The huge stature of the black--his determined attitude--the sullen glare
of his lurid bloodshot eyes, set in a look of desperate resolve--the
white gleaming file-pointed teeth--rendered him a terrible object to
behold. Under other circumstances I might have dreaded an encounter
with such a hideous-looking adversary--for an _adversary_ I deemed him.
I remembered the flogging I had given him with my whip, and I had no
doubt that _he_ remembered it too. I had no doubt that he was now upon
his errand of revenge instigated partly by the insult I had put upon
him, and partly set on by his cowardly master. He had been dogging me
through the forest--all the day, perhaps--waiting for an opportunity to
execute his purpose.
But why had he run away from me? Was it because he feared to attack me
openly. Certainly it was--he feared my double-barrelled gun!
But I had been asleep. He might have approached me then--he might
have--Ha!
This ejaculation escaped my lips, as a singular thought flashed into my
mind. The Bambarra was a "snake-charmer"--I had heard so--could handle
the most venomous serpents at rail--could guide and direct them! Was it
not he who had guided the _crotalus_ to where I lay--who had caused me
to be bitten?
Strange as it may appear, this supposition at that moment crossed my
mind, and seemed probable; nay, more--I actually _believed it_. I
remembered that I had been struck with a peculiarity about the reptile--
its weird look--the superior cunning exhibited in its mode of escape--
and not less peculiar the fact of its having stung me unprovoked--a rare
thing for the rattlesnake to do! All these points rushing
simultaneously into my mind, produced the conviction that for the fatal
wound on my wrist I was indebted, not to chance, but to Gabriel the
snake-charmer!
Not half the time I have been telling you of it--not the tenth nor the
hundredth part of the time, was I in forming this horrid conviction. It
was done with the rapidity of thought--the more rapid that every
circumstance guiding to such a conclusion was fresh in my memory. In
fact the black had not changed his attitude of menace, nor I mine of
surprise at recognising him, until all these thoughts had passed through
my mind!
Almost with equal rapidity was I disabused of the singular delusion. In
another minute I became aware that my suspicions were unjust. I had
been wronging the man who stood before me.
All at once his attitude changed. His uplifted arm fell by his side;
the expression of fierce menace disappeared; and in as mild a tone as
his rough voice was capable of giving utterance to, he said--
"Oh! you mass'--brack man's friend! Dam! thought 'twar da cussed Yankee
driber!"
"And was that why you ran from me?"
"Ye, mass'; ob course it war."
"Then you are--"
"Am runaway; ye, mass', jes so--runaway. Don't mind tell you. Gabr'el
truss you--He know you am poor nigga's friend. Look-ee-dar."
As he uttered this last phrase, he pulled off the scanty copper-coloured
rag of a shirt that covered his shoulders, and bared his back before my
eyes!
A horrid sight it was. Besides the _fleur-de-lis_ and many other old
brands, there were sears of more recent date. Long wales, purple-red
and swollen, traversed the brown skin in every direction, forming
perfect network. Here they were traceable by the darker colour of the
extravasatod blood, while there the flesh itself lay bare, where it had
been exposed to some prominent fold of the spirally-twisted cowskin.
The old shirt itself was stained with black blotches that had once been
red--the blood that had oozed out during the infliction! The sight
sickened me, and called forth the involuntary utterance--
"Poor fellow!"
This expression of sympathy evidently touched the rude heart of the
Bambarra.
"Ah, mass'!" he continued, "you flog me with hoss-whip--dat nuff'n!
Gabr'l bress you for dat. He pump water on ole Zip _'gainst him will_--
glad when young mass' druv im way from de pump."
"Ha! you were forced to it, then?"
"Ye, mass', forced by da Yankee driber. Try make me do so odder time.
I 'fuse punish Zip odder time--dat's why you see dis yeer--dam!"
"You were flogged for refusing to punish Scipio?"
"Jes so, mass' Edwad; 'bused, as you see; but--" here the speaker
hesitated, while his face resumed its fierce expression; "but,"
continued he, "I'se had rebenge on de Yankee--dam!"
"What?--revenge? What have you done to him?"
"Oh, not much, mass'. Knock im down; he drop like a beef to de axe.
Dat's some rebenge to poor nigga. Beside, I'se a runaway, _an' dat's
rebenge_! Ha! ha! Dey lose good nigga--good hand in de cotton-feel--
good hand among de cane. Ha! ha!"
The hoarse laugh with which the "runaway" expressed his satisfaction
sounded strangely on my ear.
"And you have run away from the plantation?"
"Jes so, mass' Edward--nebber go back." After a pause, he added, with
increased emphasis, "_Nebber go back 'live_!"
As he uttered these words he raised his hand to his broad chest, at the
same time throwing his body into an attitude of earnest determination.
I saw at once that I had mistaken the character of this man. I had had
it from his enemies, the whites, who feared him. With all the ferocity
of expression that characterised his features, there was evidently
something noble in his heart. He had been flogged for refusing to flog
a fellow-slave. He had resented the punishment, and struck down his
brutal oppressor. By so doing he had risked a far more terrible
punishment--even life itself!
It required courage to do all this. A spirit of liberty alone could
have inspired him with that courage--the same spirit which impelled the
Swiss patriot to strike down the cap of Gessler.
As the negro stood with his thick muscular fingers spread over his
brawny chest, with form erect, with head thrown back, and eyes fixed in
stern resolve, I was impressed with an air of grandeur about him, and
could not help thinking that in the black form before me, scantily clad
in coarse cotton, there was the soul and spirit of a man!