Another case that seemed more threatening than the last mentioned,
occurred soon after in the county of G----. I was on my way to meet a
Sabbath appointment. About two o’clock I came to a river which was much
swollen by the late rains. The man who kept the ferry-boat lived on the
opposite side of the river, where some four or five men were pitching
quoits and making a great noise. I called a number of times before they
even condescended to answer me; and when they did answer, it was with
curses, telling me they would come when they were ready. I had then
sixteen miles to go to B----, the place where I expected to lodge. They
kept me waiting two hours before they came with the boat, consequently
it was late when I got over. They were drunk and very profane, charged
me four prices, and cursed me for troubling them. I gave them some
tracts, and the best advice I could.
Soon after I met two women: one seemed to be about thirty, and the
other sixty years old. I offered them some tracts, which they at first
declined, for fear I might be the sheriff. Neither knew a letter, or
could tell who was the Saviour of sinners.
Soon after I passed them a terrible rain came on, and the roads were
so deep my horse could scarcely draw my buggy. I saw night would soon
overtake me, and the prospect of lodging looked unfavorable. I stopped
at a cabin by the roadside to inquire the way, and leave some tracts.
A man came out who looked as if he was ready for any crime, and came
right up to my buggy, and began to look in with a scrutinizing eye. He
either could not or would not give me any satisfaction about the road.
After an earnest exhortation about his soul, I gave him Baxter’s Call.
All the conduct of the man was of a very suspicious character.
It was now late, and raining hard, and in a little time would be very
dark. I drove on as fast as possible, until it began to get quite dark,
when I met a man on the road walking; whether he was a white man or
not, I could not tell. I stopped him to inquire if there was any place
near where I could lodge. He immediately began to examine the inside of
my buggy as fully as the darkness would permit. He told me there was a
man on the other bank of the creek, about half a mile ahead of me, who
kept lodgers, and that it was a good place to stop. I handed him a book
and thanked him, and drove on, he following a short distance, asking me
questions which were not calculated to allay my anxiety.
I soon reached the creek, which seemed to be very high and rapid, and
it was so dark I could see no object on the other side of it. The road
entered by a narrow ravine, and there was no way to back out. I lifted
my heart to God for protection, and drove in. In a moment the water was
up in my buggy, but thanks to God, I got through safely, and in a few
moments my horse was standing by the door of a miserable cabin.
I called, and a man came out with a torch of pine-knots in his hand. He
was both dirty and ragged. I asked him where the man lived that kept
lodgers. “Oh,” said he, “I am the man that keeps tavern here.” My
prospects were bad, but I could get no further. I asked him to put up
my tired horse and feed him. He had no stable but a rail-pen, no feed
but some sheaves of green wheat. He took me to another cabin about
fifty yards distant, that was as dark as a dungeon, except so far as
his torch gave us light. Although it was warm, I requested him to make
me a fire, which he did with reluctance.
After some time I was invited to the first cabin to supper. The man and
his wife and children, as well as the supper, were all dirty in the
extreme. I attempted to eat, but in vain. As soon as the man finished
his meal, we returned to the other cabin, where I conversed with him.
He was a total stranger to the simplest truths of the Bible.
I asked him if he knew any thing of the celebrated Lucas family of that
county. “Oh yes,” said he, “they live all round here. Did you not meet
a man as you came along to-night about the top of the hill over the
creek?” I said yes. “Well, that was one of them, and I wonder they let
you pass so late in the evening. That one, and the one that lived in
the house you last passed were the two implicated in killing the man
for which one of their uncles was hung at Giles court-house, and if
I had given in my testimony, they would have been hung too; and I am
afraid they will kill me, because I know all about it.”
By this time I was considerably alarmed. The conclusion I came
to was that they were all linked together, and that I was in the
slaughter-house.
I then inquired all about old Randal Lucas, who was the father of two
that had been hung, and some others that were in prison, and was the
grandfather of the two he had just been telling me about. He gave me a
full history of the old man, much of which cannot be told. “But,” said
he, “such a man you never saw. He is ninety years old. When he puts on
a suit of clothes, he never takes it off till it is worn out. In the
winter he lies in the ashes, and in the summer he lies down in the mire
like a hog.” This is confirmed in Howe’s History of Virginia, which
relates how he sat under the gallows eating gingerbread while his sons
were hung. I refer the reader to that history for an account of this
wonderful man and his family.
The manner in which he told the whole story was any thing but pleasant
to me. He began to get sleepy, and told me he would hold the pine-light
while I got into bed up on the _loft_, as he called it. The only way
to get up was by a ladder made of a pole split in two, with rounds put
into it. I climbed up, and he followed me with the torch. As soon as I
got to the bed over the loose boards that covered the floor, and found
an old split-bottom chair, which I expected to use in self-defence
before morning, I told him to withdraw.
I lay down without undressing, after committing my soul, family, and
all my interests to God, without much hope of seeing the light of
another day. No one occupied the house but myself as a bedroom. I kept
watch till morning, and when any unpleasant sound was heard, I made
noise enough to let any one approaching know that I was awake.
As soon as it was light I was up to see to my poor horse, which was
standing in mud and water six inches deep, without food. After getting
him some more green wheat in the sheaf, and a little corn bread for
myself, and talking and praying with the family, I left them. I cannot
say whether there was any intention to rob me or take my life. I hope
there was not.
When I was about two miles on my way, and was rising a mountain where
the road was scarcely six inches wider than my buggy, a man met me,
riding a poor old horse without a saddle, all in rags and dirt, with
nothing on him but remnants of a torn shirt and pants, with a rope tied
round his waist, and a bottle of whiskey in his bosom. Such a looking
piece of humanity I had never seen before. In a moment I concluded
this is certainly old Randal Lucas. I saw he could not pass me on that
narrow road, and I determined to have a full talk with him. When we met
he tried to keep the upper side of the road, and get between my horse
and the steep bank.
“Good morning, sir,” said I. “Good morning,” said he, in a very
unnatural tone of voice. “Don’t you want some good books to read this
morning?” “No, I don’t want any; I can’t read.” “Do you go to church?”
“No, I don’t care about church.” “Well, sir,” said I, “you are an old
man and must soon go to the other world.” “Yes, I am ninety years old.”
“Is it possible,” said I, “you are so old?” “Yes, I can prove it.”
“You would find but few witnesses to prove that by.” “Well, I can swear
it then.” “Well, sir,” said I, “what do you think will become of you
when you die?” “O well, I _doesn’t_ care any thing about that.” “Can
you tell me who is the Saviour of sinners?” “I don’t know any thing of
_them_ things.” “Well, sir, who made you?” “Why, I suppose it was God
Almighty.” “What is your name, sir?” “Randal Lucas.” “Well,” said I,
“I thought so,” straightening myself with a determined look. “Well,
sir, you say you don’t go to church, and I must tell you in the name of
my Master, that if you don’t repent you will soon be in hell. I have
read and heard of you, sir, for years, and you stand on the brink of
eternal burnings, and your soul stained with every crime that a man
could commit.” He began to look frightened, and tried to pass me; but I
kept my position, and for some minutes laid down the terrors of the law
in the strongest language I could use, and then gave him some little
books and tracts. He trembled like an aspen leaf.
A few weeks afterwards he took up the idea that he was soon to die, got
a coffin made, tried it to see if it would fit, paid for it, and set it
up in his cabin--sent for a preacher, told him he was going to die and
did not know what would become of him, and asked him to pray for him;
offered him fifty cents, and said, “Pray on till my money is done.” The
money was of course refused. In a few days the poor wretch died as he
had lived, leaving a host of children the descendants of unnatural and
brutal connection.