"De plantation where I slave not far off; Massa Bracher not at home--
better 'way perhaps, he not always in berry good temper, but de
housekeeper, Mammy Coe, she take care ob de lady and de little boy.
Yes, we will go dare dough de oberseer make me back feel de lash 'cos I
go back without carry de message I was sent on. It can wait, no great
ting."
I do not believe that my father heard the last remark of the black, as
he was engaged in replacing some of the articles in the waggon which had
escaped being washed out, for he answered--
"Yes, by all means, we will drive on to Mr Bracher's plantation. It's
not very far off, I hope, for the sooner we can get on dry clothing the
better."
My father, as he helped in my mother, and placed me in her arms, threw
his own coat, wet as it was, over me, as it served to keep off the wind
and was better than nothing.
"What's your name, my good fellow?" he asked of the black.
"Me Diogenes, massa, but de folks call me `Dio'."
"Well, jump in, Dio, and tell me the way I am to drive."
"Straight on den, Massa," said Dio, climbing in at the hinder part of
the waggon, "den turn to de right, and den to de lef', and we are at
Massa Bracher's."
My father drove on as fast as the horses could go, for although the
weather was tolerably warm, my teeth were chattering with cold and
fright, and he was anxious, wet as we were, not to expose my mother and
me to the night air. By following Dio's directions, in less than ten
minutes we reached a house of more pretensions than any we had yet seen.
It was of one story, and raised on a sort of platform above the ground
with a broad veranda in front. Behind it was a kitchen-garden, and
plantations of tobacco, and fields of corn on either side. Dio, jumping
out, ran to the horses' heads, and advised my mother to go first, taking
me with her, and to introduce herself to Mammy Coe.
"Yes, go, Kathleen," said my father, "the good woman will certainly not
turn us away, although from what Dio says, she may not receive us very
courteously."
The door stood open; as we ascended the wooden steps, two huge
blood-hounds rushed out, barking furiously, but Dio's voice kept them
from molesting us. The noise they made served to summon "Mammy Coe," a
brown lady of mature age, a degree or two removed from a negress,
dressed, as I thought, in very gay colours, with a handkerchief of
bright hue bound round her head, forming a sort of turban.
"Who you strangers, whar you come from?" she asked in an authoritative
tone, as if accustomed to command.
My mother, in a few words, explained what had happened. "We should be
thankful to you to allow us to have our clothes dried," she added.
"Yas, strangers, me will gib you dat permission," answered Mammy Coe;
"come 'long dis way. Your man too, him want change him clo'," she said,
looking out and perceiving my father standing on the steps, still
dripping wet. "Dio," she shouted, "take de horses round to de stable
and bring in de strangers' tings."
Dio promptly obeyed, glad, I am very sure, that his kind intentions had
thus far been successful.
"Come 'long, young woman, and bring de boy. You shall hab supper
afterwards, den go to bed, you all right to-morrow."
She led the way to a bed-room on one side of the entrance-hall, where my
mother quickly stripped off my wet clothes and wrapped me up in a
blanket.
"Him better for some broth!" observed Mammy Coe in a kinder tone than
she had yet used. "Now, young woman, you go to me room, and me give you
some dry clothes, while your man, him go into Massa Bracher's room."
My father, however, first came and had a look at me and almost the
minute afterwards I was fast asleep. When I awoke I saw a person
standing near me, dressed so exactly like Mammy Coe, that at first I
thought it was her, but I quickly discovered that she was my mother.
She had brought me my clothes perfectly dry. I was very glad to put
them on and accompany her to supper in the great hall, where several not
very pleasant-looking personages were seated at a long table, with Mammy
Coe at the head of it. The people appeared to me much alike, with
sallow faces, long hair, untrimmed beards, and bowie-knives stuck in
their belts. I remember remarking that they gobbled down their food
voraciously, and put a number of questions to my father, which he
answered in his usual calm way.
Supper was nearly over when the barking of dogs announced another
arrival. Soon afterwards a tall man wearing a broad-brimmed hat entered
the room, and nodding to the other persons, threw his whip into the
corner and took the seat which Mammy Coe vacated. He stared at my
mother and me. My father rose, concluding that he was the host, and
explained how he happened to be his guest, while Mammy Coe stood by
ready to answer any questions if required. My father narrated our
adventures, stating that we were on our way to visit my mother's
brother, who was supposed to be at the point of death.
"I know Denis O'Dwyer, I guess. He was down with the fever I heard, but
whether he's gone or not I can't say. Some pull through and some don't.
If you find him alive it's a wonder. However, make yourself at home
here, and to-morrow you may start on your journey," observed our host.
My father thanked him, and remarked how much he was indebted to his
slave Dio.
"The boy's good property, I guess," answered Mr Bracher, but not a word
did he say of the black's gallant conduct, and only laughed scornfully
when my father alluded to it.
Our host spoke but little during the remainder of the time we sat at
table, being employed as zealously as his overseers and clerks had been
in devouring his food. My father then again reverted to Dio, and
observed that he was anxious to make a suitable return to the black for
the brave way in which he had risked his life in preserving ours.
"He is my property and you may thank me, but I don't want thanks and I
don't want a recompense, though I should have lost well-nigh five
hundred dollars if he had been drowned."
"Will you take five hundred dollars for the boy?" asked my father
feeling sure that unless he could obtain the slave, he should have no
means of rewarding him.
"No, stranger, I guess I won't," answered Mr Bracher, putting a quid,
which he had been working into form, into his mouth; "I don't want
money, and I wouldn't take a thousand dollars for the black if I did: so
you have your answer."
My father saw that it would not do farther to press the subject. As
soon as he properly could, he begged that my mother and I might be
allowed to retire.
"This is liberty hall, and your wife can do as she likes, and so can
you. I shall turn in myself before long, as I have had a pretty smart
ride."
On this my mother rose, and I had to return to my bunk, in which I was
soon fast asleep. Next morning I remember looking out of the window
just at daybreak and seeing a party of negroes mustered before being
despatched to their respective labours. Two white overseers, dressed in
broad-brimmed hats and gingham jackets, stood by with whips in their
hands, giving directions to the slaves, and at the same time bestowing
not a few lashes on their backs, if they did not at once comprehend what
was said to them. Among them I caught sight of Dio. One of the
overseers addressed him, and seemed to be putting questions to which
satisfactory answers were not given. To my horror down came the lash on
Dio's back, cut after cut being given with all the strength of the white
man's arm.
"O father, father, they are beating Dio. Do go out and stop the cruel
man," I exclaimed. My father looked on for a moment, and then hurried
out to the front of the house. I followed him, but Dio had disappeared
and the overseer was walking along whistling in the direction one party
of the blacks had taken.
"The poor fellow would only be worse treated were I to speak for him,"
said my father stopping short; "but it is terrible that human beings
should thus be tyrannised over by their fellow-creatures. It may not be
against man's laws, but it is against God's law, I am very certain. The
sooner we are away from this the better, but I should like to see poor
Dio before we go, and again thank him for the service he has rendered
us."
We went round to the stables, where we found Dio, who was grooming the
horses. My father, finding that no one else was present, put several
dollars into his hand.
"That's no return, my friend, for the brave way in which you risked your
life to save ours," he said; "but I have nothing else except my bare
thanks to give you. You must remember, however, that I wish always to
remain your friend, and if I have the power, to repay you in a more
substantial manner."
"Dis black boy no want any reward," answered Dio, offering to return the
money.
My father, however, pressed it on him, and without much difficulty
induced him to keep it. As soon as breakfast was over, the horses were
brought round. I believe that my mother made a present to Mammy Coe of
the gayest article of dress she possessed, which she guessed would be
far more welcome than money.
Our host treated us with but scant courtesy as we took our departure.
"Just tell Denis O'Dwyer, if you find him alive, that you saw me, and
that I hope to liquor up with him next time I go his way."
My father thanked him for his hospitality, but he made no reply, and
turning on his heel, re-entered his house. We found Dio, who had run
on, waiting for us out of sight of the house. He waved his hand, but
said nothing.
Eager to reach Uncle Denis's farm, my father drove on as fast as the
horses could trot over the rough track. We had to endure the same
amount of bumping and jolting as on the previous day. My poor mother's
anxiety increased as we approached my uncle's farm. We met with no one
who could give us any information. Since the fearful danger we had been
in, she had become much more nervous than was her wont, and consequently
could not help expecting to hear the worst. Great was her joy,
therefore, when, on driving up to the door, who should we see but Uncle
Denis himself seated in the porch, smoking a cigar.
"I'm glad to see you, sister," he said, "but Doctor O'Dowd had no
business to frighten you. He is always so accustomed to kill his
patients that he fancies they are all going to die under his hand, and
faith, it's no fault of his if they get well."
My uncle's appearance, however, showed that he had gone through a severe
illness. He was still too weak to walk without assistance, but his
indomitable spirit, my father observed, had done much to keep him up;
our coming also was of great assistance, as my mother was able to nurse
him more carefully than were his usual black attendants. We remained
with him for several days, at the end of which time he was able to mount
his horse and take a gallop with my father in the early morning. Uncle
Denis was one of the kindest-hearted men I ever met, and generally one
of the merriest; but a shade of melancholy came over him occasionally.
It was when he thought of Uncle Michael, or of that "dear fellow, Mike,"
as he used to say. He believed himself to have been in the wrong, and
to have been the cause of his brother's leaving him, without taking an
opportunity of acknowledging that such was the case, and asking for his
forgiveness.
My father and mother of course described to Uncle Denis the narrow
escape we had had in crossing the river, and the somewhat doubtful style
of hospitality with which we had been received by Mr Bracher.
"He knows you, Denis," said my father.
"And I know him," answered my uncle; "a more surly curmudgeon does not
exist in these parts, or a harder master to his slaves. He is a man
people wish to stand well with, not because they love him, but because
they fear his vengeance should they offend him. I make a point of
keeping out of his way, for fear that he should pick a quarrel with me,
though he pretends to be friendly enough when we meet. The slaves hate
him, as well they may, but the lash keeps them in order, and he has a
set of fellows about him of his own kidney, who serve him because no one
else would willingly employ them."
This no very flattering account of our late host made my father
determine not to pay him another visit, if he could help it, on our
return.
"I'll follow your example and keep out of his way," observed my father,
"though I should have been glad to make another attempt to purchase his
slave Dio, for the sake of getting the brave fellow out of his power."
"The more desirous you appear to obtain the slave the less likely will
he be to part with him, so I would advise you not to allude again to the
subject," said my uncle. "I'll keep an eye on his proceedings, and,
should he at any time suffer losses and be obliged to sell up, I'll take
means to buy Dio, not letting his master know that you want to become
his owner."
With this arrangement my father was obliged to rest satisfied, as he saw
that there was no other chance of getting Dio out of the power of his
tyrannical master.
A few days after this conversation Uncle Denis was so far recovered,
that my father announced his intention of returning home.
"Stay a few days longer; don't think of going yet," answered Uncle
Denis; "it seems but yesterday that you came, and I shall feel more
lonely than ever when you are gone; besides, you haven't seen the great
wonder of our part of the country, nor have I forsooth, and I should
like to pay it a visit with you."
"Of what wonder do you speak?" asked my father.
"Sure, of the big caves we have deep down in the earth, a few miles only
from this. It is said there are mountains, rivers and lakes within
them, and I don't know what besides."
"Oceans, forests, and valleys, perhaps," said my father, laughing, and
scarcely crediting the account my uncle gave him; for at that time the
wonderful Mammoth Caves of Kentucky were unknown to the world in
general, although the native Indians might have been acquainted with
them, and some time before, a mine of saltpetre at the entrance had been
discovered. My mother, more to please Uncle Denis than from any
expected pleasure to herself; agreed to accompany him, and to my great
delight, they promised to take me.
We were to perform the trip in two or three days, and Uncle Denis said
that in the meantime he would try and find means of amusing us. We went
all over the farm, on which he grew tobacco, maize, and other cereals.
He was a great sportsman, besides which he had a fancy for trapping
birds and animals, and taming them, when he could. In this he was
wonderfully successful; he had a large menagerie of the feathered tribe
as well as numbers of four-footed beasts which he had trapped and
contrived to domesticate. His ambition was to tame a panther, a bear,
and a wolf; but as yet he had not succeeded in taking any of them young
enough, as he said, to be taught good manners.
"Perhaps if you had a lady to help you, you would be more successful,"
observed my mother, "like Orpheus of old, who charmed the savage beasts.
She would with her voice produce a greater effect on their wild natures
than any man can do."
"I'll think about it," said Uncle Denis, looking up and laughing.
My mother's great wish was to see Uncle Denis married happily, though
where to find a wife to suit him, or, as she would have said, "good
enough for him," was the difficulty. There were no lack of excellent
girls in Kentucky, daughters of settlers, but they could seldom boast of
much education or refinement of manners, and Uncle Denis was a gentleman
in every sense of the word; at the same time that he had as much spirit
and daring as any Kentuckian born.
It must be understood of course, that at the time I speak of, I was too
young to understand these matters, but I heard of them afterwards from
my mother, and am thus able to introduce them in their proper place in
my history.
Uncle Denis took great delight in showing us his various traps and
snares, as well as other means he employed for capturing birds or
animals.
The traps had been greatly neglected during his illness. I remember
being especially delighted with what he called his "pens," which he had
erected for the capture of wild turkeys, with which the neighbouring
woods abounded. The two first we came to contained birds lately caught;
the third was empty, and the fourth had been broken into by a hungry
wolf, which had carried off the captive.
"There is another I built the day before I was taken ill, further away
in the forest. No one but myself knows of it," observed Uncle Denis;
"we'll pay a visit to it, though I am much afraid if a bird has been
caught, it must have starved to death by this time."
The pens Uncle Denis was speaking of were simple structures formed like
a huge cage by poles stuck in the ground sufficiently close together to
prevent a bird from getting out. They were roofed over by boughs and
leaves, and were without doors or windows. It will then be asked, how
can a bird get in? The trap is entered in this way.
A passage or trench is cut in the ground twelve or fourteen feet in
length, passing under the wall of the hut and rising again in its
centre. Inside the wall and over the trench, a bridge is thrown. To
induce the bird to enter, grain is strewn along the trench and scattered
about its neighbourhood, while a larger quantity is placed on the floor
inside the hut. The unwary turkey, on seeing the grains of corn, picks
them up, and not suspecting treachery follows the train until it finds
itself inside the pen; instead however of endeavouring to escape by the
way it entered, it, like other wild birds, runs round and round the
walls of the hut, peeping through the interstices and endeavouring to
force its way out, each time crossing over the bridge without attempting
to escape by the only practicable outlet. In this way Uncle Denis said
that he had caught numbers of birds, one and all having acted in the
same foolish manner.
"Hereabouts is my forest pen," he said. "Hark! I hear some curious
clucking sounds. There's more than one bird there, or I am much
mistaken." Stepping forward he peered over the branches, when he
beckoned us to advance, and, he lifting me in his arms, I saw not only a
hen turkey in the pen, but a brood of a dozen or more turkey poults
running in and out among the bars, while the hen was evidently calling
to them, suspecting that danger was near.
They were too young to fly up into the trees, which they do on being
alarmed, when scarcely more than a fortnight old. Uncle Denis was
highly pleased.
"I shall have a fine addition to the poultry-yard," he said, "for I
shall tame all these young ones by cutting their wings, and they will
not be able to follow their mother into the woods, so for their sake she
will probably be content to share their captivity."
Peter, a black boy, had accompanied us, and Uncle Denis sent him back
for a couple of baskets. The turkey hen, though much alarmed, having
gathered her poults under her wings, stood ready to defend them bravely.
Uncle Denis said that she had probably got into the pen directly after
he had last seen it, and he recollected having left inside a quantity of
corn, with which he was going to bait some other pens in the
neighbourhood. This had served to keep her alive, unless perhaps her
faithful mate had brought her food. If such was the case, the
"gobbler," as the male bird is called, took good care to keep out of our
way. Wild turkeys in those days abounded through the whole of the
southern states. I have often seen--of course I speak of a subsequent
time of my life--ten or a dozen hen turkeys, with their families
amounting to eighty or a hundred head, on their annual migration, old
and young moving in the same direction, making use of their legs in
preference to their wings, unless when intercepted by a river, or
frightened by the appearance of a hunter and his dogs. On reaching a
river they climb to some neighbouring height, where they remain for a
day or two to consult apparently as to the best means of getting across:
on such occasions the males making a loud gobbling noise, strutting
about looking very important, as if about to perform some heroic action.
At last, when they have settled their plan, the birds of all ages mount
to the tops of the highest trees bordering the stream. There they sit
for a short time, when their leader gives a loud "cluck." It is the
signal to commence the adventurous passage. Together they expand their
wings and rise in the air; the stronger birds will thus cross a river a
mile wide, but some of the younger ones find it impossible to sustain
themselves so long in the air, and fall flop into the water. Serious as
this misadventure may appear, being birds of spirit, they do not give up
the attempt in despair. Closing their wings, they spread out their
broad tails, and strike away with their feet towards the bank they
desire to reach. Should they find, as is sometimes the case, that the
bank is too steep for landing, they cease their exertions and allow
themselves to float down the stream until they reach an accessible part,
when by violent efforts they manage to scramble up the banks and regain
the main body. On such occasions, should any of their human or other
enemies be on the watch for them, they are easily taken, as they are too
much exhausted to fly away and have not regained their shore legs. On
landing also they do not appear at first to know what direction to take,
and are seen rambling about, sometimes up the stream, sometimes down it,
or making an uncertain run inland. Of all the birds of America, the
turkey deserves the pre-eminence: the plumage, a golden bronze, banded
with black, and shot with violet, green, and blue, is beautiful in the
extreme. We had scarcely done admiring our captive, when Peter returned
with two large baskets, into one of which the hen turkey was trundled in
spite of the fierce use she made of her beak and claws, while her brood,
who were too much bewildered to run away, were caught and secured in the
other. We returned home with our unwilling captives. Uncle Denis at
once had a pen put up, and in a few days the young turkeys appeared
perfectly reconciled to their lot, and Uncle Denis succeeded in
domesticating them: as for the old hen, one day early in the following
spring, a loud "gobbling" being heard in the distance, she, leaping up
on a pailing, spread her wings and flew away in the direction from
whence the sounds came. Her brood, then more than half-grown, would
have followed her example, but their wings were cut, and down they
toppled on their backs, greatly to the amusement of Peter, as Uncle
Denis afterwards told us.
The day for our excursion to the wonderful Cave arrived, and having
breakfasted by candle-light, we set off before sunrise in a waggon,
attended by Peter and Caesar, another black boy, on horseback. Uncle
Denis drove, and it needed an expert whip to get along the rough road.
On coming to the farm, we had been bumped and jolted enough to dislocate
our limbs, had we not had some soft cushions to sit upon. We were now
tumbled about in a fashion which threatened to upset the waggon. Uncle
Denis shouted out--
"Never fear, the machine is accustomed to it, and will go over places
ten times as bad as this is. Hold fast though, in case of accidents."
Sometimes we crossed what might have been called, in compliment, a piece
of corduroy, though it looked more as if trees had been blown down by a
hurricane in close ranks. On other occasions we had to twist and turn
in and out among the stumps, and fly over big holes, the well-trained
horses keeping their feet in the most wonderful manner. At last we
reached a hut, where in subsequent years a fine hotel was built. As we
pulled up before it, a tall Indian appeared and, asking if we wished to
see the cavern, volunteered to act as our guide.
"You're the man we want," answered Uncle Denis.
On this the Indian, retiring to his hut, returned with a bundle of
torches. We had brought a couple of lanterns and a supply of candles,
so that there was no chance of our being left in darkness.
The two negro boys having taken charge of our horses, we proceeded on
foot, followed by Peter and Caesar, to the mouth of the pit down which
we were to descend into the cavern. This was like a large well into
which a stream fell with a cheerful splash. I remember asking not
unnaturally whether we should have to swim when we got to the bottom.
We made our way down a flight of wooden steps, when, passing under a
high archway, we proceeded along a level road to what were called the
"vats," where saltpetre was manufactured.
The torches lighted up the subterranean region in which we found
ourselves. As to describing it exactly is more than I can pretend to
do. From the large entrance-hall we made our way through a low narrow
passage, which is known as the Valley of Humility, into another hall of
enormous extent, the roof so lofty that our torches scarcely illuminated
either the walls or roof. At our feet we could see the glitter of water
extending far away into the interior, while a bright stream flowed over
a rocky bed into it. Uncle Denis proposed that we should sit down and
refresh ourselves preparatory to exploring the interior recesses of the
cavern. No objection being made, Peter produced some provisions from a
basket he had brought on his back. Having discussed them, we slaked our
thirst from the pure water of the rivulet. Once more moving on, in a
short time we reached Echo River, on the shore of which we found a boat.
Our guide invited us to embark. Looking upwards it appeared as if a
canopy of black clouds hung over our heads, while on every side we could
see precipices and cliffs rising up, apparently into the sky; silence
and darkness reigned around us, the smooth sluggish water alone
reflecting the glare of our torches. Not a word was uttered by any of
our party, until the Indian's voice suddenly burst forth into one of the
melancholy chants of his race, echoed as it appeared by the spirit of
his departed brethren. I clung to my father's arm, and asked where all
those sounds came from.
"They are but the echoes of the Indian's voice," he answered. Now they
rose, now they fell, as he gave forth the notes with the full force of
his lungs, or warbled softly, sometimes finishing with a melancholy wail
which produced the most mournful effect.
"Come, this is more than I bargained for," exclaimed Uncle Denis; "now
stand by for a different kind of sound. Don't be alarmed, it's only the
barrel of my pistol going to try what sort of noise it can make." He
pulled the trigger, when there was a flash and then there came a
succession of crashing, thundering sounds echoed from every angle in
those enormous vaults. Backwards and forwards tore the sounds, rolling
and reverberating from wall to wall with terrific crashes. Half a dozen
pieces of artillery fired in the open air could not have produced a more
tremendous uproar.
Scarcely had the sounds died away, when Peter and Caesar struck up a
merry negro melody, contrasting curiously with the melancholy notes of
the Indian's song; they made Uncle Denis and me, at all events, burst in
to hearty fits of laughter.
"Come, I like that style of song far better than the music of our
red-skin friend," exclaimed my uncle. The guide told us that although
it was perfectly safe at most times of the year to traverse the cavern,
there were occasions when the waters rising suddenly had prevented the
return of explorers, but that a way had been discovered, through a
narrow passage, the course evidently at one time of a stream, up which
they could climb over the mud and save themselves from being either
drowned or starved, should they have come without provisions. This
passage has appropriately been called "Purgatory," but as we had not to
take advantage of it, I cannot describe it more fully.
Leaving "Echo" River we entered another cavern named "Cleveland's
Cabinet," when we found ourselves in what we might have taken for a
fairy region.
Above our heads and on either side, the roof and walls were adorned with
delicate flowers of snowy whiteness, and domes, and turrets, and spires,
and shrubs, and trees, as well as the forms of birds and beasts of all
descriptions; elephants and camels, eagles and turkeys and doves; indeed
figures of every shape which imagination without any great exertion
might please to picture. The representations of some indeed were so
perfect that it was difficult to believe that they had not been carved
by the hand of man, and yet one and all were produced by the dripping of
water from the gypsum rock; the most delicate ice formations could not
surpass them; indeed many equalled in form the choicest flowers growing
in the most cultivated garden. As we proceeded on, we found that the
cavern was not destitute of inhabitants. Huge crickets and spiders,
almost of a white colour, crawled over the ground, the former not taking
jumps, but moving steadily forward with their long legs. Rats too,
Uncle Denis declared they were as big as leverets, ran by us, exhibiting
their sharp teeth and extensive tails. When no other provisions are to
be obtained, they live apparently on the spiders and crickets.
The next cavern we entered was called "Martha's Vineyard;" the trunk of
a vine climbed up the sides, and spread its branches over the roof from
which hung suspended what looked like clusters of delicious grapes.
Seeing also several which appeared to have fallen on the ground, I ran
forward to examine them, when what was my disappointment to find that
they were of a stony nature, thus formed by the dropping of the water.
In another cave our guide, having lighted two of the largest torches,
waved them about, when we appeared to be standing in a wintry scene.
Ice above us, ice on the ground, with here and there patches of snow.
We did not get nearly to the end of the cavern, and therefore missed
seeing a beautiful grotto which our guide told us was called "Serena's
Arbour," and that the walls are covered with a drapery resembling yellow
satin falling in graceful folds, while through it murmurs a rivulet,
falling into one of the many rivers running through the cavern, which is
said to be nine miles in extent. It appeared to me that we had been
walking all day amid vast towering rocks. Often the roof was so far
above us that even the light of our torches failed to reach it. We now
entered another hall, when our guide told us to seat ourselves on some
rocks and to extinguish our lights.
"Don't be alarmed," he said; "I'm not going to be guilty of treachery."
My father and Uncle Denis agreed to his proposal, and there we sat far
down in the depths of the earth, not a ray of light reaching us. I
could feel my mother's hand, but although I placed it close to my eyes,
I could not see it. After waiting some time I began to grow uneasy,
when greatly to my relief the guide returned with a lantern in his hand.
"Look up!" he said, "see to what a region I have transported you."
On gazing upwards, we saw stars innumerable glittering in the sky, so it
seemed, but in vain we looked for those to which our eyes were
accustomed, though it was difficult to persuade ourselves that they were
not veritable stars. The guide, holding a stone in his hand, threw it
upwards, when it struck the roof above our heads, and we found that the
seeming stars were produced by pieces of mica imbedded in the roof on
which the light from the lantern, being thrown in a peculiar way, was
brightly reflected.
Relighting our torches, we saw that the walls were of a yellow colour,
while the ceiling appeared to be of a dark undefined blue, resembling
the midnight sky. We visited several other caverns, some of which
appeared to be of immense height, though the ceiling in most parts is
not more than thirty feet from the ground.
One cavern had, what looked like a mountain in that subterranean region,
rising from the ground, with a stream running at its base. We crossed
several rivers; besides the "Echo," one called the "Styx," the other the
"Lethe." Our guide had brought a net, with which he caught some fish
and crawfish. On examining them we could discover no appearance of
eyes, while, from being deprived of the warm rays of the sun, they were
perfectly white. Uncle Denis remarked that as they had no lamps down
there, eyes would have been useless, but their instinct, or probably
their keen sense of feeling, told them when they were running into
danger. The crickets which came hopping about around us, could however,
we ascertained, see perfectly well, and appeared to be attracted by the
light of our lanterns. They were not pleasant-looking creatures, and if
the rats can find nothing else to eat, they must have an uncomfortable
life of it. The guide told us that the cave was not known to white men
until 1802, though he did not acknowledge that the natives were ignorant
of its existence. For many years no one could advance beyond three
miles from the entrance, further progress being stopped by a deep chasm
called the "Bottomless Pit." At length, however, a daring guide threw a
ladder over it, and thus getting across, he explored six more miles of
this underground region. A bridge has now been constructed, by which
people can pass over in perfect safety. He asserted that no dog would
willingly enter the cavern, and that although he had made the attempt
several times to induce his own faithful animal to follow him, the
creature had always run back howling with dismay. We readily believed
this, and for my part I felt oppressed with a sensation of awe I had
never before experienced, and which I can to this day vividly recollect.
I have since, more than once, visited that subterranean world, and
though aware that its dimensions are not so great as I then imagined,
and that there was no real danger to be apprehended, I have on each
occasion felt awestruck, though in a less degree than formerly.
My father and mother acknowledged that they were thankful when we
regained the upper world, and Uncle Denis gave a shout of satisfaction
as he inhaled the fresh air of heaven, while the black boys leapt and
laughed, and tumbled against each other, as they hurried off to harness
the horses to the waggon.
"Fine place dat, Caesar, for niggar to hide away if de white massa not
know it," observed Peter to his companion.
"Berry good for hide 'way, but bad for de food; nothing but rats and
crickets to eat dare."
Uncle Denis, jumping up on the box, shouted "Erin-go-bragh," and away we
dashed as fast as we had come. It was dark long before we reached the
farm; my mother appeared pretty well tired out. We remained a couple of
days more to recruit, and then set out on our return home. Uncle Denis
accompanied us part of the first day's journey.
"Keep clear of Master Silas Bracher," he observed as we were about to
part. "I have no wish to meet him again, for he is more likely to pick
a quarrel and send a bullet through a man's body than to do him any
good."
"I'll follow your advice," answered my father; "I wish from my heart,
though, that I could get the black, Dio, out of his power. I really
believe that he is jealous of the poor slave."
"You may as well try to draw sunbeams out of a cucumber, as to get him
to agree to your offer; keep clear of him altogether, and should I have
the chance, I will not forget your wish to obtain the black, whom,
should I succeed, you can either set free or keep in bondage, as you may
decide; probably, were you to give him his choice, he would prefer
remaining your slave."
After an affectionate farewell, Uncle Denis turned his horse's head, and
rode back, while we continued our journey to "Uphill," the name my
father had given to his property. Avoiding Mr Bracher's location, we
drove down to the ford, and as the water was much lower than when we
before crossed it, we got over in safety, though my mother naturally
felt very nervous as we were making the passage.
We found all going on well at home, Martin Prentis, the overseer, also
giving a favourable account of affairs on the estate. It may seem
strange that, young as I then was, I should be able to give so minute an
account of some of the incidents of our journey: but in the first place
they made a deep impression on me; in the second, my parents have since
assisted me to brush up my recollections of those days.