The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 1, July, 1862

'Now, jest think on thet, gentlemen! I, a white boy, and, 'cordin' to the Declaration of Independence, jest as good blood as the old Cunnel, bein' larned to read by an old slave, and that old slave a'most worked to death, and takin' his nights, when he orter hev been a restin' his old bones, to larn me! I'm d—d if he don't get to heaven for that one thing, if for nothin' else.

'Wal, you all know the rest—how, when I'd grow'd up, I settled har, in the old North State, and how the young Cunnel backed my paper and set me a runnin' at turpentinin'. P'r'aps you don't think this has much to do with the Yankees, but it has a durned sight, as ye'll see raather sudden. Wal, arter a while, when I'd got a little 'forehanded, I begun shippin' my truck to York and Bosting; and at last my Yankee factor, he come out har, inter the backwoods, to see me, and says he: 'Jones, come North and take a look at us.' I'd sort o' took to him. I'd had lots to do with him afore ever I seed him, and I allers found him as straight as a shingle. Wal, I went North, and he took me round, and showed me how the Yankees does things. Afore I knowed him, I allers thought—as p'r'aps most on ye do—that the Yankee war a sort o' cross atween the devil and a Jew; but how do you s'pose I found 'em? I found that they sent the pore man's children to schule. free—and that the schulehouses war a d—d sight thicker than the bugs in Miles Privett's beds! and thet's saying a heap, for ef eny on you kin sleep in his house, excep' he takes to the soft side of the floor, I'm d—d. Yas, the pore man's children are larned thar free!—all on 'em—and they've jest so good a chance as the sons of the rich man! Now, arter that, do you think that I—as got all my schulin' from an old slave, by the light of a borrored pine-knot—der you think that I kin say any thing agin the Yankees? P'r'aps they do steal—though I don't know it—p'r'aps they do debauch thar wives and darters, and sell thar mothers' vartue for dollers—but ef they do, I'm d—d ef they don't send pore children ter schule—and that's more'n we do—and let me tell you, until we do, we must count on thar bein' cuter and smarter nor we are.

'This gentleman, too, my friends, who's been a givin' sech a hard settin' down ter his own relation, arter they've broughten him up and givin' him sech a good schulein' for nothin', he says the Yankees want to interfere with our niggers. Now, thet han't so, and they couldn't ef they would, 'cause it's agin the Constitution—and they stand on the Constitution a durned sight solider nor we do. Didn't thar big gun—Daniel Webster—didn't he make mince-meat o' South-Carolina Hayne on that ar subject? But I tell you they han't a mind to meddle with our niggers; they're a goin' ter let us go ter h—l our own way—and we're goin' thar mighty fast, or I hevn't read the last census.'

'P'r'aps you han't heerd on th' Ab'lisheners, Andy?' cried a voice from among the audience.

'Wal, I reckon I hev,' responded the orator. 'I've heerd on 'em, and seed 'em, too. When I was North I went ter one on thar conventions, and I'll tell you how they look. They've all long, wimmin's hair, and thin, shet lips, with big, bawlin' mouths, and long, lean, tommerhawk faces—'bout as white as vargin dip—and they all talk through the nose, [giving a specimen,] and they look for all the world jest like the South-Car'lina fire-eaters—and they are as near like 'em as two peas, excep' they don't swar quite so bad, but they make up for that in prayin'—and prayin' too much, I reckon, when a man's a d—d hippercrit, is 'bout as bad as swearin'. But I tell you, the decent folks up North han't ab'lisheners. They look on 'em jest as we do on mad dogs, the itch, or the nigger-traders.

'Now, 'bout this secession bis'ness—though tan't no use ter talk on thet, 'cause this State never'll secede—South-Car'lina has done it, and I'm raather glad she has, for though I was born thar, I say she orter hev gone to h—l long ago, and now she's got thar—let her stay! But, 'bout thet bis'ness, I'll tell you a story.

'I know'd an old gentleman once by the name o' Uncle Sam, and he'd a heap o' sons. They war all likely boys—and strange ter tell, though they'd all the same mother, and she a white woman, 'bout half on 'em war colored—not black, but sorter half-and-half. Now, the white sons war well-behaved, industrious, hard-workin' boys, who got 'long well, edicated that children, and allers treated the old man decently; but the mulatter fellers war a pesky set—though some on 'em war better nor others. They wouldn't work, but set up for airystocrocy—rode in kerriges, kept fast hosses, bet high, and chawed tobaccer like the devil. Wal, the result was, they got out at the elbows, and 'cause they warn't gettin' 'long quite so fast as the white 'uns—though that war all thar own fault—they got jealous, and one, on 'em, who was blacker nor all the rest—a little feller, but terrible big on braggin'—he packed up his truck one night, and left the old man's house, and swore he'd never come back. He tried ter make the other mulatters go 'long too, but they put thar fingers ter thar nose, and says they: 'No you don't!' I was in favor o' lettin' on him stay out in the cold, but the old man was a bernevolent old critter—so he says: 'Now, sonny, you jest come back and behave yourself, and I'll forgive you all on your old pranks, and treat you jest as I allers used ter; but, ef you won't, why, I'll make you—that's all!'

'Now, gentlemen, that querrelsome, oneasy, ongrateful, tobaccer-chawin', high-bettin', hoss-racin', big-braggin', nigger-stealin', wimmin-whippin', yaller son of the devil, is South-Car'lina; and ef she don't come back and behave herself in futur', I'm d—d ef she won't be ploughed with fire, and sowed with salt, and—Andy Jones will help ter do it.'

The speaker was frequently interrupted in the course of his remarks by uproarious applause—but as he closed and descended from the platform, the crowd sent up cheer after cheer, and a dozen strong men, making a seat of their arms, lifted him from the ground, and bore him to the head of the table, where dinner was in waiting.

The whole of the large assemblage then fell to eating. The dinner was made up of the barbecued beef and the usual mixture of viands found on a planter's table, with water from the little brook hard by, and a plentiful supply of corn-whisky. (The latter beverage, I thought, had been subjected to the rite of immersion, for it tasted wonderfully like water.)

Songs and speeches were intermingled with the masticating exercises, and the whole company were soon in the best of humor.

During the meal I was introduced by Andy to a large number of the 'natives,' he taking special pains to tell each one that I was a Yankee, and a Union man, but always adding, as if to conciliate all parties, that I was also a guest and a friend of his very particular friend, 'that d—d seceshener, Cunnel J–.'

Before we left the table, the secession orator happening near, Andy rose from his seat, and extended his hand to him, saying:

'Tom, you think I 'sulted you—p'r'aps I did—but you 'sulted my Yankee friend har, and your own relation, and I hed to take it up, jest for the looks o' the thing. Come, thar's my hand; I'll fight you ef you want ter, or we'll say no more 'bout it—jest as you like.'

'Say no more about it, Andy,' said the gentleman, very cordially; 'let's drink and be friends.'

They drank a glass of whisky together, and then leaving the table, proceeded to where the ox had been barbecued, to show me how cooking on a large scale is done at the South.

In a pit about eight feet deep, twenty feet long, and ten feet wide, laid up on the side with stones, a fire of hickory had been made, over which, after the wood had burned down to coals, a whole ox, divested of its hide and entrails, had been suspended on an enormous spit. Being turned often in the process of cooking, the beef had finally been 'done brown.' It was then cut up and served on the table, and I must say, for the credit of Southern cookery, that it made as delicious eating as any meat I ever tasted.

I had then been away from my charge—the Colonel's horses—as long as seemed to be prudent. I said as much to Andy, when he proposed to return with me, and turning good-humoredly to his reconciled friend, he said:

'Now, Tom, no secession talk while I'm off.'

'Nary a word,' said Tom, and we left.

The horses had been well fed by the negro who had them in charge, but had not been groomed. Andy, seeing that, stripped off his coat, and, setting the black at work on one, with a handful of straw and pine-leaves commenced operations on the other, and the horse's coat was soon as smooth and glossy as if recently rubbed by an English groom.

The remainder of the day passed without incident till eleven at night, when the Colonel returned from Wilmington.

Moye had not been seen or heard of, and the Colonel's trip was fruitless. While at Wilmington, he sent telegrams, directing the overseer's arrest, to the various large cities of the South, and then decided to return, make some arrangements preliminary to a protracted absence from the plantation, and proceed at once to Charleston, where he would await replies to his dispatches. Andy agreed with him in the opinion that Moye, in his weak state of health, would not undertake an overland journey to the free States, but would endeavor to reach some town on the Mississippi, where he could dispose of the horse, and secure a passage up the river.

As no time was to be lost, it was decided that we should return to the plantation on the following morning. Accordingly, with the first streak of day, we bade 'good-by' to our Union friend, and started homeward.

No incident worthy of mention occurred on the way, till about ten o'clock, when we arrived at the home of the Yankee schoolmistress, where we had been so hospitably entertained two days before. The lady received us with great cordiality, forced upon us a lunch to serve our hunger on the road, and when we parted, enjoined on me to leave the South at the earliest possible moment. She was satisfied it would not for a much longer time be safe quarters for a man professing Union sentiments. Notwithstanding the strong manifestations of loyalty I had observed among the people, I was convinced that the advice of my pretty 'countrywoman' was judicious, and I determined to be governed by it.

Our horses, unaccustomed to lengthy journeys, had not entirely recovered from the fatigues of their previous travel, and we did not reach our destination till an hour after dark. We were most cordially welcomed by Madam P–, who soon set before us a hot supper, which, as we were jaded by the long ride, and had fasted for twelve hours on bacon sandwiches and cold hoe-cake, was the one thing needful for us.

While seated at the table, the Colonel asked:

'Has every thing gone right, Alice, since we left home?'

'Every thing,' replied the lady, 'except,' and she hesitated as if she dreaded the effect of the news; 'except—that Juley and her child have gone.'

'Gone!' exclaimed my host, 'gone where?'

'I don't know. We have searched every where, but have found no clue to them. The morning you left, Sam set Juley at work among the pines; she tried hard, but could not do a full task, and at night was taken to the cabin to be whipped. I heard of it, and forbade Sam's doing it. It did not seem to me to be right to punish her for not doing what she had not strength to do. When she was released from the cabin, she came to thank me for having interfered for her, and talked with me awhile. She cried and took on fearfully about Sam, and was afraid you would punish her on your return. I promised you would not, and when she left me, she seemed more cheerful. I supposed she would go directly home, after getting her child from the nurse's quarters; but it appears she then went to Pompey's, where she staid till after ten o'clock. Neither she nor the child have since been seen.'

'Did you get no trace of her in the morning?'

'Yes, but soon lost it. When she did not appear at work, Sam went to her cabin to learn the cause, and found the door open, and her bed undisturbed. She had not slept there. Knowing that Sandy had returned, I sent for him, and with Jim and his dog, he commenced a search. The hound tracked her directly from Pompey's cabin to the run near the lower still. There all trace of her disappeared. We dragged the stream, but discovered nothing. Jim and Sandy then scoured the woods for miles in all directions, but the hound could not recover the trail. I hope otherwise, but I fear some evil has befallen her.'

'Oh! no, there's no fear of that,' said the Colonel; 'she is smart—she waded up the run far enough to baffle the dog, and then made for the swamp. That is why you lost her tracks at the stream. Rely upon it, I am right; but she shall not escape me.'

We shortly afterward adjourned to the library. After being seated there a while, the Colonel, rising quickly, as if a sudden thought had struck him, sent for the old preacher.

The old negro soon appeared, hat in hand, and taking a stand near the door, made a respectful bow to each one of us.

'Take a chair, Pompey,' said Madam P– kindly.

The black meekly seated himself, when the Colonel asked: 'Well, Pomp, what do you know about Jule's going off?'

'Nuffin', massa; I 'shures you, nuffin'. De pore chile say nuffin' to ole Pomp 'bout dat.'

'What did she say?'

'Wal, you see, massa, de night arter you gwo 'way, and arter she'd worked hard in de brush all de day, and been a strung up in de ole cabin for to be whipped, she come to me wid her baby in her arms, all a-faint and a-tired, and her pore heart clean broke, and she say dat she'm jess ready to drop down and die. Den I tries to comfut her, massa; I takes her up from de floor, and I say to har dat de good Lord he pity her—dat he doan't bruise de broken reed, and woan't put no more on har dan she kin b'ar—dat he'd touch you' heart, massa—and I toled har you's a good, kine heart at de bottom—and I knows it, 'case I toted you 'fore you could gwo, and when you's a bery little chile, not no great sight bigger'n her'n, you'd put your little arms round ole Pomp's neck, and say dat when you war grow'd up, you'd be bery kine to de pore brack folks, and not leff 'em be 'bused like dey war in dem days.'

'Never mind what you said,' interrupted the Colonel, a little impatiently, but showing no displeasure; 'what did she say?'

'Wal, massa, she took on bery hard 'bout Sam, and axed me ef I raily reckoned de Lord had forgib'n him, and took'n him to heseff, and gib'n him one of dem hous'n up dar in de sky. I toled har dat I know'd it; but she say it didn't 'pear so to har, 'case Sam had a been wid har out dar in de woods, all fru de day; dat she'd a seed him, massa, and dough he hadn't a said nuffin', he'd looked at har wid sech a sorry, grebed look, dat it went clean fru har heart, till she'd no strength leff, and fell down on de ground a'most dead. Den she say big Sam come 'long and fine har dar, and struck har great, heaby blows wid de big whip!'

'The brute!' exclaimed the Colonel, rising from his chair, and pacing rapidly up and down the room.

'But p'raps he warn't so much ter blame, massa,' continued the old negro, in a deprecatory tone; 'may be he s'pose she war shirking de work. Wal, den she say, she know'd nuffin' more, till byme-by, when she come to, and fine big Sam dar, and he struck har agin, and make her gwo to de work; and she did gwo, but she feel like as ef she'd die. I toled her de good ma'am wudn't leff big Sam 'buse har no more 'fore you cum hum, and dat you'd hab 'passion on har, and not leff har out in de woods, but put har 'mong de nusses, like as she war afore.

'Den she say it 'twarn't de work dat trubble har—dat she orter work, and orter be 'bused, 'case she'd been bad, bery bad. All she axed was dat Sam would forgib har, and cum to har in de oder worle, and tell har so. Den she cried, and took on awful; but de good Lord, massa, dat am so bery kine to de bery wuss sinners, he put de words inter my mouf, and I tink dey gabe har comfut, fur she say it sort o' 'peared to har den dat Sam would forgib har, and take har inter his house up dar, and she warn't afeard ter die no more.

'Den she takes up de chile and gwoes 'way, 'pearin' sort o' happy, and more cheerful like dan I'd a seed har eber sense pore Sam war shot.'

My host was sensibly affected by the old man's simple tale, but continued pacing up and down the room, and said nothing.

'It's plain to me, Colonel,' I remarked, as Pompey concluded, 'she has drowned herself and the child—the dog lost the scent at the creek.'

'Oh! no,' he replied, 'I think not. I never heard of a negro committing suicide—they've not the courage to do it.'

'I fear she has, David,' said the lady. 'The thought of going to Sam has led her to it; yet we dragged the run, and found nothing. What do you think about it, Pompey?'

'I dunno, ma'am; but I'se afeard ob dat. And now dat I tinks on it, I'se afeard dat what I tole har put har up to it,' replied the old preacher, bursting into tears. 'She 'peared so happy like, when I say she'd be 'long wid Sam in de oder worle, dat I'se afeard she's a gone and done it wid har own hands. I tole har, too, dat de good Lord oberlooked many tings dat pore sinners does when dey can't help 'emseffs, and it make har do it, oh! it make har do it!' and the old black buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.

'Don't feel so, Pomp,' said his master very kindly. 'You did the best you could; no one blames you.'

'I knows you doan't, massa—I knows you doan't, and you's bery good notter; but oh!' and his body swayed to and fro with the great grief; 'I fears de Lord do, massa, for I'se sent har to him wid har own blood and de blood of dat pore, innercent chile on har hands. Oh! I fears de Lord neber'll forgib me—neber'll forgib me fur dat.'

'He will, my good Pomp, he will!' said the Colonel, laying his hand tenderly on the old man's shoulder. 'The Lord will forgive you, for the sake of the Christian example you've set your master, if for nothing else;' and then the proud, strong man's feelings overpowering him, his tears fell in great drops on the breast of the old slave, as they had fallen there when he was a child.

Such scenes are not for the eye of a stranger, and turning away, I left the room.

The family met at the breakfast-table at the customary hour on the following morning; but I noticed that Jim was not in his accustomed place behind the Colonel's chair. That gentleman exhibited his usual good spirits, but Madam P– looked sad and anxious, and I had not forgotten the scene of the previous evening.

While we were seated at the meal, the negro Junius hastily entered the room, and in an excited manner exclaimed:

'O massa, massa! you muss cum ter de cabin—Jim hab draw'd his knife, and he swar he'll kill de fuss un dat touch him!'

'He does, does he!' said his master, springing from his seat, and abruptly leaving the apartment.

Remembering the fierce burst of passion I had seen in the negro, and fearing there was danger a-foot, I rose to follow, saying as I did so:

'Madam, can not you prevent this?'

'I can not, sir; I have already done all I can. Go and try to pacify the Colonel. Jim will die before he'll be whipped.'

Jim was standing at the farther end of the old cabin, with his back to the wall, and the large spring-knife in his hand. Some half-dozen negroes were in the centre of the room, apparently cowed by his fierce and desperate looks, and his master stood within a few feet of him.

'I tell you, Cunnel,' cried the negro, as I entered, 'you touch me at your peril.'

'You d—d nigger, do you dare to speak so to me?' said his master, taking a step toward him.

The knife rose in the air, and the black, in a cool, sneering tone, replied: 'Say your prayers 'fore you come ony nigher, for, so help me God, you're a dead man!'

I laid my hand on the Colonel's arm, to draw him back, saying as I did so: 'There's danger in him! I know it Let him go, and he shall ask your pardon.'

'I shan't ax his pardon,' cried the black, 'leff him and me be, sar; we'll fix dis ourselfs.'

'Don't interfere, Mr. K–,' said my host, with perfect coolness, but with a face pallid with rage. 'Let me govern my own plantation.'

'As you say, sir,' I replied, stepping back a few paces; 'but I warn you—there is danger in him!'

Taking no notice of my remark, the Colonel turned to the trembling negroes, and said: 'One of you go to the house and bring my pistols.'

'You kin shoot me, ef you likes,' said Jim, with a fierce, grim smile; 'but I'll take you to h—l wid me, shore. You knows WE won't stand a blow!'

The Colonel, at the allusion to their relationship, started as if shot, and turning furiously on the negro, yelled out: 'I'll shoot you for that, you d—d nigger, by–.'

'It 'pears ter me, Cunnel, ye've hed 'bout nuff shootin' 'round har, lately; better stop thet sort o' bis'ness; it moight give ye a sore throat,' said the long, lean, loose-jointed stump-speaker of the previous Sunday, as he entered the cabin and strode directly up to my host.

'What brought you here, you d—d insolent hound?' cried the Colonel, turning fiercely on the new-comer.

'Wal, I cum to du ye a naboorly turn—I've kotched two on yer niggers down ter my still, an' I want ye ter take 'em 'way,' returned the corn-cracker, with the utmost coolness.

'Two of my niggers!' exclaimed the Colonel, perceptibly moderating his tone, 'which ones?'

'A yaller gal, and a child.'

'I thank you, Barnes; excuse my hard words—I was excited.'

'All right, Cunnel; say no more 'bout thet. Will ye send fur 'em? I'd hev fotched 'em 'long, but my waggin's off jest now.'

'Yes, I'll send at once. Have you got them safe?'

'Safe? I reckon so! Kotched 'em las' night, arter dark, and they've kept right still ever sense, I 'sure ye—but th' gal holes on ter th' young 'un ter kill—we couldn't get it 'way no how.'

'How did you catch them?'

'The' got 'gainst my turpentime raft—th' current driv 'em down, I s'pose.'

'What! are they dead?' exclaimed the Colonel.

'Dead? Deader'n drownded rats!' was the native's reply.

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one lives it—to not many is it known; and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'—Goethe.

'SUCCESSFUL.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'—Webster's Dictionary.

CHAPTER III

The people are anxious for the detail of sentiments, not for general results.'

—Lamartine.

Hiram exhibited almost from his boyhood a fondness for female society. Even when at the district-school, he preferred spending 'noon-time' among the girls to racing around with the boys, pitching quoits, wrestling at 'arm's-end,' 'back-hold,' or playing base-ball and goal. His mother was careful to encourage Hiram's predilections. She remarked that nothing was so well calculated to keep a young man from going astray as for him to frequent the society of virtuous females.

Before Hiram had got into his teens, he appeared to be smitten with at least half a score of little girls of his own age. As he grew older, his fondness for the sex increased. I do not record this, as any thing extraordinary, except that in his case a characteristic selfishness seemed to be at the bottom even of these manifestations. Hiram was not influenced by those natural emotions and impulses which belong to youth, and which, unless kept under proper restraint, are apt frequently to lead to indiscretions. For there ran a vein of calculation through all he did, whose prudent office it was to minister to his safety.

After Hiram joined the church he was regular in his attendance on the evening meetings. He always went to these meetings with some young girl, whom, of course, he accompanied home after the services were over. As I have said, he was a handsome fellow, and bestowed particular care on his dress and his appearance generally. He was good-natured and obliging, and withal sensible, so that the young men who envied him and might be inclined to call him a fop or a dandy, could not prefix 'brainless' to these epithets and thus ridicule on him. The fact is, he was shrewder than any of them, and he knew it. They soon discovered it, and so did the girls, to the utter discomfiture of his rivals.