Summer is over; the nights grow chill, and the autumnal tints,
beginning to glow upon the hillsides, tell the low-country folk that
the time draws near for the yearly flitting to their plantation homes.
The planter, who passes the hot season amid the breezy uplands, begins
to think of his whitening cotton fields, and grows impatient for the
frost, which must fall ere the family may venture into the land of
swamps and agues. He looks out upon the flower-beds, glowing with life
and quivering in the sunshine, and listens to the incessant
shrill-voiced cicada piping from the tree-tops, while the
insect-drone, in the heated, languid air, seems to speak of an
unending summer; but as "all things come to him who waits," so at
length come the frosts to the planter.
The week preceding the departure is a busy one, embracing, along with
the numberless good-byes, many important afterthoughts in the way of
providing the necessities required in the isolated home, where shops
are unknown. At length, however, the great boxes are closed, and stand
ready for the daylight start of the wagon; the bird-cage, the basket
of kittens, and the puppy are also committed by the children to "Ung
Jack," the teamster, who, with the broadest of smiles, promises
"little missis" and the "little masters" to take the best of care of
them.
Giving the baggage a day's start, the family's departure takes place
on the day following. After an early breakfast, Mammy and the younger
children bundle into the big carriage, mother and the rest of the
little mob follow in the _barouche_, while papa, who abhors the
confinement of a carriage, follows on horseback. Although the animal
which he bestrides is a noble specimen of his kind, still it must be
confessed that papa does not present a jaunty appearance as he jogs
soberly along; and yet, as he sits easily swaying in the saddle, there
is about him a careless grace which marks the natural horseman.
Three days are consumed upon the journey. It might be made in less
time; but the party prefer to take it easily, and at midday make a
halt by a running stream, where, seated upon a fallen log or mossy
bank, they open their well-stored baskets, and dine. The horses utter
impatient whinnies as their drivers dip their buckets into the
sparkling water of the little stream, and, when these are lifted to
their heads, thirstily thrust their muzzles into the cool depths, and
drink long and deeply of the refreshing draughts.
At sunset, the tired little ones begin to look out for the white
chimneys of old John Tayler's wayside inn, where they are to pass the
night. This house has, for generations, been the halting-place for
planters' families. Tayler's grandfather and his father have
entertained bygone generations; and so it is not strange that when the
little cortege draw up before the old piazza, and the red light from
the pine blaze streams out from the open door, not only old John, but
his wife and two elderly daughters stand with beaming faces to give
the travelers a hearty greeting, kindly to usher them into the
carpetless room and seat them upon the stiff "split-bottomed" chairs.
While the women busy themselves in getting supper, old John talks
crops and politics to his guests, who, on their part, calmly accept
the discomforts of the little inn as one of the unalterable laws of
nature, without any idea of the possibility of improvement, swallow
without complaint the nauseous coffee, and rest philosophically under
the home-made sheets and blankets, feebly wondering that so much
weight should contain so little warmth.
When supper is over, the women throw a fresh torch upon the fire, and,
as it crackles up the wide chimney, and sends its red light and sweet
odors over the room, they set themselves to their tasks of picking the
seeds from the "raw cotton," for, being famous spinners and weavers,
they disdain that which has had its staples torn by the teeth of the
gin.
Upon the second day, the party leave the hills, now gorgeous in their
autumnal brilliancy, the rocky roads, and the swiftly running streams
of the up-country, and enter the lonely region where the great
turpentine trees rear their lofty crests, and interminable sandy roads
stretch away into dimness between columns of stately pines whose lofty
tops make solemn music to the sighing wind.
The third day finds them in "The Slashes," a desolate region inhabited
by squatters. As they jolt over corduroy roads between pools of
stagnant waters, the travelers look out wearily upon a sparse growth
of gallberry and scrub-pine. Now and then they pass the solitary hut
of a charcoal-burner, surrounded by its little patch of meagre corn; a
pack of cur dogs rush out and bark fiercely, within the safe limits of
the wattle fence surrounding the premises; white-headed children gaze
from the doorways at the passing carriages.
At the last settlement which they pass, a woman and a small,
pale-faced boy are gathering in their corn crop. They are the wife and
son of Bolin Brazle, an idle but good-natured vagabond, who spends
his days scraping upon his fiddle up at the store, or occasionally,
upon the promise of a drink, lending a hand in rafting tar-barrels. In
consequence of the presentation of a worn-out mule, Bolin swears by
the planter, wants to run him for the presidency, and obstinately
refuses to receive pay for his charcoal. The matter is finally
arranged by a barrel of corn being sent as a present whenever a load
of charcoal is needed.
Soon after leaving the "Slashes," a huddle of houses standing
irregularly in a grove of magnificent oaks comes into view. In passing
the one which does double duty as store and post-office, the
travellers look at it with the realization that it is the connecting
link with the outside world, as from it the bi-weekly mail is
dispensed. Inside, some one (Brazle, no doubt) is scraping a lively
jig upon his fiddle; on the long piazza men, lounging in chairs tilted
against the wall, take off their hats to the carriages as they roll
by. The planter draws his rein for a little friendly greeting, and the
men, squirting tobacco juice, stand around and lazily report the
country-side news as to the opening of the cotton, the state of the
river, etc. Even the screech of the fiddle has died away.
The long descents of the ferry hill commence, and the carriages roll
pleasantly between deeply wooded banks. The approach to the river is
marked by long rows of tar-barrels awaiting shipment, or rather
rafting. From this point the road has become a sort of concrete from
years of leakage from the tar-barrels. The children shriek with joy as
the carriages come to a stop, and, craning their heads out, they
behold the great tawny river in all its majesty. The repeated
hallooings for the ferryman are at length responded to from far
upstream. The old scamp is off fishing, and the party seek the shade,
where a spring of clear water bubbles from a bank. While the children
are drinking copious draughts, the parents stroll off and take a
woodland path, which, after many a twist and turn amid thickets of
sweet myrtle and purple-berried Bermuda Shrub, brings them to the
summit of "The Bluff."
Standing there, they look down upon the river, two hundred feet
below. Upon the further side lie fields, all brown and golden in the
sunshine, level and limitless; they stretch into the purple dimness
where cypress trees loom upon the horizon, their flat tops mingling
dreamily with the soft autumnal hazes. Far away, amid the sun-bathed
fields, stand the trees which shelter the plantation home, whose
chimneys and white gables are scarce visible save where a stray
sunbeam falls upon them.
"So to the Jews fair Canaan stood,
While Jordan rolled between,"
murmured the mother, as she glanced at her husband, to whom she knew
the lands spread before them were, by inheritance and long
association, far dearer than could be measured by the mere money
value.
Descending again to the ferry, they find the carriage already in the
flat, and the children scarce restrained by Mammy from crossing
without their elders. They draw deep breaths of delight as they watch
old Bartley, with active limp, loosen the chain, and, planting his
iron-shod pole deep into the grating sands, send the flat upstream;
then, at a given point, they watch with intense admiration his skill
in taking the sweeps and shooting swiftly to the other side.
The horses know that they are near home, and prick up their ears, and
go briskly onward. Scarcely a quarter of a mile is gone before the
buildings of the "lower plantation" come into view,--a row of cabins
built irregularly upon the highest points straggle along the river
banks. Each cabin has its little garden with its row of coleworts and
its beehives, or perhaps a pumpkin or two shows its yellow sides amid
the withered vines. Outside the cabins, fish-nets are hung to dry, and
from within comes the sleepy drone of a spinning-wheel; about the
doorstep hens are scratching, while from around the corner a cluster
of little woolly heads peep out shyly.
Standing in the mellow sunlight, amid fields of ripening corn, with
the river gently flowing between levees of such strength as to set
floods at defiance, these cabins seem the very embodiment of peaceful
security; the high piles, though, upon which they stand, are rather
suggestive, and give a hint of what the now peacefully flowing stream
is capable of when roused.
A story is told of an old negro who obstinately refused to leave his
house at a time when the unusually high water made it necessary to
remove the people to a place of greater security. The rafts were
ready, and the people, scared and anxious, had left their houses, and
now only wailed for old Todge, who, with mulish persistence, refused
to be moved. At length, unable to persuade him, and afraid to wait
longer, they poled the rafts away. For the first few hours Todge got
on very well. He had plenty of provisions, and, as for the isolation,
he did not care for it. By and by the water began to make its
appearance upon his hearth, and, before long, his little bank of coal,
upon which his bread was baking, began to sizzle, and soon became a
moist and blackened heap. Todge, however, was not imaginative, and
when night fell, he lay down upon his bed and slept without fear; that
is, he slept until his bed began to float, then he awoke and groped
his way neck deep in water until he found his ladder and managed by it
to climb up into his loft, where he sat shivering, till suddenly he
felt the cabin give a lurch, and the water rushed in. It had been
lifted clear off the piles, and when it should settle down poor Todge
would be caught like a rat in a hole. It was settling fast, and the
water was gurgling into poor Todge's ears, when, in desperation, he
made a bolt at the roof, and, using his head as a battering ram,
succeeded in knocking a hole in it, through which he contrived to
creep out. Luckily, the point of the chimney was not quite submerged,
and Todge was rescued in the course of the following day.
The road, following the winding of the river, is bordered by giant
trees from whose branches the gray moss waves dreamily, while leaves
of palest yellow drop and silently float through the still air until
they fall into the stream. In the fields, the corn-gatherers pause to
doff their hats and smile their welcome. Ere long the barns and
workshops of the upper plantation become visible. The tall gables and
chimneys of the great house glisten in the sunlight. They pass the
little church, with its bell half hidden amid the brown leaves of the
great oak from which it dangles; from cabin chimneys, half hidden in
trees, thin columns of smoke ascend and mingle with the soft blue sky.
At the open gate, a broadly smiling dusky group stands with welcome
depicted upon every face. Hearty handshakes of real affection are
exchanged, while the children are being hugged, caressed, laughed
over, and extolled for their growth and beauty. The master and
mistress pass under the trees, whose long shadows rest upon the soft,
green grass between streams of sunshine. The old piazza, gilded into
brightness, smiles a welcome home.