[Illustration: “Say, Boy! Do you want to hire out?”
_Freed-Boy in Alabama._ Frontispiece. See page 5.]
THE
FREED BOY IN ALABAMA.
BY
ANNE M. MITCHELL,
AUTHOR OF “MARTHA’S GIFT.”
“If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature.”
PHILADELPHIA:
PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION,
1334 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
WM. L. HILDEBURN, TREASURER,
_in trust for the_
PRESBYTERIAN PUBLICATION COMMITTEE,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Eastern District
of Pennsylvania.
WESTCOTT & THOMSON,
Stereotypers, Philada.
THE FREED BOY IN ALABAMA.
CHAPTER I.
“New are the leaves on the oaken spray,
New the blades of the silky grass;
Flowers that were buds but yesterday
Peep from the ground where’er I pass.”
BRYANT.
It was an April day in the South--not windy and blustering, with the
remembrances of March still clinging about it, but warm and lovely,
mild and balmy, with spring beauty and promise of good over everything.
The grass was springing everywhere, and the buds on the trees were
bursting into blossom, and one could gather tender leaves and delicate
sprays of white and hold them with the tender, caressing touch which
we give to all that heralds spring. It was a good day to breathe the
soft, mild air, to be among the growing things and dismiss winter from
the mind; and, above all, it was one of those days when the restless
feeling we all have sometimes returns in full force, and the thought
of coming life and energy in the natural world fills the mind with a
longing to do something more than sit still and enjoy.
All this--not exactly in this form, but the substance of this--with a
restless, unsatisfied feeling, was possessing and fast getting control
of Tom Alson, as he sat on a box in front of a store in Huntsville,
idly tapping one foot after the other against its wooden sides. He had
anything but an ambitious, energetic look, but then Tom never showed
his feelings, and any one gazing at him would hardly have imagined that
at this very moment he was longing to go out into the world and “do
something.”
Certainly the man who came up to him just then had very little idea of
the lofty thought in which Tom was indulging, for he gave him only a
hasty glance before he addressed him.
“Say, boy, want to hire out?” asked the man.
Tom started and roused himself: “I was not thinking of it, sir,” he
replied.
“Well, think of it now, then; I am trying to find boys to work for Mr.
Sutherland on his plantation, about twenty miles out. They are growing
corn and cotton. I’d be glad to have you go; give you six dollars a
month and board.”
“No, sir,” replied Tom; “I think I will not hire out this summer.”
“Oh think again! Six dollars a month is no mean pay, and I’ve a lot of
Huntsville niggers going along.”
“No, sir,” replied Tom again, decidedly, and rising as he spoke, as if
not wishing to continue the conversation.
“What’s to hinder you?” asked the man.
“I am going to school, sir,” returned the boy, knowing that this would
put a stop to the urging; and it was successful, for the man, with a
few coarse words about “niggers and education,” turned suddenly and
walked away, and Tom, with his hands in his pockets, sauntered off in
an opposite direction, whistling.
He came up to his home by and by, and found his sister Martha in a
chair outside the door, busied with some sewing. He sat down on a step
near and watched her swift-moving hand in silence for some minutes,
with his eyes on her work and his thoughts a long way off.
“Has mother come back?” he asked, at length.
“Yes, Tom,” replied Martha, with a little sigh, “but she didn’t succeed
in getting any work. I do not see how we are going to get along. I
think I shall try to see if I can get something to do.”
“I was thinking of that, too,” said Tom. “There’s a man here to-day who
wants hands to go twenty miles out. He wanted me, but I told him ‘No.’”
Martha stitched away in silence.
“I’d go,” said Tom, suddenly, “but there’s the school; I could not give
that up.”
“Not for Jesus, Tom?” asked Martha, looking round with a little smile.
“_Would_ it be for Jesus, Martha,” said Tom, earnestly, “to give up
school and go to work, neglecting my education meanwhile?”
“Think about it, Tom, and remember what Paul did for Jesus.”
Tom did think. The conversation ceased between them entirely, and the
fresh spring breezes came from the South, laden with the breath of
flowers, and passed gently by the two seated before the cabin door, one
of them so busy with his decision.
When Tom, at length, rose and moved off, Martha could not tell his
thought, although she peered anxiously into his face to see if possible
what lay there, but it was unmoved, and he did not meet her look of
inquiry with any return, but passed out of the gate, swinging it after
him, and walking off toward the quarter of the town where his father
was at work. He looked very grave when the two came in together at
dinner-time, and hurried off toward the school-room before his sister
was ready. She watched him a little anxiously all the afternoon, but
the grave, intent face did not once relax its gravity, and the lines of
soberness remained even after the pleasant afternoon session came to a
close. Martha waited for her brother some minutes, with the hope that
she might have one of their customary talks on their way home, but he
did not come away, so she went on alone.
It was not until an hour later, while she was busily weeding the little
garden, that Tom came up and stopped at her side.
“Martha, I’m going,” he said, abruptly.
“Tom! why, Tom--going! when and what for,” she said, starting and
turning round toward him.
“Going to-morrow, Martha, and for Jesus,” he replied, quietly.
Martha turned back again suddenly without remark, and industriously
weeded the springing grass from around the young plants.
Tom waited several minutes, and then spoke again:
“Are you not glad of this, Martha?”
She dropped the shovel with which she had been working, turned toward
him, and lifting her hands to her head in a nervous way, replied, with
quivering lips:
“That I am glad, you know, but oh I shall lose my brother!”
Tom’s eyes fell and his mouth twitched.
“I’ve been to see Miss Mason,” he said, after a minute, “to bid her
good-bye. She says I must send her a letter. That is a great blessing
which we did not always have, Martha--we may write to each other. That
is good.”
“Yes.” Martha knew it as well as Tom, and I think it was the thought
of this more than almost anything else which served to keep them in
some degree of cheerfulness during the remainder of his stay. It was
not long, only so many short hours Martha almost counted the minutes.
It was like Tom to act in a moment when the question of duty came home
to him, and although Martha knew this, yet she had been surprised,
after all, at his sudden acting upon her suggestion. What if Tom should
sicken or be in any want so far from home?--for to Martha the distance
seemed immense. Would she not then be sorry she had ever encouraged
him? But those precious letters! How thankful she felt that she could
write, and that though miles were between them, yet words could pass
from one to the other!
How Tom felt no one knew. He hid his feelings always. Martha was the
only one who ever had a glimpse, and she only now and then. He counted
the cost at every step, yet still he had gone back to his acquaintance
of the morning, and agreed with him to work on the plantation during
the summer. His father had listened, too, when he proposed it, and
although he would have liked to keep his boy at home, yet work was
scarce, and he could not always find means to live; so Tom must go. He
had taken leave of his teacher and the school-room quite calmly, to all
appearance, and no one knew how hard the struggle was to give up all
this for Jesus. Yet it was this thought which kept him up through it
all, and watching Martha’s grave face as she bent over his box placing
his things together, he longed to tell her his source of comfort. But
perhaps he needed it himself more than she did, for to one of his
disposition to go from home and mingle among strangers was very hard,
very much against his will. Yet as he looked at it, he thought perhaps
God had sent him just this trial to make him better, and that he might
have something for him to do for his service in the country. And so his
courage did not quite fail.
How his eyes lingered the next morning upon everything about his home,
trying as he did to impress each little portion of the house-furnishing
upon his memory! It seemed as if he could not lose sight of his sister
Martha’s face. His eyes followed her everywhere. It was almost strange,
the devoted affection which had sprung up between the two; and it was
so hard, just as they were helping one another along the narrow way
through the journey of life, to be obliged to part.
But it came, late in the afternoon--the parting--and was over, and Tom
found himself in the car looking out at the country, green, and fresh,
and beautiful, and trying to realize how long it would be before the
familiar faces would be near him again. Of all Tom’s boy friends there
was but one who was of this company, and he, although a school-mate,
knew Tom only slightly. But he was alone too, and so after a while,
seeing the empty seat beside Tom, he came and sat down.
“How do you think you’ll like it out there?” he asked, as Tom turned
round.
“I have hardly thought,” replied Tom. “I do not know anything about
it.”
“I can tell you a heap then. It’s a big plantation, with quarters for
the hands not far from the house. The master lives in a big, white
mansion, and has charge of the cotton and cornfields. My brother is
there, and he says it’s a pretty good place. Pay is regular, and that’s
the most, you know.”
“Where shall we stay? Do you know?” asked Tom.
“No, I don’t. I ’spects likely we’ll be quartered with some old
auntie or other. I don’t much care. They have jolly times after
hours--breakdowns and dances. Hi! it’s gay fun!”
Tom’s heart sank. He looked out of the window and saw the great trees
with their tops just lighted with the rising moon, heard the shrill
cry of the mocking-bird, and saw the fireflies lighting up the woods
with a thousand tiny lamps. Cool the evening air came across his face,
with the motion of the car hurrying on through one of the most glorious
countries on which the sun shines. Tom saw it all, and loved it for
the sake of Him who made it, but his heart was heavy with the grief of
parting, the sting of poverty which sent him away from home, and the
prospect before him. Very rebellious, very discontented, his thoughts
were for a few minutes, until some old auntie going out with the
company, and who had learned with the experience of years to leave her
burden of care in His hands “who careth for us,” struck up a hymn, and
as the voices one by one joined in with her, until the car was full of
the melody which floated out upon the evening air among the moss-laden
trees, Tom’s head sank and rested upon the seat in front, and the tears
came--tears of penitence and joy--as he listened:
“Oh God’s got a plenty for all of his children--
Sit all around God’s table;
For God’s got plenty for all his children--
Sit all around God’s table.”
There was a prayer for help and courage as Tom listened, and after it
was finished his head was lifted with new resolve. He was immediately
attacked again by the boy at his side.
“You went to see Miss Mason yesterday, did you not?” he demanded.
“Yes,” replied Tom, with a softened remembrance of the words of
kindliness and cheer given him by his teacher. “Yes, I did; I went to
bid her good-bye. How did you know?”
“Because I went myself, and she told me you were of the company. She
said you would help me get along.”
“I will, all that I can,” replied Tom.
“She said you had got religion. Is that so?”
Tom gave an instant’s glance out into the night again. “It is ‘known
of me,’ then,” he thought; and finally said, with a little smile which
showed more than anything else could have done the value that religion
was to him, “I love the Lord Jesus.”
“I don’t think you and I will do for each other,” said the boy, a
little mystified by Tom’s smile and moving uneasily in his seat. “I am
up to all sorts of shines.”
“I think we’ll do very nicely for one another,” replied Tom, brightly,
seeing, with joy, part of the Master’s work already at his hands. “We
are school-mates, you know, and both love to study; that ought to make
us friends if nothing else does. We will work together in the evenings.”
The boy roused instantly, and they fell into earnest talk of the
ways and means for study, the lessons they had already learned, the
remembrance of happy school-hours, and a thousand other things which to
these boys, who until lately had never known the joys of school-life,
were the brightest spots in their existence.
So the miles were passed over, and the beautiful Southern country left
behind: the short journey--so long to many--was accomplished, and at
a little station-house, within about a mile of the plantation, they
were at length set down, fifty souls in all, and took up their line
of march. Tom and his friend Jimmy Harrison walked on silently with
the rest. The final landing at the station had not been pleasant. The
agent who had them in charge was not kind, and the people were feeling
very unpleasantly. Tom had rather better control of himself than the
rest, for with the first shock and rebellious thoughts, as the words
of harshness and anger fell upon his ears, his soul went up to God
in a prayer for patience and strength, to keep down any feelings of
unkindness. Then turning to Jimmy, whose quick temper had been roused
by the rough treatment, with a few gentle kindly words of encouragement
he put his arm through his, and led him forward in the line of march.
And long afterward, when the summer breezes would bring to him the cool
fragrant breath of plants and growing flowers, he was always reminded
of this first night, when the work which he longed to do for Jesus
commenced; and knowing the blessed influence which followed all through
that long, hard summer, he ever after thanked God and took courage.
[Illustration]