Among the Pines; or, South in Secession Time
by James R. Gilmore · English · Gutenberg #22960 · 435,756 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Among the Pines; or, South in Secession Time
Author: James R. Gilmore
Release date: October 11, 2007 [eBook #22960]
Language: English
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AMONG THE PINES.
* * * * *
A NEW WORK, Descriptive of Southern Social Life,
BY THE AUTHOR OF AMONG THE PINES,
Is now in course of publication in THE "CONTINENTAL MONTHLY,"
PUBLISHED BY J. R. GILMORE, 532 Broadway, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
AMONG THE PINES:
or, South in Secession Time.
by
EDMUND KIRKE.
Tenth Thousand.
New York: J. R. Gilmore, 532 Broadway.
Charles T. Evans.
1862.
Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1862,
by J. R. Gilmore,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
M'crea & Miller, Stereotypers. C. A. Alvord, Printer
TO
RICHARD B. KIMBALL,
THE ACCOMPLISHED AUTHOR, THE POLISHED GENTLEMAN,
AND
MY OLD AND EVER-VALUED FRIEND,
THESE SKETCHES ARE DEDICATED
BY THE
AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
CHAPTER I.--ON THE ROAD.--Arrival at Georgetown.--The Village
Inn.--Nocturnal Adventures.--My African Driver.--His Strange
History.--Genuine Negro Songs.--Arrival at Bucksville. 10
CHAPTER II.--WAYSIDE HOSPITALITY.--A Strange Meeting.--A Well
Ordered Plantation.--A Thunder-storm.--A New Guest.--The Hidden
Springs or Secession Exposed.--On the Way Again.--Intelligence
of the Negro.--Renconter with a Secessionist. 30
CHAPTER III.--CROSSING THE RUNS.--The Black Declines His
Freedom.--His Reasons for so Doing.--A "native"
Abolitionist.--Swimming the Run.--Black Spirits and
White.--Shelter. 55
CHAPTER IV.--POOR WHITES.--The Mills House.--South Carolina
Clay-Eaters.--Political Discussion.--President Lincoln a
Negro.--"Three in a Bed and one in the Middle."--$250 reward.--A
Secret League. 69
CHAPTER V.--ON THE PLANTATION.--The Planter's Dwelling.--His
House-Keeper.--The Process of Turpentine Making.--Loss to Carolina
by Secession.--The Dying Boy.--The Story of Jim.--A Northern Man
with Southern Principles.--Sam Murdered.--Pursuit of the Overseer. 94
CHAPTER VI.--THE PLANTER'S FAMILY.--The old Nurse.--Her Story.--A
White Slave-Woman's Opinion of Slavery.--The Stables.--The
Negro-Quarters.--Sunday Exercises.--The Taking of Moye. 127
CHAPTER VII.--PLANTATION DISCIPLINE.--The "Ole Cabin."--The Mode of
Negro Punishment.--The "Thumb-Screw."--A Ministering Angel.--A Negro
Trial.--A Rebellion.--A Turpentine Dealer.--A Boston Dray on its
Travels. 150
CHAPTER VIII.--THE NEGRO HUNTER.--Young Democrats.--Political
Discussion.--Startling Statistics.--A Freed Negro. 169
CHAPTER IX.--THE COUNTRY CHURCH.--Its Description.--The
"Corn-Cracker."--The News.--Strange Disclosure. 180
CHAPTER X.--THE NEGRO FUNERAL.--The Burial Ground.--A Negro
Sermon.--The Appearance of Juley.--The Colonel's
Heartlessness.--The Octoroon's Explanation of it.--The Escape
of Moye. 196
CHAPTER XI.--THE PURSUIT.--The Start.--"Carolina Race-Horses."--A
Race.--We Lose the Trail.--A Tornado.--A Narrow Escape.-- 207
CHAPTER XII.--THE YANKEE SCHOOLMISTRESS.--Our New
Apparel.--"Kissing Goes by Favor."--Schools at the South. 222
CHAPTER XIII.--THE RAILWAY STATION.--The Village.--A Drunken
Yankee.--A Narrow Escape.--Andy Jones.--A Light-Wood Fire.--The
Colonel's Departure. 227
CHAPTER XIV.--THE BARBACUE.--The Camp-Ground.--The
Stump-Speaker.--A Stump Speech.--Almost a Fight.--The
Manner of Roasting the Ox. 239
CHAPTER XV.--THE RETURN.--Arrival at the Plantation.--Disappearance
of Juley and her child.--The Old Preacher's Story.--Scene Between
the Master and the Slave. 253
CHAPTER XVI.--"ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE."--Attempted Whipping of
Jim.--Appearance of the "Corn-Cracker."--"Drowned.--Drowned." 260
CHAPTER XVII.--THE SMALL PLANTER.--His House.--His
Wife.--His Negroes.--A Juvenile Darky.--Lazarus in "Ab'ram's
Buzzum."--White and Black Labor Compared.--The Mysteries
of "Rosum" manufacture. 277
CHAPTER XVIII.--THE BURIAL OF JULE.--"He Tempers the Wind to the
Shorn Lamb."--The Funeral. 295
CHAPTER XIX.--HOMEWARD BOUND.--Colonel A---- Again.--Parting with
Scipio.--Why this Book was Written. 298
CHAPTER XX.--CONCLUSION.--The Author's Explanations.--Last
News from Moye and Scipio.--Affecting Letter from
Andy Jones.--The End. 303
CHAPTER I.
ON THE ROAD.
Some winters ago I passed several weeks at Tallahassee, Florida, and
while there made the acquaintance of Colonel J----, a South Carolina
planter. Accident, some little time later, threw us together again at
Charleston, when I was gratified to learn that he would be my _compagnon
du voyage_ as far north as New York.
He was accompanied by his body-servant, "Jim," a fine specimen of the
genus darky, about thirty years of age, and born and reared in his
master's family. As far as possible we made the journey by day, stopping
at some convenient resting-place by night; on which occasions the
Colonel, Jim, and myself would occupy the same or adjoining apartments,
"we white folks" sleeping on four posts, while the more democratic negro
spread his blanket on the floor. Thrown together thus intimately, it
was but natural that we should learn much of each other.
The "Colonel" was a highly cultivated and intelligent gentleman, and
during this journey a friendship sprung up between us--afterward kept
alive by a regular correspondence--which led him, with his wife and
daughter, and the man Jim, to my house on his next visit at the North,
one year later. I then promised--if I should ever again travel in South
Carolina--to visit him on his plantation in the extreme north-eastern
part of the state.
In December last, about the time of the passage of the ordinance of
secession, I had occasion to visit Charleston, and, previous to setting
out, dispatched a letter to the Colonel with the information that I was
ready to be led of him "into the wilderness." On arriving at the
head-quarters of secession, I found a missive awaiting me, in which my
friend cordially renewed his previous tender of hospitality, gave me
particular directions how to proceed, and stated that his "man Jim"
would meet me with a carriage at Georgetown, and convey me thence,
seventy miles, to "the plantation."
Having performed the business which led me to Charleston, I set out for
the rendezvous five days before the date fixed for the meeting,
intending to occupy the intervening time in an exploration of the
ancient town and its surroundings.
The little steamer Nina (a cross between a full-grown nautilus and a
half-grown tub), which a few weeks later was enrolled as the first
man-of-war of the Confederate navy, then performed the carrying trade
between the two principal cities of South Carolina. On her, together
with sundry boxes and bales, and certain human merchandise, I embarked
at Charleston, and on a delicious morning, late in December, landed at
Georgetown.
As the embryo war-steamer rounded up to the long, low, rickety dock,
lumbered breast-high with cotton, turpentine, and rosin, not a white
face was to be seen. A few half-clad, shiftless-looking negroes,
lounging idly about, were the only portion of the population in waiting
to witness our landing.
"Are all the people dead?" I inquired of one of them, thinking it
strange that an event so important as the arrival of the Charleston
packet should excite no greater interest in so quiet a town. "Not dead,
massa," replied the black, with a knowing chuckle, "but dey'm gettin'
ready for a fun'ral." "What funeral?" I asked. "Why, dey'm gwine to
shoot all de boblition darkies at de Norf, and hab a brack burying; he!
he!" and the sable gentleman expanded the opening in his countenance to
an enormous extent, doubtless at the brilliancy of his wit.
I asked him to take my portmanteau, and conduct me to the best hotel. He
readily assented, "Yas, yas, massa, I show you whar de _big-bugs_ stop;"
but at once turning to another darky standing near, he accosted him
with, "Here, Jim, you lazy nigga, tote de gemman's tings."
"Why don't you take them yourself?" I asked; "you will then get all the
pay." "No, no, massa; dat nigga and me in partenship; he do de work, and
I keeps de change," was the grinning reply, and it admirably illustrates
a peculiarity I have observed to be universal with the negro. When left
to his own direction, he invariably "goes into partenship" with some one
poorer than himself, and no matter how trivial the task, shirks all the
labor he can.
The silent darky and my portmanteau in the van, and the garrulous old
negro guarding my flank, I wended my way through the principal street to
the hotel. On the route I resumed the conversation:
"So, uncle, you say the people here are getting ready for a black
burying?"
"Yas, massa, gwine to bury all dem mis'able free niggas at de Norf."
"Why? What will you do that for?"
"Why for, massa! you ax why for!" he exclaimed in surprise.
"I don't know," I rejoined; "I'm a stranger here."
"Well, you see, massa, dem boblition niggas up dar hab gone and 'lected
a ole darky, dey call Uncle Abe; and Old Abe he'se gwine to come down
Souf, and cut de decent niggas' troats. He'll hab a good time--_he
will_! My young massa's captin ob de sogers, and he'll cotch de ole
coon, and string him up so high de crows won't scent him; yas, he
will;" and again the old darky's face opened till it looked like the
entrance to the Mammoth Cave. He, evidently, had read the Southern
papers.
Depositing my luggage at the hotel, which I found on a side street--a
dilapidated, unpainted wooden building, with a female landlord--I
started out to explore the town, till the hour for dinner. Retracing my
steps in the direction of the steamboat landing, I found the streets
nearly deserted, although it was the hour when the business of the day
is usually transacted. Soon I discovered the cause. The militia of the
place were out on parade. Preceded by a colored band, playing national
airs--in doleful keeping with the occasion--and followed by a motley
collection of negroes of all sexes and ages, the company was entering
the principal thoroughfare. As it passed me, I could judge of the
prowess of the redoubtable captain, who, according to Pompey, will hang
the President "so high de crows won't scent him." He was a
harmless-looking young man, with long, spindle legs, admirably adapted
to running. Though not formidable in other respects, there _was_ a
certain martial air about an enormous sabre which hung at his side, and
occasionally got entangled in his nether integuments, and a fiery,
warlike look to the heavy tuft of reddish hair which sprouted in
bristling defiance from his upper lip.
The company numbered about seventy, some with uniforms and some without,
and bearing all sorts of arms, from the old flint-lock musket to the
modern revolving rifle. They were, however, sturdy fellows, and looked
as if they might do service at "the imminent deadly breach." Their full
ranks taken from a population of less than five hundred whites, told
unmistakably the intense war feeling of the community.
Georgetown is one of the oldest towns in South Carolina, and it has a
decidedly _finished_ appearance. Not a single building, I was informed,
had been erected there in five years. Turpentine is one of the chief
productions of the district; yet the cost of white lead and chrome
yellow has made paint a scarce commodity, and the houses, consequently,
all wear a dingy, decayed look. Though situated on a magnificent bay, a
little below the confluence of three noble rivers, which drain a country
of surpassing richness, and though the centre of the finest rice-growing
district in the world, the town is dead. Every thing about it wears an
air of dilapidation. The few white men you meet in its streets, or see
lounging lazily around its stores and warehouses, appear to lack all
purpose and energy. Long contact with the negro seems to have given them
his shiftless, aimless character.
The ordinance of secession passed the legislature shortly prior to my
arrival, and, as might be expected, the political situation was the
all-engrossing topic of thought and conversation. In the estimation of
the whites a glorious future was about to open on the little state.
Whether she stood alone, or supported by the other slave states, she
would assume a high rank among the nations of the earth; her cotton and
rice would draw trade and wealth from every land, and when she spoke,
creation would tremble. Such overweening state pride in _such_ a
people--shiftless, indolent, and enervated as they are--strikes a
stranger as in the last degree ludicrous; but when they tell you, in the
presence of the black, whose strong brawny arm and sinewy frame show
that in him lies the real strength of the state, that this great empire
is to be built on the shoulders of the slave, your smile of incredulity
gives way to an expression of pity, and you are tempted to ask if those
sinewy machines may not THINK, and some day rise, and topple down the
mighty fabric which is to be reared on their backs!
Among the "peculiar institutions" of the South are its inns. I do not
refer to the pinchbeck, imitation St. Nicholas establishments, which
flourish in the larger cities, but to those home-made affairs, noted for
hog and hominy, corn-cake and waffles, which crop out here and there in
the smaller towns, the natural growth of Southern life and institutions.
A model of this class is the one at Georgetown. Hog, hominy, and
corn-cake for breakfast; waffles, hog, and hominy for dinner; and hog,
hominy, and corn-cake for supper--and such corn-cake, baked in the ashes
of the hearth, a plentiful supply of the grayish condiment still
clinging to it!--is its never-varying bill of fare. I endured this fare
for a day, _how_, has ever since been a mystery to me, but when night
came my experiences were indescribable. Retiring early, to get the rest
needed to fit me for a long ride on the morrow, I soon realized that
"there is no rest for the wicked," none, at least, for sinners at the
South. Scarcely had my head touched the pillow when I was besieged by an
army of red-coated secessionists, who set upon me without mercy. I
withstood the assault manfully, till "bleeding at every pore," and then
slowly and sorrowfully beat a retreat. Ten thousand to one is greater
odds than the gallant Anderson encountered at Sumter. Yet I determined
not to fully abandon the field. Placing three chairs in a row, I mounted
upon them, and in that seemingly impregnable position hurled defiance at
the enemy, in the words of Scott (slightly altered to suit the
occasion):
"Come one, come all, these chairs shall fly
From their firm base as soon as I."
My exultation, however, was of short duration. The persistent foe,
scaling my intrenchments, soon returned to the assault with redoubled
vigor, and in utter despair I finally fled. Groping my way through the
hall, and out of the street-door, I departed. The Sable Brother--alias
the Son of Ham--alias the Image of GOD carved in Ebony--alias the
Oppressed Type--alias the Contraband--alias the Irrepressible
Nigger--alias the Chattel--alias the Darky--alias the Cullud Pusson--had
informed me that I should find the Big Bugs at that hotel. I had found
them.
Staying longer in such a place was out of the question, and I determined
to make my way to the up-country without longer waiting for Jim. With
the first streak of day I sallied out to find the means of locomotion.
The ancient town boasts no public conveyance, except a one-horse gig
that carries the mail in tri-weekly trips to Charleston. That vehicle,
originally used by some New England doctor, in the early part of the
past century, had but one seat, and besides, was not going the way I
intended to take, so I was forced to seek a conveyance at a
livery-stable. At the only livery establishment in the place, kept by a
"cullud pusson," who, though a slave, owns a stud of horses that might,
among a people more _movingly_ inclined, yield a respectable income, I
found what I wanted--a light Newark buggy, and a spanking gray. Provided
with these, and a darky driver, who was to accompany me to my
destination, and return alone, I started. A trip of seventy miles is
something of an undertaking in that region, and quite a crowd gathered
around to witness our departure, not a soul of whom, I will wager, will
ever hear the rumble of a stage-coach, or the whistle of a steam-car, in
those sandy, deserted streets.
We soon left the village, and struck a broad avenue, lined on either
side by fine old trees, and extending in an air-line for several miles.
The road is skirted by broad rice-fields, and these are dotted here and
there by large antiquated houses, and little collections of negro huts.
It was Christmas week; no hands were busy in the fields, and every thing
wore the aspect of Sunday. We had ridden a few miles when suddenly the
road sunk into a deep, broad stream, called, as the driver told me, the
Black River. No appliance for crossing being at hand, or in sight, I was
about concluding that some modern Moses accommodated travellers by
passing them over its bed dry-shod, when a flat-boat shot out from the
jungle on the opposite bank, and pulled toward us. It was built of
two-inch plank, and manned by two infirm darkies, with frosted wool, who
seemed to need all their strength to sit upright. In that leaky craft,
kept afloat by incessant baling, we succeeded, at the end of an hour, in
crossing the river. And this, be it understood, is travelling in one of
the richest districts of South Carolina!
We soon left the region of the rice-fields, and plunged into dense
forests of the long-leafed pine, where for miles not a house, or any
other evidence of human occupation, is to be seen. Nothing could well be
more dreary than a ride through such a region, and to while away the
tedium of the journey I opened a conversation with the driver, who up to
that time had maintained a respectful silence.
He was a genuine native African, and a most original and interesting
specimen of his race. His thin, close-cut lips, straight nose and
European features contrasted strangely with a skin of ebon blackness,
and the quiet, simple dignity of his manner betokened superior
intelligence. His story was a strange one. When a boy, he was with his
mother, kidnapped by a hostile tribe, and sold to the traders at Cape
Lopez, on the western coast of Africa. There, in the slave-pen, the
mother died, and he, a child of seven years, was sent in the slave-ship
to Cuba. At Havana, when sixteen, he attracted the notice of a gentleman
residing in Charleston, who bought him and took him to "the States." He
lived as house-servant in the family of this gentleman till 1855, when
his master died, leaving him a legacy to a daughter. This lady, a kind,
indulgent mistress, had since allowed him to "hire his time," and he
then carried on an "independent business," as porter, and doer of all
work around the wharves and streets of Georgetown. He thus gained a
comfortable living, besides paying to his mistress one hundred and fifty
dollars yearly for the privilege of earning his own support. In every
way he was a remarkable negro, and my three days' acquaintance with him
banished from my mind all doubt as to the capacity of the black for
freedom, and all question as to the disposition of the slave to strike
off his chains when the favorable moment arrives. From him I learned
that the blacks, though pretending ignorance, are fully acquainted with
the questions at issue in the pending contest. He expressed the opinion,
that war would come in consequence of the stand South Carolina had
taken; and when I said to him: "But if it comes you will be no better
off. It will end in a compromise, and leave you where you are." He
answered: "No, massa, 't wont do dat. De Souf will fight hard, and de
Norf will get de blood up, and come down har, and do 'way wid de _cause_
ob all de trubble--and dat am de nigga."
"But," I said, "perhaps the South will drive the North back; as you say,
they will fight hard."
"Dat dey will, massa, dey'm de fightin' sort, but dey can't whip de
Norf, 'cause you see dey'll fight wid only one hand. When dey fight de
Norf wid de right hand, dey'll hev to hold de nigga wid de leff."
"But," I replied, "the blacks wont rise; most of you have kind masters
and fare well."
"Dat's true, massa, but dat an't freedom, and de black lub freedom as
much as de white. De same blessed LORD made dem both, and HE made dem
all 'like, 'cep de skin. De blacks hab strong hands, and when de day
come you'll see dey hab heads, too!"
Much other conversation, showing him possessed of a high degree of
intelligence, passed between us. In answer to my question if he had a
family, he said: "No, sar. My blood shall neber be slaves! Ole massa
flog me and threaten to kill me 'cause I wouldn't take to de wimmin; but
I tole him to kill, dat 't would be more his loss dan mine."
I asked if the negroes generally felt as he did, and he told me that
many did; that nearly all would fight for their freedom if they had the
opportunity, though some preferred slavery because they were sure of
being cared for when old and infirm, not considering that if their
labor, while they were strong, made their masters rich, the same labor
would afford _them_ provision against old age. He told me that there are
in the _district_ of Georgetown twenty thousand blacks, and not more
than two thousand whites, and "Suppose," he added, "dat one-quarter ob
dese niggas rise--de rest keep still--whar den would de white folks be?"
"Of course," I replied, "they would be taken at a disadvantage; but it
would not be long before aid came from Charleston, and you would be
overpowered."
"No, massa, de chivarly, as you call dem, would be 'way in Virginny, and
'fore dey hard of it Massa Seward would hab troops 'nough in Georgetown
to chaw up de hull state in less dan no time."
"But you have no leaders," I said, "no one to direct the movement. Your
race is not a match for the white in generalship, and without generals,
whatever your numbers, you would fare hardly."
To this he replied, an elevated enthusiasm lighting up his face, "De
LORD, massa, made generals ob Gideon and David, and de brack man know as
much 'bout war as dey did; p'raps," he added, with a quiet humor, "de
brack aint equal to de white. I knows most ob de great men, like
Washington and John and James and Paul, and dem ole fellers war white,
but dar war Two Sand (Tousaint L'Overture), de Brack Douglass, and de
Nigga Demus (Nicodemus), dey war brack."
The argument was unanswerable, and I said nothing. If the day which sees
the rising of the Southern blacks comes to this generation, that negro
will be among the leaders. He sang to me several of the songs current
among the negroes of the district, and though of little poetic value,
they interested me, as indicating the feelings of the slaves. The blacks
are a musical race, and the readiness with which many of them improvise
words and melody is wonderful; but I had met none who possessed the
readiness of my new acquaintance. Several of the tunes he repeated
several times, and each time with a new accompaniment of words. I will
try to render the sentiment of a few of these songs into as good negro
dialect as I am master of, but I cannot hope to repeat the precise
words, or to convey the indescribable humor and pathos which my darky
friend threw into them, and which made our long, solitary ride through
those dreary pine-barrens pass rapidly and pleasantly away. The first
referred to an old darky who was transplanted from the cotton-fields of
"ole Virginny" to the rice-swamps of Carolina, and who did not like the
change, but found consolation in the fact that rice is not grown on "the
other side of Jordan."
"Come listen, all you darkies, come listen to my song,
It am about ole Massa, who use me bery wrong.
In de cole, frosty mornin', it an't so bery nice,
Wid de water to de middle to hoe among de rice;
When I neber hab forgotten
How I used to hoe de cotton,
How I used to hoe de cotton,
On de ole Virginny shore;
But I'll neber hoe de cotton,
Oh! neber hoe de cotton
Any more.
"If I feel de drefful hunger, he tink it am a vice,
And he gib me for my dinner a little broken rice,
A little broken rice and a bery little fat--
And he grumble like de debil if I eat too much of dat;
When I neber hab forgotten, etc.
"He tore me from my DINAH; I tought my heart would burst--
He made me lub anoder when my lub was wid de first,
He sole my picaninnies becase he got dar price,
And shut me in de marsh-field to hoe among de rice;
When I neber had forgotten, etc.
"And all de day I hoe dar, in all de heat and rain,
And as I hoe away dar, my heart go back again,
Back to de little cabin dat stood among de corn,
And to de ole plantation where she and I war born!
Oh! I wish I had forgotten, etc.
"Den DINAH am beside me, de chil'ren on my knee,
And dough I am a slave dar, it 'pears to me I'm free,
Till I wake up from my dreaming, and wife and chil'ren gone,
I hoe away and weep dar, and weep dar all alone!
Oh! I wish I had forgotten, etc.
"But soon a day am comin, a day I long to see,
When dis darky in de cole ground, foreber will be free,
When wife and chil'ren wid me, I'll sing in Paradise,
How HE, de blessed JESUS, hab bought me wid a price.
How de LORD hab not forgotten
How well I hoed de cotton,
How well I hoed de cotton
On de ole Virginny shore;
Dar I'll neber hoe de cotton,
Oh! neber hoe de cotton
Any more."
The politics of the following are not exactly those of the rulers at
Washington, but we all may come to this complexion at last:
"Hark! darkies, hark! it am de drum
Dat calls ole Massa 'way from hum,
Wid powder-pouch and loaded gun,
To drive ole ABE from Washington;
Oh! Massa's gwine to Washington,
So clar de way to Washington--
Oh! wont dis darky hab sum fun
When Massa's gwine to Washington!
"Dis darky know what Massa do;
He take him long to brack him shoe,
To brack him shoe and tote him gun,
When he am 'way to Washington.
Oh! Massa's gwine to Washington,
So clar de way to Washington,
Oh! long afore de mornin' sun
Ole Massa's gwine to Washington!
"Ole Massa say ole ABE will eat
De niggas all excep' de feet--
De feet, may be, will cut and run,
When Massa gets to Washington,
When Massa gets to Washington;
So clar de way to Washington--
Oh! wont dis darky cut and run
When Massa gets to Washington!
"Dis nigga know ole ABE will save
His brudder man, de darky slave,
And dat he'll let him cut and run
When Massa gets to Washington,
When Massa gets to Washington;
So clar de way to Washington,
Ole ABE will let the darkies run
When Massa gets to Washington."
The next is in a similar vein:
"A storm am brewin' in de Souf,
A storm am brewin' now,
Oh! hearken den and shut your mouf,
And I will tell you how:
And I will tell you how, ole boy,
De storm of fire will pour,
And make de darkies dance for joy,
As dey neber danced afore:
So shut your mouf as close as deafh,
And all you niggas hole your breafh,
And I will tell you how.
"De darkies at de Norf am ris,
And dey am comin' down--
Am comin' down, I know dey is,
To do de white folks brown!
Dey'll turn ole Massa out to grass,
And set de niggas free,
And when dat day am come to pass
We'll all be dar to see!
So shut your mouf as close as deafh,
And all you niggas hole your breafh,
And do de white folks brown!
"Den all de week will be as gay
As am de Chris'mas time;
We'll dance all night and all de day,
And make de banjo chime--
And make de banjo chime, I tink,
And pass de time away,
Wid 'nuf to eat and 'nuf to drink,
And not a bit to pay!
So shut your mouf as dose as deafh.
And all you niggas hole your breaf,
And make de banjo chime.
"Oh! make de banjo chime, you nigs,
And sound de tamborin,
And shuffle now de merry jigs,
For Massa's 'gwine in'--
For Massa's 'gwine in,' I know,
And won't he hab de shakes,
When Yankee darkies show him how
Dey cotch de rattle-snakes![A]
So shut your mouf as close as deafh,
And all you niggas hole your breaf,
For Massa's 'gwine in'--
For Massa's 'gwine in,' I know,
And won't he hab de shakes
When Yankee darkies show him how
Dey cotch de rattle-snakes!"
The reader must not conclude that my darky acquaintance is an average
specimen of his class. Far from it. Such instances of intelligence are
very rare, and are never found except in the cities. There, constant
intercourse with the white renders the black shrewd and intelligent, but
on the plantations, the case is different. And besides, my musical
friend, as I have said, is a native African. Fifteen years of
observation have convinced me that the imported negro, after being
brought in contact with the white, is far more intelligent than the
ordinary Southern-born black. Slavery cramps the intellect and dwarfs
the nature of a man, and where the dwarfing process has gone on, in
father and son, for two centuries, it must surely be the case--as surely
as that the qualities of the parent are transmitted to the child--that
the later generations are below the first. This deterioration in the
better nature of the slave is the saddest result of slavery. His moral
and intellectual degradation, which is essential to its very existence,
constitutes the true argument against it. It feeds the body but starves
the soul. It blinds the reason, and shuts the mind to truth. It degrades
and brutalizes the whole being, and does it purposely. In that lies its
strength, and in that, too, lurks the weakness which will one day topple
it down with a crash that will shake the Continent. Let us hope the
direful upheaving, which is now felt throughout the Union, is the
earthquake that will bury it forever.
The sun was wheeling below the trees which skirted the western horizon,
when we halted in the main road, abreast of one of those by-paths, which
every traveller at the South recognizes as leading to a planter's
house. Turning our horse's head, we pursued this path for a short
distance, when emerging from the pine-forest, over whose sandy barrens
we had ridden all the day, a broad plantation lay spread out before us.
On one side was a row of perhaps forty small but neat cabins; and on the
other, at the distance of about a third of a mile, a huge building,
which, from the piles of timber near it, I saw was a lumber-mill. Before
us was a smooth causeway, extending on for a quarter of a mile, and
shaded by large live-oaks and pines, whose moss fell in graceful drapery
from the gnarled branches. This led to the mansion of the proprietor, a
large, antique structure, exhibiting the dingy appearance which all
houses near the lowlands of the South derive from the climate, but with
a generous, hospitable air about its wide doors and bulky windows, that
seemed to invite the traveller to the rest and shelter within. I had
stopped my horse, and was absorbed in contemplation of a scene as
beautiful as it was new to me, when an old negro approached, and
touching his hat, said: "Massa send his complimens to de gemman, and
happy to hab him pass de night at Bucksville."
"Bucks_ville_!" I exclaimed, "and where is the village?"
"Dis am it, massa; and it am eight mile and a hard road to de 'Boro"
(meaning Conwayboro, a one-horse village at which I had designed to
spend the night). "Will de gemman please ride up to de piazza?"
continued the old negro.
"Yes, uncle, and thank you," and in a moment I had received the cordial
welcome of the host, an elderly gentleman, whose easy and polished
manners reminded me of the times of our grandfathers in glorious New
England. A few minutes put me on a footing of friendly familiarity with
him and his family, and I soon found myself in a circle of daughters and
grandchildren, and as much at home as if I had been a long-expected
guest.
[Footnote A: The emblem of South Carolina.]
CHAPTER II.
WAYSIDE HOSPITALITY.
Years ago--how many it would not interest the reader to know, and might
embarrass me to mention--accompanied by a young woman--a blue-eyed,
golden-haired daughter of New-England--I set out on a long journey; a
journey so long that it will not end till one or the other of us has
laid off forever the habiliments of travel.
One of the first stations on our route was--Paris. While there,
strolling out one morning alone, accident directed my steps to the _Arc
d'Etoile_, that magnificent memorial of the greatness of a great man.
Ascending its gloomy staircase to the roof, I seated myself, to enjoy
the fine view it affords of the city and its environs.
I was shortly joined by a lady and gentleman, whose appearance indicated
that they were Americans. Some casual remark led us into a conversation,
and soon, to our mutual surprise and gratification, we learned that the
lady was a dear and long-time friend of my travelling-companion. The
acquaintance thus begun, has since grown into a close and abiding
friendship.
The reader, with this preamble, can readily imagine my pleasure on
learning, as we were seated after our evening meal, around that pleasant
fireside in far-off Carolina, that my Paris acquaintance was a favorite
niece, or, as he warmly expressed it, "almost a daughter" of my host.
This discovery dispelled any lingering feeling of "strangeness" that had
not vanished with the first cordial greeting of my new-found friends,
and made me perfectly "at home."
The evening wore rapidly away in a free interchange of "news," opinions,
and "small-talk," and I soon gathered somewhat of the history of my
host. He was born at the North, and his career affords a striking
illustration of the marvellous enterprise of our Northern character. A
native of the State of Maine, he emigrated thence when a young man, and
settled down, amid the pine-forest in that sequestered part of
Cottondom. Erecting a small saw-mill, and a log shanty to shelter
himself and a few "hired" negroes, he attacked, with his own hands, the
mighty pines, whose brothers still tower in gloomy magnificence around
his dwelling.
From such beginnings he had risen to be one of the wealthiest land and
slave owners of his district, with vessels trading to nearly every
quarter of the globe, to the Northern and Eastern ports, Cadiz, the West
Indies, South America, and if I remember aright, California. It seemed
to me a marvel that this man, alone, and unaided by the usual appliances
of commerce, had created a business, rivalling in extent the
transactions of many a princely merchant of New York and Boston.
His "family" of slaves numbered about three hundred, and a more healthy,
and to all appearance, happy set of laboring people, I had never seen.
Well fed, comfortably and almost neatly clad, with tidy and well-ordered
homes, exempt from labor in childhood and advanced age, and cared for in
sickness by a kind and considerate mistress, who is the physician and
good Samaritan of the village, they seemed to share as much physical
enjoyment as ordinarily falls to the lot of the "hewer of wood and
drawer of water." Looking at them, I began to question if Slavery is, in
reality, the damnable thing that some untravelled philanthropists have
pictured it. If--and in that "_if_" my good Abolition friend, is the
only unanswerable argument against the institution--if they were taught,
if they knew their nature and their destiny, the slaves of such an owner
might unprofitably exchange situations with many a white man, who, with
nothing in the present or the future, is desperately struggling for a
miserable hand-to-mouth existence in our Northern cities. I say "of such
an owner," for in the Southern Arcadia such masters are "few and far
between"--rather fewer and farther between than "spots upon the sun."
But they are _not_ taught. Public sentiment, as well as State law,
prevents the enlightened master, who would fit the slave by knowledge
for greater usefulness, from letting a ray of light in upon his darkened
mind. The black knows his task, his name, and his dinner-hour. He knows
there is a something within him--he does not understand precisely
what--that the white man calls his soul, which he is told will not rest
in the ground when his body is laid away in the grave, but will--if he
is a "good nigger," obeys his master, and does the task allotted
him--travel off to some unknown region, and sing hallelujahs to the
LORD, forever. He rather sensibly imagines that such everlasting singing
may in time produce hoarseness, so he prepares his vocal organs for the
long concert by a vigorous discipline while here, and at the same time
cultivates instrumental music, having a dim idea that the LORD has an
ear for melody, and will let him, when he is tired of singing, vary the
exercise "wid de banjo and de bones." This is all he knows; and his
owner, however well-disposed he may be, cannot teach him more. Noble,
Christian masters whom I have met--have told me that they did not _dare_
instruct their slaves. Some of their negroes were born in their houses,
nursed in their families, and have grown up the playmates of their
children, and yet they are forced to see them live and die like the
brutes. One need not be accused of fanatical abolitionism if he deems
such a system a _little_ in conflict with the spirit of the nineteenth
century!
The sun had scarcely turned his back upon the world, when a few drops of
rain, sounding on the piazza-roof over our heads, announced a coming
storm. Soon it burst upon us in magnificent fury--a real, old-fashioned
thunderstorm, such as I used to lie awake and listen to when a boy,
wondering all the while if the angels were keeping a Fourth of July in
heaven. In the midst of it, when the earth and the sky appeared to have
met in true Waterloo fashion, and the dark branches of the pines seemed
writhing and tossing in a sea of flame, a loud knock came at the
hall-door (bells are not the fashion in Dixie), and a servant soon
ushered into the room a middle-aged, unassuming gentleman, whom my host
received with a respect and cordiality which indicated that he was no
ordinary guest. There was in his appearance and manner that indefinable
something which denotes the man of mark; but my curiosity was soon
gratified by an introduction. It was "Colonel" A----. This title, I
afterward learned, was merely honorary: and I may as well remark here,
that nearly every one at the South who has risen to the ownership of a
negro, is either a captain, a major, or a colonel, or, as my ebony
driver expressed it: "Dey'm all captins and mates, wid none to row de
boat but de darkies." On hearing the name, I recognized it as that of
one of the oldest and most aristocratic South Carolina families, and the
new guest as a near relative to the gentleman who married the beautiful
and ill-fated Theodosia Burr.
In answer to an inquiry of my host, the new-comer explained that he had
left Colonel J----'s (the plantation toward which I was journeying),
shortly before noon, and being overtaken by the storm after leaving
Conwayboro, had, at the solicitation of his "boys" (a familiar term for
slaves), who were afraid to proceed, called to ask shelter for the
night.
Shortly after his entrance, the lady members of the family retired; and
then the "Colonel," the "Captain," and myself, drawing our chairs near
the fire, and each lighting a fragrant Havana, placed on the table by
our host, fell into a long conversation, of which the following was a
part:
"It must have been urgent business, Colonel, that took you so far into
the woods at this season," remarked our host.
"These are urgent times, Captain B----," replied the guest. "All who
have any thing at stake, should be _doing_."
"These _are_ unhappy times, truly," said my friend; "has any thing new
occurred?"
"Nothing of moment, sir; but we are satisfied Buchanan is playing us
false, and are preparing for the worst."
"I should be sorry to know that a President of the United States had
resorted to underhand measures! Has he really given you pledges?"
"He promised to preserve the _statu quo_ in Charleston harbor, and we
have direct information that he intends to send out reinforcements,"
rejoined Colonel A----.
"Can that be true? You know, Colonel, I never admired your friend, Mr.
Buchanan, but I cannot see how, if he does his duty, he can avoid
enforcing the laws in Charleston, as well as in the other cities of the
Union."
"The 'Union,' sir, does not exist. Buchanan has now no more right to
quarter a soldier in South Carolina than I have to march an armed force
on to Boston Common. If he persists in keeping troops near Charleston,
we shall dislodge them."
"But that would make war! and war, Colonel," replied our host, "would be
a terrible thing. Do you realize what it would bring upon us? And what
could our little State do in a conflict with nearly thirty millions?"
"We should not fight with thirty millions. The other Cotton States are
with us, and the leaders in the Border States are pledged to Secession.
They will wheel into line when we give the word. But the North will not
fight. The Democratic party sympathizes with us, and some of its
influential leaders are pledged to our side. They will sow division
there, and paralyze the Free States; besides, the trading and
manufacturing classes will never consent to a war that will work their
ruin. With the Yankees, sir, the dollar is almighty."
"That may be true," replied our host; "but I think if we go too far,
they will fight. What think you, Mr. K----?" he continued, appealing to
me, and adding: "This gentleman, Colonel, is very recently from the
North."
Up to that moment, I had avoided taking part in the conversation. Enough
had been said to satisfy me that while my host was a staunch
Unionist,[B] his visitor was not only a rank Secessionist, but one of
the leaders of the movement, and even then preparing for desperate
measures. Discretion, therefore, counselled silence. To this direct
appeal, however, I was forced to reply, and answered: "I think, sir, the
North does not yet realize that the South is in earnest. When it wakes
up to that fact, its course will be decisive."
"Will the Yankees _fight_, sir?" rather impatiently and imperiously
asked the Colonel, who evidently thought I intended to avoid a direct
answer to the question.
Rather nettled by his manner, I quickly responded: "Undoubtedly they
will, sir. They have fought before, and it would not be wise to count
them cowards."
A true gentleman, he at once saw that his manner had given offence, and
instantly moderating his tone, rather apologetically replied: "Not
cowards, sir, but too much absorbed in the 'occupations of peace,' to go
to war for an idea."
"But what you call an 'idea,'" said our host, "_they_ may think a great
fact on which their existence depends. _I_ can see that we will lose
vastly by even a peaceful separation. Tell me, Colonel, what we will
gain?"
"Gain!" warmly responded the guest. "Everything! Security, freedom, room
for the development of our institutions, and each progress in wealth as
the world has never seen."
"All that is very fine," rejoined the "Captain," "but where there is
wealth, there must be work; and who will do the work in your new
Empire--I do not mean the agricultural labor; you will depend for that,
of coarse, on the blacks--but who will run your manufactories and do
your mechanical labor? The Southern gentleman would feel degraded by
such occupation; and if you put the black to any work requiring
intelligence, you must let him _think_, and when he THINKS, _he is
free_!"
"All that is easily provided for," replied the Secessionist. "We shall
form intimate relations with England. She must have our cotton, and we
in return will take her manufactures."
"That would be all very well at present, and so long as you should keep
on good terms with her; but suppose, some fine morning, Exeter Hall got
control of the English Government, and hinted to you, in John Bull
fashion, that cotton produced by free labor would be more acceptable,
what could three, or even eight millions, cut off from the sympathy and
support of the North, do in opposition to the power of the British
empire?"
"Nothing, perhaps, if we _were_ three or even eight millions, but we
shall be neither one nor the other. Mexico and Cuba are ready, now, to
fall into our hands, and before two years have passed, with or without
the Border States, we shall count twenty millions. Long before England
is abolitionized, our population will outnumber hers, and our territory
extend from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and as far south as the
Isthmus. We are founding, sir, an empire that will be able to defy all
Europe--one grander than the world has seen since the age of Pericles!"
"You say, with or without the Border States," remarked our host. "I
thought you counted on their support."
"We do if the North makes war upon us, but if allowed to go in peace, we
can do better without them. They will be a wall between us and the
abolitionized North."
"You mistake," I said, "in thinking the North is abolitionized. The
Abolitionists are but a handful there. The great mass of our people are
willing the South should have undisturbed control of its domestic
concerns."
"Why, then, do you send such men as Seward, Sumner, Wilson, and Grow to
Congress? Why have you elected a President who approves of
nigger-stealing? and why do you tolerate such incendiaries as Greeley,
Garrison, and Phillips?"
"Seward, and the others you name," I replied, "are not Abolitionists;
neither does Lincoln approve of nigger-stealing. He is an honest man,
and I doubt not, when inaugurated, will do exact justice by the South.
As to incendiaries, you find them in both sections. Phillips and
Garrison are only the opposite poles of Yancey and Wise."
"Not so, sir; they are more. Phillips, Greeley, and Garrison create and
control your public opinion. They are mighty powers, while Yancey and
Wise have no influence whatever. Yancey is a mere bag-pipe; we play upon
him, and like the music, but smile when he attempts to lead us. Wise is
a harlequin; we let him dance because he is good at it, and it amuses
us. Lincoln may be honest, but if made President he will be controlled
by Seward, who hates the South. Seward will whine, and wheedle, and
attempt to cajole us back, but mark what I say, sir, I _know_ him; he is
physically, morally, and constitutionally a COWARD, and will never
strike a blow for the UNION. If hard pressed by public sentiment, he
may, to save appearances, bluster a little, and make a show of getting
ready for a fight; but he will find some excuse at the last moment, and
avoid coming to blows. For our purposes, we had rather have the North
under his control than under that of the old renegade, Buchanan!"
"All this may he very true," I replied, "but perhaps you attach too much
weight to what Mr. Seward or Mr. Lincoln may or may not do. You seem to
forget that there are twenty intelligent millions at the North, who will
have something to say on this subject, and who may not consent to be
driven into disunion by the South, or wheedled into it by Mr. Seward."
"I do not forget," replied the Secessionist, "that you have four
millions of brave, able-bodied men, while we have not, perhaps, more
than two millions; but bear in mind that you are divided, and therefore
weak; we united, and therefore strong!"
"But," I inquired, "_have_ you two millions without counting your
blacks; and are _they_ not as likely to fight on the wrong as on the
right side?"
"They will fight on the right side, sir. We can trust them. You have
travelled somewhat here. Have you not been struck with the contentment
and cheerful subjection of the slaves?"
"No, sir, I have not been! On the contrary, their discontent is evident.
You are smoking a cigar on a powder-barrel."
An explosion of derisive laughter from the Colonel followed this remark,
and turning to the Captain, he good-humoredly exclaimed: "Hasn't the
gentleman used his eyes and ears industriously!"
"I am afraid he is more than half right," was the reply. "If this thing
should go on, I would not trust my own slaves, and I think they are
truly attached to me. If the fire once breaks out, the negroes will rush
into it, like horses into a burning barn."
"Think you so!" exclaimed the Colonel in an excited manner. "By Heaven,
if I believed it, I would cut the throat of every slave in Christendom!
What," addressing me, "have you seen or heard, sir, that gives you that
opinion?"
"Nothing but a sullen discontent and an eagerness for news, which show
they feel intense interest in what is going on, and know it concerns
_them_."
"I haven't remarked that," he said rather musingly, "but it _may_ be so.
Does the North believe it? If we came to blows, would they try to excite
servile insurrection among us?"
"The North, beyond a doubt, believes it," I replied, "yet I think even
the Abolitionists would aid you in putting down an insurrection; but
war, in my opinion, would not leave you a slave between the Rio Grande
and the Potomac."
The Colonel at this rose, remarking: "You are mistaken. You are
mistaken, sir!" then turning to our host, said: "Captain, it is late:
had we not better retire?" Bidding me "good-night," he was gone.
Our host soon returned from showing the guest to his apartment, and with
a quiet but deliberate manner, said to me: "You touched him, Mr. K----,
on a point where he knows we are weakest; but allow me to caution you
about expressing your opinions so freely. The Colonel is a gentleman,
and what you have said will do no harm, but, long as I have lived here,
_I_ dare not say to many what you have said to him to-night."
Thanking the worthy gentleman for the caution, I followed him up stairs,
and soon lost, in a sweet oblivion, all thoughts of Abolitionists,
niggers, and the "grand empire."
I was awakened in the morning by music under my window, and looking out
discovered about a dozen darkies gathered around my ebony driver, who
was clawing away with all his might at a dilapidated banjo, while his
auditory kept time to his singing, by striking the hand on the knee, and
by other gesticulations too numerous to mention. The songs were not much
to boast of, but the music was the genuine, dyed-in-the-wool, darky
article. The following was the refrain of one of the songs, which the
reader will perceive was an exhortation to early rising:
"So up, good massa, let's be gwoin',
Let's be scratchin' ob de grabble;
For soon de wind may be a blowin',
An' we'se a sorry road to trabble."
The storm of the previous night had ceased, but the sky was overcast,
and looked as if "soon de wind might be a-blowin'." Prudence counselled
an early start, for, doubtless, the runs, or small creeks, had become
swollen by the heavy rain, and would be unsafe to cross after dark.
Besides, beyond Conwayboro, our route lay for thirty miles through a
country without a solitary house where we could get decent shelter, were
we overtaken by a storm.
Hurriedly performing my toilet, I descended to the drawing-room, where I
found the family assembled. After the usual morning salutations were
exchanged, a signal from the mistress caused the sounding of a bell in
the hall, and some ten or twelve men and women house-servants, of
remarkably neat and tidy appearance, among whom was my darky driver,
entered the apartment. They took a stand at the remote end of the room,
and our host, opening a large, well-worn family BIBLE, read the
fifty-fourth chapter of Isaiah. Then, all kneeling, he made a short
extemporaneous petition, closing with the LORD'S Prayer; all present,
black as well as white, joining in it. Then Heber's beautiful hymn,
"From Greenland's icy mountains," was sung; the negroes, to my ear,
making much better music than the whites.
The services over, we adjourned to the dining-room, and after we were
seated, the "Colonel" remarked to me: "Did you notice how finely that
negro 'boy' (he was fully forty years old) sung?"
"Yes," I replied, "I did. Do you know him, sir?"
"Oh! yes, very well. His mistress wishes to sell him, but finds
difficulty in doing so. Though a likely negro, people will not buy him.
He's too smart."
"That strikes me as a singular objection," I remarked.
"Oh! no, not at all! These _knowing_ niggers frequently make a world of
trouble on a plantation."
It was after ten o'clock before we were ready to start. The mills, the
negro-quarters, and various other parts of the plantation, and then
several vessels moored at the wharf, had to be seen before I could get
away. Finally, I bade my excellent host and his family farewell, and
with nearly as much regret as I ever felt at leaving my own home. I had
experienced the much-heard-of Southern hospitality, and had found the
report far below the reality.
The other guest had taken his leave some time before, but not till he
had given me a cordial invitation to return by the way I came, and spend
a day or two with him, at his plantation on the river, some twenty miles
below.
The sky was lowery, and the sandy road heavy with the recent rain, when
we started. The gloomy weather seemed to have infected the driver as
well as myself. He had lost the mirthfulness and loquacity of the
previous day, and we rode on for a full hour in silence. Tiring at last
of my own thoughts, I said to him: "Scip, what is the matter with you?
what makes you so gloomy?"
"Nuffin, massa; I war only tinkin'," he abstractedly replied.
"And what are you thinking about?"
"I's wond'rin', massa, if de LORD mean de darkies in dose words of HIS
dat Massa B---- read dis mornin'."
"What words do you mean?
"Dese, massa: 'O dou 'fflicted! tossed wid de tempest, and habin no
comfort, behold, I will make you hous'n ob de fair colors, and lay dar
foundations wid safomires. All dy chil'ren shill be taught ob de LORD,
and great shill be dar peace. In de right shill dey be 'stablished; dey
shill hab no fear, no terror; it shan't come nigh 'em, and who come
against dem shill fall. Behold! I hab make de blacksmif dat blow de
coals, and make de weapons; and I hab make de waster dat shill destroy
de oppressors.'"
If he had repeated one of Webster's orations I could not have been more
astonished. I did not remember the exact words of the passage, but I
knew he had caught its spirit. Was this his recollection of the reading
heard in the morning? or had he previously committed it to memory? These
questions I asked myself; but, restraining my curiosity, I answered:
"Undoubtedly they are meant for both the black and the white."
"Do dey mean, massa, dat we shall be like de wite folks--wid our own
hous'n, our chil'ren taught in de schools, and wid weapons to strike
back when dey strike us?"
"No, Scipio, they don't mean that. They refer principally to spiritual
matters. They were a promise to _all the world_ that when the SAVIOUR
came, all, even the greatly oppressed and afflicted, should hear the
great truths of the BIBLE about GOD, REDEMPTION, and the FUTURE."
"But de SAVIOUR hab come, massa; and dose tings an't taught to de black
chil'ren. We hab no peace, no rights; nuffin but fear, 'pression, and
terror."
"That is true, Scipio. The LORD takes HIS own time, but HIS time will
_surely_ come."
"De LORD bless you, massa, for saying dat; and de LORD bless you for
telling dat big Cunnel, dat if dey gwo to war de brack man will be
FREE!"
"Did you hear what we said?" I inquired, greatly surprised, for I
remembered remarking, during the interview of the previous evening,
that our host carefully kept the doors closed.
"Ebery word, massa."
"But how _could_ you hear? The doors and windows were shut. Where were
you?"
"On de piazzer; and when I seed fru de winder dat de ladies war gwine, I
know'd you'd talk 'bout politics and de darkies--gemmen allers do. So I
opened de winder bery softly--you didn't har 'cause it rained and blowed
bery hard, and made a mighty noise. Den I stuffed my coat in de crack,
so de wind could'nt blow in and lef you know I was dar, but I lef a hole
big 'nough to har. My ear froze to dat hole, massa, bery tight, I 'shore
you."
"But you must have got very wet and very cold."
"Wet, massa! wetter dan a 'gator dat's been in de riber all de week, but
I didn't keer for de rain or de cold. What I hard made me warm all de
way fru."
To my mind there was a rough picture of true heroism in that poor darky
standing for hours in his shirt-sleeves, in the cold, stormy night, the
lightning playing about him, and the rain drenching him to the
skin--that he might hear something he thought would benefit his
down-trodden race.
I noticed his clothing though bearing evident marks of a drenching, was
then dry, and I inquired: "How did you dry your clothes?"
"I staid wid some ob de cullud folks, and arter you gwoes up stars, I
went to dar cabin, and dey gabe me some dry cloes. We made up a big
fire, and hung mine up to dry, and de ole man and woman and me sot up
all night and talked ober what you and de oder gemmen said."
"Will not those folks tell what you did, and thus get you into trouble?"
"Tell! LORD bless you, massa, _de bracks am all freemasons_; dat ar ole
man and woman wud die 'fore dey'd tell."
"But are not Captain B---'s negroes contented?" I asked; "they seem to
be well treated."
"Oh! yas, dey am. All de brack folks 'bout har want de Captin to buy
'em. He bery nice man--one ob de LORD'S own people. He better man dan
David, 'cause David did wrong, and I don't b'lieve de Captin eber did."
"I should think he was a very good man," I replied.
"Bery good man, massa, but de white folks don't like him, 'cause dey say
he treats him darkies so well, all dairn am uncontented."
"Tell me, Scipio," I resumed after a while, "how it is you can repeat
that passage from Isaiah so well?"
"Why, bless you, massa, I know Aziar and Job and de Psalms 'most all by
heart. Good many years ago, when I lib'd in Charles'on, the gub'ness
learned me to read, and I hab read dat BOOK fru good many times."
"Have you read any others?" I asked.
"None but dat and Doctor Watts. I hab _dem_, but wite folks wont sell
books to de bracks, and I wont steal 'em. I read de papers sometimes."
I opened my portmanteau, that lay on the floor of the wagon, and handed
him a copy of Whittier's poems. It happened to be the only book,
excepting the BIBLE, that I had with me.
"Read that, Scipio," I said. "It is a book of poetry, but written by a
good man at the North, who greatly pities the slave."
He took the book, and the big tears rolled down his cheeks, as he said:
"Tank you, massa, tank you. Nobody war neber so good to me afore."
During our conversation, the sky, which had looked threatening all the
morning, began to let fall the big drops of rain; and before we reached
Conwayboro, it poured down much after the fashion of the previous night.
It being cruelty to both man and beast to remain out in such a deluge,
we pulled up at the village hotel (kept, like the one at Georgetown, by
a lady), and determined to remain overnight, unless the rain should
abate in time to allow us to reach our destination before dark.
Dinner being ready soon after our arrival (the people of Conwayboro,
like the "common folks" that Davy Crockett told about, dine at twelve),
I sat down to it, first hanging my outer garments, which were somewhat
wet, before the fire in the sitting-room. The house seemed to be a sort
of public boarding-house, as well as hotel, for quite a number of
persons, evidently town's-people were at the dinner-table. My appearance
attracted some attention, though not more, I thought, than would be
naturally excited in so quiet a place by the arrival of a stranger; but
"as nobody said nothing to me, I said nothing to nobody."
Dinner over, I adjourned to the "sitting-room," and seating myself by
the fire, watched the drying of my "outer habiliments." While thus
engaged, the door opened, and three men--whom I should have taken for
South Carolina gentlemen, had not a further acquaintance convinced me to
the contrary--entered the room. Walking directly up to where I was
sitting, the foremost one accosted me something after this manner:
"I see you are from the North, sir."
Taken a little aback by the abruptness of the "salute," but guessing his
object, I answered: "No, sir; I am from the South."
"From what part of the South?"
"I left Georgetown yesterday, and Charleston two days before that," I
replied, endeavoring to seem entirely oblivious to his meaning.
"We don't want to know whar you war yesterday; we want to know whar you
_belong_," he said, with a little impatience.
"Oh! that's it. Well, sir, I belong _here_ just at present, or rather I
shall, when I have paid the landlady for my dinner."
Annoyed by my coolness, and getting somewhat excited, he replied
quickly: "You mustn't trifle with us, sir. We know you. You're from the
North. We've seen it on your valise, and we can't allow a man who
carries the New York _Independent_ to travel in South Carolina."
The scoundrels had either broken into my portmanteau, or else a copy of
that paper had dropped from it on to the floor of the wagon when I gave
the book to Scipio. At any rate, they had seen it, and it was evident
"Brother Beecher" was getting me into a scrape. I felt indignant at the
impudence of the fellow, but determined to keep cool, and, a little
sarcastically, replied to the latter part of his remark:
"That's a pity, sir. South Carolina will lose by it."
"This game wont work, sir. We don't want such people as you har, and the
sooner you make tracks the better."
"I intend to leave, sir, as soon as the rain is over, and shall travel
thirty miles on your sandy roads to-day, if you don't coax me to stay
here by your hospitality," I quietly replied.
The last remark was just the one drop needed to make his wrath "bile
over," and he savagely exclaimed: "I tell you, sir, we will not be
trifled with. You must be off to Georgetown at once. You can have just
half an hour to leave the Boro', not a second more."
His tone and manner aroused what little combativeness there is in me.
Rising from my chair, and taking up my outside-coat, in which was one of
Colt's six-shooters, I said to him: "Sir, I am here, a peaceable man, on
peaceable, private business. I have started to go up the country, and go
there I shall; and I shall leave this place at my convenience--not
before. I have endured your impertinence long enough, and shall have no
more of it. If you attempt to interfere with my movements, you will do
so at your peril."
My blood was up, and I was fast losing that better part of valor called
discretion; and _he_ evidently understood my movement, and did not
dislike the turn affairs were taking. There is no telling what might
have followed had not Scip just at that instant inserted his woolly head
between us, excitedly exclaiming: "Lord bless you, Massa B----ll; what
_am_ you 'bout? Why, dis gemman am a 'ticlar friend of Cunnel A----.
He'm a reg'lar sesherner. He hates de ablisherners worser dan de debble.
I hard him swar a clar, blue streak 'bout dem only yesterday."
"Massa B----ll" was evidently taken aback by the announcement of the
negro, but did not seem inclined to "give it up so" at once, for he
asked: "How do you know he's the Colonel's friend, Scip? Who told you
so?"
"Who told me so?" exclaimed the excited negro, "why, didn't he stay at
Captin B----'s, wid de Cunnel, all night last night; and didn't dey set
up dar doin' politic business togedder till arter midnight? Didn't de
Cunnel come dar in all de storm 'pressly to see dis gemman?"
The ready wit and rude eloquence of the darky amused me, and the idea of
the "Cunnel" travelling twenty miles through the terrible storm of the
previous night to meet a man who had the New York _Independent_ about
him, was so perfectly ludicrous, that I could not restrain my laughter.
That laugh did the business for "Massa B----ll." What the negro had
said staggered, but did not convince him; but my returning good-humor
brought him completely round. Extending his hand to me, he said: "I see,
sir, I've woke up the wrong passenger. Hope you'll take no offence. In
these times we need to know who come among us."
"No offence whatever, sir," I replied. "It is easy to be mistaken; but,"
I added smilingly, "I hope, for the sake of the next traveller, you'll
be less precipitate another time."
"I _am_ rather hasty; that's a fact," he said. "But no harm is done. So
let's take a drink, and say no more about it. The old lady har keeps
nary a thing, but we can get the _raal stuff_ close by."
Though not a member of a "Total Abstinence Society," I have always
avoided indulging in the quality of fluid that is the staple beverage at
the South. I therefore hesitated a moment before accepting the
gentleman's invitation; but the alternative seemed to be squarely
presented, pistols or drinks; cold lead or poor whiskey, and--I am
ashamed to confess it--I took the whiskey.
Returning to the hotel, I found Scip awaiting me. "Massa," he said, "we
better be gwine. Dat dar sesherner am ugly as de bery ole debble; and
soon as he knows I cum de possum ober him 'bout de Cunnel, he'll be
down on you _shore_."
The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, which the sun was vigorously
struggling to get through with a tolerable prospect of success, and I
concluded to take the African's advice. Wrapping myself in an
India-rubber overcoat, and giving the darky a blanket of the same
material, I started.
[Footnote B: I very much regret to learn, that since my meeting with
this most excellent gentleman, being obnoxious to the Secession leaders
for his well-known Union sentiments, he has been very onerously assessed
by them for contributions for carrying on the war. The sum he has been
forced to pay, is stated as high as forty thousand dollars, but that may
be, and I trust is, an exaggeration. In addition--and this fact is
within my own knowledge--five of his vessels have been seized in the
Northern ports by our Government. This exposure of true Union men to a
double fire, is one of the most unhappy circumstances attendant upon
this most unhappy war.]
CHAPTER III.
CROSSING THE "RUNS."
The long, tumble-down bridge which spans the Waccamaw at Conwayboro,
trembled beneath our horse's tread, as with lengthened stride he shook
the secession mud from his feet, and whirled us along into the dark,
deep forest. It may have been the exhilaration of a hearty dinner of
oats, or it may have been sympathy with the impatience of his
fellow-travellers that spurred him on; whichever it was, away he went as
if Lucifer--that first Secessionist--were following close at his heels.
The sun, which for a time had been industriously wedging his way into
the dark masses of cloud, finally slunk out of sight and left us
enveloped in a thick fog, which shut from view all of Cottondom, except
a narrow belting of rough pines, and a few rods of sandy road that
stretched out in dim perspective before us. There being nothing in the
outside creation to attract my attention, I drew the apron of the
carriage about me, and settling myself well back on the seat to avoid
the thick-falling mist, fell into a train of dreamy reflection.
Niggers, slave-auctions, cotton-fields, rice-swamps, and King Cotton
himself, that blustering old despot, with his swarthy arms and
"under-pinning," his face of brass, and body of "raw material," passed
through my mind, like Georgia trains through the Oconee Swamp, till
finally my darky friend came into view. He seemed at first a little
child, amid the blazing ruins of his wilderness home, gazing in stupid
horror on the burning bodies of his father and his kindred. Then he was
kneeling at the side of his dying mother in the slave-pen at Cape Lopez,
and--still a child--cooped in the "Black-hole" of the accursed
slave-ship, his little frame burning with the fever-fire, and his
child-heart longing for death. Then he seemed mounting the Cuban
slave-block, and as the "going! going! gone!" rung in my ear, he was
hurried away, and driven to the cruel task--still a child--on the hot,
unhealthy sugar-field. Again he appeared, stealing away at night to a
lonely hut, and by the light of a pine-knot, wearily poring over the
BOOK of BOOKS, slowly putting letters into words, and words into
sentences, that he might know _"What God says to the black man."_ Then
he seemed a man--splendid of frame, noble of soul--suspended in the
whipping-rack, his arms bound above his head, his body resting on the
tips of his toes, and the merciless lash falling on his bare back, till
the red stream ran from it like a river--scourged because he would not
aid in creating beings as wretched as himself, and make merchandise of
his own blood to gorge the pocket of an incarnate white devil.
As these things passed before me, and I thought of his rare
intelligence, of his fine traits of character, and of the true heroism
he had shown in risking, perhaps, his own life to get me--a
stranger--out of an ugly hobble, I felt a certain spot in my left side
warming toward him, very much as it might have done had his blood been
as pure as my own. It seemed to me a pity--anti-Abolitionist and
Southern-sympathizer though I was--that a man of such rare natural
talent, such character and energy, should have his large nature dwarfed,
be tethered for life to a cotton-stalk, and made to wear his soul out in
a tread-mill, merely because his skin had a darker tinge and his shoe a
longer heel than mine.
As I mused over his "strange, eventful history," and thought of the
handy way nature has of putting the _right_ man in the _wrong_ place, it
occurred to me how "Brother Beecher" one evening, not a long time
before, had charmed the last dollar from my waistcoat pocket by
exhibiting, _a la_ Barnum, a remarkably ugly "cullud pusson" on his
pulpit stairs, and by picturing the awful doom which awaited her--that
of being reduced from baby-tending to some less useful employment--if
his audience did not at once "do the needful." Then it occurred to me
how much finer a spectacle my ebony friend would make; how well his six
feet of manly sinew would grace those pulpit stairs; how eloquently the
reverend gentleman might expatiate on the burning sin of shrouding the
light of such an intellect in the mists of niggerdom, only to see it
snuffed out in darkness; how he might enlarge on what the black could do
in elevating his race, either as "cullud" assistant to "Brother Pease"
at the Five-Points, or as co-laborer with Fred Douglass at abolition
conventions, or, if that didn't _pay_, how, put into the minstrel
business, he might run the white "troupes" off the track, and yield a
liberal revenue to the "Cause of Freedom." As I thought of the probable
effect of this last appeal, it seemed to me that the thing was already
done, and that SCIP was FREE.
I got back from dreamland by the simple act of opening my eyes, and
found myself still riding along in that Jersey wagon, over that heavy,
sandy road, and drenched with the mists of that dreary December day. The
reverie made, however, a deep impression on me, and I gave vent to it
somewhat as follows:
"Colonel A---- tells me, Scip, that your mistress wants to sell you. Do
you know what she asks?"
"She ax fifteen hundred dollar, massa, but I an't worth dat now. Nigger
property's mighty low."
"What is your value now?"
"P'raps eight hundred, p'raps a thousand dollar, massa."
"Would your mistress take a thousand for you?"
"Don't know, sar, but reckon she would. She'd be glad to get shut of me.
She don't like me on de plantation, 'cause she say de oder darkies tink
too much ob me; and she don't like me in de city, 'cause she 'fraid I
run away."
"Why afraid you'll runaway? Did you ever try to?"
"Try to! LOR, massa, I neber taught ob such a ting--wouldn't
gwo ef I could."
"But wouldn't you?" I asked, thinking he had conscientious scruples
about running away; "wouldn't you if you could buy yourself, and go
honestly, as a _free_ man?"
"Buy myself, sar!" he exclaimed in surprise; "buy _my own_ flesh and
blood dat de LORD hissef gabe me! No, no! massa; I'd likes to be free,
but I'd neber do _dat_!"
"Why not do that?" I asked.
"'Cause 't would be owning dat de white folks hab a right to de brack;
and 'cause, sar, if I war free I couldn't stay har."
"Why should you stay here? You have no wife nor child; why not go where
the black man is respected and useful?"
"I'se 'spected and useful har, massa. I hab no wife nor child, and dat
make me feel, I s'pose, like as ef all de brack people war my chil'ren."
"But they are not your children; and you can be of no service to them.
At the North you might learn, and put your talents to some use."
"Sar," he replied, a singular enthusiasm lighting up his face, "de LORD,
dat make me what I ar, put me har, and I must stay. Sometimes when tings
look bery brack, and I feel a'most 'scouraged, I goes to HIM, and I say,
'LORD, I's ob no use, take me 'way; let me get fru wid dis; let me no
more see de suffrin' and 'pression ob de pore cullud race;' den HE say
to me, just so plain as I say it to you, 'Keep up good courage, Scipio,
de time will come;'[C] and now, bless de LORD, de time am coming!"
"_What_ time is coming, Scipio?"
He gave me a quick, suspicious glance, but his face in a moment resumed
its usual expression, as he replied: "I'se sure, massa, dat I could
trust you. I feel you am my friend, but I can't say no more."
"You need not, Scip--I can guess. What you have said is safe with me.
But let me counsel you--wait for the white man. Do not let your freedom
come in blood!"
"It will come, massa, as de LORD will. When HE war freed _de earth
shook, and de vail ob de temple war rent in twain_!"
We said no more, but rode on in silence; the darky absorbed in his own
reflections, I musing over the black volcano, whose muffled echoes I
then heard "away down South in Dixie."
We had ridden on for about an hour, when an opening in the trees
disclosed a by-path, leading to a plantation. Following it for a short
distance, we came upon a small clearing, in the midst of which, flanked
by a ragged corn and potato patch, squatted a dilapidated, unpainted
wooden building, a sort of "half-way house" between a hut and a shanty.
In its door-way, seated on a chair which wanted one leg and a back, was
a suit of linsey-woolsey, adorned by enormous metal buttons, and
surmounted by a queer-looking headpiece that might have passed for
either a hat or an umbrella. I was at a loss to determine whether the
object were a human being or a scarecrow, when, at the sound of our
approach, the umbrella-like article lifted, and a pair of sunken eyes, a
nose, and an enormous beard, disclosed themselves. Addressing myself to
the singular figure, I inquired how far we were from our destination,
and the most direct route to it.
"Wal, stranger," was the reply, "it's a right smart twenty mile to the
Cunnel's, but I reckon ye'll get thar, if ye follow yer critter's nose,
and ar good at swimming."
"Why good at swimming?" I inquired.
"'Cause the 'runs' have ris, and ar considerable deep by this time."
"That's comforting news."
"Yas, to a man as seems in a hurry," he replied, looking at my horse,
which was covered with foam.
"How far is it to the nearest run?" I asked.
"Wal, it mought be six mile; it mought be seven, but you've one or two
all-fired ones to cross arter that."
Here was a pleasant predicament. It was nearly five o'clock, and our
horse, though a noble animal, could not make the distance on an
unobstructed route, in the then heavy state of the roads, in less than
three hours. Long before that time it would be dark, and no doubt
stormy, for the sky, which had lowered all the afternoon, every now and
then uttered an ominous growl, and seemed ready to fall down upon us.
But turning back was out of the question, so, thanking the "native," I
was about to proceed, when he hailed me as follows:
"I say, stranger, what's the talk in the city?"
"Nothing, sir," I replied, "but fight and Secession."
"D--n Secession!" was the decidedly energetic answer.
"Why so, my friend? That doctrine seems to be popular hereabouts."
"Yas, pop'lar with them South Car'lina chaps. They'd be oneasy in heaven
if Gabriel was cook, and the LORD head-waiter."
"They must be hard to suit," I said; "I 'kalkerlate' _you're_ not a
South Carolinian."
"No, sir-ee! not by several mile. My mother moved over the line to born
me a decent individual."
"But why are you for the Union, when your neighbors go the other way?"
"'Cause it's allers carried us 'long as slick as a cart with new-greased
wheels; and 'cause, stranger, my grand'ther was one of Marion's boys,
and spilt a lettle claret at Yewtaw for the old consarn, and I reckon
he'd be oneasy in his grave if I turned my back on it now."
"But, my friend," I said, "they say Lincoln is an Abolitionist, and if
inaugurated, he will free every darky you've got."
"He can't do that, stranger, 'cordin' to the Constetution, and
grand'ther used to say that ar dokermunt would hold the d--l himself;
but, for my part, I'd like to see the niggers free."
"See the niggers free!" I replied in undisguised astonishment; "why, my
good sir, that is rank treason and abolition."
"Call it what yer a mind to, them's my sentiments; but I say, stranger,
if thar's ony thing on airth that I uttarly dispise it ar a Northern
dough-face, and it's clar yer one on 'em."
"There, my friend, you're mistaken. I'm neither an Abolitionist nor a
dough-face. But _why_ do you go for freeing the niggers?"
"'Cause the white folks would be better off. You see, I have to feed and
clothe my niggers, and pay a hundred and twenty and a hundred and fifty
a year for 'em, and if the niggers war free, they'd work for 'bout half
that."
Continuing the conversation, I learned that the umbrella-hatted
gentleman worked twenty hired negroes in the gathering of turpentine;
and that the district we were entering was occupied by persons in the
same pursuit, who nearly all employed "hired hands," and entertained
similar sentiments; Colonel J----, whom I was about to visit, and who
was a large slave-_owner_, being about the only exception. This, the
reader will please remember, was the state of things at the date of
which I am writing, in the _very heart_ of Secessiondom.
Bidding the turpentine-getter a rather reluctant "good-by," I rode on
into the rain.
It was nearly dark when we reached the first "run," but, fortunately, it
was less swollen than our way-side acquaintance had represented, and we
succeeded in crossing without difficulty. Hoping that the others might
be equally as fordable, we pushed rapidly on, the darkness meanwhile
gathering thickly about us, and the rain continuing to fall. Our way lay
through an unbroken forest, and as the wind swept fiercely through it,
the tall dark pines which towered on either side, moaned and sighed like
a legion of unhappy spirits let loose from the dark abodes below.
Occasionally we came upon a patch of woods where the turpentine-gatherer
had been at work, and the white faces of the "tapped" trees, gleaming
through the darkness, seemed an army of "sheeted ghosts" closing
steadily around us. The darkness, the rain, and the hideous noises in
the forest, called up unpleasant associations, and I inwardly determined
to ask hospitality from the first human being, black or white, whom we
should meet.
We had ridden on for about an hour after dark, when suddenly our horse's
feet plashed in the water, and he sank to his middle in a stream. My
first thought was that we were in the second "run," but as he pushed
slowly on, the water momentarily growing deeper, and spreading on either
side as far as we could see, it flashed upon me that we had missed the
road in the darkness, and were fairly launched into the Waccamaw river!
Turning to the darky, who was then driving, I said quickly:
"Scip, stop the horse. Where are we?"
"Don't know, massa; reckon we'se in de riber."
"A comfortable situation this. We can't turn round. The horse can't swim
such a stream in harness. What shall we do?"
"Can you swim, massa?" he quietly asked.
"Yes, like an eel."
"Wal, den, we'd better gwo on. De hoss'll swim. But, massa, you might
take off your boots and overcoat, and be ready for a spring ef he gwo
down."
I did as he directed, while he let down the apron and top of the wagon,
and fastened the reins loosely to the dash-board, saying as he did so,
"You must allers gib a hoss his head when he swim, massa; if you rein
him, he gwo down, shore." Then, undoing a portion of the harness, to
give the horse the free use of his legs, he shouted, "Gee up, ole Gray,"
and we started.
The noble animal stepped off slowly and cautiously, as if fully aware of
the danger of the passage, but had proceeded only about fifty yards when
he lost his footing, and plunged us into an entirely new and decidedly
cold hip-bath. "Now's de time, ole Gray," "show your broughten up, ole
boy," "let de gemman see you swim, ole feller," and similar remarks
proceeded rapidly from the darky, who all the time avoided touching the
reins.
It may have been one minute, it may have been five minutes--I took "no
note of _time_"--before the horse again struck bottom, and halted from
sheer exhaustion, the water still almost level with his back, and the
opposite bank too far-off to be seen through the darkness. After a short
rest, he again "breasted the waters," and in a few moments landed us on
the shore; not, unfortunately, in the road, but in the midst of the
pine-trees, there so entangled with under-growth, that not even a man,
much less a horse, could make his way through them. Wet to the skin, and
shivering with the cold, we had no time to lose "in gittin' out of dat,"
if we would avoid greater dangers than those we had escaped. So,
springing from the wagon, the darky waded up the stream, near its bank,
to reconnoitre. Returning in a few minutes, he reported that we were
about a hundred yards below the road. We had been carried that far down
stream by the strength of the current. Our only course was to follow the
"run" up along its bank; this we did, and in a short time had the
satisfaction of striking the high road. Arranging the harness, we were
soon under way again, the horse bounding along as if he felt the
necessity of vigorous exercise to restore his chilled circulation. We
afterward learned that it was not the Waccamaw we had crossed, but the
second "run" our native friend had told us of, and that the water in the
middle of its stream was fifteen feet deep!
Half-dead with cold and wet, we hurried on, but still no welcome light
beckoned us to a human habitation. The darkness grew denser till we
could not even distinguish the road, much less our horse's nose, which
we had been directed to follow. Inwardly cursing the folly which
brought me into such a wilderness, I said to the darky:
"Scip, I'm sorry I took you on such a trip as this."
"Oh! neber mind me, massa; I ruther like de dark night and de storm."
"Like the night and the storm! why so?"
"'Cause den de wild spirits come out, and talk in de trees. Dey make me
feel bery strong _har_," he replied, striking his hand on his breast.
"The night and the storm, Scip, make _me_ feel like cultivating another
sort of _spirits_. There are some in the wagon-box; suppose we stop and
see what they are."
We stopped, and I took out a small willow-flask, which held the "spirits
of Otard," and offered it to the darky.
"No, massa," he said, laughing, "I neber touch dem sort ob spirits; dey
raise de bery ole deble."
Not heeding the darky's example, I took "a long and a strong pull,"
and--felt the better for it.
Again we rode on, and again and again I "communed with the spirits,"
till a sudden exclamation from Scip aroused me from the half-stupor into
which I was falling. "What's the matter?" I asked.
"A light, massa, a light!"
"Where?"
"Dar, way off in de trees--"
"Sure enough, glory, hallelujah, there it is! We're all right now,
Scip."
We rode on till we came to the inevitable opening in the trees, and were
soon at the door of what I saw, by the light which came through the
crevices in the logs, was a one-story shanty, about twenty feet square.
"Will you let us come in out of de rain?" asked Scip of a
wretched-looking, half-clad, dirt-bedraggled woman, who thrust her head
from the doorway.
"Who ar ye?" was the reply.
"Only massa and me, and de hoss, and we'm half dead wid de cold,"
replied Scip; "can we cum in out ob de rain?"
"Wal, strangers," replied the woman, eyeing us as closely as the
darkness would permit, "you'll find mighty poor fixins har, but I reckon
ye can come in."
[Footnote C: The Southern blacks, like all ignorant people, are intensely
fanatical on religious subjects. The most trifling occurrences have to
their minds a hidden significance, and they believe the LORD speaks to
them in signs and dreams, and in almost every event of nature. This
superstition, which has been handed down from their savage ancestry, has
absolute sway over them, and one readily sees what immense power it
would give to some leading, adroit mind, that knew how to use it. By
means of it they might be led to the most desperate deeds, fully
believing all the while that they were "led ob de LORD."]
CHAPTER IV.
POOR WHITES.
Entering the house, we saw, by the light of a blazing pile of
pine-knots, which roared and crackled on the hearth, that it contained
only a single apartment. In front of the fire-place, which occupied the
better half of one side of this room, the floor was of the bare earth,
littered over with pine chips, dead cinders, live coals, broken pots,
and a lazy spaniel dog. Opposite to this, at the other end of the room,
were two low beds, which looked as if they had been "slept in forever,
and never made up." Against the wall, between the beds and the
fire-place, stood a small pine table, and on it was a large wooden bowl,
from whose mouth protruded the handles of several unwashed pewter
spoons. On the right of the fire was a razeed rocking-chair, evidently
the peculiar property of the mistress of the mansion, and three blocks
of pine log, sawn off smoothly, and made to serve for seats. Over
against these towered a high-backed settle, something like that on which
"sot Huldy all alone,
When Zeke peeked thru the winder;"
and on it, her head resting partly on her arm, partly on the end of the
settle, one small, bare foot pressing the ground, the other, with the
part of the person which is supposed to require stockings, extended in a
horizontal direction--reclined, not Huldy, but her Southern cousin, who,
I will wager, was decidedly the prettier and dirtier of the two. Our
entrance did not seem to disconcert her in the least, for she lay there
as unmoved as a marble statue, her large black eyes riveted on my face,
as if seeing some nondescript animal for the first time. I stood for a
moment transfixed with admiration. In a somewhat extensive observation
of her sex in both hemispheres, I had never witnessed such a form, such
eyes, such faultless features, and such wavy, black, luxuriant hair. A
glance at her dress--a soiled, greasy, grayish linsey-woolsey gown,
apparently her only garment--and a second look at her face, which, on
closer inspection, had precisely the hue of a tallow candle, recalled me
to myself, and allowed me to complete the survey of the premises.
The house was built of unhewn logs, separated by wide interstices,
through which the cold air came, in decidedly fresh if not health-giving
currents, while a large rent in the roof, that let in the rain, gave the
inmates an excellent opportunity for indulging in a shower-bath, of
which they seemed greatly in need. The chimney, which had intruded a
couple of feet into the room, as if to keep out of the cold, and
threatened momentarily to tumble down, was of sticks, built up in clay,
while the windows were of thick, unplaned boards.
Two pretty girls, one of perhaps ten and the other of fourteen years,
evidently sisters of the unadorned beauty, the middle-aged woman
who had admitted us, and the dog--the only male member of the
household--composed the family. I had seen negro cabins, but these
people were whites, and these whites were _South Carolinians_. When such
counterparts of the feudal serfs still exist, who will say that the days
of chivalry are over!
After I had seated myself by the fire, and the driver had gone out to
stow the horse away under the tumble-down shed at the back of the house,
the elder woman said to me--
"Reckon yer wet. Ben in the rain!"
"Yes, madam, we've been out most of the day, and got in the river below
here."
"Did ye? Ye mean the 'run.' I reckon it's right deep now."
"Yes, our horse had to swim," I replied.
"Ye orter strip and put on dry cloes to onst."
"Thank you, madam, I will."
Going to my portmanteau, which the darky had placed near the door, I
found it dripping with wet, and opening it I discovered that every
article had undergone the rite of immersion.
"Every thing is thoroughly soaked, madam. I shall have to dry myself by
your fire. Can you get me a cup of tea?"
"Right sorry, stranger, but I can't. Haint a morsel to eat or drink in
the house."
Remembering that our excellent hostess of the night before had insisted
on filling the wagon-box with a quantity of "chicken fixins," to serve
us in an emergency, and that my brandy flask was in my India-rubber
coat, I sent Scip out for them.
The stores disclosed boiled chicken, bacon, sandwiches, sweet potatoes,
short cake, corn-bread, buttered waffles, and 'common doin's' too
numerous to mention, enough to last a family of one for a fortnight, but
all completely saturated with water. Wet or dry, however, the provisions
were a godsend to the half-starved family, and their hearts seemed to
open to me with amazing rapidity. The dog got up and wagged his tail,
and even the marble-like beauty rose from her reclining posture and
invited me to a seat with her on the bench.
The kettle was soon steaming over the fire, and the boiling water, mixed
with a little brandy, served as a capital substitute for tea. After the
chicken was recooked, and the other edibles "warmed up," the little pine
table was brought out, and I learned--what I had before suspected--that
the big wooden bowl and the half dozen pewter spoons were the only
"crockery" the family possessed.
I declined the proffered seat at the table, the cooking utensils being
any thing but inviting, and contented myself with the brandy and water;
but, forgetting for a moment his color, I motioned to the darky--who was
as wet and jaded, and much more hungry than I was--to take the place
offered to me. The negro did not seem inclined to do so, but the woman,
observing my gesture, yelled out, her eyes flashing with anger:
"No, sar! No darkies eats with us. Hope you don't reckon _yerself_ no
better than a good-for-nothin', no account nigger!"
"I beg your pardon, madam; I intended no offence. Scipio has served me
very faithfully for two days, and is very tired and hungry. I forgot
myself."
This mollified the lady, and she replied:
"Niggers is good enuff in thar place, but warn't meant to 'sociate with
white folks."
There may have been some ground for a distinction in that case; there
certainly was a difference between the specimens of the two races then
before me; but, not being one of the chivalry, it struck me that the
odds were on the side of the black man. The whites were shiftless,
ragged, and starving; the black well clad, cleanly, energetic, and as
much above the others in intellect as Jupiter is above a church steeple.
To be sure, color was against him, and he was, after all, a servant in
the land of chivalry and of servant-owners. Of course the woman was
right.
She soon resumed the conversation with this remark:
"Reckon yer a stranger in these parts; whar d'ye come from?"
"From New York, madam."
"New York! whar's that?"
"It's a city at the North."
"Oh! yas; I've heern tell on it: that's whar the Cunnel sells his
turpentime. Quite a place, arnt it?"
"Yes, quite a place. Something larger than all South Carolina."
"What d'ye say? Larger nor South Carolina. Kinder reckon tain't, is't?"
"Yes, madam, it is."
"Du tell! 'Taint so large as Charles'n, is't?"
"Yes, twenty times larger than Charleston."
"Lord o'massy! How does all the folks live thar?"
"Live quite as well as they do here."
"Ye don't have no niggers thar, does ye?"
"Yes, but none that are slaves."
"Have Ablisherners thar, don't ye? them people that go agin the South?"
"Yes, some of them."
"What do they go agin the South for?"
"They go for freeing the slaves. Some of them think a black man as good
as a white one."
"Quar, that; yer an Ablisherner, arnt ye?"
"No, I'm an old-fashioned Whig."
"What's that? Never heerd on them afore."
"An old-fashioned Whig, madam, is a man whose political principles are
perfect, and who is as perfect as his principles."
That was a "stumper" for the poor woman, who evidently did not
understand one-half of the sentence.
"Right sort of folks, them," she said, in a half inquiring tone.
"Yes, but they're all dead now."
"Dead?"
"Yes, dead, beyond the hope of resurrection."
"Iv'e heern all the dead war to be resurrected. Didn't ye say ye war one
on 'em? _Ye_ aint dead yet," said the woman, chuckling at having
cornered me.
"But I'm more than _half_ dead just now."
"Ah," replied the woman, still laughing, "yer a chicken."
"A chicken! what's that?"
"A thing that goes on tu legs, and karkles," was the ready reply.
"Ah, my dear madam, you can out-talk me."
"Yas, I reckon I kin outrun ye, tu. Ye arnt over rugged." Then, after a
pause, she added--"What d'ye 'lect that darky, Linkum, President for?"
"I didn't elect him. _I_ voted for Douglas. But Lincoln is not a darky."
"He's a mullater, then; I've heern he war," she replied.
"No, he's not a mulatto; he's a rail-splitter."
"Rail-splitter? _Then he's a nigger, shore._"
"No, madam; white men at the North split rails."
"An' white wimmin tu, p'raps," said the woman, with a contemptuous toss
of the head.
"No, they don't," I replied, "but white women _work_ there."
"White wimmin work thar!" chimed in the hitherto speechless beauty,
showing a set of teeth of the exact color of her skin--_yaller_. "What
du the' du?"
"Some of them attend in stores, some set type, some teach school, and
some work in factories."
"Du tell! Dress nice, and make money?"
"Yes," I replied, "they make money, and dress like fine ladies; in fact,
_are_ fine ladies. I know one young woman, of about your age, that had
to get her own education, who earns a thousand dollars a year by
teaching, and I've heard of many factory-girls who support their
parents, and lay by a great deal of money, by working in the mills."
"Wal!" replied the young woman, with a contemptuous curl of her
matchless upper lip; "schule-marms arn't fine ladies; fine ladies don't
work; only niggers works _har_. I reckon I'd rather be 'spectable than
work for a livin'."
I could but think how magnificently the lips of some of our glorious
Yankee girls would have curled had they have heard that remark, and have
seen the poor girl that made it, with her torn, worn, greasy dress; her
bare, dirty legs and feet, and her arms, neck, and face so thickly
encrusted with a layer of clayey mud that there was danger of
hydrophobia if she went near a wash-tub. Restraining my involuntary
disgust, I replied:
"We at the North think work is respectable. We do not look down on a man
or a woman for earning their daily bread. We all work."
"Yas, and that's the why ye'r all sech cowards," said the old woman.
"Cowards!" I said; "who tells you that?"
"My old man; he says one on our _boys_ can lick five of your Yankee
_men_."
"Perhaps so. Is your husband away from home?"
"Yas, him and our Cal. ar down to Charles'n."
"Cal. is your son, is he?"
"Yas, he's my oldest, and a likely lad he ar tu--he's twenty-one, and
his name are JOHN CAL'OUN MILLS. He's gone a troopin' it with his
fader."
"What, both gone and left you ladies here alone?"
"Yas, the Cunnel sed every man orter go, and they warn't to be ahind the
rest. The Cunnel--Cunnel J.--looks arter us while they is away."
"But I should think the Colonel looked after you poorly--giving you
nothing to eat."
"Oh! it's ben sech a storm to-day, the gals couldn't go for the vittles,
though 'tain't a great way. We'r on his plantation; this house is
his'n."
This last was agreeable news, and it occurred to me that if we were so
near the Colonel's we might push on, in spite of the storm, and get
there that night; so I said:
"Indeed; I'm going to the Colonel's. How far is his house from here?"
"A right smart six mile; it's at the Cross roads. Ye know the Cunnel, du
ye?"
"Oh, yes, I know him well. If his home is not more than six miles off, I
think we had better go on to-night. What do you say, Scip?"
"I reckon we'd better gwo, massa," replied the darky, who had spread my
travelling-shawl in the chimney-corner, and was seated on it, drying his
clothes.
"Ye'd better not," said the woman; "ye'd better stay har; thar's a right
smart run twixt har and the Cunnel's, and 'tain't safe to cross arter
dark."
"If that is so we'd better stay, Scip; don't you think so?" I said to
the darky.
"Jess as you say, massa. We got fru wid de oder one, and I reckon taint
no wuss nor dat."
"The bridge ar carried away, and ye'll hev to swim _shore_," said the
woman. "Ye'd better stay."
"Thank you, madam, I think we will," I replied, after a moment's
thought; "our horse has swum one of your creeks to-night, and I dare not
try another."
Having taken off my coat, I had been standing, during the greater part
of this conversation, in my shirt-sleeves before the fire, turning round
occasionally to facilitate the drying process, and taking every now and
then a sip from the gourd containing our brandy and water; aided in the
latter exercise by the old woman and the eldest girl, who indulged quite
as freely as I did.
"Mighty good brandy that," at last said the woman. "Ye like brandy,
don't ye?"
"Not very much, madam. I take it to-night because I've been exposed to
the storm, and it stimulates the circulation. But Scip, here, don't like
spirits. He'll get the rheumatism because he don't."
"Don't like dem sort of sperits, massa; but rumatics neber trubble me."
"But I've got it mighty bad," said the woman, "_and I take 'em whenever
I kin get 'em_."
I rather thought she did, but I "reckoned" her principal beverage was
whiskey.
"You have the rheumatism, madam, because your house is so open; a
draught of air is always unhealthy."
"I allers reckoned 'twar _healthy_," she replied. "Ye Yankee folks have
quar notions."
I looked at my watch, and found it was nearly ten o'clock, and, feeling
very tired, said to the hostess:
"Where do you mean we shall sleep?"
"Ye can take that ar bed," pointing to the one nearer the wall, "the
darky can sleep har;" motioning to the settle on which she was seated.
"But where will you and your daughters sleep? I don't wish to turn you
out of your beds."
"Oh! don't ye keer for us; we kin all bunk together; dun it afore. Like
to turn in now?"
"Yes, thank you, I would;" and without more ceremony I adjourned to the
further part of the room, and commenced disrobing. Doffing my boots,
waistcoat, and cravat, and placing my watch and purse under the pillow,
I gave a moment's thought to what a certain not very old lady, whom I
had left at home, might say when she heard of my lodging with a
grass-widow and three young girls, and sprang into bed. There I removed
my under-mentionables, which were still too damp to sleep in, and in
about two minutes and thirty seconds sunk into oblivion.
A few streaks of grayish light were beginning to creep through the
crevices in the logs, when a movement at the foot of the bed awakened
me, and glancing downward I beheld the youngest girl emerging from under
the clothes at my feet. She had slept there, "cross-wise," all night. A
stir in the adjoining bed soon warned me that the other feminines were
preparing to follow her example; so, turning my face to the wall, I
feigned to be sleeping. Their toilet was soon made, when they quietly
left Scip and myself in possession of the premises.
The darky rose as soon as they were gone, and, coming to me, said:
"Massa, we'd better be gwine. I'se got your cloes all dry, and you can
rig up and breakfust at de Cunnel's."
The storm had cleared away, and the sun was struggling to get through
the distant pines, when Scip brought the horse to the door, and we
prepared to start. Turning to the old woman, I said:
"I feel greatly obliged to you, madam, for the shelter you have given
us, and would like to make you some recompense for your trouble. Please
to tell me what I shall pay you."
"Wal, stranger, we don't gin'rally take in lodgers, but seein' as how as
thar ar tu on ye, and ye've had a good night on it, I don't keer if ye
pay me tu dollars."
That struck me as "rather steep" for "common doin's," particularly as we
had furnished the food and "the drinks;" yet, saying nothing, I handed
her a two-dollar bank-note. She took it, and held it up curiously to the
sun for a moment, then handed it back, saying, "I don't know nuthin'
'bout that ar sort o' money; haint you got no silver?"
I fumbled in my pocket a moment, and found a quarter-eagle, which I gave
her.
"Haint got nary a fip o' change," she said, as she took it.
"Oh! never mind the change, madam; I shall want to stop and _look_ at
you when I return," I replied, good-humoredly.
"Ha! ha! yer a chicken," said the woman, at the same time giving me a
gentle poke in the ribs. Fearing she might, in the exuberance of her joy
at the sight of the money, proceed to some more decided demonstration of
affection, I hastily stepped into the wagon, bade her good-by, and was
off.
We were still among the pines, which towered gigantically all around us,
but were no longer alone. Every tree was scarified for turpentine, and
the forest was alive with negro men and women gathering the "last
dipping," or clearing away the stumps and underbrush preparatory to the
spring work. It was Christmas week; but, as I afterward learned, the
Colonel's negroes were accustomed to doing "half tasks" at that season,
being paid for their labor as if they were free. They stopped their work
as we rode by, and stared at us with a stupid, half-frightened
curiosity, very much like the look of a cow when a railway train is
passing. It needed but little observation to convince me that their
_status_ was but one step above the level of the brutes.
As we rode along I said to the driver, "Scip, what did you think of our
lodgings?"
"Mighty pore, massa. Niggas lib better'n dat."
"Yes," I replied, "but these folks despise you blacks; they seem to be
both poor and proud."
"Yas, massa, dey'm pore 'cause dey wont work, and dey'm proud 'cause
dey'r white. Dey wont work 'cause dey see de darky slaves doin' it, and
tink it am beneaf white folks to do as de darkies do. Dis habin' slaves
keeps dis hull country pore."
"Who told you that?" I asked, astonished at hearing a remark showing so
much reflection from a negro.
"Nobody, massa; I see it myseff."
"Are there many of these poor whites around Georgetown?"
"Not many 'round Georgetown, sar, but great many in de up-country har,
and dey'm all 'like--pore and no account; none ob 'em kin read, and dey
all eat clay."
"Eat clay!" I said; "what do you mean by that?"
"Didn't you see, massa, how yaller all dem wimmin war? Dat's 'cause dey
eat clay. De little children begin 'fore dey kin walk, and dey eat it
till dey die; dey chaw it like 'backer. It makes all dar stumacs big,
like as you seed 'em, and spiles dar 'gestion. It'm mighty onhealfy."
"Can it be possible that human beings do such things! The brutes
wouldn't do that."
"No, massa, but _dey_ do it; dey'm pore trash. Dat's what de big folks
call 'em, and it am true; dey'm long way lower down dan de darkies."
By this time we had arrived at the "run." We found the bridge carried
away, as the woman had told us; but its abutments were still standing,
and over these planks had been laid, which afforded a safe crossing for
foot-passengers. To reach these planks, however, it was necessary to
wade into the stream for full fifty yards, the "run" having overflowed
its banks for that distance on either side of the bridge. The water was
evidently receding, but, as we could not well wait, like the man in the
fable, for it all to run by, we alighted, and counselled as to the best
mode of making the passage.
Scip proposed that he should wade in to the first abutment, ascertain
the depth of the stream, and then, if it was not too deep for the horse
to ford to that point, drive that far, get out, and walk to the end of
the planking, leading the horse, and then again mount the wagon at the
further end of the bridge. We were sure the horse would have to swim in
the middle of the current, and perhaps for a considerable distance
beyond; but, having witnessed his proficiency in aquatic performances,
we had no doubt he would get safely across.
The darky's plan was decided on, and divesting himself of his trowsers,
he waded into the "run" to take the soundings.
While he was in the water my attention was attracted to a printed paper,
posted on one of the pines near the roadside. Going up to it, I read as
follows:
"$250 REWARD.
"Ran away from the subscriber, on Monday, November 12th, his
mulatto man, SAM. Said boy is stout-built, five feet nine inches
high, 31 years old, weighs 170 lbs., and walks very erect, and with
a quick, rapid gait. The American flag is tattooed on his right arm
above the elbow. There is a knife-cut over the bridge of his nose,
a fresh bullet-wound in his left thigh, and his back bears marks of
a recent whipping. He is supposed to have made his way back to
Dinwiddie County, Va., where he was raised, or to be lurking in the
swamps in this vicinity.
"The above reward will be paid for his confinement in any jail in
North or South Carolina, or Virginia, or for his delivery to the
subscriber on his plantation at ----.
"----, December 2, 1860."
The name signed to this hand-bill was that of the planter I was about to
visit.
Scip having returned, and reported the stream fordable to the bridge, I
said to him, pointing to the "notice:"
"Read that, Scip."
He read it, but made no remark.
"What does it mean--that fresh bullet wound, and the marks of a recent
whipping?" I asked.
"It mean, massa, dat de darky hab run away, and ben took; and dat when
dey took him dey shot him, and flogged him arter dat. Now, he hab run
away agin. De Cunnel's mighty hard on his niggas!"
"Is he? I can scarcely believe that."
"He am, massa; but he arnt so much to blame, nuther; dey'm awful bad,
most ob 'em--so dey say."
Our conversation was here interrupted by our reaching the bridge. After
safely "walking the plank," and making our way to the opposite bank, I
resumed it by asking:
"Why are the Colonel's negroes so particularly bad?"
"'Cause, you see, massa, de turpentime business hab made great profits
for sum yars now, and de Cunnel hab been gettin' rich bery fass. He put
all his money, jes so fass as he make it, into darkies, so to make more;
for he's got bery big plantation, and need nuffin' but darkies to work
it to make money jess like a gold mine. He goes up to Virginny to buy
niggas; and up dar _now_ dey don't sell none less dey'm bad uns, 'cep
when sum massa die or git pore. Virginny darkies dat cum down har aint
gin'rally ob much account. Dey'm either kinder good-for-nuffin, or dey'm
ugly; and de Cunnel'd ruther hab de ugly dan de no-account niggas."
"How many negroes has he?"
"'Bout two hundred, men and wimmin, I b'lieve, massa."
"It can't be pleasant for his family to remain in such an out-of-the-way
place, with so bad a gang of negroes about them, and no white people
near."
"No, massa, not in dese times; but de missus and de young lady arnt dar
now."
"Not there now? The Colonel said nothing to me about that. Are you
sure?"
"Oh yas, massa; I seed 'em gwo off on de boat to Charles'n most two
weeks ago. Dey don't mean to cum back till tings am more settled; dey'm
'fraid to stay dar."
"Would it be safe for the Colonel there, if a disturbance broke out
among the slaves."
"'T wouldn't be safe den anywhar, sar; but de Cunnel am a bery brave
man. He'm better dan twenty of _his_ niggas."
"Why better than twenty of _his_ niggers?"
"'Cause dem ugly niggas am gin'rally cowards. De darky dat is quiet,
'spectful, and does his duty, am de brave sort; _dey'll_ fight, massa,
till dey'm cut down."
We had here reached a turn in the road, and passing it, came suddenly
upon a coach, attached to which were a pair of magnificent grays, driven
by a darky in livery.
"Hallo, dar!" said Scip to the driver, as we came nearly abreast of the
carriage. "Am you Cunnel J----'s man?"
"Yas, I is dat," replied the darky.
At this moment a woolly head, which I recognized at once as that of the
Colonel's man "Jim," was thrust from the window of the vehicle.
"Hallo, Jim," I said. "How do you do? I'm glad to see you."
"Lor bress me, Massa K----, am dat you?" exclaimed the astonished negro,
hastily opening the door, and coming to me. "Whar _did_ you cum from?
I'se mighty glad to see you;" at the same time giving my hand a hearty
shaking. I must here say, in justice to the reputation of South
Carolina, that no respectable Carolinian refuses to shake hands with a
black man, unless--the black happens to be free.
"I thought I wouldn't wait for you," I replied. "But how did you expect
to get on? the 'runs' have swollen into rivers."
"We got a 'flat' made for dis one--it's down by dis time--de oders we
tought we'd get ober sumhow."
"Jim, this is Scip," I said, seeing the darkies took no notice of each
other.
"How d'ye do, Scip_io?_" said Jim, extending his hand to him. A look of
singular intelligence passed over the faces of the two negroes as their
hands met; it vanished in an instant, and was so slight that none but a
close observer would have detected it, but some words that Scip had
previously let drop had put me on the alert, and I felt sure it had a
hidden significance.
"Wont you get into de carriage, massa?" inquired Jim.
"No, thank you, Jim. I'll ride on with Scip. Our horse is jaded, and you
had better go ahead."
Jim mounted the driver's seat, turned the carriage, and drove off at a
brisk pace to announce our coming at the plantation, while Scip and I
rode on at a slower gait.
"Scip, did you know Jim before?" I asked.
"Hab seed him afore, massa, but neber know'd him."
"How is it that you have lived in Georgetown five years, and have not
known him?"
"I cud hab know'd him, massa, good many time, ef I'd liked, but darkies
hab to be careful."
"Careful of what?"
"Careful ob who dey knows; good many bad niggas 'bout."
"Pshaw, Scip, you're 'coming de possum'; there isn't a better nigger
than Jim in all South Carolina. I know him well."
"P'raps he am; reckon he _am_ a good 'nuff nigga."
"Good enough nigga, Scip! Why, I tell you he's a splendid fellow; just
as true as steel. He's been North with the Colonel, often, and the
Abolitionists have tried to get him away; he knew he could go, but
wouldn't budge an inch."
"I knew he wouldn't," said the darky, a pleasurable gleam passing
through his eyes; "dat sort don't run; dey face de music!"
"Why don't they run? What do you mean by facing the music?"
"Nuffin' massa--only dey'd rather stay har."
"Come, Scip, you've played this game long enough. Tell me, now, what
that look you gave each other when you shook hands meant."
"What look, massa? Oh! I s'pose 'twar 'cause we'd both _heerd_ ob each
oder afore."
"'Twas more than that, Scip. Be frank; you know you can trust _me_."
"Wal, den, massa," he replied hesitatingly, adding, after a short pause,
"de ole woman called you a Yankee, sar--you can guess."
"If I should guess, 't would be that it meant _mischief_."
"It don't mean mischief, sar," said the darky, with a tone and air that
would not have disgraced a Cabinet officer; "it mean only RIGHT and
JUSTICE."
"It means that there is some secret understanding between you."
"I toled you, massa," he replied, relapsing into his usual manner, "dat
de blacks am all Freemasons. I gabe Jim de grip, and he knowd me. He'd
ha knowd my name ef you hadn't toled him."
"Why would he have known your name?"
"'Cause I gabe de grip, dat tole him."
"Why did he call you Scip_io_? I called you _Scip_."
"Oh! de darkies all do dat. Nobody but de white folks call me _Scip_. I
can't say no more, massa; I SHUD BREAK DE OATH EF I DID!"
"You have said enough to satisfy me that there is a secret league among
the blacks, and that you are a leader in it. Now, I tell you, you'll get
yourself into a scrape. I've taken a liking to you, Scip, and I should
be _very sorry_ to see you run yourself into danger."
"I tank you, massa, from de bottom ob my soul I tank you," he said, as
the tears moistened his eyes. "You bery kind, massa; it do me good to
talk wid you. But what am my life wuth? What am any _slave's_ life wuth?
_Ef you war me you'd do like me!_"
I could not deny it, and I made no reply.
The writer is aware that he is here making an important statement, and
one that may be called in question by those persons who are accustomed
to regard the Southern blacks as only reasoning brutes. The great mass
of them _are_ but a little above the brutes in their habits and
instincts, but a large body are fully on a par, except in mere
book-education, with their white masters.
The conversation above recorded is, _verbatim et literatim_, TRUE. It
took place at the time indicated, and was taken down, as were other
conversations recorded in this book, within twenty-four hours after its
occurrence. The name and the locality, only, I have, for very evident
reasons, disguised.
From this conversation, together with others, held with the same negro,
and from after developments made to me at various places, and at
different times, extending over a period of six weeks, I became
acquainted with the fact that there exists among the blacks a secret and
wide-spread organization of a Masonic character, having its grip,
pass-word, and oath. It has various grades of leaders, who are
competent and _earnest_ men, and its ultimate object is FREEDOM. It is
quite as secret and wide-spread as the order of the "Knights of the
Golden Circle," the kindred league among the whites.
This latter organization, which was instituted by John C. Calhoun,
William L. Porcher, and others, as far back as 1835, has for its sole
object the dissolution of the Union, and the establishment of a Southern
Empire--Empire is the word, not Confederacy, or Republic; and it was
solely by means of its secret but powerful machinery that the Southern
States were plunged into revolution, in defiance of the will of a
majority of their voting population.
Nearly every man of influence at the South (and many a pretended Union
man at the North) is a member of this organization, and sworn, under the
penalty of assassination, to labor "in season and out of season, by fair
means and by foul, at all times, and all occasions," for the
accomplishment of its object. The blacks are bound together by a similar
oath, and only _bide their time_.
The knowledge of the real state of political affairs which the negroes
have acquired through this organization is astonishingly accurate; their
leaders possess every essential of leadership--except, it may be,
military skill--and they are fully able to cope with the whites.
The negro whom I call Scipio, on the day when Major Anderson evacuated
Fort Moultrie, and before he or I knew of that event, which set all
South Carolina in a blaze, foretold to me the breaking out of this war
in Charleston harbor, and as confidently predicted that it would result
in the freedom of the slaves!
The fact of this organization existing is not positively known (for the
black is more subtle and crafty than any thing human), but it is
suspected by many of the whites, the more moderate of whom are disposed
to ward off the impending blow by some system of gradual
emancipation--declaring all black children born after a certain date
free--or by some other action that will pacify and keep down the slaves.
These persons, however, are but a small minority, and possess no
political power, and the South is rushing blindly on to a catastrophe,
which, if not averted by the action of our government, will make the
horrors of San Domingo and the French Revolution grow pale in history.
I say the action of our government, for with it rests the
responsibility. What the black wants is freedom. Give him that, and he
will have no incentive to insurrection. If emancipation is proclaimed at
the head of our armies--emancipation for _all_--confiscation for the
slaves of rebels, compensation for the slaves of loyal citizens--the
blacks will rush to the aid of our troops, the avenging angel will pass
over the homes of the many true and loyal men who are still left at the
South, and the thunderbolts of this war will fall only--where they
should fall--on the heads of its blood-stained authors. If this is not
done, after we have put down the whites we shall have to meet the
blacks, and after we have waded knee-deep in the blood of both, we
shall end the war where it began, but with the South desolated by fire
and sword, the North impoverished and loaded down with an everlasting
debt, and our once proud, happy, and glorious country the by-word and
scorn of the civilized world.
Slavery is the very bones, marrow, and life-blood of this rebellion, and
it cannot be crushed till we have destroyed that accursed institution.
If a miserable peace is patched up before a death-stroke is given to
slavery, it will gather new strength, and drive freedom from this
country forever. In the nature of things it cannot exist in the same
hemisphere with liberty. Then let every man who loves his country
determine that if this war must needs last for twenty years, it shall
not end until this root of all our political evils is weeded out
forever.
A short half-hour took us to the plantation, where I found the Colonel
on the piazza awaiting me. After our greeting was over, noticing my
soiled and rather dilapidated condition, he inquired where I had passed
the night. I told him, when he burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and
for several days good-naturedly bantered me about "putting up" at the
most aristocratic hotel in South Carolina--the "Mills House."
We soon entered the mansion, and the reader will, I trust, pardon me, if
I leave him standing in its door-way till another chapter.
CHAPTER V.
ON THE PLANTATION.
The last chapter left the reader in the door-way of the Colonel's
mansion. Before entering, we will linger there awhile and survey the
outside of the premises.
The house stands where two roads meet, and, unlike most planters'
dwellings, is located in full view of the highway. It is a rambling,
disjointed structure, thrown together with no regard to architectural
rules, and yet there is a rude harmony in its very irregularities that
has a pleasing effect. The main edifice, with a frontage of nearly
eighty feet, is only one and a half stories high, and is overshadowed by
a broad projecting roof, which somehow, though in a very natural way,
drops down at the eaves, and forms the covering of a piazza, twenty feet
wide, and extending across the entire front of the house. At its
south-easterly angle, the roof is truncated, and made again to form a
covering for the piazza, which there extends along a line of irregular
buildings for sixty yards. A portion of the verandah on this side being
enclosed, forms a bowling-alley and smoking-room, two essential
appendages to a planter's residence. The whole structure is covered with
yellow-pine weather boarding, which in some former age was covered with
paint of a grayish brown color. This, in many places, has peeled off
and allowed the sap to ooze from the pine, leaving every here and there
large blotches on the surface, somewhat resembling the "warts" I have
seen on the trunks of old trees.
The house is encircled by grand old pines, whose tall, upright stems,
soaring eighty and ninety feet in the air, make the low hamlet seem
lower by the contrast. They have stood there for centuries, their rough,
shaggy coats buttoned close to their chins, and their long green locks
waving in the wind; but the long knife has been thrust into their veins,
and their life-blood is now fast oozing away.
With the exception of the negro huts, which are scattered at irregular
intervals through the woods in the rear of the mansion, there is not a
human habitation within an hour's ride; but such a cosy, inviting,
hospitable atmosphere surrounds the whole place, that a stranger does
not realize he has happened upon it in a wilderness.
The interior of the dwelling is in keeping with the exterior, though in
the drawing-rooms, where rich furniture and fine paintings actually
lumber the apartments, there is evident the lack of a nice perception of
the "fitness of things," and over the whole hangs a "dusty air," which
reminds one that the Milesian Bridget does not "flourish" in South
Carolina.
I was met in the entrance-way by a tall, fine-looking woman, to whom the
Colonel introduced me as follows:
"Mr. K----, this is Madam P----, my housekeeper; she will try to make
you forget that Mrs. J---- is absent."
After a few customary courtesies were exchanged, I was shown to a
dressing-room, and with the aid of Jim, a razor, and one of the
Colonel's shirts--all of mine having undergone a drenching--soon made a
tolerably presentable appearance. The negro then conducted me to the
breakfast-room, where I found the family assembled.
It consisted, besides the housekeeper, of a tall, raw-boned,
sandy-haired personage, with a low brow, a blear eye, and a sneaking
look--the overseer of the plantation; and of a well-mannered,
intelligent lad--with the peculiarly erect carriage and uncommon
blending of good-natured ease and dignity which distinguished my
host--who was introduced to me as the housekeeper's son.
Madam P----, who presided over the "tea-things," was a person of perhaps
thirty-five, but a rich olive complexion, enlivened by a delicate red
tint, and relieved by thick masses of black hair, made her appear to a
casual observer several years younger. Her face bore vestiges of great
beauty, which time, and, perhaps, care, had mellowed but not
obliterated, and her conversation indicated high cultivation. She had
evidently mingled in refined society in this country and in Europe, and
it was a strange freak of fortune that had reduced her to a menial
condition in the family of a backwoods planter.
After some general conversation, the Colonel remarked that his wife and
daughter would pass the winter in Charleston.
"And do _you_ remain on the plantation?" I inquired.
"Oh yes, I am needed here," he replied; "but Madam's son is with my
family."
"Madam's son!" I exclaimed in astonishment, forgetting in my surprise
that the lady was present.
"Yes, sir," she remarked, "my oldest boy is twenty."
"Excuse me, Madam; I forgot that in your climate one never grows old."
"There you are wrong, sir; I'm sure I _feel_ old when I think how soon
my boys will be men."
"Not old yet, Alice," said the Colonel, in a singularly familiar tone;
"you seem to me no older than when you were fifteen."
"You have been long acquainted," I remarked, not knowing exactly what to
say.
"Oh, yes," replied my host, "we were children together."
"Your Southern country, Madam, affords a fine field for young men of
enterprise."
"My eldest son resides in Germany," replied the lady. "He expects to
make that country his home. He would have passed his examination at
Heidelberg this autumn had not circumstances called him here."
"You are widely separated," I replied.
"Yes, sir; his father thinks it best, and I suppose it is. Thomas,
here, is to return with his brother, and I may live to see neither of
them again."
My curiosity was naturally much excited to learn more, but nothing
further being volunteered, and the conversation soon turning to other
topics, I left the table with it unsatisfied.
After enjoying a quiet hour with the Colonel in the smoking-room, he
invited me to join him in a ride over the plantation. I gladly assented,
and Jim shortly announced the horses were in waiting. That darky, who
invariably attended his master when the latter proceeded from home,
accompanied us. As we were mounting I bethought me of Scip, and asked
where he was.
"He'm gwine to gwo, massa, and want to say good-by to you."
It seemed madness for Scip to start on a journey of seventy miles
without rest, so I requested the Colonel to let him remain till the next
day. He cheerfully assented, and sent Jim to find him. While waiting for
the darky, I spoke of how faithfully he had served me during my journey.
"He's a splendid nigger," replied the Colonel; "worth his weight in
gold. If affairs were more settled I would buy him."
"But Colonel A---- tells me he is too intelligent. He objects to
'knowing' niggers."
"_I_ do not," replied my host, "if they are honest, and I would trust
Scip with uncounted gold. Look at him," he continued, as the negro
approached; "were flesh and bones ever better put together?"
The darky _was_ a fine specimen of sable humanity, and I readily
understood why the practiced eye of the Colonel appreciated his physical
developments.
"Scip," I said, "you must not think of going to-day; the Colonel will be
glad to let you remain until you are fully rested."
"Tank you, massa, tank you bery much, but de ole man will spec' me, and
I orter gwo."
"Oh, never mind old----," said the Colonel, "I'll take care of him."
"Tank you, Cunnel, den I'll stay har till de mornin'."
Taking a by-path which led through the forest in the rear of the
mansion, we soon reached a small stream, and, following its course for a
short distance, came upon a turpentine distillery, which the Colonel
explained to me was one of three that prepared the product of his
plantation for market, and provided for his family of nearly three
hundred souls.
It was enclosed, or rather roofed, by a rude structure of rough boards,
which was open at the sides, and sustained on a number of pine poles
about thirty feet in height, and bore a strong resemblance to the usual
covering of a New England haystack.
Three stout negro men, divested of all clothing excepting a pair of
coarse gray trowsers and a red shirt--it was a raw, cold, wintry
day--and with cotton bandannas bound about their heads, were "tending
the still." The foreman stood on a raised platform level with its top,
but as we approached very quietly seated himself on a turpentine barrel
which a moment before he had rolled over the mouth of the boiler.
Another negro was below, feeding the fire with "light wood," and a third
was tending the trough by which the liquid rosin found its way into the
semicircle of rough barrels intended for its reception.
"Hello, Junius, what in creation are you doing there?" asked the
Colonel, as we approached, of the negro on the turpentine barrel.
"Holein' her down, Cunnel; de ole ting got a mine to blow up dis
mornin'; I'se got dis barrl up har to hole her down."
"Why, you everlasting nigger, if the top leaks you'll be blown to
eternity in half a second."
"Reckon not, massa; be barrl and me kin hole her. We'll take de risk."
"Perhaps _you_ will," said the Colonel, laughing, "but I wont. Nigger
property isn't of much account, but you're too good a darky, June, to be
sent to the devil for a charge of turpentine."
"Tank you, massa, but you dun kno' dis ole ting like I do. You cudn't
blow her up nohow; I'se tried her afore dis way."
"Don't you do it again; now mind; if you do I'll make a white man of
you." (This I suppose referred to a process of flaying with a whip;
though the whip is generally thought to _redden_, not _whiten_, the
negro.)
The black did not seem at all alarmed, for he showed his ivories in a
broad grin as he replied, "Jess as you say, massa; you'se de boss in dis
shanty."
Directing the fire to be raked out, and the still to stand unused until
it was repaired, the Colonel turned his horse to go, when he observed
that the third negro was shoeless, and his feet chapped and swollen with
the cold. "Jake," he said, "where are your shoes?"
"Wored out, massa."
"Worn out! Why haven't you been to me?"
"'Cause, massa, I know'd you'd jaw; you tole me I wears 'em out mighty
fass."
"Well, you do, that's a fact; but go to Madam and get a pair; and you,
June, you've been a decent nigger, you can ask for a dress for Rosy. How
is little June?"
"Mighty pore, massa; de ma'am war dar lass night and dis mornin', and
she reckun he'm gwine to gwo, sartain."
"Sorry to hear that," said the Colonel. "I'll go and see him. Don't feel
badly, June," he continued, for the tears welled up to the eyes of the
black man as he spoke of his child; "we all must die."
"I knows dat, massa, but it am hard to hab 'em gwo."
"Yes, it is, June, but we may save him."
"Ef you cud, massa! Oh, ef you cud!" and the poor darky covered his face
with his great hands and sobbed like a child.
We rode on to another "still," and there dismounting, the Colonel
explained to me the process of gathering and manufacturing turpentine.
The trees are "boxed" and "tapped" early in the year, while the frost is
still in the ground. "Boxing" is the process of scooping a cavity in the
trunk of the tree by means of a peculiarly shaped axe, made for the
purpose; "tapping" is scarifying the rind of the wood above the boxes.
This is never done until the trees have been worked one season, but it
is then repeated year after year, till on many plantations they present
the marks of twenty and frequently thirty annual "tappings," and are
often denuded of bark for a distance of thirty feet from the ground. The
necessity for this annual tapping arises from the fact that the scar on
the trunk heals at the end of a season, and the sap will no longer run
from it; a fresh wound is therefore made each spring. The sap flows down
the scarified surface and collects in the boxes, which are emptied six
or eight times in a year, according to the length of the season. This is
the process of "dipping," and it is done with a tin or iron vessel
constructed to fit the cavity in the tree.
The turpentine gathered from the newly boxed or virgin tree is very
valuable, on account of its producing a peculiarly clear and white
rosin, which is used in the manufacture of the finer kinds of soap, and
by "Rosin the Bow." It commands, ordinarily, nearly five times the price
of the common article. When barrelled, the turpentine is frequently sent
to market in its crude state, but more often is distilled on the
plantation, the gatherers generally possessing means sufficient to own
a still.
In the process of distilling, the crude turpentine is "dumped" into the
boiler through an opening in the top--the same as that on which we saw
Junius composedly seated--water is then poured upon it, the aperture
made tight by screwing down the cover and packing it with clay, a fire
built underneath, and when the heat reaches several hundred degrees
Fahrenheit, the process of manufacture begins. The volatile and more
valuable part of the turpentine, by the action of the heat, rises as
vapor, then condensing flows off through a pipe in the top of the still,
and comes out spirits of turpentine, while the heavier portion finds
vent at a lower aperture, and comes out rosin.
No article of commerce is so liable to waste and leakage as turpentine.
The spirits can only be preserved in tin cans, or in thoroughly seasoned
oak barrels, made tight by a coating of glue on the inner side. Though
the material for these barrels exists at the South in luxuriant
abundance, they are all procured from the North, and the closing of the
Southern ports has now entirely cut off the supply; for while the
turpentine farmer may improvise coopers, he can by no process give the
oak timber the seasoning which is needed to render the barrel
spirit-tight. Hence it is certain that a large portion of the last crop
of turpentine must have gone to waste. When it is remembered that the
one State of North Carolina exports annually nearly twenty millions in
value of this product, and employs fully two-thirds of its negroes in
its production, it will be seen how dearly the South is paying for the
mad freak of secession. Putting out of view his actual loss of produce,
how does the turpentine farmer feed and employ his negroes? and pressed
as these blacks inevitably are by both hunger and idleness, those
prolific breeders of sedition, what will keep them quiet?
"What effect will secession have on your business?" I asked the Colonel,
after a while.
"A favorable one. I shall ship my crop direct to Liverpool and London,
instead of selling it to New York middle-men."
"But is not the larger portion of the turpentine crop consumed at the
North?"
"Oh, yes. We shall have to deal with the Yankees anyhow, but we shall do
as little with them as possible."
"Suppose the Yankees object to your setting up by yourselves, and put
your ports under lock and key?"
"They wont do that, and if they do, England will break the blockade."
"We may rap John Bull over the knuckles in that event," I replied.
"Well, suppose you do; what then?"
"Merely, England would not have a ship in six months to carry your
cotton. A war with her would ruin the shipping trade of the North. Our
marine would seek employment at privateering, and soon sweep every
British merchant ship from the ocean. We could afford to give up ten
years' trade with you, and to put secession down by force, for the sake
of a year's brush with John Bull."
"But, my good friend, where would the British navy be all this while?"
"Asleep. The English haven't a steamer that can catch a Brookhaven
schooner. The last war proved that government vessels are no match for
privateers."
"Well, well! but the Yankees wont fight."
"Suppose they do. Suppose they shut up your ports, and leave you with
your cotton and turpentine unsold? You raise scarcely any thing
else--what would you eat?"
"We would turn our cotton fields into corn and wheat. Turpentine-makers,
of course, would suffer."
"Then why are not _you_ a Union man?"
"My friend, I have nearly three hundred mouths to feed. I depend on the
sale of my crop to give them food. If our ports are closed, I cannot do
it--they will starve, and I be ruined. But sooner than submit to the
domination of the cursed Yankees, I will see my negroes starving, and my
child a beggar!"
At this point in the conversation we arrived at the negro shanty where
the sick child was. Dismounting, the Colonel and I entered.
The cabin was almost a counterpart of the "Mills House," described in
the previous chapter, but it had a plank flooring, and was scrupulously
neat and clean. The logs were stripped of bark, and whitewashed. A
bright, cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, and an air of rude
comfort pervaded the whole interior. On a low bed in the farther corner
of the room lay the sick child. He was a boy of about twelve years, and
evidently in the last stages of consumption. By his side, bending over
him as if to catch his almost inaudible words, sat a tidy,
youthful-looking colored woman, his mother, and the wife of the negro we
had met at the "still." Playing on the floor, was a younger child,
perhaps five years old, but while the faces of the mother and the sick
lad were of the hue of charcoal, _his_ skin by a process well understood
at the South, had been bleached to a bright yellow.
The woman took no notice of our entrance, but the little fellow ran to
the Colonel and caught hold of the skirts of his coat in a free-and-easy
way, saying, "Ole massa, you got suffin' for Dicky?"
"No, you little nig," replied the Colonel, patting his woolly head as I
might have done a white child's, "Dicky isn't a good boy."
"Yas, I is," said the little darky; "you'se ugly ole massa to gib
nuffin' to Dick."
Aroused by the Colonel's voice, the woman turned toward us. Her eyes
were swollen, and her face bore traces of deep emotion.
"Oh massa!" she said, "de chile am dyin'! It'm all along ob his workin'
in de swamp--no _man_ orter work dar, let alone a chile like dis."
"Do you think he is dying, Rosy?" asked the Colonel, approaching the
bed-side.
"Shore, massa, he'm gwine fass. Look at 'im."
The boy had dwindled to a skeleton, and the skin lay on his face in
crimpled folds, like a mask of black crape. His eyes were fixed, and he
was evidently going.
"Don't you know massa, my boy?" said the Colonel, taking his hand
tenderly in his.
The child's lips slightly moved, but I could hear no sound. The Colonel
put his ear down to him for a moment, then, turning to me, said:
"He _is_ dying. Will you be so good as to step to the house and ask
Madam P---- here, and please tell Jim to go for Junius and the old man."
I returned in a short while with the lady, but found the boy's father
and "the old man"--the darky preacher of the plantation--there before
us. The preacher was a venerable old negro, much bowed by years, and
with thin wool as white as snow. When we entered, he was bending over
the dying boy, but shortly turning to my host, said:
"Massa, de blessed Lord am callin' for de chile--shall we pray?"
The Colonel nodded assent, and we all, blacks and whites, knelt down on
the floor, while the old preacher made a short, heart-touching prayer.
It was a simple, humble acknowledgment of the dependence of the creature
on the Creator--of His right to give and to take away, and was uttered
in a free, conversational tone, as if long communion with his Maker had
placed the old negro on a footing of friendly familiarity with Him, and
given the black slave the right to talk with the Deity as one man talks
with another.
As we rose from our knees my host said to me, "It is _my_ duty to stay
here, but I will not detain _you_. Jim will show you over the
plantation. I will join you at the house when this is over." The scene
was a painful one, and I gladly availed myself of the Colonel's
suggestion.
Mounting our horses, Jim and I rode off to the negro house where Scip
was staying.
Scip was not at the cabin, and the old negro woman told us he had been
away for several hours.
"Reckon he'll be 'way all day, sar," said Jim, as we turned our horses
to go.
"He ought to be resting against the ride of to-morrow. Where has he
gone?"
"Dunno, sar, but reckon he'm gwine to fine Sam."
"Sam? Oh, he's the runaway the Colonel has advertised."
"Yas, sar, he'm 'way now more'n a monfh."
"How can Scip find him?"
"Dunno, sar. Scipio know most ebery ting--reckon he'll track him. He
know him well, and Sam'll cum back ef he say he orter."
"Where do you think Sam is?"
"P'raps in de swamp."
"Where is the swamp?"
"'Bout ten mile from har."
"Oh, yes! the shingles are cut there. I should think a runaway would be
discovered where so many men are at work."
"No, massa, dar'm places dar whar de ole debble cudn't fine him, nor de
dogs nudder."
"I thought the bloodhounds would track a man anywhere."
"Not fru de water, massa; dey lose de scent in de swamp."
"But how can a man live there--how get food?"
"De darkies dat work dar take 'em nuff."
"Then the other negroes know where the runaways are; don't they
sometimes betray them?"
"Neber, massa; a darky neber tells on anoder. De Cunnel had a boy in dat
swamp once good many years."
"Is it possible! Did he come back?"
"No, he died dar. Sum ob de hands found him dead one mornin' in de hut
whar he lib'd, and buried him dar."
"Why did Sam run away?"
"'Cause de oberseer flog him. He use him bery hard, massa."
"What had Sam done?"
"Nuffin, massa."
"Then why was he flogged? Did the Colonel know it?"
"Oh, yas; Moye cum de possum ober de Cunnel, and make him b'lieve Sam
war bad. De Cunnel dunno de hull ob dat story."
"Why didn't _you_, tell him? The Colonel trusts _you_."
"'T wudn't hab dun no good; de Cunnel wud hab flogged me for tellin' on
a wite man. Nigga's word aint ob no account."
"What is the story about, Sam?"
"You wont tell dat _I_ tole you, massa?"
"No, but I'll tell the Colonel the truth."
"Wal den, sar, you see Sam's wife am bery good-lookin', her skin's most
wite--her mudder war a mulatter, her fader a wite man--she lub'd Sam
'bout as well as de wimmin ginrally lub dar husbands" (Jim was a
bachelor, and his observation of plantation morals had given him but
little faith in the sex), "but most ob 'em, ef dey'm married or no, tink
dey must smile on de wite men, so Jule she smiled on de oberseer--so Sam
tought--and it made him bery jealous. He war sort o' sassy, and de
oberseer strung him up, and flog him bery hard. Den Sam took to de
swamp, but he didn't know whar to gwo, and de dogs tracked him; he'd ha'
got 'way dough ef ole Moye hadn't a shot him; den he cudn't run. Den
Moye flogged him till he war 'most dead, and arter dat chained him down
in de ole cabin, and gave him 'most nuffin' to eat. De Cunnel war gwine
to take Sam to Charles'on and sell him, but somehow he got a file and
sawed fru de chain and got 'way in de night to de 'still.' Den when de
oberseer come dar in de mornin', Sam jump on him and 'most kill him.
He'd hab sent him whar dar aint no niggas, ef Junius hadn't a holed him.
_I'd_ a let de ole debble gwo."
"Junius, then, is a friend of the overseer."
"No, sar; _he_ haint no friends, 'cep de debble; but June am a good
nigga, and he said 'twarn't right to kill ole Moye so sudden, for den
dar'd be no chance for de Lord to forgib him."
"Then Sam got away again?"
"Oh yas; nary one but darkies war round, and dey wouldn't hole him. Ef
dey'd cotched him den, dey'd hung him, shore."
"Why hung him?"
"'Cause he'd struck a wite man; it'm shore death to do dat."
"Do you think Scip will bring him back?"
"Yas; 'cause he'm gwine to tell massa de hull story. De Cunnel will
b'lieve Scipio ef he _am_ brack. Sam'll know dat, so he'll come back. De
Cunnel'll make de State too hot to hole ole Moye, when he fine him out."
"Does Sam's wife 'smile' on the overseer now?"
"No; she see de trubble she bring on Sam, and she bery sorry. She wont
look at a wite man now."
During the foregoing conversation, we had ridden for several miles over
the western half of the plantation, and were again near the house. My
limbs being decidedly stiff and sore from the effect of the previous
day's journey, I decided to alight and rest until the hour for dinner.
I mentioned my jaded condition to Jim, who said:
"Dat's right, massa; come in de house. I'll cure de rumatics; I knows
how to fix dem."
Fastening the horses at the door, Jim accompanied me to my
sleeping-room, where he lighted a fire of pine knots, which in a moment
blazed up on the hearth and sent a cheerful glow through the apartment;
then, saying he would return after stabling the horses, the darky left
me.
I took off my boots, drew the sofa near the fire, and stretched myself
at full length upon it. If ever mortal was tired, "I reckon" I was. It
seemed as though every joint and bone in my body had lost the power of
motion, and sharp, acute pains danced along my nerves, as I have seen
the lightning play along the telegraph wires. My entire system had the
toothache.
Jim soon returned, bearing in one hand a decanter of "Otard," and in the
other a mug of hot water and a crash towel.
"I'se got de stuff dat'll fix de rumatics, massa."
"Thank you, Jim; a glass will do me good. Where did you get it?" I
asked, thinking it strange the Colonel should leave his brandy-bottle
within reach of the negroes, who have an universal weakness for spirits.
"Oh, I keeps de keys; de Cunnel hissef hab to come to me when he want
suffin' to warm hissef."
It was the fact; Jim had exclusive charge of the wine-cellar; in short,
was butler, barber, porter, footman, and body-servant, all combined.
"Now, massa, you lay right whar you is, and I'll make you ober new in
less dan no time."
And he did; but I emptied the brandy-bottle. Lest my temperance friends
should be horror-stricken, I will mention, however, that I took the
fluid by external absorption. For all rheumatic sufferers, I would
prescribe hot brandy, in plentiful doses, a coarse towel, and an active
Southern darky, and if on the first application the patient is not
cured, the fault will not be the negro's. Out of mercy to the chivalry,
I hope our government, in saving the Union, will not annihilate the
order of body-servants. They are the only perfect institution in the
Southern country, and, so far as I have seen, about the only one worth
saving.
The dinner-bell sounded a short while after Jim had finished the
scrubbing operation, and I went to the table with an appetite I had not
felt for a week. My whole system was rejuvenated, and I am not sure that
I should, at that moment, have declined a wrestling match with Heenan
himself.
I found at dinner only the overseer and the young son of Madam P----,
the Colonel and the lady being still at the cabin of the dying boy. The
dinner, though a queer mixture of viands, would not have disgraced,
except, perhaps, in the cooking, the best of our Northern hotels.
Venison, bacon, wild fowl, hominy, poultry, corn bread, French
"made-dishes," and Southern "common doin's," with wines and brandies of
the choicest brands, were placed on the table together.
"Dis, massa," said Jim, "am de raal juice; it hab been in de cellar eber
since de house war built. Massa tole me to gib you some, wid him
complimen's."
Passing it to my companions, I drank the Colonel's health in as fine
wine as I ever tasted.
I had taken an instinctive dislike to the overseer at the
breakfast-table, and my aversion was not lessened by learning his
treatment of Sam; curiosity to know what manner of man he was, however,
led me, toward the close of our meal, to "draw him out," as follows:
"What is the political sentiment, sir, of this section of the State?"
"Wal, I reckon most of the folks 'bout har' is Union; they'm from the
'old North,' and gin'rally pore trash."
"I have heard that the majority of the turpentine-farmers are
enterprising men and good citizens--more enterprising, even, than the
cotton and rice planters."
"Wal, they is enterprisin', 'cause they don't keer for nuthin' 'cep'
money."
"The man who is absorbed in money-getting is generally a quiet citizen."
"P'raps that's so. But I think a man sh'u'd hev a soul suthin' 'bove
dollars. Them folks will take any sort o' sarce from the Yankees, ef
they'll only buy thar truck."
"What do you suffer from the Yankees?"
"Suffer from the Yankees? Don't they steal our niggers, and haint they
'lected an ab'lishener for President?"
"I've been at the North lately, but I am not aware that is so."
"So! it's damnably so, sir. I knows it. We don't mean to stand it eny
longer."
"What will you do?"
"We'll give 'em h--l, ef they want it!"
"Will it not be necessary to agree among yourselves before you do that?
I met a turpentine farmer below here who openly declared that he is
friendly to abolishing slavery. He thinks the masters can make more
money by hiring than by owning the negroes."
"Yes, that's the talk of them North County[D] fellers, who've squatted
round har. We'll hang every mother's son on 'em, by ----."
"I wouldn't do that: in a free country every man has a right to his
opinions."
"Not to sech opinions as them. A man may think, but he mustn't think
onraasonable."
"I don't know, but it seems to me reasonable, that if the negroes cost
these farmers now one hundred and fifty dollars a year, and they could
hire them, if free, for seventy-five or a hundred, that they would make
by abolition."
"Ab'lish'n! By--, sir, ye aint an ab'lishener, is ye?" exclaimed the
fellow, in an excited manner, bringing his hand down on the table in a
way that set the crockery a-dancing.
"Come, come, my friend," I replied, in a mild tone, and as unruffled as
a pool of water that has been out of a December night; "you'll knock off
the dinner things, and I'm not quite through."
"Wal, sir, I've heerd yer from the North, and I'd like to know if yer an
ab'lishener."
"My dear sir, you surprise me. You certainly can't expect a modest man
like me to speak of himself."
"Ye can speak of what ye d-- please, but ye can't talk ab'lish'n har,
by--," he said, again applying his hand to the table, till the plates
and saucers jumped up, performed several jigs, then several reels, and
then rolled over in graceful somersaults to the floor.
At this juncture, the Colonel and Madam P---- entered.
Observing the fall in his crockery, and the general confusion of things,
my host quietly asked, "What's to pay?"
I said nothing, but burst into a fit of laughter at the awkward
predicament of the overseer. That gentleman also said nothing, but
looked as if he would like to find vent through a rat-hole or a
window-pane. Jim, however, who stood at the back of my chair, gave _his_
eloquent thoughts utterance, very much as follows:
"Moye hab 'sulted Massa K----, Cunnel, awful bad. He hab swore a blue
streak at him, and called him a d-- ab'lishener, jess 'cause Massa K----
wudn't get mad and sass him back. He hab disgrace your hosspital,
Cunnel, wuss dan a nigga."
The Colonel turned white with rage, and striding up to Moye, seized him
by the throat, yelling, rather than speaking, these words: "You
d---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----, have you dared to insult a guest in
my house?"
"I did'nt mean to 'sult him," faltered out the overseer, his voice
running through an entire octave, and changing with the varying pressure
of the Colonel's fingers on his throat; "but he said he war an
ab'lishener."
"No matter what he said, he is my guest, and in my house he shall say
what he pleases, by--. Apologize to him, or I'll send you to h--in a
second."
The fellow turned cringingly to me, and ground out something like this,
every word seeming to give him the face-ache:
"I meant no offence, sar; I hope ye'll excuse me."
This satisfied me, but, before I could reply, the Colonel again seized
him by the throat and yelled:
"None of your sulkiness; you d-- white-livered hound, ask the gentleman's
pardon like a man."
The fellow then got out, with less effort than before:
"I 'umbly ax yer pardon, sar, very 'umbly, indeed."
"I am satisfied, sir," I replied. "I bear you no ill-will."
"Now go," said the Colonel; "and in future take your meals in your
cabin. I have none but gentlemen at my table."
The fellow went. As soon as he closed the door, the Colonel said to me:
"Now, my dear friend, I hope you will pardon _me_ for this occurrence. I
sincerely regret you have been insulted in my house."
"Don't speak of it, my dear sir; the fellow is ignorant, and really
thinks I am an abolitionist. His zeal in politics led to his warmth. I
blame him very little," I replied.
"But he lied, Massa K----," chimed in Jim, very warmly; "you neber said
you war an ab'lishener."
"You know what _they_ are, Jim, don't you?" said the Colonel, laughing,
and taking no notice of his breach of decorum in wedging black ideas
into a white conversation.
"Yas, I does dat," said the darky, grinning.
"Jim," said his master, "you're a prince of a nigger, but you talk too
much; ask me for something to-day, and I reckon you'll get it; but go
now, and tell Chloe (the cook) to get us some dinner."
The negro left, and, excusing myself, I soon followed suit.
I went to my room, laid down on the lounge, and soon fell asleep. It was
nearly five o'clock when a slight noise in the apartment awoke me, and,
looking up, I saw the Colonel quietly seated by the fire, smoking a
cigar. His feet were elevated above his head, and he appeared absorbed
in no very pleasant reflections.
"How is the sick boy, Colonel?" I asked.
"It's all over with him, my friend. He died easy; but 'twas very painful
to me; I feel I have done him wrong."
"How so?"
"I was away all summer, and that cursed Moye sent him to the swamp to
tote for the shinglers. It killed him."
"Then you are not to blame," I replied.
"I wish I could feel so."
The Colonel remained with me till supper-time, evidently much depressed
by the events of the morning, which had affected him more than I should
have thought possible. I endeavored, by directing his mind to other
topics, to cheer him, and in a measure succeeded.
While we were seated at the supper table, the black cook entered from
the kitchen--a one-story shanty, detached from, and in the rear of the
house--and, with a face expressive of every conceivable emotion a negro
can feel--joy, sorrow, wonder, and fear all combined--exclaimed, "O
massa, massa! dear massa! Sam, O Sam!"
"Sam!" said the Colonel; "what about Sam?"
"Why, he hab--dear, dear massa, don't yer, don't yer hurt him--he hab
come back!"
If a bombshell had fallen in the room, a greater sensation could not
have been produced. Every individual arose from the table, and the
Colonel, striding up and down the apartment, exclaimed:
"Is he mad? The everlasting fool! Why in h--has he come back?"
"Oh, don't ye hurt him massa," said the black cook, wringing her hands.
"Sam hab been bad, bery bad, but he won't be so no more."
"Stop your noise, aunty," said the Colonel, but with no harshness in his
tone. "I shall do what I think right."
"Send for him, David," said Madame P----; "let us hear what he has to
say. He would not come back if he meant to be ugly."
"_Send_ for him, Alice!" replied my host. "He's prouder than Lucifer,
and would send me word to come to _him_. I will go. Will you accompany
me, Mr. K----? You'll hear what a runaway nigger thinks of slavery: Sam
has the gift of speech, and uses it regardless of persons."
"Yes, sir, I'll go with pleasure."
It was about an hour after nightfall when we emerged from the door of
the mansion and took our way to the negro quarters. The full moon had
risen half way above the horizon, and the dark pines cast their shadows
around the little collection of negro huts, which straggled about
through the woods for the distance of a third of a mile. It was dark,
but I could distinguish the figure of a man striding along at a rapid
pace a few hundred yards in advance of us.
"Is'nt that Moye?" I asked the Colonel, directing his attention to the
receding figure.
"I reckon so; that's his gait. He's had a lesson to-day that'll do him
good."
"I don't like that man's looks," I replied, carelessly; "but I've heard
of singed cats."
"He _is_ a sneaking d--l," said the Colonel; "but he's very valuable to
me. I never had an overseer who got so much work out of the hands."
"Is he severe with them?"
"Well, I reckon he is; but a nigger is like a dog--you must flog him to
make him like you."
"I judge your niggers haven't been flogged into liking Moye."
"Why, have you heard any of them speak of him?"
"Yes; though, of course, I've made no effort to draw gossip from them. I
had to hear."
"O yes; I know; there's no end to their gabble; niggers will talk. But
what have you heard?"
"That Moye is to blame in this affair of Sam, and that you don't know
the whole story."
"What _is_ the whole story?" he asked, stopping short in the road; "tell
me before I see Sam."
I then told him what Jim had recounted to me. He heard me through
attentively, then laughingly exclaimed:
"Is that all! Lord bless you, he didn't seduce her. There's no seducing
these women; with them it's a thing of course. It was Sam's d-- high
blood that made the trouble. His father was the proudest man in
Virginia, and Sam is as like him as a nigger can be like a white man."
"No matter what the blood is, it seems to me such an injury justifies
revenge."
"Pshaw, my good fellow, you don't know these people. I'll stake my
plantation against a glass of whiskey there's not a virtuous woman with
a drop of black blood in her veins in all South Carolina. They prefer
the white men; their husbands know it, and take it as a matter of
course."
We had here reached the negro cabin. It was one of the more remote of
the collection, and stood deep in the woods, an enormous pine growing up
directly beside the doorway. In all respects it was like the other huts
on the plantation. A bright fire lit up its interior, and through the
crevices in the logs we saw, as we approached, a scene that made us
pause involuntarily, when within a few rods of the house. The mulatto
man, whose clothes were torn and smeared with swamp mud, stood near the
fire. On a small pine table near him lay a large carving-knife, which
glittered in the blaze, as if recently sharpened. His wife was seated on
the side of the low bed at his back, weeping. She was two or three
shades lighter than the man, and had the peculiar brown, kinky hair,
straight, flat nose, and speckled, gray eyes which mark the metif.
Tottling on the floor at the feet of the man, and caressing his knees,
was a child of perhaps two years.
As we neared the house, we heard the voice of the overseer issuing from
the doorway on the other side of the pine-tree.
"Come out, ye black rascal."
"Come in, you wite hound, ef you dar," responded the negro, laying his
hand on the carving-knife.
"Come out, I till ye; I sha'n't ax ye agin."
"I'll hab nuffin' to do wid you. G'way and send your massa har," replied
the mulatto man, turning his face away with a lordly, contemptuous
gesture, that spoke him a true descendant of Pocahontas. This movement
exposed his left side to the doorway, outside of which, hidden from us
by the tree, stood the overseer.
"Come away, Moye," said the Colonel, advancing with me toward the door;
"_I'll_ speak to him."
Before all of the words had escaped the Colonel's lips, a streak of fire
flashed from where the overseer stood, and took the direction of the
negro. One long, wild shriek--one quick, convulsive bound in the
air--and Sam fell lifeless to the floor, the dark life-stream pouring
from his side. The little child also fell with him, and its greasy,
grayish shirt was dyed with its father's blood. Moye, at the distance of
ten feet, had discharged the two barrels of a heavily-loaded shot-gun
directly through the negro's heart.
"You incarnate son of h--," yelled the Colonel, as he sprang on the
overseer, bore him to the ground, and wrenched the shot-gun from his
hand. Clubbing the weapon, he raised it to brain him. The movement
occupied but a second; the gun was descending, and in another instant
Moye would have met Sam in eternity, had not a brawny arm caught the
Colonel's, and, winding itself around his body, pinned his limbs to his
side so that motion was impossible. The woman, half frantic with
excitement, thrust open the door when her husband fell, and the light
which came through it revealed the face of the new-comer. But his voice,
which rang out on the night air as clear as a bugle, had there been no
light, would have betrayed him. It was Scip. Spurning the prostrate
overseer with his foot, he shouted:
"Run, you wite debble, run for your life!"
"Let me go, you black scoundrel," shrieked the Colonel, wild with rage.
"When he'm out ob reach, you'd kill him," replied the negro, as cool as
if he was doing an ordinary thing.
"I'll kill you, you black--hound, if you don't let me go," again
screamed the Colonel, struggling violently in the negro's grasp, and
literally foaming at the mouth.
"I shan't lef you gwo, Cunnel, till you 'gree not to do dat."
The Colonel was a stout, athletic man, in the very prime of life, and
his rage gave him more than his ordinary strength, but Scip held him as
I might have held a child.
"Here, Jim," shouted the Colonel to his body-servant, who just then
emerged from among the trees, "'rouse the plantation--shoot this
d-- nigger."
"Dar aint one on 'em wud touch him, massa. He'd send _me_ to de debble
wid one fist."
"You ungrateful dog," groaned his master. "Mr. K----, will you stand by
and see me handcuffed by a miserable slave?"
"The black means well, my friend; he has saved you from murder. Say he
is safe, and I'll answer for his being away in an hour."
The Colonel made one more ineffectual attempt to free himself from the
vice-like grip of the negro, then relaxing his efforts, and, gathering
his broken breath, he said, "You're safe _now_, but if you're found
within ten miles of my plantation by sunrise, by--you're a dead man."
The negro relinquished his hold, and, without saying a word, walked
slowly away.
"Jim, you--rascal," said the Colonel to that courageous darky, who was
skulking off, "raise every nigger on the plantation, catch Moye, or I'll
flog you within an inch of your life."
"I'll do dat, Cunnel; I'll kotch de ole debble, ef he's dis side de hot
place."
His words were echoed by about twenty other darkies, who, attracted by
the noise of the fracas, had gathered within a safe distance of the
cabin. They went off with Jim, to raise the other plantation hands, and
inaugurate the hunt.
"If that -- nigger hadn't held me, I'd had Moye in -- by this time," said
the Colonel to me, still livid with excitement.
"The law will deal with him, my friend. The negro has saved you from
murder."
"The law be d--; it's too good for such a--hound; and that the d-- nigger
should have dared to hold me--by--he'll rue it."
He then turned, exhausted with the recent struggle, and, with a weak,
uncertain step, entered the cabin. Kneeling down by the dead body of the
negro, he attempted to raise it; but his strength was gone. He motioned
to me to aid him, and we placed the corpse on the bed. Tearing open the
clothing, we wiped away the still flowing blood, and saw the terrible
wound which had sent the negro to his account. It was sickening to look
on, and I turned to go.
The negro woman, who was weeping and wringing her hands, now approached,
and, in a voice nearly choked with sobs, said:
"Massa, oh massa, I done it! it's me dat killed him!"
"I know you did, you d----. Get out of my sight."
"Oh, massa," sobbed the woman, falling on her knees, "I'se so sorry; oh,
forgib me!"
"Go to ----, you ----, that's the place for you," said the Colonel, striking
the kneeling woman with his foot, and felling her to the floor.
Unwilling to see or hear more, I left the master with the slave.
[Footnote D: The "North Counties" are the north-eastern portion of North
Carolina, and include the towns of Washington and Newbern. They are an
old turpentine region, and the trees are nearly exhausted. The finer
virgin forests of South Carolina, and other cotton States, have tempted
many of the North County farmers to emigrate thither, within the past
ten years, and they now own nearly all the trees that are worked in
South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida. They generally have few slaves of
their own, their hands being hired of wealthier men in their native
districts. The "hiring" is an annual operation, and is done at Christmas
time, when the negroes are frequently allowed to go home. They treat the
slaves well, give them an allowance of meat (salt pork or beef), as much
corn as they can eat, and a gill of whiskey daily. No class of men at
the South are so industrious, energetic, and enterprising. Though not so
well informed, they have many of the traits of our New England farmers;
in fact, are frequently called "North Carolina Yankees." It was these
people the overseer proposed to hang. The reader will doubtless think
that "hanging was not good enough for them."]
CHAPTER VI.
THE PLANTER'S "FAMILY."
A quarter of a mile through the woods brought me to the cabin of the old
negress where Scip lodged. I rapped at the door, and was admitted by the
old woman. Scip, nearly asleep, was lying on a pile of blankets in the
corner.
"Are you mad?" I said to him. "The Colonel is frantic with rage, and
swears he will kill you. You must be off at once."
"No, no, massa; neber fear; I knows him. He'd keep his word, ef he loss
his life by it. I'm gwine afore sunrise; till den I'm safe."
"Der ye tink Massa Davy wud broke his word, sar?" said the old negress,
bridling up her bent form, and speaking in a tone in which indignation
mingled with wounded dignity; "p'raps gemmen do dat at de Norf--dey
neber does it har."
"Excuse me, Aunty; I know your master is a man of honor; but he's very
much excited, and very angry with Scip."
"No matter for dat, sar; Massa Davy neber done a mean ting sense he war
born."
"Massa K---- tinks a heap ob de Cunnel, Aunty; but he reckon he'm sort
o' crazy now; dat make him afeard," said Scip, in an apologetic tone.
"What ef he am crazy? You'se safe _har_," rejoined the old woman,
dropping her aged limbs into a chair, and rocking away with much the air
which ancient white ladies occasionally assume.
"Wont you ax Massa K---- to a cheer?" said Scip; "he hab ben bery kine
to me."
The negress then offered me a seat; but it was some minutes before I
rendered myself sufficiently agreeable to thaw out the icy dignity of
her manner. Meanwhile I glanced around the apartment.
Though the exterior of the cabin was like the others on the plantation,
the interior had a rude, grotesque elegance about it far in advance of
any negro hut I had ever seen. The logs were chinked with clay, and the
one window, though destitute of glass, and ornamented with the
inevitable board-shutter, had a green moreen curtain, which kept out the
wind and the rain. A worn but neat and well swept carpet partly covered
the floor, and on the low bed was spread a patch-work counter-pane.
Against the side of the room opposite the door stood an antique,
brass-handled bureau, and an old-fashioned table, covered with a faded
woollen cloth, occupied the centre of the apartment. In the corner near
the fire was a curiously-contrived sideboard, made of narrow strips of
yellow pine, tongued and grooved together, and oiled so as to bring out
the beautiful grain of the wood. On it were several broken and cracked
glasses, and an array of irregular crockery. The rocking chair, in which
the old negress passed the most of her time, was of mahogany, wadded and
covered with chintz, and the arm-seat I occupied, though old and patched
in many places, had evidently moved in good society.
The mistress of this second-hand furniture establishment was arrayed in
a mass of cast-off finery, whose gay colors were in striking contrast
with her jet-black skin and bent, decrepit form. Her gown, which was
very short, was of flaming red and yellow worsted stuff, and the
enormous turban that graced her head and hid all but a few tufts of her
frizzled, "pepper-and-salt" locks, was evidently a contribution from the
family stock of worn-out pillow-cases. She was very aged--upward of
seventy--and so thin that, had she not been endowed with speech and
motion, she might have passed for a bundle of whalebone thrown into
human shape, and covered with a coating of gutta-percha. It was evident
she had been a valued house-servant, whose few remaining years were
being soothed and solaced by the kind and indulgent care of a grateful
master.
Scip, I soon saw, was a favorite with the old negress, and the marked
respect he showed me quickly dispelled the angry feeling my doubts of
"Massa Davy" had excited, and opened her heart and her mouth at the same
moment. She was terribly garrulous; her tongue, as soon as it got under
way, ran on as if propelled by machinery and acquainted with the secret
of perpetual motion; but she was an interesting study. The
single-hearted attachment she showed for her master and his family gave
me a new insight into the practical working of "the peculiar
institution," and convinced me that even slavery, in some of its
aspects, is not so black as it is painted.
When we were seated, I said to Scip, "What induced you to lay hands on
the Colonel? It is death, you know, if he enforces the law."
"I knows dat, massa; I knows dat; but I had to do it. Dat Moye am de ole
debble, but de folks round har wud hab turned on de Cunnel, shore, ef
he'd killed him. Dey don't like de Cunnel; dey say he'm a stuck-up
seshener."
"The Colonel, then, has befriended you at some time?"
"No, no, sar; 'twarn't dat; dough I'se know'd him a long w'ile--eber
sense my ole massa fotched me from Habana--but 'twarn't dat."
"Then _why_ did you do it?"
The black hesitated a moment, and glanced at the old negress, then said:
"You see, massa, w'en I fuss come to Charles'n, a pore little ting, wid
no friend in all de worle, dis ole aunty war a mudder to me. She nussed
de Cunnel; he am jess like her own chile, and I know'd 'twud kill her ef
he got hissef enter trubble."
I noticed certain convulsive twitchings about the corners of the old
woman's mouth as she rose from her seat, threw her arms around Scip,
and, in words broken by sobs, faltered out:
"_You_ am my chile; I loves you better dan Massa Davy--better dan all de
worle."
The scene, had they not been black, would have been one for a painter.
"You were the Colonel's nurse, Aunty," I said, when she had regained her
composure. "Have you always lived with him?"
"Yas, sar, allers; I nussed him, and den de chil'ren--all ob 'em."
"_All_ the children? I thought the Colonel had but one--Miss Clara."
"Wal, he habn't, massa, only de boys."
"What boys? I never heard he had sons."
"Neber heerd of young Massa Davy, nor Massa Tommy! Haint you _seed_
Massa Tommy, sar?"
"Tommy! I was told he was Madam P----'s son."
"So he am; Massa Davy had _her_ long afore he had missus."
The truth flashed upon me; but could it be possible? Was I in South
Carolina or in Utah?
"Who _is_ Madam P----?" I asked.
The old woman hesitated a moment as if in doubt whether she had not said
too much; but Scip quietly replied:
"She'm jess what aunty am--_de Cunnel's slave!_"
"His _slave!_ it can't be possible; she is white!"
"No, massa; she am brack, and de Cunnel's slave!"
Not to weary the reader with a long repetition of negro-English, I will
tell in brief what I gleaned from an hour's conversation with the two
blacks.
Madam P---- was the daughter of Ex-Gov. ----, of Virginia, by a quarteron
woman. She was born a slave, but was acknowledged as her father's child,
and reared in his family with his legitimate children. When she was ten
years old her father died, and his estate proving insolvent, the land
and negroes were brought under the hammer. His daughter, never having
been manumitted, was inventoried and sold with the other property. The
Colonel, then just of age, and a young man of fortune, bought her and
took her to the residence of his mother in Charleston. A governess was
provided for her, and a year or two afterward she was taken to the North
to be educated. There she was frequently visited by the Colonel; and
when fifteen her condition became such that she was obliged to return
home. He conveyed her to the plantation, where her elder son, David, was
soon after born, "Aunt Lucy" officiating on the occasion. When the child
was two years old, leaving it in charge of the aged negress, she
accompanied the Colonel to Europe, where they remained for a year.
Subsequently she passed another year at a Northern seminary; and then,
returning to the homestead, was duly installed as its mistress, and had
ever since presided over its domestic affairs. She was kind and good to
the negroes, who were greatly attached to her, and much of the
Colonel's wealth was due to her excellent management of the plantation.
Six years after the birth of "young Massa Davy," the Colonel married his
present wife, that lady having full knowledge of his left-handed
connection with Madam P----, and consenting that the "bond-woman" should
remain on the plantation, as its mistress. The legitimate wife resided,
during most of the year, in Charleston, and when at the homestead took
little interest in domestic matters. On one of her visits to the
plantation, twelve years before, her daughter, Miss Clara, was born, and
within a week, under the same roof, Madam P---- presented the Colonel
with a son--the lad Thomas, of whom I have spoken. As the mother was
slave, the children were so also at birth, but _they_ had been
manumitted by their father. One of them was being educated in Germany;
and it was intended that both should spend their lives in that country,
the taint in their blood being an insuperable bar to their ever
acquiring social position at the South.
As she finished the story, the old woman said, "Massa Davy am bery kind
to the missus, sar, but he _love_ de ma'am; an' he can't help it, 'cause
she'm jess so good as de angels."[E]
In conversation with a well-known Southern gentleman, not long since, I
mentioned these two cases, and commented on them as a man educated with
New England ideas might be supposed to do. The gentleman admitted that
he knew of twenty such instances, and gravely defended the practice as
being infinitely more moral and respectable than the _more common
relation_ existing between masters and slaves.
I looked at my watch--it was nearly ten o'clock, and I rose to go. As I
did so the old negress said:
"Don't yer gwo, massa, 'fore you hab sum ob aunty's wine; you'm good
friends wid Scip, and I knows _you'se_ not too proud to drink wid brack
folks, ef you am from de Norf."
Being curious to know what quality of wine a plantation slave indulged
in, I accepted the invitation. She went to the side-board, and brought
out a cut-glass decanter, and three cracked tumblers, which she placed
on the table. Filling the glasses to the brim, she passed one to Scip,
and one to me, and, with the other in her hand, resumed her seat.
Wishing her a good many happy years, and Scip a pleasant journey home, I
emptied my glass. It was Scuppernong, and the pure juice of the grape!
"Aunty," I said, "this wine is as fine as I ever tasted."
"Oh, yas, massa, it am de raal stuff. I growed de grapes myseff."
"You grew them?"
"Yas, sar, an' Massa Davy make de wine. He do it ebery yar for de ole
nuss."
"The Colonel is very good. Do you raise any thing else?"
"Yas, I hab collards and taters, a little corn, and most ebery ting."
"But who does your work? _You_ certainly can't do it?"
"Oh, de ma'am looks arter dat, sar; she'm bery good to de ole aunty."
Shaking hands with both the negroes, I left the cabin, fully convinced
that all the happiness in this world is not found within plastered
apartments.
The door of the mansion was bolted and barred; but, rapping for
admission, I soon heard the Colonel's voice asking, "Who is there?"
Giving a satisfactory answer, I was admitted. Explaining that he
supposed I had retired to my room, he led the way to the library.
That apartment was much more elegantly furnished than the drawing-rooms.
Three of its sides were lined with books, and on the centre-table,
papers, pamphlets, and manuscripts were scattered in promiscuous
confusion. In an arm-chair near the fire, Madame P---- was seated,
reading. The Colonel's manner was as composed as if nothing had
disturbed the usual routine of the plantation; no trace of the recent
terrible excitement was visible; in fact, had I not been a witness to
the late tragedy, I should have thought it incredible that he, within
two hours, had been an actor in a scene which had cost a human being his
life.
"Where in creation have you been, my dear fellow?" he asked, as we took
our seats.
"At old Lucy's cabin, with Scip," I replied.
"Indeed. I supposed the darky had gone."
"No, he doesn't go till the morning."
"I told you he wouldn't, David," said Madame P----; "now, send for
him--make friends with him before he goes."
"No, Alice, it wont do. I bear him no ill-will, but it wont do. It would
be all over the plantation in an hour."
"No matter for that; our people would like you the better for it."
"No, no. I can't do it. I mean him no harm, but I can't do that."
"He told me _why_ he interfered between you and Moye," I remarked.
"Why did he?"
"He says old Lucy, years ago, was a mother to him; that she is greatly
attached to you, and it would kill her if any harm happened to you; and
that your neighbors bear you no good-will, and would have enforced the
law had you killed Moye."
"It is true, David; you would have had to answer for it."
"Nonsense! what influence could this North County scum have against
_me_?"
"Perhaps none. But that makes no difference; Scipio did right, and you
should tell him you forgive him."
The Colonel then rang a small bell, and a negro woman soon appeared.
"Sue," he said, "go to Aunt Lucy's, and ask Scip to come here. Bring him
in at the front door, and, mind, let no one know he comes."
The woman in a short time returned with Scip. There was not a trace of
fear or embarrassment in the negro's manner as he entered the room.
Making a respectful bow, he bade us "good evening."
"Good evening, Scip," said the Colonel, rising and giving the black his
hand; "let us be friends. Madam tells me I should forgive you, and I
do."
"Aunt Lucy say ma'am am an angel, sar, and it am tru--_it am tru_, sar,"
replied the negro with considerable feeling.
The lady rose, also, and took Scip's hand, saying, "_I_ not only forgive
you, but I _thank_ you for what you have done. I shall never forget it."
"You'se too good, ma'am; you'se too good to say dat," replied the darky,
the moisture coming to his eyes; "but I meant nuffin' wrong--I meant
nuffin' dis'specful to de Cunnel."
"I know you didn't, Scip; but we'll say no more about it;--good-by,"
said the Colonel.
Shaking hands with each one of us, the darky left the apartment.
One who does not know that the high-bred Southern gentleman considers
the black as far below him as the horse he drives, or the dog he kicks,
cannot realize the amazing sacrifice of pride which the Colonel made in
seeking a reconciliation with Scip. It was the cutting off of his right
hand. The circumstance showed the powerful influence held over him by
the octoroon woman. Strange that she, his slave, cast out from society
by her blood and her life, despised, no doubt, by all the world, save by
him and a few ignorant blacks, should thus control a proud, self-willed,
passionate man, and control him, too, only for good.
After the black had gone, I said to the Colonel, "I was much interested
in old Lucy. A few more such instances of cheerful and contented old
age, might lead me to think better of slavery."
"Such cases are not rare, sir. They show the paternal character of our
'institution.' We are _forced_ to care for our servants in their old
age."
"But have your other aged slaves the same comforts that Aunt Lucy has?"
"No; they don't need them. She has been accustomed to live in my house,
and to fare better than the plantation hands; she therefore requires
better treatment."
"Is not the support of that class a heavy tax upon you?"
"Yes, it _is_ heavy. We have, of course, to deduct it from the labor of
the able-bodied hands."
"What is the usual proportion of sick and infirm on your plantation?"
"Counting in the child-bearing women, I reckon about twenty per cent."
"And what does it cost you to support each hand?"
"Well, it costs _me_, for children and all, about seventy-five dollars a
year. In some places it costs less. _I_ have to buy all my provisions."
"What proportion of your slaves are able-bodied hands?"
"Somewhere about sixty per cent. I have, all told, old and young--men,
women, and children--two hundred and seventy. Out of that number I have
now equal to a hundred and fifty-four _full_ hands. You understand that
we classify them: some do only half tasks, some three-quarters. I have
_more_ than a hundred and fifty-four working-men and women, but they do
only that number of full tasks."
"What does the labor of a _full_ hand yield?"
"At the present price of turpentine, my calculation is about two hundred
dollars a year."
"Then your crop brings you about thirty-one thousand dollars, and the
support of your negroes costs you twenty thousand."
"Yes."
"If that's the case, my friend, let me advise you to sell your
plantation, free your niggers, and go North."
"Why so, my dear fellow?" asked the Colonel laughing.
"Because you'd make money by the operation."
"I never was good at arithmetic; go into the figures," he replied, still
laughing, while Madam P----, who had laid aside her book, listened very
attentively.
"Well, you have two hundred and seventy negroes, whom you value, we'll
say, with your mules, 'stills,' and movable property, at two hundred
thousand dollars; and twenty thousand acres of land, worth about three
dollars and a half an acre; all told, two hundred and seventy thousand
dollars. A hundred and fifty-four able-bodied hands produce you a yearly
profit of eleven thousand dollars, which, saying nothing about the cost
of keeping your live stock, the wear and tear of your mules and
machinery, and the yearly loss of your slaves by death, is only four per
cent. on your capital. Now, with only the price of your land, say
seventy thousand dollars, invested in safe stocks at the North, you
could realize eight per cent.--five thousand six hundred dollars--and
live at ease; and that, I judge, if you have many runaways, or many die
on your hands, is as much as you really _clear_ now. Besides, if you
should invest seventy thousand dollars in almost any legitimate business
at the North, and should add to it, _as you now do_, your _time_ and
_labor_, you would realize far more than you do at present from your
entire capital."
"I never looked at the matter in that light. But I have given you my
profits as they _now_ are; some years I make more; six years ago I made
twenty-five thousand dollars."
"Yes; and six years hence you may make nothing."
"That's true. But it would cost me more to live at the North."
"There you are mistaken. What do you pay for your corn, your pork, and
your hay, for instance?"
"Well, my corn I have to bring round by vessel from Washington (North
Carolina), and it costs me high when it gets here--about ten bits (a
dollar and twenty-five cents), I think."
"And in New York you could buy it now at sixty to seventy cents. What
does your hay cost?"
"Thirty-five dollars. I pay twenty for it in New York--the balance is
freight and hauling."
"Your pork costs you two or three dollars, I suppose, for freight and
hauling."
"Yes; about that."
"Then in those items you might save nearly a hundred per cent.; and they
are the principal articles you consume."
"Yes; there's no denying that. But another thing is just as certain: it
costs less to support one of my niggers than one of your laboring men."
"That may be true. But it only shows that our laborers fare better than
your slaves."
"I am not sure of that. I _am_ sure, however, that our slaves are more
contented than the run of laboring men at the North."
"That proves nothing. Your blacks have no hope, no chance to rise; and
they submit--though I judge not cheerfully--to an iron necessity. The
Northern laborer, if very poor, may be discontented; but discontent
urges him to effort, and leads to the bettering of his condition. I tell
you, my friend, slavery is an expensive luxury. You Southern nabobs
_will_ have it; and you have to _pay for it_."
"Well, we don't complain. But, seriously, my good fellow, I feel that I
am carrying out the design of the Almighty in holding my niggers. I
think he made the black to serve the white."
"_I_ think," I replied, "that whatever He designs works perfectly. Your
institution certainly does not. It keeps the producer, who, in every
society, is the really valuable citizen, in the lowest poverty, while it
allows those who do nothing to be 'clad in fine linen, and to fare
sumptuously every day.'"
"It does more than that, sir," said Madam P----, with animation; "it
brutalizes and degrades the _master_ and the _slave_; it separates
husband and wife, parent and child; it sacrifices virtuous women to the
lust of brutal men; and it shuts millions out from the knowledge of
their duty and their destiny. A good and just God could not have
designed it; and it _must_ come to an end."
If lightning had struck in the room I could not have been more startled
than I was by the abrupt utterance of such language in a planter's
house, in his very presence, and _by his slave_. The Colonel, however,
expressed no surprise and no disapprobation. It was evidently no new
thing to him.
"It is rare, madam," I said, "to hear such sentiments from a Southern
lady--one reared among slaves."
Before she could reply, the Colonel laughingly said:
"Bless you, Mr. K----, madam is an out-and-out abolitionist, worse by
fifty per cent. than Garrison or Wendell Phillips. If she were at the
North she would take to pantaloons, and 'stump' the entire free States;
wouldn't you, Alice?"
"I have no doubt of it," rejoined the lady, smiling. "But I fear I
should have poor success. I've tried for ten years to convert _you_, and
Mr. K---- can see the result."
It had grown late; and with my head full of working niggers and white
slave-women, I went to my apartment.
The next day was Sunday. It was near the close of December, yet the air
was as mild and the sun as warm as in our Northern October. It was
arranged at the breakfast-table that we all should attend service at
"the meeting-house," a church of the Methodist persuasion, located some
eight miles away; but as it wanted some hours of the time for religious
exercises to commence, I strolled out after breakfast, with the Colonel,
to inspect the stables of the plantation. "Massa Tommy" accompanied us,
without invitation; and in the Colonel's intercourse with him I observed
as much freedom and familiarity as he would have shown to an
acknowledged son. The youth's manners and conversation showed that great
attention had been given to his education and training, and made it
evident that the mother whose influence was forming his character,
whatever a false system of society had made her life, possessed some of
the best traits of her sex.
The stables, a collection of one-story framed buildings, about a hundred
rods from the house, were well lighted and ventilated, and contained all
"the modern improvements." They were better built, warmer, more
commodious, and in every way more comfortable than the shanties occupied
by the human cattle of the plantation. I remarked as much to the
Colonel, adding that one who did not know would infer that he valued his
horses more than his slaves.
"That may be true," he replied, laughing. "Two of my horses are worth
more than any eight of my slaves;" at the same time calling my attention
to two magnificent thorough-breds, one of which had made "2.32" on the
Charleston course. The establishment of a Southern gentleman is not
complete until it includes one or two of these useless appendages. I had
an argument with my host as to their value compared with that of the
steam-engine, in which I forced him to admit that the iron horse is the
better of the two, because it performs more work, eats less, has greater
speed, and is not liable to the spavin or the heaves; but he wound up by
saying, "After all, I go for the thorough-breds. You Yankees have but
one test of value--use."
A ramble through the negro-quarters, which followed our visit to the
stables, gave me some further glimpses of plantation life. Many of the
hands were still away in pursuit of Moye, but enough remained to make it
evident that Sunday is the happiest day in the darky calendar. Groups of
all ages and colors were gathered in front of several of the cabins,
some singing, some dancing, and others chatting quietly together, but
all enjoying themselves as heartily as so many young animals let loose
in a pasture. They saluted the Colonel and me respectfully, but each one
had a free, good-natured word for "Massa Tommy," who seemed an especial
favorite with them. The lad took their greetings in good part, but
preserved an easy, unconscious dignity of manner that plainly showed he
did not know that _he_ too was of their despised, degraded race.
The Colonel, in a rapid way, gave me the character and peculiarities of
nearly every one we met. The titles of some of them amused me greatly.
At every step we encountered individuals whose names have become
household words in every civilized country.[F] Julius Caesar, slightly
stouter than when he swam the Tiber, and somewhat tanned from long
exposure to a Southern sun, was seated on a wood-pile, quietly smoking a
pipe; while near him, Washington, divested of regimentals, and clad in a
modest suit of reddish-gray, his thin locks frosted by time, and his
fleshless visage showing great age, was gazing, in rapt admiration, at a
group of dancers in front of old Lucy's cabin.
In this group about thirty men and women were making the ground quake
and the woods ring with their unrestrained jollity. Marc Antony was
rattling away at the bones, Nero fiddling as if Rome were burning, and
Hannibal clawing at a banjo as if the fate of Carthage hung on its
strings. Napoleon, as young and as lean as when he mounted the bridge of
Lodi, with the battle-smoke still on his face, was moving his legs even
faster than in the Russian retreat; and Wesley was using his heels in a
way that showed _they_ didn't belong to the Methodist church. But the
central figures of the group were Cato and Victoria. The lady had a face
like a thunder-cloud, and a form that, if whitewashed, would have
outsold the "Greek Slave." She was built on springs, and "floated in the
dance" like a feather in a high wind. Cato's mouth was like an
alligator's, but when it opened, it issued notes that would draw the
specie even in this time of general suspension. As we approached he was
singing a song, but he paused on perceiving us, when the Colonel,
tossing a handful of coin among them, called out, "Go on, boys; let the
gentleman have some music; and you, Vic, show your heels like a beauty."
A general scramble followed, in which "Vic's" sense of decorum forbade
her to join, and she consequently got nothing. Seeing that, I tossed her
a silver piece, which she caught. Grinning her thanks, she shouted,
"Now, clar de track, you nigs; start de music. I'se gwine to gib de
gemman de breakdown."
And she did; and such a breakdown! "We w'ite folks," though it was no
new thing to the Colonel or Tommy, almost burst with laughter.
In a few minutes nearly every negro on the plantation, attracted by the
presence of the Colonel and myself, gathered around the performers; and
a shrill voice at my elbow called out, "Look har, ye lazy,
good-for-nuffin' niggers, carn't ye fotch a cheer for Massa Davy and de
strange gemman?"
"Is that you, Aunty?" said the Colonel. "How d'ye do?"
"Sort o' smart, Massa Davy; sort o' smart; how is ye?"
"Pretty well, Aunty; pretty well. Have a seat." And the Colonel helped
her to one of the chairs that were brought for us, with as much
tenderness as he would have shown to an aged white lady.
The "exercises," which had been suspended for a moment, recommenced, and
the old negress entered into them as heartily as the youngest present. A
song from Cato followed the dance, and then about twenty "gentleman and
lady" darkies joined, two at a time, in a half "walk-round" half
breakdown, which the Colonel told me was the original of the well-known
dance and song of Lucy Long. Other performances succeeded, and the whole
formed a scene impossible to describe. Such uproarious jollity, such
full and perfect enjoyment, I had never seen in humanity, black or
white. The little nigs, only four or five years old, would rush into the
ring and shuffle away at the breakdowns till I feared their short legs
would come off; while all the darkies joined in the songs, till the
branches of the old pines above shook as if they too had caught the
spirit of the music. In the midst of it, the Colonel said to me, in an
exultant tone:
"Well, my friend, what do you think of slavery _now_?"
"About the same that I thought yesterday. I see nothing to change my
views."
"Why, are not these people happy? Is not this perfect enjoyment?"
"Yes; just the same enjoyment that aunty's pigs are having; don't you
hear _them_ singing to the music? I'll wager they are the happier of the
two."
"No; you are wrong. The higher faculties of the darkies are being
brought out here."
"I don't know that," I replied. "Within the sound of their voices, two
of their fellows--victims to the inhumanity of slavery--are lying dead,
and yet they make _Sunday_ "hideous" with wild jollity, while Sam's fate
may be theirs to-morrow."
Spite of his genuine courtesy and high breeding, a shade of displeasure
passed over the Colonel's face as I made this remark. Rising to go, he
said, a little impatiently, "Ah, I see how it is; that d---- Garrison's
sentiments have impregnated even you. How can the North and the South
hold together when moderate men like you and me are so far apart?"
"But you," I rejoined, good-humoredly, "are not a moderate man. You and
Garrison are of the same stripe, both extremists. _You_ have mounted one
hobby, _he_ another; that is all the difference."
"I should be sorry," he replied, recovering his good nature, "to think
myself like Garrison. I consider him the ---- scoundrel unhung."
"No; I think he means well. But you are both fanatics, both 'bricks' of
the same material; we conservatives, like mortar, will hold you together
and yet keep you apart."
"I, for one, _won't_ be held. If I can't get out of this cursed Union in
any other way, I'll emigrate to Cuba."
I laughed, and just then, looking up, caught a glimpse of Jim, who
stood, hat in hand, waiting to speak to the Colonel, but not daring to
interrupt a white conversation.
"Hallo, Jim," I said; "have you got back?"
"Yas, sar," replied Jim, grinning all over as if he had some agreeable
thing to communicate.
"Where is Moye?" asked the Colonel.
"Kotched, massa; I'se got de padlocks on him."
"Kotched," echoed half a dozen darkies, who stood near enough to hear;
"Ole Moye is kotched," ran through the crowd, till the music ceased, and
a shout went up from two hundred black throats that made the old trees
tremble.
"Now gib him de lashes, Massa Davy," cried the old nurse. "Gib him what
he gabe pore Sam; but mine dat you keeps widin de law."
"Never fear, Aunty," said the Colonel; "I'll give him ----."
How the Colonel kept his word will be told in another chapter.
[Footnote E: Instances are frequent where Southern gentlemen form these
left-handed connections, and rear two sets of differently colored
children; but it is not often that the two families occupy the same
domicil. The only other case within my _personal_ knowledge was that of
the well-known President of the Bank of St. M----, at Columbus, Ga. That
gentleman, whose note ranked in Wall Street, when the writer was
acquainted with that locality, as "A No. 1," lived for fifteen years
with two "wives" under one roof. One, an accomplished white woman, and
the mother of several children--did the honors of his table, and moved
with him in "the best society;" the other--a beautiful quadroon, also
the mother of several children--filled the humbler office of nurse to
her own and the other's offspring.]
[Footnote F: Among the things of which slavery has deprived the black is a
_name_. A slave has no family designation. It may be for that reason
that a high-sounding appellation is usually selected for the single one
he is allowed to appropriate.]
CHAPTER VII.
PLANTATION DISCIPLINE.
The "Ole Cabin" to which Jim had alluded as the scene of Sam's
punishment by the overseer, was a one-story shanty in the vicinity of
the stables. Though fast falling to decay, it had more the appearance of
a human habitation than the other huts on the plantation. Its thick
plank door was ornamented with a mouldy brass knocker, and its four
windows contained sashes, to which here and there clung a broken pane,
the surviving relic of its better days. It was built of large unhewn
logs, notched at the ends and laid one upon the other, with the bark
still on. The thick, rough coat which yet adhered in patches to the
timber had opened in the sun, and let the rain and the worm burrow in
its sides, till some parts had crumbled
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