A rude cabin, in a lone wood, far from any neighbors, was granted to
our freed friends, as the only assistance they were now to expect.
Bomefree, from this time, found his poor needs hardly supplied, as his
new providers were scarce able to administer to their own wants.
However, the time drew near when things were to be decidedly worse
rather than better; for they had not been together long, before Betty
died, and shortly after, Caesar followed her to 'that bourne from
whence no traveller returns'-leaving poor James again desolate, and
more helpless than ever before; as, this time, there was no kind family
in the house, and the Ardinburghs no longer invited him to their homes.
Yet, lone, blind and helpless as he was, James for a time lived on.
One day, an aged colored woman, named Soan, called at his shanty, and
James besought her, in the most moving manner, even with tears, to
tarry awhile and wash and mend him up, so that he might once more be
decent and comfortable; for he was suffering dreadfully with the filth
and vermin that had collected upon him.
Soan was herself an emancipated slave, old and weak, with no one to
care for her; and she lacked the courage to undertake a job of such
seeming magnitude, fearing she might herself get sick, and perish there
without assistance; and with great reluctance, and a heart swelling
with pity, as she afterwards declared, she felt obliged to leave him in
his wretchedness and filth. And shortly after her visit, this faithful
slave, this deserted wreck of humanity, was found on his miserable
pallet, frozen and stiff in death. The kind angel had come at last,
and relieved him of the many miseries that his fellow-man had heaped
upon him. Yes, he had died, chilled and starved, with none to speak a
kindly word, or do a kindly deed for him, in that last dread of hour of
need!
The news of his death reached the ears of John Ardinburgh, a grandson
of the old Colonel; and he declared that 'Bomefree, who had ever been a
kind and faithful slave, should now have a good funeral.' And now,
gentle reader, what think you constituted a good funeral? Answer-some
black paint for the coffin, and-a jug of ardent spirits! What a
compensation for a life of toil, of patient submission to repeated
robberies of the most aggravated kind, and, also, far more than
murderous neglect!! Mankind often vainly attempts to atone for
unkindness or cruelty to the living, by honoring the same after death;
but John Ardinburgh undoubtably meant his pot of paint and jug of
whisky should act as an opiate on his slaves, rather than on his own
seared conscience.