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.]