget the corn that is scattered here and there for you every day when the weather is cold.”

“Goof! Why should I think of them, Son of Ben Ali? Hot or cold, the long swamp is a feed trough for me. I need never come out of it. What is it to me if you come empty-handed, so you come? Do you think I have forgotten the long nights when I trotted through the woods with you? Or when I ran to the sound of your whistling? Or when I charged the hounds that were trailing you and drove them away? I was thinking only of the Son of Ben Ali. I am getting very old. My tusks are yellow, and one of them is broken. I can run, but not so swiftly as when I carried you the news of the great fire one night. No, my legs fail me.”

“You are old,” said Aaron. “Of all your kind, you are the oldest I have ever seen.”

“Goof—humph! Why not? All the rest are glad to run into the pen when they hear corn falling from the basket. They go in and eat and sleep until they are fat, and then some cold night you see the fires lit, and then, one after another you hear the fat fools in the pen squeal. Then in the morning you can see them hanging by their heels in a row. Goof! I have seen it. Hanging by their heels, their hair off, and their throats cut. Oof! It makes me shiver. I saw it when I was running about with my mother, and though I have gone hungry many a night, never did I go through a gap in the fence that was left for me, and never did I follow the rest when they went to be fed in the pen.”

[Illustration: GRUNTER ASKING THE RED SQUIRRELS FOR NUTS]

All this time the White Pig, using his forefeet as pivots, turned his body first one way and then the other, watching every open space, and often pausing to listen. There was an air of wildness about him that kept the children quiet and subdued.

“These,” said Aaron, “are my friends. They shall be yours, if you choose.”

“Humph! What do they want with me?”

“We want to hear you tell about the time when Uncle Aaron was a runaway,” suggested Buster John.

“Goof! Who is Uncle Aaron?” asked the White Pig.

“Me,” said Aaron.

“Oof—oof!” cried the White Pig, scornfully. “Return to the swamp, Son of Ben Ali, where we have no such names. The paths are all there. I have kept them hard and firm. Come!”

Aaron shook his head. “It is too late,” he said. “I belong yonder; you belong here.”

“Then I’ll go where I belong. Ooft!”

“When you have pleased my friends.”

“To-morrow, Son of Ben Ali. Not now. They are too far from home. To-night, when the moon stands high, I’ll come through the long lane that has been closed, and hide in the plum thicket that has been left in the peach orchard.”

“So then,” said Aaron, “we will go. Before long I’ll come and have a race with you in the swamp.”

“Oof—ooft!” grunted the White Pig. “You shall win if you can!”

Then Aaron and the children started back to where they had left the wagon. The White Pig trotted with them a quarter of a mile or more, and then paused and sniffed the air.

“Gooft! The sun is too bright here. As for me, I travel in the dark.”

With that he turned and went galloping back into the swamp.