The night was dark, the rain descended in torrents from the black and
overhanging clouds, and the thunder, accompanied with vivid flashes of
lightning, resounded fearfully, as I entered a negro cabin in South
Carolina. The room was filled with blacks, a group of whom surrounded
a rough board table, and at it sat an old man holding in his hand a
watch, at which all were intently gazing. A stout negro boy held a
torch which lighted up the cabin, and near him stood a Yankee soldier,
in the Union blue, reading the President’s Proclamation of Freedom.
As it neared the hour of twelve, a dead silence prevailed, and the
holder of the time-piece said,--“By de time I counts ten, it will be
midnight an’ de lan’ will be free. One, two, three, four, five, six,
seven, eight, nine,--” just then a loud strain of music came from the
banjo, hanging upon the wall, and at its sound the whole company, as
if by previous arrangement, threw themselves upon their knees, and the
old man exclaimed,--“O, God, de watch was a minit’ too slow, but dy
promises an’ dy mercy is allers in time; dou did promise dat one of dy
angels should come an’ give us de sign, an’ shore ’nuff de sign did
come. We’s grateful, O, we’s grateful, O, Lord, send dy angel once moe
to give dat sweet sound.”
At this point another strain from the banjo was heard, and a sharp
flash of lightning was followed by a clap of thunder, such as is only
heard in the tropics. The negroes simultaneously rose to their feet and
began singing; finishing only one verse, they all fell on their knees,
and Uncle Ben, the old white-haired man, again led in prayer, and such
a prayer as but few outside of this injured race could have given.
Rising to their feet, the leader commenced singing:--
“Oh! breth-er-en, my way, my way’s cloudy, my way,
Go send dem angels down.
Oh! breth-er-en, my way, my way’s cloudy, my way,
Go send dem angels down.
There’s fire in de east an’ fire in de west,
Send dem angels down.
An’ fire among de Methodist,
O, send dem angels down.
Ole Sa-tan’s mad, an’ I am glad,
Send dem angels down.
He missed the soul he thought he had,
O, send dem angels down.
I’ll tell you now as I tole afore,
Send dem angels down.
To de promised lan’ I’m bound to go,
O, send dem angels down.
Dis is de year of Jubilee,
Send dem angels down.
De Lord has come to set us free,
O, send dem angels down.”
One more short prayer from Uncle Ben, and they arose, clasped each
other around the neck, kissed, and commenced shouting, “Glory to God,
we’s free.”
Another sweet strain from the musical instrument was followed by
breathless silence, and then Uncle Ben said, “De angels of de Lord is
wid us still, an’ dey is watching ober us, fer ole Sandy tole us moe
dan a mont ago dat dey would.”
I was satisfied when the first musical strain came, that it was merely
a vibration of the strings, caused by the rushing wind through the
aperture between the logs behind the banjo. Fearing that the blacks
would ascribe the music to some mysterious Providence, I plainly told
them of the cause.
“Oh, no ser,” said Uncle Ben, quickly, his eyes brightening as he
spoke, “dat come fum de angels. We been specken it all de time. We know
the angels struck the strings of de banjo.”
The news of the music from the instrument without the touch of human
hands soon spread through the entire neighborhood, and in a short time
the cabin was jammed with visitors, who at once turned their attention
to the banjo upon the wall.
All sorts of stories were soon introduced to prove that angelic visits
were common, especially to those who were fortunate enough to carry “de
witness.”
“De speret of de Lord come to me lass night in my sleep an’ tole me
dat I were gwine to be free, an’ sed dat de Lord would sen’ one of His
angels down to give me de warnin’. An’ when de banjo sounded, I knowed
dat my bressed Marster were a’ keepin’ His word,” said Uncle Ben.
An elderly woman amongst the visitors, drew a long breath, and declared
that she had been lifted out of her bed three times on the previous
night; “I knowed,” she continued, “dat de angelic hoss was hoverin’
round about us.”
“I dropped a fork to-day,” said another, “an’ it stuck up in de floo’,
right afore my face, an’ dat is allers good luck fer me.”
“De mule kicked at me three times dis mornin’ an’ he never did dat
afore in his life,” said another, “an’ I knowed good luck would come
fum dat.”
“A rabbit run across my path twice as I come fum de branch lass
Saturday, an’ I felt shor’ dat somethin’ mighty was gwine to happen,”
remarked Uncle Ben’s wife.
“I had a sign that showed me plainly that all of you would be free,”
said the Yankee soldier, who had been silent since reading the
proclamation. All eyes were instantly turned to the white man from
the North, and half a dozen voices cried out simultaneously, “O, Mr.
Solger, what was it? what was it? what was it?”
“Well,” said the man in blue, “I saw something on a large white sheet--”
“Was it a goos?” cried Uncle Ben, before the sentence was finished by
the soldier. Uncle Ben’s question about a ghost, started quite a number
to their feet, and many trembled as they looked each other in the
face, and upon the soldier, who appeared to feel the importance of his
position.
Ned, the boy who was holding the torch, began to tell a ghost story,
but he was at once stopped by Uncle Ben, who said, “Shet your mouf,
don’t you see de gentmun ain’t told us what he see in de ‘white sheet?’”
“Well,” commenced the soldier, again, “I saw on a large sheet of paper,
a printed Proclamation from President Lincoln, like the one I’ve just
read, and that satisfied me that you’d all be free to-day.”
Every one was disappointed at this, for all were prepared for a ghost
story, from the first remark about the “white sheet” of paper. Uncle
Ben smiled, looked a little wise, and said, “I speck dat’s a Yankee
trick you’s given us, Mr. Solger.”
The laugh of the man in blue was only stopped by Uncle Ben’s striking
up the following hymn, in which the whole company joined:--
“A storm am brewin’ in de Souf,
A storm am brewin’ now.
Oh! hearken den, and shut your mouf,
And I will tell you how:
And I will tell you how, ole boy,
De storm of fire will pour,
And make de black folks sing for joy,
As dey neber sing afore.
“So shut your mouf as close as deafh,
And all you niggas hole your breafh,
And do de white folks brown!
“De black folks at de Norf am ris,
And dey am comin’ down--
And comin’ down, I know dey is,
To do de white folks brown!
Dey’ll turn ole Massa out to grass,
And set de niggas free,
And when dat day am come to pass
We’ll all be dar to see!
“So shut your mouf as close as deafh,
And all you niggas hole your breafh,
And I will tell you how.
“Den all de week will be as gay
As am de Chris’mas time;
We’ll dance all night and all de day,
And make de banjo chime,
And make de banjo chime, I tink,
And pass de time away,
Wid ’nuf to eat and ’nuf to drink,
And not a bit to pay!
“So shut your mouf as close as deafh,
And all you niggas hole your breafh,
And make de banjo chime.”
However, there was in this company, a man some forty years old, who,
like a large number of the slaves, had been separated in early life
from his relatives, and was now following in the wake of the Union
army, hoping to meet some of those dear ones.
This was Mark Myers. At the age of twenty he fled from Winchester,
Va., and although pursued by bloodhounds, succeeded in making good his
escape. The pursuers returned and reported that Mark had been killed.
This story was believed by all.
Now the war had opened the way, Mark had come from Michigan, as a
servant for one of the officers; Mark followed the army to Harper’s
Ferry, and then went up to Winchester. Twenty years had caused a vast
change, and although born and brought up there, he found but few that
could tell him anything about the old inhabitants.
“Go to an ole cabin at de edge of de town, an’ darh you’ll find ole
Unkel Bob Smart, an’ he know ebbrybody, man an boy, dat’s lived here
for forty years,” said an old woman of whom he inquired. With haste
Mark proceeded to the “ole cabin,” and there he found “Unkel Bob.”
“Yer say yer name is Mark Myers, an’ yer mamma’s name is Nancy,”
responded the old man to the inquiries put to him by Mark.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Well, sonney,” continued Uncle Bob, “de Myers niggers was all sold to
de traders ’bout de beginnin’ ov de war, septin some ov de ole ones dat
dey couldn’t sell, an’ I specks yer mamma is one ov dem dat de traders
didn’t want. Now, sonney, yer go over to de Redman place, an’ it ’pers
to me dat de oman yer’s lookin’ fer is over darh.”
Thanking Uncle Bob, Mark started for the farm designated by the old
man. Arriving there, he was told that “Aunt Nancy lived over yarnder on
de wess road.” Proceeding to the low log hut, he entered, and found the
woman.
“Is this Aunt Nancy Myers?”
“Yes, sar, dis is me.”
“Had you a son named Mark?”
“Yes, dat I did, an’ a good boy he were, poor feller.” And here the old
woman wiped the tears away with the corner of her apron.
“I have come to bring you some good news about him.”
“Good news ’bout who?” eagerly asked the woman.
“Good news about your son Mark.”
“Oh! no; you can’t bring me no good news ’bout my son, septin you bring
it from hebben, fer I feel sartin dat he is darh, fer he suffered nuff
when de dogs killed him, to go to hebben.”
Mark had already recognized his mother, and being unable to longer
conceal the fact, he seized her by the hand and said:
“Mother, don’t you know me? I am your long-lost son Mark.”
Amazed at the sudden news, the woman trembled like a leaf, the tears
flowed freely, and she said:
“My son, Mark, had a deep gash across the bottom of his left foot, dat
he will take wid him to his grave. Ef you is my son, show me de mark.”
As quick almost as thought, Mark pulled off his boot, threw himself on
the floor and held up the foot. The old woman wiped her glasses, put
them on, saw the mark of the deep gash; then she fainted, and fell at
her son’s side.
Neighbors flocked in from the surrounding huts, and soon the cabin was
filled with an eager crowd, who stood in breathless silence to catch
every word that should be spoken. As the old woman revived, and opened
her eyes, she tremblingly said:
“My son, it is you.”
“Yes, mother,” responded the son, “it is me. When I ran away, old
master put the dogs upon my track, but I jumped into the creek, waded
down for some distance, and by that means the dogs lost the scent, and
I escaped from them.”
“Well,” said the old woman, “in my prayers I axed God to permit me to
meet you in hebben, an’ He promised me I should; but He’s bin better
den His promise.”
“Now, mother, I have a home for you at the North, and I have come to
take you to it.”
The few goods worth bringing away from the slave hut were soon packed
up, and ere the darkness had covered the land, mother and son were on
their way to the North.