SEARCHING FOR LOST ONES.
To bind anew the ties which slavery had broken and gather together the
remnants of his scattered family became the earnest purpose of Robert's
life. Iola, hopeful that in Robert she had found her mother's brother,
was glad to know she was not alone in _her_ search. Having sent out
lines of inquiry in different directions, she was led to hope, from some
of the replies she had received, that her mother was living somewhere in
Georgia.
Hearing that a Methodist conference was to convene in that State, and
being acquainted with the bishop of that district, she made arrangements
to accompany him thither. She hoped to gather some tidings of her mother
through the ministers gathered from different parts of that State.
From her brother she had heard nothing since her father's death. On his
way to the conference, the bishop had an engagement to dedicate a
church, near the city of C----, in North Carolina. Iola was quite
willing to stop there a few days, hoping to hear something of Robert
Johnson's mother. Soon after she had seated herself in the cars she was
approached by a gentleman, who reached out his hand to her, and greeted
her with great cordiality. Iola looked up, and recognized him
immediately as one of her last patients at the hospital. It was none
other than Robert Johnson.
"I am so glad to meet you," he said. "I am on my way to C---- in search
of my mother. I want to see the person who sold her last, and, if
possible, get some clew to the direction in which she went."
"And I," said Iola, "am in search of _my_ mother. I am convinced that
when we find those for whom we are searching they will prove to be very
nearly related. Mamma said, before we were parted, that her brother had
a red spot on his temple. If I could see that spot I should rest assured
that my mother is your sister."
"Then," said Robert, "I can give you that assurance," and smilingly he
lifted his hair from his temple, on which was a large, red spot.
"I am satisfied," exclaimed Iola, fixing her eyes, beaming with hope and
confidence, on Robert. "Oh, I am so glad that I can, without the least
hesitation, accept your services to join with me in the further search.
What are your plans?"
"To stop for awhile in C----," said Robert, "and gather all the
information possible from those who sold and bought my mother. I intend
to leave no stone un-turned in searching for her."
"Oh, I _do_ hope that you will succeed. I expect to stop over there a
few days, and I shall be so glad if, before I leave, I hear your search
has been crowned with success, or, a least, that you have been put on
the right track. Although I was born and raised in the midst of
slavery, I had not the least idea of its barbarous selfishness till I
was forced to pass through it. But we lived so much alone I had no
opportunity to study it, except on our own plantation. My father and
mother were very kind to their slaves. But it was slavery, all the same,
and I hate it, root and branch."
Just then the conductor called out the station.
"We stop here," said Robert. "I am going to see Mrs. Johnson, and hunt
up some of my old acquaintances. Where do you stop?"
"I don't know," replied Iola. "I expect that friends will be here to
meet us. Bishop B----, permit me to introduce you to Mr. Robert Johnson,
whom I have every reason to believe is my mother's brother. Like myself,
he is engaged in hunting up his lost relatives."
"And I," said Robert, "am very much pleased to know that we are not
without favorable clues."
"Bishop," said Iola, "Mr. Johnson wishes to know where I am to stop. He
is going on an exploring expedition, and wishes to let me know the
result."
"We stop at Mrs. Allston's, 313 New Street," said the bishop. "If I can
be of any use to you, I am at your service."
"Thank you," said Robert, lifting his hat, as he left them to pursue his
inquiries about his long-lost mother.
Quickly he trod the old familiar streets which led to his former home.
He found Mrs. Johnson, but she had aged very fast since the war. She was
no longer the lithe, active woman, with her proud manner and resolute
bearing. Her eye had lost its brightness, her step its elasticity, and
her whole appearance indicated that she was slowly sinking beneath a
weight of sorrow which was heavier far than her weight of years. When
she heard that Robert had called to see her she was going to receive him
in the hall, as she would have done any of her former slaves, but her
mind immediately changed when she saw him. He was not the light-hearted,
careless, mischief-loving Robby of former days, but a handsome man,
with heavy moustache, dark, earnest eyes, and proud military bearing. He
smiled, and reached out his hand to her. She hardly knew how to address
him. To her colored people were either boys and girls, or "aunties and
uncles." She had never in her life addressed a colored person as "Mr. or
Mrs." To do so now was to violate the social customs of the place. It
would be like learning a new language in her old age. Robert immediately
set her at ease by addressing her under the old familiar name of "Miss
Nancy." This immediately relieved her of all embarrassment. She invited
him into the sitting-room, and gave him a warm welcome.
"Well, Robby," she said, "I once thought that you would have been the
last one to leave me. You know I never ill-treated you, and I gave you
everything you needed. People said that I was spoiling you. I thought
you were as happy as the days were long. When I heard of other people's
servants leaving them I used to say to myself, 'I can trust my Bobby; he
will stick to me to the last.' But I fooled myself that time. Soon as
the Yankee soldiers got in sight you left me without saying a word. That
morning I came down into the kitchen and asked Linda, 'Where's Robert?
Why hasn't he set the table?' She said 'she hadn't seen you since the
night before.' I thought maybe you were sick, and I went to see, but you
were not in your room. I couldn't believe at first that you were gone.
Wasn't I always good to you?"
"Oh, Miss Nancy," replied Robert; "you were good, but freedom was
better."
"Yes," she said, musingly, "I suppose I would have done the same. But,
Robby, it did go hard with me at first. However, I soon found out that
my neighbors had been going through the same thing. But its all over
now. Let by-gones be by-gones. What are you doing now, and where are
you living?"
"I am living in the city of P----. I have opened a hardware store there.
But just now I am in search of my mother and sister."
"I hope that you may find them."
"How long," asked Robert, "do you think it has been since they left
here?"
"Let me see; it must have been nearly thirty years. You got my letter?"
"Yes, ma'am; thank you."
"There have been great changes since you left here," Mrs. Johnson said.
"Gundover died, and a number of colored men have banded together, bought
his plantation, and divided it among themselves. And I hear they have a
very nice settlement out there. I hope, since the Government has set
them free, that they will succeed."
After Robert's interview with Mrs. Johnson he thought he would visit the
settlement and hunt up his old friends. He easily found the place. It
was on a clearing in Gundover's woods, where Robert and Uncle Daniel had
held their last prayer-meeting. Now the gloomy silence of those woods
was broken by the hum of industry, the murmur of cheerful voices, and
the merry laughter of happy children. Where they had trodden with fear
and misgiving, freedmen walked with light and bounding hearts. The
school-house had taken the place of the slave-pen and auction-block.
"How is yer, ole boy?" asked one laborer of another.
"Everything is lobly," replied the other. The blue sky arching overhead
and the beauty of the scenery justified the expression.
Gundover had died soon after the surrender. Frank Anderson had grown
reckless and drank himself to death. His brother Tom had been killed in
battle. Their mother, who was Gundover's daughter, had died insane.
Their father had also passed away. The defeat of the Confederates, the
loss of his sons, and the emancipation of his slaves, were blows from
which he never recovered. As Robert passed leisurely along, delighted
with the evidences of thrift and industry which constantly met his eye,
he stopped to admire a garden filled with beautiful flowers, clambering
vines, and rustic adornments.
On the porch sat an elderly woman, darning stockings, the very
embodiment of content and good humor. Robert looked inquiringly at her.
On seeing him, she almost immediately exclaimed, "Shore as I'se born,
dat's Robert! Look yere, honey, whar did yer come from? I'll gib my head
fer a choppin' block ef dat ain't Miss Nancy's Bob. Ain't yer our Bobby?
Shore yer is."
"Of course I am," responded Robert. "It isn't anybody else. How did you
know me?"
"How did I know yer? By dem mischeebous eyes, ob course. I'd a knowed
yer if I had seed yer in Europe."
"In Europe, Aunt Linda? Where's that?"
"I don't know. I specs its some big city, somewhar. But yer looks jis'
splendid. Yer looks good 'nuff ter kiss."
"Oh, Aunt Linda, don't say that. You make me blush."
"Oh you go 'long wid yer. I specs yer's got a nice little wife up dar
whar yer comes from, dat kisses yer ebery day, an' Sunday, too."
"Is that the way your old man does you?"
"Oh, no, not a bit. He isn't one ob de kissin' kine. But sit down," she
said, handing Robert a chair. "Won't yer hab a glass ob milk? Boy, I'se
a libin' in clover. Neber 'spected ter see sich good times in all my
born days."
"Well, Aunt Linda," said Robert, seating himself near her, and drinking
the glass of milk which she had handed him, "how goes the battle? How
have you been getting on since freedom?"
"Oh, fust rate, fust rate! Wen freedom com'd I jist lit out ob Miss
Johnson's kitchen soon as I could. I wanted ter re'lize I war free, an'
I couldn't, tell I got out er de sight and soun' ob ole Miss. When de
war war ober an' de sogers war still stopping' yere, I made pies an'
cakes, sole em to de sogers, an' jist made money han' ober fist. An' I
kep' on a workin' an' a savin' till my ole man got back from de war wid
his wages and his bounty money. I felt right set up an' mighty big wen
we counted all dat money. We had neber seen so much money in our lives
befo', let alone hab it fer ourselbs. An' I sez, 'John, you take dis
money an' git a nice place wid it.' An' he sez, 'Dere's no use tryin',
kase dey don't want ter sell us any lan'.' Ole Gundover said, 'fore he
died, dat he would let de lan' grow up in trees 'fore he'd sell it to
us. An' dere war Mr. Brayton; he buyed some lan' and sole it to some
cullud folks, an' his ole frien's got so mad wid him dat dey wouldn't
speak ter him, an' he war borned down yere. I tole ole Miss Anderson's
daughter dat we wanted ter git some homes ob our ownselbs. She sez, 'Den
you won't want ter work for us?' Jis' de same as ef we could eat an'
drink our houses. I tell yer, Robby, dese white folks don't know
eberything."
"That's a fact, Aunt Linda."
"Den I sez ter John, 'wen one door shuts anoder opens.' An' shore
'nough, ole Gundover died, an' his place war all in debt, an' had to be
sole. Some Jews bought it, but dey didn't want to farm it, so dey gib us
a chance to buy it. Dem Jews hez been right helpful to cullud people wen
dey hab lan' to sell. I reckon dey don't keer who buys it so long as dey
gits de money. Well, John didn't gib in at fust; didn't want to let on
his wife knowed more dan he did, an' dat he war ruled ober by a woman.
Yer know he is an' ole Firginian, an' some ob dem ole Firginians do so
lub to rule a woman. But I kep' naggin at him, till I specs he got tired
of my tongue, an' he went and buyed dis piece ob lan'. Dis house war on
it, an' war all gwine to wrack. It used to belong to John's ole marster.
His wife died right in dis house, an' arter dat her husband went right
to de dorgs; an' now he's in de pore-house. My! but ain't dem tables
turned. When we knowed it war our own, warn't my ole man proud! I seed
it in him, but he wouldn't let on. Ain't you men powerful 'ceitful?"
"Oh, Aunt Linda, don't put me in with the rest!"
"I don't know 'bout dat. Put you all in de bag for 'ceitfulness, an' I
don't know which would git out fust."
"Well, Aunt Linda, I suppose by this time you know how to read and
write?"
"No, chile, sence freedom's com'd I'se bin scratchin' too hard to get a
libin' to put my head down to de book."
"But, Aunt Linda, it would be such company when your husband is away, to
take a book. Do you never get lonesome?"
"Chile, I ain't got no time ter get lonesome. Ef you had eber so many
chickens to feed, an' pigs squealin' fer somethin' ter eat, an' yore
ducks an' geese squakin' 'roun' yer, yer wouldn't hab time ter git
lonesome."
"But, Aunt Linda, you might be sick for months, and think what a comfort
it would be if you could read your Bible."
"Oh, I could hab prayin' and singin'. Dese people is mighty good 'bout
prayin' by de sick. Why, Robby, I think it would gib me de hysterics ef
I war to try to git book larnin' froo my pore ole head. How long is yer
gwine to stay? An' whar is yer stoppin?"
"I got here to-day," said Robert, "but I expect to stay several days."
"Well, I wants yer to meet my ole man, an' talk 'bout ole times.
Couldn't yer come an' stop wid me, or isn't my house sniptious 'nuff?"
"Yes, thank you; but there is a young lady in town whom I think is my
niece, my sister's daughter, and I want to be with her all I can."
"Your niece! Whar did you git any niece from?"
"Don't you remember," asked Robert, "that my mother had a little
daughter, when Mrs. Johnson sold her? Well, I believe this young lady is
that daughter's child."
"Laws a marcy!" exclaimed Aunt Linda, "yer don't tell me so! Whar did
yer ketch up wid her?"
"I met her first," said Robert, "at the hospital here, when our poor Tom
was dying; and when I was wounded at Five Forks she attended me in the
field hospital there. She was just as good as gold."
"Well, did I eber! You jis' fotch dat chile to see me, ef she ain't too
fine. I'se pore, but I'se clean, an' I ain't forgot how ter git up good
dinners. Now, I wants ter hab a good talk 'bout our feller-sarvants."
"Yes, and I," said Robert, "want to hear all about Uncle Daniel, and
Jennie, and Uncle Ben Tunnel."
"Well, I'se got lots an' gobs ter tell yer. I'se kep' track ob dem all.
Aunt Katie died an' went ter hebben in a blaze ob glory. Uncle Dan'el
stayed on de place till Marse Robert com'd back. When de war war ober he
war smashed all ter pieces. I did pity him from de bottom ob my heart.
When he went ter de war he looked so brave an' han'some; an' wen he
com'd back he looked orful. 'Fore he went he gib Uncle Dan'el a bag full
ob money ter take kere ob. 'An wen he com'd back Uncle Dan'el gibed him
ebery cent ob it. It warn't ebery white pusson he could hab trusted wid
it. 'Cause yer know, Bobby, money's a mighty temptin' thing. Dey tells
me dat Marster Robert los' a heap ob property by de war; but Marse
Robert war always mighty good ter Uncle Dan'el and Aunt Katie. He war
wid her wen she war dyin' an' she got holt his han' an' made him promise
dat he would meet her in glory. I neber seed anybody so happy in my
life. She singed an' prayed ter de last. I tell you dis ole time
religion is good 'nuff fer me. Mr. Robert didn't stay yere long arter
her, but I beliebs he went all right. But 'fore he went he looked out
fer Uncle Dan'el. Did you see dat nice little cabin down dere wid de
green shutters an' nice little garden in front? Well, 'fore Marse Robert
died he gib Uncle Dan'el dat place, an' Miss Mary and de chillen looks
arter him yet; an' he libs jis' as snug as a bug in a rug. I'se gwine
ter axe him ter take supper wid you. He'll be powerful glad ter see
you."
"Do you ever go to see old Miss?" asked Robert.
"Oh, yes; I goes ebery now and den. But she's jis' fell froo. Ole
Johnson jis' drunk hisself to death. He war de biggest guzzler I eber
seed in my life. Why, dat man he drunk up ebery thing he could lay his
han's on. Sometimes he would go 'roun' tryin' to borrer money from pore
cullud folks. 'Twas rale drefful de way dat pore feller did frow hisself
away. But drink did it all. I tell you, Bobby, dat drink's a drefful
thing wen it gits de upper han' ob you. You'd better steer clar ob it."
"That's so," assented Robert.
"I know'd Miss Nancy's fadder and mudder. Dey war mighty rich. Some ob
de real big bugs. Marse Jim used to know dem, an' come ober ter de
plantation, an' eat an' drink wen he got ready, an' stay as long as he
choose. Ole Cousins used to have wine at dere table ebery day, an' Marse
Jim war mighty fon' ob dat wine, an' sometimes he would drink till he
got quite boozy. Ole Cousins liked him bery well, till he foun' out he
wanted his darter, an' den he didn't want him fer rags nor patches. But
Miss Nancy war mighty headstrong, an' allers liked to hab her own way;
an' dis time she got it. But didn't she step her foot inter it? Ole
Johnson war mighty han'some, but when dat war said all war said. She
run'd off an' got married, but wen she got down she war too spunkey to
axe her pa for anything. Wen you war wid her, yer know she only took big
bugs. But wen de war com'd 'roun' it tore her all ter pieces, an' now
she's as pore as Job's turkey. I feel's right sorry fer her. Well,
Robby, things is turned 'roun' mighty quare. Ole Mistus war up den, an'
I war down; now, she's down, an' I'se up. But I pities her, 'cause she
warn't so bad arter all. De wuss thing she eber did war ta sell your
mudder, an' she wouldn't hab done dat but she snatched de whip out ob
her han' an gib her a lickin'. Now I belieb in my heart she war 'fraid
ob your mudder arter dat. But we women had ter keep 'em from whippin'
us, er dey'd all de time been libin' on our bones. She had no man ter
whip us 'cept dat ole drunken husband ob hern, an' he war allers too
drunk ter whip hisself. He jis' wandered off, an' I reckon he died in
somebody's pore-house. He warn't no 'count nohow you fix it. Weneber I
goes to town I carries her some garden sass, er a little milk an'
butter. An' she's mighty glad ter git it. I ain't got nothin' agin her.
She neber struck me a lick in her life, an' I belieb in praising de
bridge dat carries me ober. Dem Yankees set me free, an' I thinks a
powerful heap ob dem. But it does rile me ter see dese mean white men
comin' down yere an' settin' up dere grog-shops, tryin' to fedder dere
nests sellin' licker to pore culled people. Deys de bery kine ob men dat
used ter keep dorgs to ketch de runaways. I'd be chokin' fer a drink
'fore I'd eber spen' a cent wid dem, a spreadin' dere traps to git de
black folks' money. You jis' go down town 'fore sun up to-morrer
mornin' an' you see ef dey don't hab dem bars open to sell dere drams to
dem hard workin' culled people 'fore dey goes ter work. I thinks some
niggers is mighty big fools."
"Oh, Aunt Linda, don't run down your race. Leave that for the white
people."
"I ain't runnin' down my people. But a fool's a fool, wether he's white
or black. An' I think de nigger who will spen' his hard-earned money in
dese yere new grog-shops is de biggest kine ob a fool, an' I sticks ter
dat. You know we didn't hab all dese low places in slave times. An' what
is dey fer, but to get the people's money. An' its a shame how dey do
sling de licker 'bout 'lection times."
"But don't the temperance people want the colored people to vote the
temperance ticket?"
"Yes, but some ob de culled people gits mighty skittish ef dey tries to
git em to vote dare ticket 'lection time, an' keeps dem at a proper
distance wen de 'lection's ober. Some ob dem say dere's a trick behine
it, an' don't want to tech it. Dese white folks could do a heap wid de
culled folks ef dey'd only treat em right."
"When our people say there is a trick behind it," said Robert, "I only
wish they could see the trick before it--the trick of worse than wasting
their money, and of keeping themselves and families poorer and more
ignorant than there is any need for them to be."
"Well, Bobby, I beliebs we might be a people ef it warn't for dat
mizzable drink. An' Robby, I jis' tells yer what I wants; I wants some
libe man to come down yere an' splain things ter dese people. I don't
mean a politic man, but a man who'll larn dese people how to bring up
dere chillen, to keep our gals straight, an' our boys from runnin' in de
saloons an' gamblin' dens."
"Don't your preachers do that?" asked Robert.
"Well, some ob dem does, an' some ob dem doesn't. An' wen dey preaches,
I want dem to practice wat dey preach. Some ob dem says dey's called,
but I jis' thinks laziness called some ob dem. An' I thinks since
freedom come deres some mighty pore sticks set up for preachers. Now
dere's John Anderson, Tom's brudder; you 'member Tom."
"Yes; as brave a fellow and as honest as ever stepped in shoe leather."
"Well, his brudder war mighty diffrent. He war down in de lower kentry
wen de war war ober. He war mighty smart, an' had a good head-piece, an'
a orful glib tongue. He set up store an' sole whisky, an' made a lot ob
money. Den he wanted ter go to de legislatur. Now what should he do but
make out he'd got 'ligion, an' war called to preach. He had no more
'ligion dan my ole dorg. But he had money an' built a meetin' house,
whar he could hole meeting, an' hab funerals; an' you know cullud folks
is mighty great on funerals. Well dat jis' tuck wid de people, an' he
got 'lected to de legislatur. Den he got a fine house, an' his ole wife
warn't good 'nuff for him. Den dere war a young school-teacher, an' he
begun cuttin' his eyes at her. But she war as deep in de mud as he war
in de mire, an' he jis' gib up his ole wife and married her, a fusty
thing. He war a mean ole hypocrit, an' I wouldn't sen' fer him to bury
my cat. Robby, I'se down on dese kine ob preachers like a thousand
bricks."
"Well, Aunt Linda, all the preachers are not like him."
"No; I knows dat; not by a jug full. We's got some mighty good men down
yere, an' we's glad when dey comes, an' orful sorry when dey goes 'way.
De las preacher we had war a mighty good man. He didn't like too much
hollerin'."
"Perhaps," said Robert, "he thought it were best for only one to speak
at a time."
"I specs so. His wife war de nicest and sweetest lady dat eber I did
see. None ob yer airish, stuck up folks, like a tarrapin carryin'
eberything on its back. She used ter hab meetins fer de mudders, an'
larn us how to raise our chillen, an' talk so putty to de chillen. I
sartinly did lub dat woman."
"Where is she now?" asked Robert.
"De Conference moved dem 'bout thirty miles from yere. Deys gwine to hab
a big meetin' ober dere next Sunday. Don't you 'member dem meetins we
used to hab in de woods? We don't hab to hide like we did den. But it
don't seem as ef de people had de same good 'ligion we had den. 'Pears
like folks is took up wid makin' money an' politics."
"Well, Aunt Linda, don't you wish those good old days would come back?"
"No, chile; neber! neber! Wat fer you take me? I'd ruther lib in a
corn-crib. Freedom needn't keep me outer heben; an' ef I'se sich a fool
as ter lose my 'ligion cause I'se free, I oughtn' ter git dere."
"But, Aunt Linda, if old Miss were able to take care of you, wouldn't
you just as leave be back again?"
There was a faint quiver of indignation in Aunt Linda's voice, as she
replied:--
"Don't yer want yer freedom? Well I wants ter pat my free foot.
Halleluyah! But, Robby, I wants yer ter go ter dat big meetin' de wuss
kine."
"How will I get there?" asked Robert.
"Oh, dat's all right. My ole man's got two ob de nicest mules you eber
set yer eyes on. It'll jis' do yer good ter look at dem. I 'spect you'll
see some ob yer ole frens dere. Dere's a nice settlemen' of cullud folks
ober dere, an' I wants yer to come an' bring dat young lady. I wants dem
folks to see wat nice folks I kin bring to de meetin'. I hope's yer
didn't lose all your 'ligion in de army."
"Oh, I hope not," replied Robert.
"Oh, chile, yer mus' be shore 'bout dat. I don't want yer to ride hope's
hoss down to torment. Now be shore an' come to-morrer an' bring dat
young lady, an' take supper wid me. I'se all on nettles to see dat
chile."