HOW SOMEBODY WAS LOST IN THE PARADISE.
For an hour or two the plowing and singing went cheerily on; Bushie, the
while, shifting his perch upon the fence to keep himself on a line with
the furrow next to be run. When the plow was not in sight he amused
himself by watching the squirrels at play, or the birds at
nest-building, or the crows where they still kept their station on the
blasted limb of the oak. By this time the assembly had grown more noisy
and obstreperous than ever, till finally, all order and decorum lost,
the big talk broke up in a big row, the radicals turning tails upon each
other and flying away to the north and the south; the conservatives,
understanding each other no better, flying away to the east and the
west.
Each time, as he neared the end of his furrow, Burl cutting short his
singing the moment he spied his little master, would send forward at the
top of his stentorian lungs his wonted greeting, "I yi, you dogs!" This
was a favorite expression with him, and variously to be understood
according to circumstances. Treading the peace-path barefooted and
shirt-sleeved, he was wont to use it as a form of friendly greeting, in
the sense of "hail fellow well met," or "Good-morning, my friend," or as
a note of brotherly cheer, equivalent to "Hurrah, boys!" or "Bully for
you!" But treading the war-path, moccasin-shod and double-shirted, with
rifle on shoulder and hatchet in belt, he used the expression in an
altogether different sense. Then it became his battle-cry, his note of
defiance, his war-whoop, his trumpet-call to victory and scalps. Taken
by the Indians, who never heard it but to their cost, it was understood
as the English for "Die, die, red dogs!"
While making his turns between rounds, Burl, glancing complacently up at
his little master, would make some remark about the squirrels and the
birds who seemed to be in a "monstrous" fine humor that morning, or
about the crows who seemed to be in a "monstrous" bad humor: "De corn
now gittin' too tall an' strong for 'em to pull up--de black rogues!"
Once or twice it was a sympathetic inquiry about "our little legs," with
a comment upon the efficacy of spit for drawing out "de smartin' an'
stingin' of brier-scratches." Oftener, however, than any thing else, it
was the assurance that by the time the plowing should reach a certain
shell-bark hickory that stood near the middle of the field the
dinner-horn would be blowing, when the little man should go home
"a-ridin' ol' Cornwallis;" the little man always answering this with a
grin of glad anticipation. The turn by this time fairly made, the
plowing and singing would recommence:
"Come, come! come, corn, come!
Burl a-plowin' in de fiel',
A-singin' fur de roasin'-ear to come.
"Come, come! come, corn, come!
Burl a-plowin' in de fiel',
A-singin' fur de johnny-cake to come.
"Come, come! come, punkin, come!
Burl a-plowin' in de fiel',
A-singin' fur de punkin-pie to come."
On nearing his eighth or ninth round, Burl was on the point of shouting
forward the accustomed greeting, when he saw that his little master had
vanished from the fence. At this, however, he was not surprised,
naturally supposing that the boy having grown weary with waiting so
long, and lonesome, had returned to the fort. Now the fact was, Burl
had gone to the field that morning before Captain Kenton had called at
the station with the intelligence of having seen fresh Indian traces in
the wood but a few miles from the place. This circumstance was therefore
unknown to him, else had the faithful fellow never lost sight of his
little master until he had seen him safe back home. So, without any
suspicion of danger, he went on singing at his work as before:
"Wher' now is our Hebrew childern?
Wher' now is our Hebrew childern?
Wher' now is our Hebrew childern?
Safe in de promis' lan'.
Dey went up frum de fiery furnace,
Dey went up frum de fiery furnace,
Dey went up frum de fiery furnace,
Safe to de promis' lan'.
By an' by we'll go an' see dem,
By an' by we'll go an' see dem,
By an' by we'll go an' see dem,
Safe in de promis' lan'."
Thus questioning, answering, promising, the song, or perhaps hymn it
might be called, went on through several stanzas, telling in dolorous
cadences how our good "ol' Danel went up frum de den uf lions;" how "our
good ol' 'Ligy went up on wheels uf fire;" how "our good ol' Samson went
up wid de gates uf Gaza;" how "our good ol' Noah went up frum de mount
uf Areat;" how "our good ol' Mary went up in robes uf whiteness," etc.,
all "safe to de promis' lan'," the comforting assurance over and over
repeated that "by an' by we'll go an' see dem, safe in de promis' lan'."
Long as it was, the song was much too short for Big Black Burl, as
indeed was every song that he sung. But being a "dab" at improvising
words, as well as music, he could easily spin out his melodies to any
length he pleased. So, on getting to the end of his hymn, ignoring the
fact, he went right on _ad libitum_ until he had sent up, in some
manner, scriptural or not, or from some locality, scriptural or not,
every good old Hebrew he could think of, safe to the promised land,
winding up thus with our good old Jonah:
"Wher' now is our good ol' Jonah?
Wher' now is our good ol' Jonah?
Wher' now is our good ol' Jonah?
Safe in de promis' lan'.
He went up frum--I don't know wher' frum;
He went up frum--I don't know wher' frum;
He went up frum--I don't know wher' frum,
Safe to de promis' lan'.
By an' by we'll go an' see him;
By an' by we'll go an' see him;
By an' by we'll go an' see him,
Safe in de promis' lan'."
Having got to the end of his Hebrew rope, the singer, pausing but long
enough for a "Gee up, Corny," to his slow-paced plow-horse, passed
recklessly from sacred to profane, and fell to roaring "Ol' Zip Coon,"
from which to pass in turn, by a cut as short, to "Hark! from the tombs
a doleful sound."
When the dinner-horn blew, he unhitched old Cornwallis from the plow
and, mounting him, rode leisurely home. Having tied his horse to a long
trough set on two wide red-oak stumps just outside the gate of the fort,
and throwing in a dozen ears of corn, he went on into Miss Jemima's
kitchen to get his own dinner. Drawing a puncheon-stool up to the
puncheon-table, he sat down to his noonday meal with an appetite which
had been sharp enough from his morning labors, but to which his singing
had lent an edge keen as a tomahawk. He had cut him a long, thick slice
of bacon and was in the act of conveying the first solid inch of the
savory fat to his lips when the fork thus loaded was stayed midway
between plate and open mouth by the voice of his mistress, who came to
the kitchen-door to inquire if Bushie had not come in with him. Burl
looked quickly round, saying with a tone of surprise: "Why, Miss Jemimy,
hasn't Bushie come home?"
"No; nor has he been seen in or about the fort for more than three
hours," replied the mother.
Bolting the solid inch of bacon which the while he had held poised on
his fork, he rose quickly from the table and was hurrying out of the
house when his mistress, with more alarm at heart than look or tone
betrayed, inquired of him whither he was going.
"Jus' back to de fiel' ag'in to git Bushie. Come out to de fiel' whar I
was plowin', he did; staid a good smart bit, settin' on de fence,
waitin' fur de dinner-horn to blow, when he was to ride ol' Corny home.
He's shorely laid down on de grass in de fence-corner an' went to sleep.
But I'll go an' bring him home right away."
And with this explanation Burl was off to the field again, though with
but the slightest hope of finding his little master out there asleep on
the grass in the fence-corner, as he had suggested. On reaching the spot
where he had last seen the boy he made a careful examination of the
ground, and it was not long before his keen and practiced eye discovered
in the crushed leaves and bruised weeds the traces of three Indians. The
savages had evidently crept upon the child and made him their captive
before he could cry for help, while he who would have rescued him or
perished was blithely singing at his work on the other side of the
field. For several moments Big Black Burl stood as if dumbfounded,
gazing fixedly down at the hated foot-prints in the leaves. But when he
raised his eyes and beheld the cabin where, deserted and lonely, it
stood in the midst of the waving green, another look came into his
face--one of vengeful and desperate determination right terrible to
see.
Speeding back to the fort, he found his mistress standing in her cabin
door-way waiting and watching his return. No need to be told the
afflicting tidings, she read them in his hurried gait and dismayed
countenance. She uttered not a cry, shed not a tear, but, with lips and
cheeks blanched as with the hue of death, she sunk down upon a wooden
settee that stood close behind her. And there, at the door of her
desolate house, the widowed mother sat--continued to sit through the
long, sad, weary hours of absence and suspense, waiting and watching,
her eyes turned ever toward the perilous north. Fortunately about a
dozen of the hunters belonging to the station had just come in from the
forest, who, upon learning what had happened, promptly volunteered to
set out at once in pursuit of the savages and rescue, if possible, the
unlucky Bushie, the boy being a great favorite with everybody at the
fort.
No more work in the field that day for Big Black Burl--he must now leave
the peace-path to tread the war-path. But, before setting out, he must
touch up his toilet a little, for, though careless enough of his
personal appearance as a field-hand, our colored hero took a great pride
in coming out on grand occasions like the present in a guise more
beseeming his high reputation as an Indian-fighter. So, going at once to
his own cabin, where he kept all his war and martial rigging perpetually
ready for use in a minute's notice, he dashed through the process with a
celerity quite astonishing in one who was usually so heavy and
deliberate in his motions. First, he drew on his moccasins, each of
which was roomy enough to hide a half-grown raccoon; then, over his
buckskin breeches he tied a pair of bear-skin leggins, hairy and wide;
then, he drew on over his buckskin under-shirt a bear-skin hunting-shirt
ample enough for the shoulders of Hercules, securing it at the waist
with a broad leathern belt, into which he stuck his sheathed
hunting-knife and his tomahawk, or battle-ax it might be called, it was
so ponderous. His ammunition-pouch and powder-horn--that on the
left-hand side, this on the right--he then slung over his shoulders by
two wide leathern straps, crossing each other on breast and back. Last,
he doffed his coon-skin cap and donned another of bear-skin, more
portentous still in its dimensions; and with Betsy Grumbo--his long,
black rifle; the longest, so said, in the Paradise--gleaming aslant his
shoulder, the Fighting Nigger sallied from his cabin, completely armed
and rigged for war. Giving a loud, fife-like whistle, he was instantly
joined by a huge brindled dog of grim and formidable aspect. As he
passed by the door where his mistress sat, in her mute, tearless,
motionless grief, he turned to her for a moment, cap in hand, and with
terrible sublimity said: "Miss Jemimy, you see me come back wid Bushie,
or you neber see yo' ol' nigger no mo'."
He then joined the white hunters, who by this time were ready likewise,
and led the way to the spot where he had last seen his unfortunate
little master.