GENERAL WASHINGTON: A CHRISTMAS STORY

Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins

Widely known as a writer, editor, playwright, singer, and actress, Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins was born in Portland, Maine, in 1859. As the great grandniece of poet James Whitfield, a descendant of Nathaniel and Thomas Paul, founder of the Baptist churches in Boston, Hopkins was steeped in black middle-class life and culture. However, her exposure and intimate knowledge of the folklore, lifestyles, and speech patterns of Southern black migrants, many of whom belonged to the Baptist and Methodist churches in Boston, provided her with ample materials for her novels, short stories, plays, and nonfictional works. Hopkins, a pioneering writer, was exceptionally gifted and prolific. Her familiarity with black accomplishments, racial movements, and race-related issues is manifested in her fiction, drama, and essays.

As the literary editor of the Colored American Magazine, one of the first African American journals to offer black writers an open forum for expression, Hopkins became known as one of its major contributors. The majority of her short stories, biographical sketches of black historical figures, and serialized novels appeared in the magazine between 1900 and mid-1904. A keen observer of black life and culture, she believed that black writers must use fiction to tell the story of African American life and history.

“General Washington: A Christmas Story” and six other short stories were published in the Colored American Magazine. Hopkins’s fiction, particularly her novels, tended to focus on the black Southern elite and upper middle class, but many of her short stories are centered on the life of the working class. “General Washington,” published in the December 1900 issue of the Colored American Magazine, is rich in black vernacular speech, folklore, and culture. It includes a number of themes related to the African American condition at the turn of the twentieth century. Set in Washington, DC, the story features social commentary to focus on issues related to racism, religion, the survival of the urban black poor, spousal abuse, child neglect and abuse, crime, and even miscegenation. This is all accomplished through an exploration of the exploits of “General Washington.”

The central characters of this story are “General Washington,” Fairy, and Senator Tallman. “General Washington,” also known as Buster, is a formally uneducated but street smart ten-year-old orphan, who is hustling for survival among the food and produce stalls at the Washington Market where “his specialty was selling chitlins.” He is a “knight of the pavement,” who dances on the street and in saloons for pay; a leader of a gang of street urchins; a survivor who “lived in the very shady atmosphere of Murderer’s Bay,” in a box turned on end and filled with straw. Fairy, the granddaughter of Senator Tallman, meets General Washington while shopping with her nanny. Following a brief observation of General Washington unscrupulously selling chitterlings to buyers in the market, Fairy introduces herself and invites him to come to her home on Christmas morning to learn about God and atone for his un-Christian ways. Senator Tallman is a former slave owner and Confederate army veteran who regains his senatorial seat after Reconstruction ends. He is an embittered man who professes his hatred for “Negroes” and opposes any black advancement.

Hopkins skillfully used naming as a device to delineate the characters. Thus, “General,” or “Buster,” is a leader. “General Washington ranked first among the knights of the pavement,” Hopkins writes. Fairy represents an imaginary, tiny, graceful figure whom the General had learned about in his short stay at school. When he meets the blue-eyed, well-dressed white Fairy, he is awestruck. Hopkins describes Tallman as a larger-than-life, pompous racist who is preparing to deliver a speech before the Senate that would “bury the blacks too deep for resurrection and settle the Negro question forever.” Tallman, the fictional senator, was in some ways a parody of the real-life Senator Benjamin Tillman, who gained great visibility during the 1870s as an activist in the movement to overthrow the Republican-dominated Reconstruction government in South Carolina. A rabid racist, he was elected governor of South Carolina in 1890 and by 1894 was in the US Senate. Tillman was widely known for his virulently bigoted comments and conscientious efforts to pass the South Carolina Constitution of 1895, which disfranchised African American men. Through the characters of the General and Senator Tallman, Hopkins demonstrates that Christmas is a time of rebirth, salvation, and redemption in Christ.

Hopkins also refers to a particular cultural practice that is not well known today: the Juba, a popular slave dance based on an African step called Giouba, an elaborate jig. Like his forebears, General Washington and other dancers engaged in competitions to determine who was the most skillful and agile dancer, and who could dance the best and the longest.

General Washington:
A Christmas Story

I.

General Washington did any odd jobs he could find around the Washington market, but his specialty was selling chitlins. General Washington lived in the very shady atmosphere of Murderer’s Bay in the capital city. All that he could remember of father or mother in his ten years of miserable babyhood was that they were frequently absent from the little shanty where they were supposed to live, generally after a protracted spell of drunkenness and bloody quarrels when the police were forced to interfere for the peace of the community. During these absences, the child would drift from one squalid home to another wherever a woman—God save the mark!—would take pity upon the poor waif and throw him a few scraps of food for his starved stomach, or a rag of a shawl, apron or skirt, in winter, to wrap about his attenuated little body.

One night the General’s daddy being on a short vacation in the city, came home to supper; and because there was no supper to eat, he occupied himself in beating his wife. After that time, when the officers took him, the General’s daddy never returned to his home. The General’s mammy? Oh, she died!

General Washington’s resources developed rapidly after this. Said resources consisted of a pair of nimble feet for dancing the hoe-down, shuffles intricate and dazzling, and the Juba; a strong pair of lungs, a wardrobe limited to a pair of pants originally made for a man, and tied about the ankles with strings, a shirt with one gallows, a vast amount of “brass,” and a very, very small amount of nickel. His education was practical; “Ef a corn-dodger costs two cents, an’ a fellar hain’t got de two cents, how’s he gwine ter git de corn-dodger?”

General Washington ranked first among the knights of the pavement. He could shout louder and hit harder than any among them; that was the reason they called him “Buster” and “the General.” The General could swear, too; I am sorry to admit it, but the truth must be told.

He uttered an oath when he caught a crowd of small white aristocrats tormenting a kitten. The General landed among them in quick time and commenced knocking heads at a lively rate. Presently he was master of the situation, and marched away triumphantly with the kitten in his arms, followed by stones and other missiles which whirled about him through space from behind the safe shelter of back yards and street corners.

The General took the kitten home. Home was a dry-goods box turned on end and filled with straw for winter. The General was as happy as a lord in summer, but the winter was a trial. The last winter had been a hard one, and Buster called a meeting of the leading members of the gang to consider the advisability of moving farther south for the hard weather.

“ ’Pears lak to me, fellers, Wash’nton’s heap colder’n it uster be, an’ I’se mighty onscruplus ‘bout stoppin’ hyar.”

“Business am mighty peart,” said Teenie, the smallest member of the gang, “s’pose we put off menderin’ tell after Chris’mas; Jeemes Henry, fellers, it hain’t no Chris’mas fer me outside ob Wash’nton.”

“Dat’s so, Teenie,” came from various members as they sat on the curbing playing an interesting game of craps.

“Den hyar we is tell after Chris’mas, fellers; then dis sonny’s gwine ter move, sho, hyar me?”

“De gang’s wid yer, Buster; move it is.”

It was about a week before Chris’mas, and the weather had been unusually severe.

Probably because misery loves company—nothing could be more miserable than his cat—Buster grew very fond of Tommy. He would cuddle him in his arms every night and listen to his soft purring while he confided all his own hopes and fears to the willing ears of his four-footed companion, occasionally pulling his ribs if he showed any signs of sleepiness.

But one night poor Tommy froze to death. Buster didn’t—more’s the wonder—only his ears and his two big toes. Poor Tommy was thrown off the dock into the Potomac the next morning, while a stream of salt water trickled down his master’s dirty face, making visible, for the first time in a year, the yellow hue of his complexion. After that the General hated all flesh and grew morose and cynical.

Just about a week before Tommy’s death, Buster met the fairy. Once, before his mammy died, in a spasm of reform she had forced him to go to school, against his better judgment, promising the teacher to go up and “wallop” the General every day if he thought Buster needed it. This gracious offer was declined with thanks. At the end of the week the General left school for his own good and the good of the school. But in that week he learned something about fairies; and so, after she threw him the pinks [flowers] that she carried in her hand, he called her to himself “the fairy.”

Being Christmas week, the General was pretty busy. It was a great sight to see the crowds of people coming and going all day long about the busy market; wagon loads of men, women and children, some carts drawn by horses, but more by mules. Some of the people well-dressed, some scantily clad, but all intent on getting enjoyment out of this their leisure season. This was the season for selling crops and settling the year’s account. The store-keepers, too, had prepared their most tempting wares, and the thoroughfares were crowded.

“I ’clare to de Lord, I’se done busted my ol’ man, shure,” said one woman to another as they paused to exchange greetings outside a store door.

“N’em min’,” returned the other, “he’ll wurk fer mo’. Dis is Chris’mas, honey.”

“To be sure,” answered the first speaker, with a flounce of her ample skirts.

Meanwhile her husband pondered the advisability of purchasing [a] mule, feeling in his pockets for the price demanded, but finding them nearly empty. The money had been spent on the annual festival.

“Ole mule, I want yer mighty bad, but you’ll have to slide dis time; it’s Chris’mas, mule.”

The wise old mule actually seemed to laugh as he whisked his tail against his bony sides and steadied himself on his three sound legs.

The vendors were very busy, and their cries were wonderful for ingenuity of invention to attract trade:

“Hello, dar, in de cellar, I’se got fresh aggs fer de’casion; now’s year time fer agg-nogg wid new aggs in it.”

There were the stalls, too, kept by venerable aunties and filled with specimens of old-time southern cheer: Coon, corn-pone, possum fat and hominy; there were piles of gingerbread and boiled chestnuts, heaps of walnuts and roasting apples. There were great barrels of cider, not to speak of something stronger. There were terrapin and the persimmon and the chinquapin in close proximity to the succulent viands—shine and spare-rib, sausage and crackling, savory souvenirs of the fine art of hog-killing. And everywhere were faces of dusky hue; Washington’s great Negro population bubbled over in every direction.

The General was peddling chitlins. He had a tub upon his head and was singing in his strong childish tones:

Here’s yer chitlins, fresh an’ sweet.

Young hog’s chitlins hard to beat,

Methodis chitlins, jes’ been biled,

Right fresh chitlins, dey ain’t spiled,

Baptis’ chitlins by de pound,

As nice chitlins as ever was foun.

“Hyar, boy, duz yer mean ter say dey is real Baptis’ chitlins, sho nuff?”

“Yas, mum.”

“How duz you make dat out?”

“De hog raised by Mr. Robberson, a hard-shell Baptis’, mum.”

“Well, lem-me have two poun’s.”

“Now,” said a solid-looking man as General finished waiting on a crowd of women and men, “I want some o’ de Methodes chitlins you’s bin hollerin’ ‘bout.”

“Hyar dey is, ser.”

“Take ’em all out o’ same tub?”

“Yas, ser. Only dair leetle mo’ water on de Baptis’ chitlins, an’ dey’s whiter.”

“How you tell ’em?”

“Well, ser, two hog’s chitlins in dis tub an one ob de hogs raised by Unc, Bemis, an’ he’s a Methodes,’ ef dat don’t make him a Methodes hog nuthin’ will.”

“Weigh me out four pounds, ser.”

In an hour’s time the General had sold out. Suddenly at his elbow he heard a voice:

“Boy, I want to talk to you.”

The fairy stood beside him. She was a little girl about his own age, well wrapped in costly velvet and furs; her long, fair hair fell about her like an aureole of glory; a pair of gentle blue eyes set in a sweet, serious face glanced at him from beneath a jaunty hat with a long curling white feather that rested light as thistle-down upon the beautiful curly locks. The General could not move for gazing, and as his wonderment grew his mouth was extended in a grin that revealed the pearly whiteness of two rows of ivory.

“Boy, shake hands.”

The General did not move; how could he?

“Don’t you hear me?” asked the fairy, imperiously:

“Yas’m,” replied the General meekly. “ ’Deed, missy, I’se ‘tirely too dirty to tech dem clos o’ yourn.”

Nevertheless he put forth timidly and slowly a small paw begrimed with the dirt of the street. He looked at the hand and then at her; she looked at the hand and then at him. Then their eyes meeting, they laughed the sweet laugh of the free-masonry of childhood.

“I’ll excuse you this time, boy,” said the fairy, graciously, “but you must remember that I wish you to wash your face and hands when you are to talk with me; and,” she added, as though inspired by an afterthought, “it would be well for you to keep them clean at other times, too.”

“Yas’m,” replied the General.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Gen’r’l Wash’nton,” answered Buster, standing at attention as he had seen the police do in the court-room.

“Well, General, don’t you know you’ve told a story about the chitlins you’ve just sold?”

“Tol’ er story?” queried the General with a knowing look. “Course I got to sell my chitlins ahead ob de oder fellars, or lose my trade.”

“Don’t you know it’s wicked to tell stories?”

“How come so?” asked the General, twisting his bare toes about in his rubbers, and feeling very uncomfortable.

“Because, God says we musn’t.”

“Who’s he?”

The fairy gasped in astonishment. “Don’t you know who God is?”

“No’pe; never seed him. Do he live in Wash’nton?”

“Why, God is your Heavenly Father, and Christ was His son. He was born on Christmas Day a long time ago. When He grew a man, wicked men nailed Him to the cross and killed Him. Then He went to heaven, and we’ll all live with Him some day if we are good before we die. O I love Him; and you must love Him, too, General.”

“Now look hyar, missy, you kayn’t make this chile b’lieve nufin lak dat.”

The fairy went a step nearer the boy in her eagerness:

“It’s true; just as true as you live.”

“Whar’d you say He lived?”

“In heaven,” replied the child, softly.

“What kin’ o’ place is heaven?”

“Oh, beautiful!”

The General stared at the fairy. He worked his toes faster and faster.

“Say, kin yer hab plenty to eat up dar?”

“O, yes; you’ll never be hungry there.”

“An’ a fire, an’ clos?” he queried in suppressed, excited tones.

“Yes; it’s all love and plenty when we get to heaven, if we are good here.”

“Well, missy, dat’s a pow’ful good story, but I’m blamed ef I b’lieve it.” The General forgot his politeness in his excitement.

“An’ ef it’s true, tain’t only fer white fo’ks; you won’t fin’ nary nigger dar.”

“But you will; and all I’ve told you is true. Promise me to come to my house on Christmas morning and see my mother. She’ll help you, and she will teach you more about God. Will you come? she asked eagerly, naming a street and number in the most aristocratic quarter of Washington. “Ask for Fairy, that’s me. Say quick; here is my nurse.”

The General promised.

“Law, Miss Fairy, honey; come right hyar. I’ll tell yer mamma how you’s done run way from me to talk to dis dirty little monkey. Pickin’ up sech trash fer ter talk to.”

The General stood in a trance of happiness. He did not mind the slurring remarks of the nurse, and refrained from throwing a brick at the buxom lady, which was a sacrifice on his part. All he saw was the glint of golden curls in the winter sunshine, and the tiny hand waving him good-bye.

“Ah’ her name is Fairy! Jes’ ter think how I hit it all by my lonesome.”

Many times that week the General thought and puzzled over Fairy’s words. Then he would sigh:

“Heaven’s where God lives. Plenty to eat, warm fire all de time in winter; plenty o’ clos,’ too, but I’se got to be good. ‘Spose dat means keepin’ my face an’ hand’s clean an’ stop swearing’ an’ lyin.’ It kayn’t be did.”

The gang wondered what had come over Buster.

II.

The day before Christmas dawned clear and cold. There was snow on the ground. Trade was good, and the General, mindful of the visit next day, had bought a pair of second-hand shoes and a new calico shirt.

“Git onter de dude!” sang one of the gang as he emerged from the privacy of the dry-goods box early Christmas Eve.

The General was a dancer and no mistake. Down at Dutch Dan’s place they kept the old-time Southern Christmas moving along in hot time until the dawn of Christmas Day stole softly through the murky atmosphere. Dutch Dan’s was the meeting place of the worst characters, white and black, in the capital city. From that vile den issued the twin spirits murder and rapine as the early winter shadows fell; there the criminal entered in the early dawn and was lost to the accusing eye of justice. There was a dance at Dutch Dan’s Christmas Eve, and the General was sent for to help amuse the company.

The shed-like room was lighted by oil lamps and flaring pine torches. The center of the apartment was reserved for dancing. At one end the inevitable bar stretched its yawning mouth like a monster awaiting his victims. A long wooden table was built against one side of the room, where the game could be played to suit the taste of the most expert devotee of the fickle goddess.

The room was well filled, early as it was, and the General’s entrance was the signal for a shout of welcome. Old Unc’ Jasper was tuning his fiddle and blind Remus was drawing sweet chords from an old banjo. They glided softly into the music of the Mobile shuffle. The General began to dance. He was master of the accomplishment. The pigeon-wing, the old buck, the hoe-down and the Juba followed each other in rapid succession. The crowd shouted and cheered and joined in the sport. There was hand-clapping and a rhythmic accompaniment of patting the knees and stamping the feet. The General danced faster and faster:

Juba up and juba down,

Juba all aroun’ de town;

Can’t you hyar de juba pat? Juba!

sang the crowd. The General gave fresh graces and new embellishments. Occasionally he added to the interest by yelling, “Ain’t dis fin’e!” “Oh, my!” “Now I’m gittin’ loose!” “Hol’ me, hol’ me!”

The crowd went wild with delight.

The child danced until he fell exhausted to the floor. Someone in the crowd “passed the hat.” When all had been waited upon the barkeeper counted up the receipts and divided fair—half to the house and half to the dancer. The fun went on, and the room grew more crowded. General Wash’nton crept under the table and curled himself up like a ball. He was lucky, he told himself sleepily, to have so warm a berth that cold night; and then his heart glowed as he thought of the morrow and Fairy, and wondered if what she had said were true. Heaven must be a fine place if it could beat the floor under the table for comfort and warmth. He slept. The fiddle creaked, the dancers shuffled. Rum went down their throats and wits were befogged. Suddenly the General was wide awake with a start. What was that?

“The family are all away to-night at a dance, and the servants gone home. There’s no one there but an old man and a kid. We can be well out of the way before the alarm is given. ‘Leven sharp, Doc. And, look here, what’s the number agin?”

Buster knew in a moment that mischief was brewing, and he turned over softly on his side, listening mechanically to catch the reply. It came. Buster sat up. He was wide awake then. They had given the street and number where Fairy’s home was situated.

III.

Senator Tallman was from Maryland. He had owned slaves, fought in the Civil War on the Confederate side, and at its end had been returned to a seat in Congress after Reconstruction, with feelings of deeply rooted hatred for the Negro. He openly declared his purpose to oppose their progress in every possible way. His favorite argument was disbelief in God’s handiwork as shown in the Negro.

“You argue, suh, that God made ’em, I have my doubts, suh, God made man in His own image, suh, and that being the case, suh, it is clear that he had no hand in creating niggers. A nigger, suh, is the image of nothing but the devil.” He also declared in his imperious, haughty, Southern way; “The South is in the saddle, suh, and she will never submit to the degradation of Negro domination; never suh.”

The Senator was a picture of honored age and solid comfort seated in his velvet armchair before the fire of blazing logs in his warm, well-lighted study. His lounging coat was thrown open, revealing its soft silken lining, his feet were thrust into gayly embroidered fur-lined slippers. Upon the baize covered table beside him a silver salver sat holding a decanter, glasses and fragrant mint, for the Senator loved the beguiling sweetness of a mint julep at bedtime. He was writing a speech which in his opinion would bury the blacks too deep for resurrection and settle the Negro question forever. Just now he was idle; the evening paper was folded across his knees; a smile was on his face. He was alone in the grand mansion, for the festivities of the season had begun and the family were gone to enjoy a merry-making at the house of a friend. There was a picture in his mind of Christmas in his old Maryland home in the good old days “befo’ de wah,” the great ball-room where giggling girls and matrons fair glided in the stately minuet. It was in such a gathering he had met his wife, the beautiful Kate Channing. Ah, the happy time of youth and love! The house was very still; how loud the ticking of the clock sounded. Just then a voice spoke beside his chair:

“Please, sah, I’se Gen’r’l Wash’nton.”

The Senator bounded to his feet with an exclamation:

“Eh! Bless my soul, suh; where did you come from?”

“Ef yer please, boss, froo de winder.”

The Senator rubbed his eyes and stared hard at the extraordinary figure before him. The Gen’r’l closed the window and then walked up to the fire, warmed himself in front, then turned around and stood with his legs wide apart and his shrewd little gray eyes fixed upon the man before him.

The Senator was speechless for a moment; then he advanced upon the intruder with a roar warranted to make a six-foot man quake in his boots:

“Through the window, you black rascal! Well, I reckon you’ll go out through the door, and that in quick time, you little thief.”

“Please, boss, it hain’t me; it’s Jim the crook and de gang from Dutch Dan’s.”

“Eh!” said the Senator again.

“What’s yer cronumter say now, boss? ‘Leven is de time fer de perfahmance ter begin. I reckon’d I’d git hyar time nuff fer yer ter call de perlice.”

“Boy, do you mean for me to understand that burglars are about to raid my house?” demanded the Senator, a light beginning to dawn upon him.

The General nodded his head:

“Dat’s it, boss, ef by ‘buglers’ you mean Jim de crook and Dutch Dan.” It was ten minutes of the hour by the Senator’s watch. He went to the telephone, rang up the captain of the nearest station, and told him the situation. He took a revolver from a drawer of his desk and advanced toward the waiting figure before the fire.

“Come with me. Keep right straight ahead through that door; if you attempt to run I’ll shoot you.”

They walked through the silent house to the great entrance doors and there awaited the coming of the police. Silently the officers surrounded the house. Silently they crept up the stairs into the now darkened study. “Eleven” chimed the little silver clock on the mantel. There was the stealthy tread of feet a moment after, whispers, the flash of a dark lantern,—a rush by the officers and a stream of electricity flooded the room.

“It’s the nigger did it!” shouted Jim the crook, followed instantly by the sharp crack of a revolver. General Washington felt a burning pain shoot through his breast as he fell unconscious to the floor. It was all over in a moment. The officers congratulated themselves on the capture they had made—a brace of daring criminals badly wanted by the courts.

When the General regained consciousness, he lay upon a soft, white bed in Senator Tallman’s house. Christmas morning had dawned clear cold and sparkling; upon the air the joy-bells sounded sweet and strong: “Rejoice, your Lord is born.” Faintly from the streets came the sound of merry voices: “Chris’mas gift, Chris’mas gift.”

The child’s eyes wandered aimlessly about the unfamiliar room as if seeking and questioning. They passed the Senator and Fairy, who sat beside him and rested on a copy of Titian’s matchless Christ which hung over the mantel. A glorious stream of yellow sunshine fell upon the thorn-crowned Christ.

God of Nazareth, see!

Before a trembling soul

Unfoldeth like a scroll

Thy wondrous destiny!

The General struggled to a sitting position with arms outstretched, then fell back with a joyous, awesome cry:

“It’s Him! It’s Him!”

“O’ General,” sobbed Fairy, “don’t you die, you’re going to be happy all the rest of your life Grandpa says so.”

“I was in time, little Missy; I tried mighty hard after I knowed whar’ dem debbils was a-comin’ to.”

Fairy sobbed; the Senator wiped his eyeglasses and coughed. The General lay quite still a moment, then turned himself again on his pillow to gaze at the pictured Christ.

‘I’m a-gittin’ sleepy, missy, it’s so warm an’ comfurtable here. ‘Pears lak I feel right happy sence Ise seed Him.” The morning light grew brighter. The face of the Messiah looked down as it must have looked when He was transfigured on Tabor’s heights. The ugly face of the child wore a strange, sweet beauty. The Senator bent over the quiet figure with a gesture of surprise.

The General had obeyed the call of One whom the winds and waves of stormy human life obey. Buster’s Christmas Day was spent in heaven.

For some reason, Senator Tallman never made his great speech against the Negro.