ON THE PLANTATION.
The last chapter left the reader in the door-way of the Colonel's
mansion. Before entering, we will linger there awhile and survey the
outside of the premises.
The house stands where two roads meet, and, unlike most planters'
dwellings, is located in full view of the highway. It is a rambling,
disjointed structure, thrown together with no regard to architectural
rules, and yet there is a rude harmony in its very irregularities that
has a pleasing effect. The main edifice, with a frontage of nearly
eighty feet, is only one and a half stories high, and is overshadowed by
a broad projecting roof, which somehow, though in a very natural way,
drops down at the eaves, and forms the covering of a piazza, twenty feet
wide, and extending across the entire front of the house. At its
south-easterly angle, the roof is truncated, and made again to form a
covering for the piazza, which there extends along a line of irregular
buildings for sixty yards. A portion of the verandah on this side being
enclosed, forms a bowling-alley and smoking-room, two essential
appendages to a planter's residence. The whole structure is covered with
yellow-pine weather boarding, which in some former age was covered with
paint of a grayish brown color. This, in many places, has peeled off
and allowed the sap to ooze from the pine, leaving every here and there
large blotches on the surface, somewhat resembling the "warts" I have
seen on the trunks of old trees.
The house is encircled by grand old pines, whose tall, upright stems,
soaring eighty and ninety feet in the air, make the low hamlet seem
lower by the contrast. They have stood there for centuries, their rough,
shaggy coats buttoned close to their chins, and their long green locks
waving in the wind; but the long knife has been thrust into their veins,
and their life-blood is now fast oozing away.
With the exception of the negro huts, which are scattered at irregular
intervals through the woods in the rear of the mansion, there is not a
human habitation within an hour's ride; but such a cosy, inviting,
hospitable atmosphere surrounds the whole place, that a stranger does
not realize he has happened upon it in a wilderness.
The interior of the dwelling is in keeping with the exterior, though in
the drawing-rooms, where rich furniture and fine paintings actually
lumber the apartments, there is evident the lack of a nice perception of
the "fitness of things," and over the whole hangs a "dusty air," which
reminds one that the Milesian Bridget does not "flourish" in South
Carolina.
I was met in the entrance-way by a tall, fine-looking woman, to whom the
Colonel introduced me as follows:
"Mr. K----, this is Madam P----, my housekeeper; she will try to make
you forget that Mrs. J---- is absent."
After a few customary courtesies were exchanged, I was shown to a
dressing-room, and with the aid of Jim, a razor, and one of the
Colonel's shirts--all of mine having undergone a drenching--soon made a
tolerably presentable appearance. The negro then conducted me to the
breakfast-room, where I found the family assembled.
It consisted, besides the housekeeper, of a tall, raw-boned,
sandy-haired personage, with a low brow, a blear eye, and a sneaking
look--the overseer of the plantation; and of a well-mannered,
intelligent lad--with the peculiarly erect carriage and uncommon
blending of good-natured ease and dignity which distinguished my
host--who was introduced to me as the housekeeper's son.
Madam P----, who presided over the "tea-things," was a person of perhaps
thirty-five, but a rich olive complexion, enlivened by a delicate red
tint, and relieved by thick masses of black hair, made her appear to a
casual observer several years younger. Her face bore vestiges of great
beauty, which time, and, perhaps, care, had mellowed but not
obliterated, and her conversation indicated high cultivation. She had
evidently mingled in refined society in this country and in Europe, and
it was a strange freak of fortune that had reduced her to a menial
condition in the family of a backwoods planter.
After some general conversation, the Colonel remarked that his wife and
daughter would pass the winter in Charleston.
"And do _you_ remain on the plantation?" I inquired.
"Oh yes, I am needed here," he replied; "but Madam's son is with my
family."
"Madam's son!" I exclaimed in astonishment, forgetting in my surprise
that the lady was present.
"Yes, sir," she remarked, "my oldest boy is twenty."
"Excuse me, Madam; I forgot that in your climate one never grows old."
"There you are wrong, sir; I'm sure I _feel_ old when I think how soon
my boys will be men."
"Not old yet, Alice," said the Colonel, in a singularly familiar tone;
"you seem to me no older than when you were fifteen."
"You have been long acquainted," I remarked, not knowing exactly what to
say.
"Oh, yes," replied my host, "we were children together."
"Your Southern country, Madam, affords a fine field for young men of
enterprise."
"My eldest son resides in Germany," replied the lady. "He expects to
make that country his home. He would have passed his examination at
Heidelberg this autumn had not circumstances called him here."
"You are widely separated," I replied.
"Yes, sir; his father thinks it best, and I suppose it is. Thomas,
here, is to return with his brother, and I may live to see neither of
them again."
My curiosity was naturally much excited to learn more, but nothing
further being volunteered, and the conversation soon turning to other
topics, I left the table with it unsatisfied.
After enjoying a quiet hour with the Colonel in the smoking-room, he
invited me to join him in a ride over the plantation. I gladly assented,
and Jim shortly announced the horses were in waiting. That darky, who
invariably attended his master when the latter proceeded from home,
accompanied us. As we were mounting I bethought me of Scip, and asked
where he was.
"He'm gwine to gwo, massa, and want to say good-by to you."
It seemed madness for Scip to start on a journey of seventy miles
without rest, so I requested the Colonel to let him remain till the next
day. He cheerfully assented, and sent Jim to find him. While waiting for
the darky, I spoke of how faithfully he had served me during my journey.
"He's a splendid nigger," replied the Colonel; "worth his weight in
gold. If affairs were more settled I would buy him."
"But Colonel A---- tells me he is too intelligent. He objects to
'knowing' niggers."
"_I_ do not," replied my host, "if they are honest, and I would trust
Scip with uncounted gold. Look at him," he continued, as the negro
approached; "were flesh and bones ever better put together?"
The darky _was_ a fine specimen of sable humanity, and I readily
understood why the practiced eye of the Colonel appreciated his physical
developments.
"Scip," I said, "you must not think of going to-day; the Colonel will be
glad to let you remain until you are fully rested."
"Tank you, massa, tank you bery much, but de ole man will spec' me, and
I orter gwo."
"Oh, never mind old----," said the Colonel, "I'll take care of him."
"Tank you, Cunnel, den I'll stay har till de mornin'."
Taking a by-path which led through the forest in the rear of the
mansion, we soon reached a small stream, and, following its course for a
short distance, came upon a turpentine distillery, which the Colonel
explained to me was one of three that prepared the product of his
plantation for market, and provided for his family of nearly three
hundred souls.
It was enclosed, or rather roofed, by a rude structure of rough boards,
which was open at the sides, and sustained on a number of pine poles
about thirty feet in height, and bore a strong resemblance to the usual
covering of a New England haystack.
Three stout negro men, divested of all clothing excepting a pair of
coarse gray trowsers and a red shirt--it was a raw, cold, wintry
day--and with cotton bandannas bound about their heads, were "tending
the still." The foreman stood on a raised platform level with its top,
but as we approached very quietly seated himself on a turpentine barrel
which a moment before he had rolled over the mouth of the boiler.
Another negro was below, feeding the fire with "light wood," and a third
was tending the trough by which the liquid rosin found its way into the
semicircle of rough barrels intended for its reception.
"Hello, Junius, what in creation are you doing there?" asked the
Colonel, as we approached, of the negro on the turpentine barrel.
"Holein' her down, Cunnel; de ole ting got a mine to blow up dis
mornin'; I'se got dis barrl up har to hole her down."
"Why, you everlasting nigger, if the top leaks you'll be blown to
eternity in half a second."
"Reckon not, massa; be barrl and me kin hole her. We'll take de risk."
"Perhaps _you_ will," said the Colonel, laughing, "but I wont. Nigger
property isn't of much account, but you're too good a darky, June, to be
sent to the devil for a charge of turpentine."
"Tank you, massa, but you dun kno' dis ole ting like I do. You cudn't
blow her up nohow; I'se tried her afore dis way."
"Don't you do it again; now mind; if you do I'll make a white man of
you." (This I suppose referred to a process of flaying with a whip;
though the whip is generally thought to _redden_, not _whiten_, the
negro.)
The black did not seem at all alarmed, for he showed his ivories in a
broad grin as he replied, "Jess as you say, massa; you'se de boss in dis
shanty."
Directing the fire to be raked out, and the still to stand unused until
it was repaired, the Colonel turned his horse to go, when he observed
that the third negro was shoeless, and his feet chapped and swollen with
the cold. "Jake," he said, "where are your shoes?"
"Wored out, massa."
"Worn out! Why haven't you been to me?"
"'Cause, massa, I know'd you'd jaw; you tole me I wears 'em out mighty
fass."
"Well, you do, that's a fact; but go to Madam and get a pair; and you,
June, you've been a decent nigger, you can ask for a dress for Rosy. How
is little June?"
"Mighty pore, massa; de ma'am war dar lass night and dis mornin', and
she reckun he'm gwine to gwo, sartain."
"Sorry to hear that," said the Colonel. "I'll go and see him. Don't feel
badly, June," he continued, for the tears welled up to the eyes of the
black man as he spoke of his child; "we all must die."
"I knows dat, massa, but it am hard to hab 'em gwo."
"Yes, it is, June, but we may save him."
"Ef you cud, massa! Oh, ef you cud!" and the poor darky covered his face
with his great hands and sobbed like a child.
We rode on to another "still," and there dismounting, the Colonel
explained to me the process of gathering and manufacturing turpentine.
The trees are "boxed" and "tapped" early in the year, while the frost is
still in the ground. "Boxing" is the process of scooping a cavity in the
trunk of the tree by means of a peculiarly shaped axe, made for the
purpose; "tapping" is scarifying the rind of the wood above the boxes.
This is never done until the trees have been worked one season, but it
is then repeated year after year, till on many plantations they present
the marks of twenty and frequently thirty annual "tappings," and are
often denuded of bark for a distance of thirty feet from the ground. The
necessity for this annual tapping arises from the fact that the scar on
the trunk heals at the end of a season, and the sap will no longer run
from it; a fresh wound is therefore made each spring. The sap flows down
the scarified surface and collects in the boxes, which are emptied six
or eight times in a year, according to the length of the season. This is
the process of "dipping," and it is done with a tin or iron vessel
constructed to fit the cavity in the tree.
The turpentine gathered from the newly boxed or virgin tree is very
valuable, on account of its producing a peculiarly clear and white
rosin, which is used in the manufacture of the finer kinds of soap, and
by "Rosin the Bow." It commands, ordinarily, nearly five times the price
of the common article. When barrelled, the turpentine is frequently sent
to market in its crude state, but more often is distilled on the
plantation, the gatherers generally possessing means sufficient to own
a still.
In the process of distilling, the crude turpentine is "dumped" into the
boiler through an opening in the top--the same as that on which we saw
Junius composedly seated--water is then poured upon it, the aperture
made tight by screwing down the cover and packing it with clay, a fire
built underneath, and when the heat reaches several hundred degrees
Fahrenheit, the process of manufacture begins. The volatile and more
valuable part of the turpentine, by the action of the heat, rises as
vapor, then condensing flows off through a pipe in the top of the still,
and comes out spirits of turpentine, while the heavier portion finds
vent at a lower aperture, and comes out rosin.
No article of commerce is so liable to waste and leakage as turpentine.
The spirits can only be preserved in tin cans, or in thoroughly seasoned
oak barrels, made tight by a coating of glue on the inner side. Though
the material for these barrels exists at the South in luxuriant
abundance, they are all procured from the North, and the closing of the
Southern ports has now entirely cut off the supply; for while the
turpentine farmer may improvise coopers, he can by no process give the
oak timber the seasoning which is needed to render the barrel
spirit-tight. Hence it is certain that a large portion of the last crop
of turpentine must have gone to waste. When it is remembered that the
one State of North Carolina exports annually nearly twenty millions in
value of this product, and employs fully two-thirds of its negroes in
its production, it will be seen how dearly the South is paying for the
mad freak of secession. Putting out of view his actual loss of produce,
how does the turpentine farmer feed and employ his negroes? and pressed
as these blacks inevitably are by both hunger and idleness, those
prolific breeders of sedition, what will keep them quiet?
"What effect will secession have on your business?" I asked the Colonel,
after a while.
"A favorable one. I shall ship my crop direct to Liverpool and London,
instead of selling it to New York middle-men."
"But is not the larger portion of the turpentine crop consumed at the
North?"
"Oh, yes. We shall have to deal with the Yankees anyhow, but we shall do
as little with them as possible."
"Suppose the Yankees object to your setting up by yourselves, and put
your ports under lock and key?"
"They wont do that, and if they do, England will break the blockade."
"We may rap John Bull over the knuckles in that event," I replied.
"Well, suppose you do; what then?"
"Merely, England would not have a ship in six months to carry your
cotton. A war with her would ruin the shipping trade of the North. Our
marine would seek employment at privateering, and soon sweep every
British merchant ship from the ocean. We could afford to give up ten
years' trade with you, and to put secession down by force, for the sake
of a year's brush with John Bull."
"But, my good friend, where would the British navy be all this while?"
"Asleep. The English haven't a steamer that can catch a Brookhaven
schooner. The last war proved that government vessels are no match for
privateers."
"Well, well! but the Yankees wont fight."
"Suppose they do. Suppose they shut up your ports, and leave you with
your cotton and turpentine unsold? You raise scarcely any thing
else--what would you eat?"
"We would turn our cotton fields into corn and wheat. Turpentine-makers,
of course, would suffer."
"Then why are not _you_ a Union man?"
"My friend, I have nearly three hundred mouths to feed. I depend on the
sale of my crop to give them food. If our ports are closed, I cannot do
it--they will starve, and I be ruined. But sooner than submit to the
domination of the cursed Yankees, I will see my negroes starving, and my
child a beggar!"
At this point in the conversation we arrived at the negro shanty where
the sick child was. Dismounting, the Colonel and I entered.
The cabin was almost a counterpart of the "Mills House," described in
the previous chapter, but it had a plank flooring, and was scrupulously
neat and clean. The logs were stripped of bark, and whitewashed. A
bright, cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, and an air of rude
comfort pervaded the whole interior. On a low bed in the farther corner
of the room lay the sick child. He was a boy of about twelve years, and
evidently in the last stages of consumption. By his side, bending over
him as if to catch his almost inaudible words, sat a tidy,
youthful-looking colored woman, his mother, and the wife of the negro we
had met at the "still." Playing on the floor, was a younger child,
perhaps five years old, but while the faces of the mother and the sick
lad were of the hue of charcoal, _his_ skin by a process well understood
at the South, had been bleached to a bright yellow.
The woman took no notice of our entrance, but the little fellow ran to
the Colonel and caught hold of the skirts of his coat in a free-and-easy
way, saying, "Ole massa, you got suffin' for Dicky?"
"No, you little nig," replied the Colonel, patting his woolly head as I
might have done a white child's, "Dicky isn't a good boy."
"Yas, I is," said the little darky; "you'se ugly ole massa to gib
nuffin' to Dick."
Aroused by the Colonel's voice, the woman turned toward us. Her eyes
were swollen, and her face bore traces of deep emotion.
"Oh massa!" she said, "de chile am dyin'! It'm all along ob his workin'
in de swamp--no _man_ orter work dar, let alone a chile like dis."
"Do you think he is dying, Rosy?" asked the Colonel, approaching the
bed-side.
"Shore, massa, he'm gwine fass. Look at 'im."
The boy had dwindled to a skeleton, and the skin lay on his face in
crimpled folds, like a mask of black crape. His eyes were fixed, and he
was evidently going.
"Don't you know massa, my boy?" said the Colonel, taking his hand
tenderly in his.
The child's lips slightly moved, but I could hear no sound. The Colonel
put his ear down to him for a moment, then, turning to me, said:
"He _is_ dying. Will you be so good as to step to the house and ask
Madam P---- here, and please tell Jim to go for Junius and the old man."
I returned in a short while with the lady, but found the boy's father
and "the old man"--the darky preacher of the plantation--there before
us. The preacher was a venerable old negro, much bowed by years, and
with thin wool as white as snow. When we entered, he was bending over
the dying boy, but shortly turning to my host, said:
"Massa, de blessed Lord am callin' for de chile--shall we pray?"
The Colonel nodded assent, and we all, blacks and whites, knelt down on
the floor, while the old preacher made a short, heart-touching prayer.
It was a simple, humble acknowledgment of the dependence of the creature
on the Creator--of His right to give and to take away, and was uttered
in a free, conversational tone, as if long communion with his Maker had
placed the old negro on a footing of friendly familiarity with Him, and
given the black slave the right to talk with the Deity as one man talks
with another.
As we rose from our knees my host said to me, "It is _my_ duty to stay
here, but I will not detain _you_. Jim will show you over the
plantation. I will join you at the house when this is over." The scene
was a painful one, and I gladly availed myself of the Colonel's
suggestion.
Mounting our horses, Jim and I rode off to the negro house where Scip
was staying.
Scip was not at the cabin, and the old negro woman told us he had been
away for several hours.
"Reckon he'll be 'way all day, sar," said Jim, as we turned our horses
to go.
"He ought to be resting against the ride of to-morrow. Where has he
gone?"
"Dunno, sar, but reckon he'm gwine to fine Sam."
"Sam? Oh, he's the runaway the Colonel has advertised."
"Yas, sar, he'm 'way now more'n a monfh."
"How can Scip find him?"
"Dunno, sar. Scipio know most ebery ting--reckon he'll track him. He
know him well, and Sam'll cum back ef he say he orter."
"Where do you think Sam is?"
"P'raps in de swamp."
"Where is the swamp?"
"'Bout ten mile from har."
"Oh, yes! the shingles are cut there. I should think a runaway would be
discovered where so many men are at work."
"No, massa, dar'm places dar whar de ole debble cudn't fine him, nor de
dogs nudder."
"I thought the bloodhounds would track a man anywhere."
"Not fru de water, massa; dey lose de scent in de swamp."
"But how can a man live there--how get food?"
"De darkies dat work dar take 'em nuff."
"Then the other negroes know where the runaways are; don't they
sometimes betray them?"
"Neber, massa; a darky neber tells on anoder. De Cunnel had a boy in dat
swamp once good many years."
"Is it possible! Did he come back?"
"No, he died dar. Sum ob de hands found him dead one mornin' in de hut
whar he lib'd, and buried him dar."
"Why did Sam run away?"
"'Cause de oberseer flog him. He use him bery hard, massa."
"What had Sam done?"
"Nuffin, massa."
"Then why was he flogged? Did the Colonel know it?"
"Oh, yas; Moye cum de possum ober de Cunnel, and make him b'lieve Sam
war bad. De Cunnel dunno de hull ob dat story."
"Why didn't _you_, tell him? The Colonel trusts _you_."
"'T wudn't hab dun no good; de Cunnel wud hab flogged me for tellin' on
a wite man. Nigga's word aint ob no account."
"What is the story about, Sam?"
"You wont tell dat _I_ tole you, massa?"
"No, but I'll tell the Colonel the truth."
"Wal den, sar, you see Sam's wife am bery good-lookin', her skin's most
wite--her mudder war a mulatter, her fader a wite man--she lub'd Sam
'bout as well as de wimmin ginrally lub dar husbands" (Jim was a
bachelor, and his observation of plantation morals had given him but
little faith in the sex), "but most ob 'em, ef dey'm married or no, tink
dey must smile on de wite men, so Jule she smiled on de oberseer--so Sam
tought--and it made him bery jealous. He war sort o' sassy, and de
oberseer strung him up, and flog him bery hard. Den Sam took to de
swamp, but he didn't know whar to gwo, and de dogs tracked him; he'd ha'
got 'way dough ef ole Moye hadn't a shot him; den he cudn't run. Den
Moye flogged him till he war 'most dead, and arter dat chained him down
in de ole cabin, and gave him 'most nuffin' to eat. De Cunnel war gwine
to take Sam to Charles'on and sell him, but somehow he got a file and
sawed fru de chain and got 'way in de night to de 'still.' Den when de
oberseer come dar in de mornin', Sam jump on him and 'most kill him.
He'd hab sent him whar dar aint no niggas, ef Junius hadn't a holed him.
_I'd_ a let de ole debble gwo."
"Junius, then, is a friend of the overseer."
"No, sar; _he_ haint no friends, 'cep de debble; but June am a good
nigga, and he said 'twarn't right to kill ole Moye so sudden, for den
dar'd be no chance for de Lord to forgib him."
"Then Sam got away again?"
"Oh yas; nary one but darkies war round, and dey wouldn't hole him. Ef
dey'd cotched him den, dey'd hung him, shore."
"Why hung him?"
"'Cause he'd struck a wite man; it'm shore death to do dat."
"Do you think Scip will bring him back?"
"Yas; 'cause he'm gwine to tell massa de hull story. De Cunnel will
b'lieve Scipio ef he _am_ brack. Sam'll know dat, so he'll come back. De
Cunnel'll make de State too hot to hole ole Moye, when he fine him out."
"Does Sam's wife 'smile' on the overseer now?"
"No; she see de trubble she bring on Sam, and she bery sorry. She wont
look at a wite man now."
During the foregoing conversation, we had ridden for several miles over
the western half of the plantation, and were again near the house. My
limbs being decidedly stiff and sore from the effect of the previous
day's journey, I decided to alight and rest until the hour for dinner.
I mentioned my jaded condition to Jim, who said:
"Dat's right, massa; come in de house. I'll cure de rumatics; I knows
how to fix dem."
Fastening the horses at the door, Jim accompanied me to my
sleeping-room, where he lighted a fire of pine knots, which in a moment
blazed up on the hearth and sent a cheerful glow through the apartment;
then, saying he would return after stabling the horses, the darky left
me.
I took off my boots, drew the sofa near the fire, and stretched myself
at full length upon it. If ever mortal was tired, "I reckon" I was. It
seemed as though every joint and bone in my body had lost the power of
motion, and sharp, acute pains danced along my nerves, as I have seen
the lightning play along the telegraph wires. My entire system had the
toothache.
Jim soon returned, bearing in one hand a decanter of "Otard," and in the
other a mug of hot water and a crash towel.
"I'se got de stuff dat'll fix de rumatics, massa."
"Thank you, Jim; a glass will do me good. Where did you get it?" I
asked, thinking it strange the Colonel should leave his brandy-bottle
within reach of the negroes, who have an universal weakness for spirits.
"Oh, I keeps de keys; de Cunnel hissef hab to come to me when he want
suffin' to warm hissef."
It was the fact; Jim had exclusive charge of the wine-cellar; in short,
was butler, barber, porter, footman, and body-servant, all combined.
"Now, massa, you lay right whar you is, and I'll make you ober new in
less dan no time."
And he did; but I emptied the brandy-bottle. Lest my temperance friends
should be horror-stricken, I will mention, however, that I took the
fluid by external absorption. For all rheumatic sufferers, I would
prescribe hot brandy, in plentiful doses, a coarse towel, and an active
Southern darky, and if on the first application the patient is not
cured, the fault will not be the negro's. Out of mercy to the chivalry,
I hope our government, in saving the Union, will not annihilate the
order of body-servants. They are the only perfect institution in the
Southern country, and, so far as I have seen, about the only one worth
saving.
The dinner-bell sounded a short while after Jim had finished the
scrubbing operation, and I went to the table with an appetite I had not
felt for a week. My whole system was rejuvenated, and I am not sure that
I should, at that moment, have declined a wrestling match with Heenan
himself.
I found at dinner only the overseer and the young son of Madam P----,
the Colonel and the lady being still at the cabin of the dying boy. The
dinner, though a queer mixture of viands, would not have disgraced,
except, perhaps, in the cooking, the best of our Northern hotels.
Venison, bacon, wild fowl, hominy, poultry, corn bread, French
"made-dishes," and Southern "common doin's," with wines and brandies of
the choicest brands, were placed on the table together.
"Dis, massa," said Jim, "am de raal juice; it hab been in de cellar eber
since de house war built. Massa tole me to gib you some, wid him
complimen's."
Passing it to my companions, I drank the Colonel's health in as fine
wine as I ever tasted.
I had taken an instinctive dislike to the overseer at the
breakfast-table, and my aversion was not lessened by learning his
treatment of Sam; curiosity to know what manner of man he was, however,
led me, toward the close of our meal, to "draw him out," as follows:
"What is the political sentiment, sir, of this section of the State?"
"Wal, I reckon most of the folks 'bout har' is Union; they'm from the
'old North,' and gin'rally pore trash."
"I have heard that the majority of the turpentine-farmers are
enterprising men and good citizens--more enterprising, even, than the
cotton and rice planters."
"Wal, they is enterprisin', 'cause they don't keer for nuthin' 'cep'
money."
"The man who is absorbed in money-getting is generally a quiet citizen."
"P'raps that's so. But I think a man sh'u'd hev a soul suthin' 'bove
dollars. Them folks will take any sort o' sarce from the Yankees, ef
they'll only buy thar truck."
"What do you suffer from the Yankees?"
"Suffer from the Yankees? Don't they steal our niggers, and haint they
'lected an ab'lishener for President?"
"I've been at the North lately, but I am not aware that is so."
"So! it's damnably so, sir. I knows it. We don't mean to stand it eny
longer."
"What will you do?"
"We'll give 'em h--l, ef they want it!"
"Will it not be necessary to agree among yourselves before you do that?
I met a turpentine farmer below here who openly declared that he is
friendly to abolishing slavery. He thinks the masters can make more
money by hiring than by owning the negroes."
"Yes, that's the talk of them North County[D] fellers, who've squatted
round har. We'll hang every mother's son on 'em, by ----."
"I wouldn't do that: in a free country every man has a right to his
opinions."
"Not to sech opinions as them. A man may think, but he mustn't think
onraasonable."
"I don't know, but it seems to me reasonable, that if the negroes cost
these farmers now one hundred and fifty dollars a year, and they could
hire them, if free, for seventy-five or a hundred, that they would make
by abolition."
"Ab'lish'n! By--, sir, ye aint an ab'lishener, is ye?" exclaimed the
fellow, in an excited manner, bringing his hand down on the table in a
way that set the crockery a-dancing.
"Come, come, my friend," I replied, in a mild tone, and as unruffled as
a pool of water that has been out of a December night; "you'll knock off
the dinner things, and I'm not quite through."
"Wal, sir, I've heerd yer from the North, and I'd like to know if yer an
ab'lishener."
"My dear sir, you surprise me. You certainly can't expect a modest man
like me to speak of himself."
"Ye can speak of what ye d-- please, but ye can't talk ab'lish'n har,
by--," he said, again applying his hand to the table, till the plates
and saucers jumped up, performed several jigs, then several reels, and
then rolled over in graceful somersaults to the floor.
At this juncture, the Colonel and Madam P---- entered.
Observing the fall in his crockery, and the general confusion of things,
my host quietly asked, "What's to pay?"
I said nothing, but burst into a fit of laughter at the awkward
predicament of the overseer. That gentleman also said nothing, but
looked as if he would like to find vent through a rat-hole or a
window-pane. Jim, however, who stood at the back of my chair, gave _his_
eloquent thoughts utterance, very much as follows:
"Moye hab 'sulted Massa K----, Cunnel, awful bad. He hab swore a blue
streak at him, and called him a d-- ab'lishener, jess 'cause Massa K----
wudn't get mad and sass him back. He hab disgrace your hosspital,
Cunnel, wuss dan a nigga."
The Colonel turned white with rage, and striding up to Moye, seized him
by the throat, yelling, rather than speaking, these words: "You
d---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----, have you dared to insult a guest in
my house?"
"I did'nt mean to 'sult him," faltered out the overseer, his voice
running through an entire octave, and changing with the varying pressure
of the Colonel's fingers on his throat; "but he said he war an
ab'lishener."
"No matter what he said, he is my guest, and in my house he shall say
what he pleases, by--. Apologize to him, or I'll send you to h--in a
second."
The fellow turned cringingly to me, and ground out something like this,
every word seeming to give him the face-ache:
"I meant no offence, sar; I hope ye'll excuse me."
This satisfied me, but, before I could reply, the Colonel again seized
him by the throat and yelled:
"None of your sulkiness; you d-- white-livered hound, ask the gentleman's
pardon like a man."
The fellow then got out, with less effort than before:
"I 'umbly ax yer pardon, sar, very 'umbly, indeed."
"I am satisfied, sir," I replied. "I bear you no ill-will."
"Now go," said the Colonel; "and in future take your meals in your
cabin. I have none but gentlemen at my table."
The fellow went. As soon as he closed the door, the Colonel said to me:
"Now, my dear friend, I hope you will pardon _me_ for this occurrence. I
sincerely regret you have been insulted in my house."
"Don't speak of it, my dear sir; the fellow is ignorant, and really
thinks I am an abolitionist. His zeal in politics led to his warmth. I
blame him very little," I replied.
"But he lied, Massa K----," chimed in Jim, very warmly; "you neber said
you war an ab'lishener."
"You know what _they_ are, Jim, don't you?" said the Colonel, laughing,
and taking no notice of his breach of decorum in wedging black ideas
into a white conversation.
"Yas, I does dat," said the darky, grinning.
"Jim," said his master, "you're a prince of a nigger, but you talk too
much; ask me for something to-day, and I reckon you'll get it; but go
now, and tell Chloe (the cook) to get us some dinner."
The negro left, and, excusing myself, I soon followed suit.
I went to my room, laid down on the lounge, and soon fell asleep. It was
nearly five o'clock when a slight noise in the apartment awoke me, and,
looking up, I saw the Colonel quietly seated by the fire, smoking a
cigar. His feet were elevated above his head, and he appeared absorbed
in no very pleasant reflections.
"How is the sick boy, Colonel?" I asked.
"It's all over with him, my friend. He died easy; but 'twas very painful
to me; I feel I have done him wrong."
"How so?"
"I was away all summer, and that cursed Moye sent him to the swamp to
tote for the shinglers. It killed him."
"Then you are not to blame," I replied.
"I wish I could feel so."
The Colonel remained with me till supper-time, evidently much depressed
by the events of the morning, which had affected him more than I should
have thought possible. I endeavored, by directing his mind to other
topics, to cheer him, and in a measure succeeded.
While we were seated at the supper table, the black cook entered from
the kitchen--a one-story shanty, detached from, and in the rear of the
house--and, with a face expressive of every conceivable emotion a negro
can feel--joy, sorrow, wonder, and fear all combined--exclaimed, "O
massa, massa! dear massa! Sam, O Sam!"
"Sam!" said the Colonel; "what about Sam?"
"Why, he hab--dear, dear massa, don't yer, don't yer hurt him--he hab
come back!"
If a bombshell had fallen in the room, a greater sensation could not
have been produced. Every individual arose from the table, and the
Colonel, striding up and down the apartment, exclaimed:
"Is he mad? The everlasting fool! Why in h--has he come back?"
"Oh, don't ye hurt him massa," said the black cook, wringing her hands.
"Sam hab been bad, bery bad, but he won't be so no more."
"Stop your noise, aunty," said the Colonel, but with no harshness in his
tone. "I shall do what I think right."
"Send for him, David," said Madame P----; "let us hear what he has to
say. He would not come back if he meant to be ugly."
"_Send_ for him, Alice!" replied my host. "He's prouder than Lucifer,
and would send me word to come to _him_. I will go. Will you accompany
me, Mr. K----? You'll hear what a runaway nigger thinks of slavery: Sam
has the gift of speech, and uses it regardless of persons."
"Yes, sir, I'll go with pleasure."
It was about an hour after nightfall when we emerged from the door of
the mansion and took our way to the negro quarters. The full moon had
risen half way above the horizon, and the dark pines cast their shadows
around the little collection of negro huts, which straggled about
through the woods for the distance of a third of a mile. It was dark,
but I could distinguish the figure of a man striding along at a rapid
pace a few hundred yards in advance of us.
"Is'nt that Moye?" I asked the Colonel, directing his attention to the
receding figure.
"I reckon so; that's his gait. He's had a lesson to-day that'll do him
good."
"I don't like that man's looks," I replied, carelessly; "but I've heard
of singed cats."
"He _is_ a sneaking d--l," said the Colonel; "but he's very valuable to
me. I never had an overseer who got so much work out of the hands."
"Is he severe with them?"
"Well, I reckon he is; but a nigger is like a dog--you must flog him to
make him like you."
"I judge your niggers haven't been flogged into liking Moye."
"Why, have you heard any of them speak of him?"
"Yes; though, of course, I've made no effort to draw gossip from them. I
had to hear."
"O yes; I know; there's no end to their gabble; niggers will talk. But
what have you heard?"
"That Moye is to blame in this affair of Sam, and that you don't know
the whole story."
"What _is_ the whole story?" he asked, stopping short in the road; "tell
me before I see Sam."
I then told him what Jim had recounted to me. He heard me through
attentively, then laughingly exclaimed:
"Is that all! Lord bless you, he didn't seduce her. There's no seducing
these women; with them it's a thing of course. It was Sam's d-- high
blood that made the trouble. His father was the proudest man in
Virginia, and Sam is as like him as a nigger can be like a white man."
"No matter what the blood is, it seems to me such an injury justifies
revenge."
"Pshaw, my good fellow, you don't know these people. I'll stake my
plantation against a glass of whiskey there's not a virtuous woman with
a drop of black blood in her veins in all South Carolina. They prefer
the white men; their husbands know it, and take it as a matter of
course."
We had here reached the negro cabin. It was one of the more remote of
the collection, and stood deep in the woods, an enormous pine growing up
directly beside the doorway. In all respects it was like the other huts
on the plantation. A bright fire lit up its interior, and through the
crevices in the logs we saw, as we approached, a scene that made us
pause involuntarily, when within a few rods of the house. The mulatto
man, whose clothes were torn and smeared with swamp mud, stood near the
fire. On a small pine table near him lay a large carving-knife, which
glittered in the blaze, as if recently sharpened. His wife was seated on
the side of the low bed at his back, weeping. She was two or three
shades lighter than the man, and had the peculiar brown, kinky hair,
straight, flat nose, and speckled, gray eyes which mark the metif.
Tottling on the floor at the feet of the man, and caressing his knees,
was a child of perhaps two years.
As we neared the house, we heard the voice of the overseer issuing from
the doorway on the other side of the pine-tree.
"Come out, ye black rascal."
"Come in, you wite hound, ef you dar," responded the negro, laying his
hand on the carving-knife.
"Come out, I till ye; I sha'n't ax ye agin."
"I'll hab nuffin' to do wid you. G'way and send your massa har," replied
the mulatto man, turning his face away with a lordly, contemptuous
gesture, that spoke him a true descendant of Pocahontas. This movement
exposed his left side to the doorway, outside of which, hidden from us
by the tree, stood the overseer.
"Come away, Moye," said the Colonel, advancing with me toward the door;
"_I'll_ speak to him."
Before all of the words had escaped the Colonel's lips, a streak of fire
flashed from where the overseer stood, and took the direction of the
negro. One long, wild shriek--one quick, convulsive bound in the
air--and Sam fell lifeless to the floor, the dark life-stream pouring
from his side. The little child also fell with him, and its greasy,
grayish shirt was dyed with its father's blood. Moye, at the distance of
ten feet, had discharged the two barrels of a heavily-loaded shot-gun
directly through the negro's heart.
"You incarnate son of h--," yelled the Colonel, as he sprang on the
overseer, bore him to the ground, and wrenched the shot-gun from his
hand. Clubbing the weapon, he raised it to brain him. The movement
occupied but a second; the gun was descending, and in another instant
Moye would have met Sam in eternity, had not a brawny arm caught the
Colonel's, and, winding itself around his body, pinned his limbs to his
side so that motion was impossible. The woman, half frantic with
excitement, thrust open the door when her husband fell, and the light
which came through it revealed the face of the new-comer. But his voice,
which rang out on the night air as clear as a bugle, had there been no
light, would have betrayed him. It was Scip. Spurning the prostrate
overseer with his foot, he shouted:
"Run, you wite debble, run for your life!"
"Let me go, you black scoundrel," shrieked the Colonel, wild with rage.
"When he'm out ob reach, you'd kill him," replied the negro, as cool as
if he was doing an ordinary thing.
"I'll kill you, you black--hound, if you don't let me go," again
screamed the Colonel, struggling violently in the negro's grasp, and
literally foaming at the mouth.
"I shan't lef you gwo, Cunnel, till you 'gree not to do dat."
The Colonel was a stout, athletic man, in the very prime of life, and
his rage gave him more than his ordinary strength, but Scip held him as
I might have held a child.
"Here, Jim," shouted the Colonel to his body-servant, who just then
emerged from among the trees, "'rouse the plantation--shoot this
d-- nigger."
"Dar aint one on 'em wud touch him, massa. He'd send _me_ to de debble
wid one fist."
"You ungrateful dog," groaned his master. "Mr. K----, will you stand by
and see me handcuffed by a miserable slave?"
"The black means well, my friend; he has saved you from murder. Say he
is safe, and I'll answer for his being away in an hour."
The Colonel made one more ineffectual attempt to free himself from the
vice-like grip of the negro, then relaxing his efforts, and, gathering
his broken breath, he said, "You're safe _now_, but if you're found
within ten miles of my plantation by sunrise, by--you're a dead man."
The negro relinquished his hold, and, without saying a word, walked
slowly away.
"Jim, you--rascal," said the Colonel to that courageous darky, who was
skulking off, "raise every nigger on the plantation, catch Moye, or I'll
flog you within an inch of your life."
"I'll do dat, Cunnel; I'll kotch de ole debble, ef he's dis side de hot
place."
His words were echoed by about twenty other darkies, who, attracted by
the noise of the fracas, had gathered within a safe distance of the
cabin. They went off with Jim, to raise the other plantation hands, and
inaugurate the hunt.
"If that -- nigger hadn't held me, I'd had Moye in -- by this time," said
the Colonel to me, still livid with excitement.
"The law will deal with him, my friend. The negro has saved you from
murder."
"The law be d--; it's too good for such a--hound; and that the d-- nigger
should have dared to hold me--by--he'll rue it."
He then turned, exhausted with the recent struggle, and, with a weak,
uncertain step, entered the cabin. Kneeling down by the dead body of the
negro, he attempted to raise it; but his strength was gone. He motioned
to me to aid him, and we placed the corpse on the bed. Tearing open the
clothing, we wiped away the still flowing blood, and saw the terrible
wound which had sent the negro to his account. It was sickening to look
on, and I turned to go.
The negro woman, who was weeping and wringing her hands, now approached,
and, in a voice nearly choked with sobs, said:
"Massa, oh massa, I done it! it's me dat killed him!"
"I know you did, you d----. Get out of my sight."
"Oh, massa," sobbed the woman, falling on her knees, "I'se so sorry; oh,
forgib me!"
"Go to ----, you ----, that's the place for you," said the Colonel, striking
the kneeling woman with his foot, and felling her to the floor.
Unwilling to see or hear more, I left the master with the slave.
[Footnote D: The "North Counties" are the north-eastern portion of North
Carolina, and include the towns of Washington and Newbern. They are an
old turpentine region, and the trees are nearly exhausted. The finer
virgin forests of South Carolina, and other cotton States, have tempted
many of the North County farmers to emigrate thither, within the past
ten years, and they now own nearly all the trees that are worked in
South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida. They generally have few slaves of
their own, their hands being hired of wealthier men in their native
districts. The "hiring" is an annual operation, and is done at Christmas
time, when the negroes are frequently allowed to go home. They treat the
slaves well, give them an allowance of meat (salt pork or beef), as much
corn as they can eat, and a gill of whiskey daily. No class of men at
the South are so industrious, energetic, and enterprising. Though not so
well informed, they have many of the traits of our New England farmers;
in fact, are frequently called "North Carolina Yankees." It was these
people the overseer proposed to hang. The reader will doubtless think
that "hanging was not good enough for them."]