THE ISLAND PLANTATION.
On the subject of the Bradley plantation--suggested no doubt by its
proximity--my skiffman became communicative; and, during the long pull
up-stream made me acquainted with some facts relating to the place, and
its proprietor, that were, to say the least, a little curious.
Mr. Bradley's clearing was upon a large island, formed by a "shute"
of the river on one side, and by an old channel, which the stream had
long since abandoned. There was nothing singular about this. I had
become already aware that there are several plantations so situated
on the South-western rivers--where the house can only be reached by a
ferry-boat, kept to communicate with the mainland.
For hundreds of miles on both banks of the river--more especially on
the right--the bottom lands are scarred and seamed by a labyrinthine
network of creeks, bayous, and lagoons, all old channels of the river,
which the current in its caprice has long since forsaken, leaving them
in deep, dark stagnation, or only moving sluggishly to and fro, during
the season of floods.
On one of the tracts of land so insulated Mr. Bradley had "located,"
and there was nothing strange in it. What did seem strange to my
informant was that "Mass' Bradley had come dar wif only two or t'ree
darky at fuss; an' now he had amoss as many niggas as de old Squire
Woodley in Tennessee; an' all dat in less'n no time. He was always
a-buyin' new hands from de nigga dealers dat fetch 'em from up de
country, tho' he nebba bo't any jess about dar. He bo't de wuss kind
o' cusses, 's nobody else ked manage. _He_ manage 'em, _he_ do, dat
same bossy Bradley. He nebba 'low'd one o' 'em to go off dat 'ere
plantashun, cep'in' when he hab bizness; an' if dey 'teal off to any
odder house, which dey sometime do by swimin' crosst de bayou in de
night, den dey cotch it. Not offen dey try; dar's no odder place nearer
dan Mass' Woodley's, an' dat's ten mile by de ribba, an' most twenty
through de bottom! If dey ebba come dar, don't he fotch dem back, an'
don't he larrup 'em! Gollys! he do make de darky squrm! He got an
obaseeah who flog wuss dan de bery debbil hisself. Whugh!"
From what I had myself seen, I could believe all this of Nathaniel
Bradley; and some other things equally to his discredit, of which the
black skiffman forthwith informed me.
But I wanted to know of something that interested me much more--the
relations that existed between this insulated cotton-planter and Jake's
own master. I had learnt enough to know that they were intimate. I
wished also to know why.
I knew enough of Mississippi planter society to know that character had
little to do with social standing. The "chivalry" that had settled down
on the late Choctaw lands was far from being without reproach. With it,
riches, and a ready use of the revolver, were often the chief titles
to respect; and Nat Bradley, bully as he was, would be just the man to
"shine" in the society of Vicksburg and its environs--a town which only
a few years before had actually been taken possession of by a score of
ruffian "sportsmen." They had for weeks held carnival in its streets,
insulting every citizen who dared to gainsay them.
It is true these "sportsmen" were in the end punished; but the old
leaven still stayed; and at the time I write of, was almost rife
as ever. What I had heard of Bradley, both in Tennessee and since,
made him by no means an exceptional character--only a type of the
Mississippian of that time.
It was the character of Henry Woodley that caused me to feel surprise
at the association; for the latter so far from being of the bully class
was altogether the opposite. Though living a life that might be almost
termed rough, and associating in the chase with rough men, he was of a
refined and sensitive nature--I might almost say timid. Keen hunter as
he was, it may seem a contradiction; but such was in reality the fact.
Why should such a man find congeniality in the company of Nat Bradley?
To talk of my host and his affairs was a delicate subject, especially
with his own slave. I should have avoided it, but for the interest I
had begun to feel in one nearly related to him.
Thinking of her, I could not restrain myself, from that indirect
questioning that might give me satisfaction.
"This Mr. Bradley don't appear to be much of a favorite of yours, Jake?"
"Nor nob'dy ess's, massa. All our darky hate um like de pisen-snake."
"Your white folks, though? They don't hate him?"
"Doan' know, massa. Not so shoo 'bout dat."
"For instance, your own master. He's a great friend of Mr. Bradley--is
he not?"
"Ah, young Mass' Henry. He fr'en's wif ebberybody. He no kill a dam
'skeeter, ef it bite um on de nose; though he do like kill de b'ar, an'
de painter, an' dem odder big varmint. Daat's diff'rent. Den he 'cited
by de chase an' barkin' ob de dogs. Whugh! Don't he go changed when he
hear de gowl o' de hown's? He arn't like de same indiwiddle."
"I know he's very fond of hunting, and hunters too; but Mr. Bradley
never hunts, and your master appears very fond of _him_?"
"Maybe he am--maybe he ain't."
After making this ambiguous rejoinder, Jake leant industriously to his
oars, and for some time remained silent.
Feeling perfectly satisfied that no son of Africa could terminate a
dialogue, with such an unsatisfactory conclusion, I waited for him to
resume speech.
I had not long to wait. Scarce a dozen strokes of the oar.
"Dar may be a reason, sar, why Mass' Henry show fr'en'ship you 'peak
'bout. Dar am many kewrious thing down hyar in de Massissippy State;
an' maybe dat 'ere am one ob dem."
"Ah! you think the friendship is not real? There is something--"
"Behin' de bush. Dat dere is fo' sartin; an' dis nigger know it."
"Some influence, perhaps?"
"Yes, mass' 'tranger. Dar am inflooence."
"Of what kind?"
My heart beat quickly as I asked the question--audibly as I listened
for the answer. I expected to hear something of Miss Woodley.
"Wal, massa," replied the skiffman, after a short while, apparently
spent in cogitation, "I know you Mass' Henry's fr'end, an' doan' know
why I shouldn't tell you all 'bout de bizness 'tween youn' Mass' Henry
an' Boss Bradley."
"I _am_ your master's friend," I said, to encourage him. "You may trust
me, Jake."
"Wal, sar, it war jess dis: one day dey war out in de woods, on a big
deer-drive. Dar war Mass' Henry hisself, an' Mass' Bradley--dat war
de only day I ebba know _him_ go huntin'--an dar war sebberal odder
ob de planters 'bout hya, all huntin' togedder. De drive war oba, an
dey'd all sot down to take a spell ob ress, an' eat de vittle dat de
niggas hed brought in de wag'n. Den dey got to playin' cards, an' I's
b'lieve it war de Boss Bradley dat fuss proposed dem. You know Mass'
Henry nebber play, on de cards--dat am, he nebber play fo' money. But
dey'd all been a-drinkin'--de hunters an' de planters--an' dar war
mint-julep, an' claret sangaree, an' dat 'ere stuff like ginga-beer
dey caa sham-pain. So dey all set too to de card-playin', Mass' Henry
among de ress. Dey played poker, an' dey played a French game dey caa
yuka, an' staked, golly! dey staked as high as a hundred dollar apiece!
Ob coas' Mass' Henry knowin' jess nex to nuffin' 'bout de game--he war
boun' to lose. Whugh! he did lose. Two thousan' dollars--ebbery red
cent! an' who d'ye s'pose he lose 'em to?"
"Who?"
"Why, dat same Bossy Bradley. Ob coas' Mass' Henry hadn't no money on
de groun', for who's agwine to be a-toatin' two thousan' dollars 'bout
'im? So he guv de planter Bradley his writin' fo' de amount--which dem
call a purmissory note. Wal, dat 'ere note arn't been paid yet; an'
it's de no-payment ob it dat make Mass' Henry 'pear sech fr'en's wi'
mass' planter Bradley. Now, sar, ye's got de explication ob de whole
sarcumstance."
"I hope it is the true one."
"What, massa! Why for you hope dat? You say you Mass' Henry fr'en'?
Sure you no wish 'im two thousan' dollar debt to Bossy Bradley?"
It was not strange the negro should express surprise at my speech. I
had answered mechanically, and without thought of the interpretation
he might put upon it--thinking only of myself, and the relief his
explanation had caused me.
It was now my turn to explain. I could not leave Jake in the belief
that I was gratified to hear of his master's indebtedness.
"No, no!" I responded, endeavoring to explain away what I had said. "I
merely meant that I hoped it was no worse. Two thousand dollars is not
much--for a rich planter to pay."
"Lor', massa! It am a big heap, two thousan' dollar! Great big heap fo'
young Mass' Henry. He nebba pay dat hisseff, till de ole squire die,
an' leab um some ob dat 'ere plantashun in Tennessee. He no make money
hyar like Bossy Bradley. Ah, Mass' Henry 'pend more'n he make. Dat dis
chile am sure ob. Cuss dem cards, anyhow! Dey's de ruin ob ebberybody
dat teches um, 'ceptin' de gammelin' sportsmen themselves. T'ank de
Lor'! I hear Mass' Henry sw'a he nebba tech dem no more. Dat's one bit
o' sattafacshun, it is."
Notwithstanding that I feared being thought too inquisitive, the
intelligence displayed by my sable companion tempted me to inquire
further.
"Does Mr. Bradley often visit your master?"
"Well, sar, dat depend--"
"On what?"
"On de seezun ob de y'ar."
"On the season of the year! You mean he comes at one time more than
another?"
"Yes, sar; jess so."
Jake had ceased to be communicative, and required drawing.
"I suppose there are times when business requires him to be at your
master's plantation?"
"Wal, ye see, dar's de summer seezun, he doan' come much den. I b'lieve
him been only twice dis summer, an' de once you see um you'seff, sar.
An dar's de winter seezun. Den Mass' Bradley go good deal down to de
grand city--Orleans. So de folks say."
"That would leave him no time to visit your master's plantation."
"Ah, he find time fo' dat."
"But when?"
"Wal, sar, I tell _you_ when; when mass'r's sister--Miss Corneel--come
down to 'tay on de plantashun. Dat am de troof."
More than half prepared for the communication, it did not come with
such a surprise. To conceal my thoughts from him who had made it, I
said, with an air of carelessness--which cost me an effort:
"Perhaps he is Miss Woodley's sweetheart?"
"May be so, sar; may be so."
Though Jake's answer was not conclusive, I forbore to question him
further. I had started a subject that was causing me pain; and further
disclosures could only increase it.
After all, what was Miss Woodley to me? The interest I felt in her--was
it more than friendship? Why should I interfere in an affair that did
not concern me? Cornelia Woodley was no child; but an accomplished lady
of several seasons' experience. If she chose to throw herself away upon
this worthless man, why should I care? And if I did, what could I do
to prevent it? Both she and her brother were strangers to me. I had no
right to give counsel; nor would they be likely to accept it.
My best way would be to avoid even the desire for interference; and to
do this I _must_ forsake the society into which chance had accidentally
thrown me. It was only to take horse, and continue my travels. It would
be a complete change of programme; but the circumstances required it.
The prospect of seeing Miss Woodley again, so pleasant on leaving
Tennessee, I could now only contemplate with pain. The promise I had
made could be easily broken. She would scarce care for my keeping it.
From these gloomy reflections I was startled by the voice of the
skiffman.
"Talk ob de debbil," said he, "an' dat genlum shoo to be clost by. Dis
time, howeber, we wa' talkin' ob de angel."
"An angel! What do you mean, Jake?"
"Look yonda, sar! What you see yonda?"
"I see a steamboat."
"Ya--jess so. An' in dat 'teamboat dar am a angel! Sartin shoo dar am."
"I don't understand you."
"Golly, mass'r! Doan' ye see dat de boat go stop at Mass' Woodley
landin'?"
"Yes; I see that."
"Wal, what she go dar for but put some'dy 'shore. She take no freight
from dar, kase we hab none to gub her. We make no cotton, nor no
corn to spare from de plantashun. Shoo, den, she land some passager;
an' sartin shoo dat passager am de young missa come down from ole
Tennessee. Tole ye so, sar. Look! de boat shove off 'gin, an' you see
't am de Cherokee, one ob dem Cumberlan' boats dat run up to Nashville."
About the boat he was right. In ten minutes after she came booming
past, almost swamping our eggshell of a skiff. I read upon her side the
lettering "Cherokee."
I could not help looking with interest upon that splendid craft
in whose gilded saloon had lately sat the woman then occupying my
thoughts. But it was an interest clouded with apprehension.
* * * * *
On reaching Henry Woodley's house, I learned that his sister had
arrived by the Cherokee, and Nat Bradley _along with her_!