THE RETURN.
Moye had not been seen or heard of, and the Colonel's trip was
fruitless. While at Wilmington he sent telegrams, directing the
overseer's arrest, to the various large cities of the South, and then
decided to return home, make arrangements preliminary to a protracted
absence from the plantation, and proceed at once to Charleston, where he
would await replies to his dispatches. Andy agreed with him in the
opinion that Moye, in his weak state of health, would not take an
overland route to the free states, but would endeavor to reach some town
on the Mississippi, where he might dispose of the horse, and secure a
passage up the river.
As no time was to be lost, we decided to return to the plantation on the
following morning. Accordingly, with the first streak of day we bade
"good-bye" to our Union friend, and started homeward.
No incident worthy of mention occurred on the way, till about ten
o'clock, when we arrived at the house of the Yankee schoolmistress,
where we had been so hospitably entertained two days before. The lady
received us with great cordiality, forced upon us a lunch to serve our
hunger on the road, and when we parted, enjoined on me to leave the
South at the earliest possible moment. She was satisfied it would not
for a much longer time be safe quarters for a man professing Union
sentiments. Notwithstanding the strong manifestations of loyalty I had
observed among the people, I was convinced the advice of my pretty
"countrywoman" was judicious, and I determined to be governed by it.
Our horses, unaccustomed to lengthy journeys, had not entirely recovered
from the fatigues of their previous travel, and we did not reach our
destination till an hour after dark. We were most cordially welcomed by
Madam P----, who soon set before us a hot supper, which, as we were
jaded by the long ride, and had fasted for twelve hours, on
bacon-sandwiches and cold hoe-cake, was the one thing needful to us.
While seated at the table the Colonel asked:
"Has every thing gone right, Alice, since we left home?"
"Every thing," replied the lady, "except"--and she hesitated, as if she
dreaded the effect of the news; "except that Jule and her child have
gone."
"Gone!" exclaimed my host; "gone where?"
"I don't know. We have searched everywhere, but have found no clue to
them. The morning you left Sam set Jule at work among the pines; she
tried hard, but could not do a full task, and at night was taken to the
cabin to be whipped. I heard of it, and forbade it. It did not seem to
me that she ought to be punished for not doing what she had not strength
to do. When released from the cabin, she came and thanked me for having
interfered for her, and talked with me awhile. She cried and took on
fearfully about Sam, and was afraid you would punish her when you
returned. I promised you would not, and she left me seeming more
cheerful. I supposed she would go directly home after getting her child
from the nurse's quarters; but it appears she went to Pompey's, where
she staid till after ten o'clock. Neither she nor the child have been
seen since."
"Did you get no trace of her in the morning?"
"Yes, but soon lost it. When she did not appear at work, Sam went to her
cabin to learn the cause, and found the door open, and her bed
undisturbed. She had not slept there. Knowing that Sandy had returned, I
sent for him, and, with Jim and his dog, he commenced a search. The dog
tracked her directly from Pompey's cabin to the bank of the run near the
lower still. There all trace of her disappeared. We dragged the stream,
but discovered nothing. Jim and Sandy then scoured the woods for miles
in all directions, but the hound could not recover the trail. I hope
otherwise, but I fear some evil has befallen her."
"Oh, no! there's no fear of that," said the Colonel: "she is smart: she
waded up the run far enough to baffle the dog, and then made for the
swamp. That is why you lost her tracks at the stream. Rely upon it, I am
right: but she shall not escape me."
We shortly afterward adjourned to the library. After being seated there
a while the Colonel, rising quickly, as if a sudden thought had struck
him, sent for the old preacher.
The old negro soon appeared, hat in hand, and taking a stand near the
door, made a respectful bow to each one of us.
"Take a chair, Pompey," said Madam P----, kindly.
The black meekly seated himself, when the Colonel asked: "Well, Pomp,
what do you know about Jule's going off?"
"Nuffin', massa--I shures you, nuffin'. De pore chile say nuffin to ole
Pomp 'bout dat."
"What did she say?"
"Wal, you see, massa, de night arter you gwo 'way, and arter she'd
worked hard in de brush all de day, and been a strung up in de ole cabin
fur to be whipped, she come ter me wid har baby in har arms, all a-faint
and a-tired, and har pore heart clean broke, and she say dat she'm jess
ready ter drop down and die. Den I tries ter comfut har, massa; I takes
har up from de floor, and I say ter har dat de good Lord He pity
har--dat He woant bruise de broken reed, and woant put no more on her
dan she kin b'ar--dat He'd touch you' heart, and I toled har you'se a
good, kine heart at de bottom, massa--and I knows it, 'case I toted you
'fore you could gwo, and when you's a bery little chile, not no great
sight bigger'n har'n, you'd put your little arms round ole Pomp's neck,
and say dat when you war grow'd up you'd be bery kine ter de pore brack
folks, and not leff 'em be 'bused like dey war in dem days."
"Never mind what _you_ said," interrupted the Colonel, a little
impatiently, but showing no displeasure; "what did _she_ say?"
"Wal, massa, she tuk on bery hard 'bout Sam, and axed me ef I raaily
reckoned de Lord had forgib'n him, and took'n him ter Heself, and gibin'
him one o' dem hous'n up dar, in de sky. I toled her dat I _know'd_ it;
but she say it didn't 'pear so ter har, 'case Sam had a been wid har out
dar in de woods, all fru de day; dat she'd a _seed_ him, massa, and
dough he handn't a said nuffin', he'd lukd at har wid sech a sorry,
grebed luk, dat it gwo clean fru har heart, till she'd no strength leff,
and fall down on de ground a'most dead. Den she say big Sam come 'long
and fine har dar, and struck har great, heaby blows wid de big whip!"
"The brute!" exclaimed the Colonel, rising from his chair, and pacing
rapidly up and down the room.
"But p'r'aps he warn't so much ter blame, massa," continued the old
negro, in a deprecatory tone; "maybe he 'spose she war shirkin' de work.
Wal, den she say she know'd nuffin' more, till byme-by, when she come
to, and fine big Sam dar, and he struck har agin, and make har gwo ter
de work; and she did gwo, but she feel like as ef she'd die. I toled har
de good ma'am wudn't leff big Sam 'buse har no more 'fore you cum hum,
and dat you'd hab 'passion on har, and not leff har gwo out in de woods,
but put har 'mong de nusses, like as afore.
"Den she say it 'twarn't de work dat trubble har--dat she orter work,
and orter be 'bused, 'case she'd been bad, bery bad. All she axed war
dat Sam would forgib har, and cum to har in de oder worle, and tell har
so. Den she cried, and tuk on awful; but de good Lord, massa, dat am so
bery kine ter de bery wuss sinners, He put de words inter my mouf, and I
tink dey gib har comfut, fur she say dat it sort o' 'peared to har den
dat Sam _would_ forgib har, and take har inter his house up dar, and she
warn't afeard ter die no more.
"Den she takes up de chile and gwo 'way, 'pearin' sort o' happy, and
more cheerful like dan I'd a seed har eber sense pore Sam war shot."
My host was sensibly affected by the old man's simple tale, but
continued pacing up and down the room, and said nothing.
"It's plain to me, Colonel," I remarked, as Pompey concluded, "she has
drowned herself and the child--the dog lost the scent at the creek."
"Oh, no!" he replied; "I think not. I never heard of a negro committing
suicide--they've not the courage to do it."
"I fear she _has_, David," said the lady. "The thought of going to Sam
has led her to it; yet, we dragged the run, and found nothing. What do
you think about it, Pompey?"
"I dunno, ma'am, but I'se afeard of dat; and now dat I tinks ob it, I'se
afeard dat what I tole har put har up ter it," replied the old preacher,
bursting into tears. "She 'peared so happy like, when I say she'd be
'long wid Sam in de oder worle, dat I'se afeard she's a gone and done
it wid har own hands. I tole har, too, dat de Lord would oberlook good
many tings dat pore sinners do when dey can't help 'emselfs--and it make
har do it! Oh! it make har do it!" and the old black buried his face in
his hands, and wept bitterly.
"Don't feel so, Pomp," said his master, _very_ kindly. "You did the best
you could; no one blames you."
"I knows _you_ doant, massa--I knows you doant, and you'se bery good
nottur--but oh! massa, de Lord!" and his body swayed to and fro with the
great grief; "I fears de Lord do, massa, for I'se sent har ter Him wid
har own blood, and de blood of dat pore innercent chile, on har hands.
Oh, I fears de Lord neber'll forgib me--neber'll forgib me for _dat_."
"He will, my good Pomp--He will!" said the Colonel, laying his hand
tenderly on the old man's shoulder. "The Lord will forgive you, for the
sake of the Christian example you've set your master, if for nothing
else;" and here the proud, strong man's feelings overpowering him, his
tears fell in great drops on the breast of the old slave, as they had
fallen there in his childhood.
Such scenes are not for the eye of a stranger, and turning away, I left
the room.