A REVELATION.
It was a lovely evening for the journey. The air was soft and balmy. The
fields and hedges were redolent with flowers. Not a single cloud
obscured the brightness of the moon or the splendor of the stars. The
ancient trees were festooned with moss, which hung like graceful
draperies. Ever and anon a startled hare glided over the path, and
whip-poor-wills and crickets broke the restful silence of the night.
Robert rode quietly along, quaffing the beauty of the scene and thinking
of his boyish days, when he gathered nuts and wild plums in those woods;
he also indulged pleasant reminiscences of later years, when, with Uncle
Daniel and Tom Anderson, he attended the secret prayer-meetings. Iola
rode along, conversing with Aunt Linda, amused and interested at the
quaintness of her speech and the shrewdness of her intellect. To her the
ride was delightful.
"Does yer know dis place, Robby," asked Aunt Linda, as they passed an
old resort.
"I should think I did," replied Robert. "It is the place where we held
our last prayer-meeting."
"An' dere's dat ole broken pot we used, ter tell 'bout de war. But
warn't ole Miss hoppin' wen she foun' out you war goin' to de war! I
thought she'd go almos' wile. Now, own up, Robby, didn't you feel kine
ob mean to go off widout eben biddin' her good bye? An' I ralely think
ole Miss war fon' ob yer. Now, own up, honey, didn't yer feel a little
down in de mouf wen yer lef' her."
"Not much," responded Robert. "I only thought she was getting paid back
for selling my mother."
"Dat's so, Robby! yore mudder war a likely gal, wid long black hair, an'
kine ob ginger-bread color. An' you neber hearn tell ob her sence dey
sole her to Georgia?"
"Never," replied Robert, "but I would give everything I have on earth to
see her once more. I _do_ hope, if she is living, that I may meet her
before I die."
"You's right, boy, cause she lub'd you as she lub'd her own life. Many a
time hes she set in my ole cabin an' cried 'bout yer wen you war fas'
asleep. It's all ober now, but I'se gwine to hole up fer dem Yankees dat
gib me my freedom, an' sent dem nice ladies from de Norf to gib us some
sense. Some ob dese folks calls em nigger teachers, an' won't hab nuffin
to do wid 'em, but I jis' thinks dey's splendid. But dere's some
triflin' niggers down yere who'll sell der votes for almost nuffin. Does
you 'member Jake Williams an' Gundover's Tom? Well dem two niggers is de
las' ob pea-time. Dey's mighty small pertaters an' few in a hill."
"Oh, Aunt Linda," said Robert, "don't call them niggers. They are our
own people."
"Dey ain't my kine ob people. I jis' calls em niggers, an' niggers I
means; an' de bigges' kine ob niggers. An' if my John war sich a nigger
I'd whip him an' leave him."
"An' what would I be a doin'," queried John, suddenly rousing up at the
mention of his name.
"Standing still and taking it, I suppose," said Iola, who had been
quietly listening to and enjoying the conversation.
"Yes, an' I'd ketch myself stan'in' still an' takin' it," was John's
plucky response.
"Well, you oughter, ef you's mean enough to wote dat ticket ter put me
back inter slavery," was Aunt Linda's parting shot. "Robby," she
continued, "you 'member Miss Nancy's Jinnie?"
"Of course I do," said Robert.
"She married Mr. Gundover's Dick. Well, dere warn't much git up an' go
'bout him. So, wen 'lection time com'd, de man he war workin' fer tole
him ef he woted de radical ticket he'd turn him off. Well, Jinnie war so
'fraid he'd do it, dat she jis' follered him fer days."
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Robert. "How did he come out?"
"He certainly was between two fires," interposed Iola.
"Oh, Jinnie gained de day. She jis' got her back up, and said, 'Now ef
yer wote dat ticket ter put me back inter slavery, you take yore rags
an' go.' An' Dick jis' woted de radical ticket. Jake Williams went on de
Secesh side, woted whar he thought he'd git his taters, but he got
fooled es slick es greese."
"How was that?" asked Robert.
"Some ob dem folks, dat I 'spects buyed his wote, sent him some flour
an' sugar. So one night his wife hab company ter tea. Dey made a big
spread, an' put a lot ob sugar on de table fer supper, an' Tom jis' went
fer dat sugar. He put a lot in his tea. But somehow it didn't tase
right, an' wen dey come ter fine out what war de matter, dey hab sent
him a barrel ob san' wid some sugar on top, an' wen de sugar war all
gone de san' war dare. Wen I yeard it, I jis' split my sides a larfin.
It war too good to keep; an' wen it got roun', Jake war as mad as a
March hare. But it sarved him right."
"Well, Aunt Linda, you musn't be too hard on Uncle Jake; you know he's
getting old."
"Well he ain't too ole ter do right. He ain't no older dan Uncle Dan'el.
An' I yered dey offered him $500 ef he'd go on dere side. An' Uncle
Dan'el wouldn't tech it. An' dere's Uncle Job's wife; why didn't she go
dat way? She war down on Job's meanness."
"What did she do?"
"Wen 'lection time 'rived, he com'd home bringing some flour an' meat;
an' he says ter Aunt Polly, 'Ole woman, I got dis fer de wote.' She jis'
picked up dat meat an' flour an' sent it sailin' outer doors, an' den
com'd back an' gib him a good tongue-lashin'. 'Oder people,' she said,
'a wotin' ter lib good, an' you a sellin' yore wote! Ain't you got 'nuff
ob ole Marster, an' ole Marster bin cuttin' you up? It shan't stay
yere.' An' so she wouldn't let de things stay in de house."
"What did Uncle Job do?"
"He jis' stood dere an' cried."
"And didn't you feel sorry for him?" asked Iola.
"Not a bit! he hedn't no business ter be so shabby."
"But, Aunt Linda," pursued Iola, "if it were shabby for an ignorant
colored man to sell his vote, wasn't it shabbier for an intelligent
white man to buy it?"
"You see," added Robert, "all the shabbiness is not on our side."
"I knows dat," said Aunt Linda, "but I can't help it. I wants my people
to wote right, an' to think somethin' ob demselves."
"Well, Aunt Linda, they say in every flock of sheep there will be one
that's scabby," observed Iola.
"Dat's so! But I ain't got no use fer scabby sheep."
"Lindy," cried John, "we's most dar! Don't you yere dat singin'? Dey's
begun a'ready."
"Neber mine," said Aunt Linda, "sometimes de las' ob de wine is de
bes'."
Thus discoursing they had beguiled the long hours of the night and made
their long journey appear short.
Very soon they reached the church, a neat, commodious, frame building,
with a blue ceiling, white walls within and without, and large windows
with mahogany-colored facings. It was a sight full of pathetic interest
to see that group which gathered from miles around. They had come to
break bread with each other, relate their experiences, and tell of their
hopes of heaven. In that meeting were remnants of broken
families--mothers who had been separated from their children before the
war, husbands who had not met their wives for years. After the bread had
been distributed and the handshaking was nearly over, Robert raised the
hymn which Iola had sung for him when he was recovering from his wounds,
and Iola, with her clear, sweet tones, caught up the words and joined
him in the strain. When the hymn was finished a dear old mother rose
from her seat. Her voice was quite strong. With still a lingering light
and fire in her eye, she said:--
"I rise, bredren an' sisters, to say I'm on my solemn march to glory."
"Amen!" "Glory!" came from a number of voices.
"I'se had my trials an' temptations, my ups an' downs; but I feels I'll
soon be in one ob de many mansions. If it hadn't been for dat hope I
'spects I would have broken down long ago. I'se bin through de deep
waters, but dey didn't overflow me; I'se bin in de fire, but de smell ob
it isn't on my garments. Bredren an' sisters, it war a drefful time when
I war tored away from my pore little chillen."
"Dat's so!" exclaimed a chorus of voices. Some of her hearers moaned,
others rocked to and fro, as thoughts of similar scenes in their own
lives arose before them.
"When my little girl," continued the speaker, "took hole ob my dress an'
begged me ter let her go wid me, an' I couldn't do it, it mos' broke my
heart. I had a little boy, an' wen my mistus sole me she kep' him. She
carried on a boardin' house. Many's the time I hab stole out at night
an' seen dat chile an' sleep'd wid him in my arms tell mos' day. Bimeby
de people I libed wid got hard up fer money, an' dey sole me one way an'
my pore little gal de oder; an' I neber laid my eyes on my pore chillen
sence den. But, honeys, let de wind blow high or low, I 'spects to
outwedder de storm an' anchor by'm bye in bright glory. But I'se bin a
prayin' fer one thing, an' I beliebs I'll git it; an' dat is dat I may
see my chillen 'fore I die. Pray fer me dat I may hole out an' hole on,
an' neber make a shipwrack ob faith, an' at las' fine my way from earth
to glory."
Having finished her speech, she sat down and wiped away the tears that
flowed all the more copiously as she remembered her lost children. When
she rose to speak her voice and manner instantly arrested Robert's
attention. He found his mind reverting to the scenes of his childhood.
As she proceeded his attention became riveted on her. Unbidden tears
filled his eyes and great sobs shook his frame. He trembled in every
limb. Could it be possible that after years of patient search through
churches, papers, and inquiring friends, he had accidentally stumbled on
his mother--the mother who, long years ago, had pillowed his head upon
her bosom and left her parting kiss upon his lips? How should he reveal
himself to her? Might not sudden joy do what years of sorrow had failed
to accomplish? Controlling his feelings as best he could, he rose to
tell his experience. He referred to the days when they used to hold
their meetings in the lonely woods and gloomy swamps. How they had
prayed for freedom and plotted to desert to the Union army; and
continuing, he said: "Since then, brethren and sisters, I have had my
crosses and trials, but I try to look at the mercies. Just think what it
was then and what it is now! How many of us, since freedom has come,
have been looking up our scattered relatives. I have just been over to
visit my old mistress, Nancy Johnson, and to see if I could get some
clue to my long-lost mother, who was sold from me nearly thirty years
ago."
Again there was a chorus of moans.
On resuming, Robert's voice was still fuller of pathos.
"When," he said, "I heard that dear old mother tell her experience it
seemed as if some one had risen from the dead. She made me think of my
own dear mother, who used to steal out at night to see me, fold me in
her arms, and then steal back again to her work. After she was sold
away I never saw her face again by daylight. I have been looking for her
ever since the war, and I think at last I have got on the right track.
If Mrs. Johnson, who kept the boarding-house in C----, is the one who
sold that dear old mother from her son, then she is the one I am looking
for, and I am the son she has been praying for."
The dear old mother raised her eyes. They were clear and tearless. An
expression of wonder, hope, and love flitted over her face. It seemed as
if her youth were suddenly renewed and, bounding from her seat, she
rushed to the speaker in a paroxysm of joy. "Oh, Robby! Robby! is dis
you? Is dat my pore, dear boy I'se been prayin' 'bout all dese years?
Oh, glory! glory!" And overflowing with joyous excitement she threw her
arms around him, looking the very impersonation of rapturous content. It
was a happy time. Mothers whose children had been torn from them in the
days of slavery knew how to rejoice in her joy. The young people caught
the infection of the general happiness and rejoiced with them that
rejoiced. There were songs of rejoicing and shouts of praise. The
undertone of sadness which had so often mingled with their songs gave
place to strains of exultation; and tears of tender sympathy flowed from
eyes which had often been blurred by anguish. The child of many prayers
and tears was restored to his mother.
Iola stood by the mother's side, smiling, and weeping tears of joy. When
Robert's mother observed Iola, she said to Robert, "Is dis yore wife?"
"Oh, no," replied Robert, "but I believe she is your grandchild, the
daughter of the little girl who was sold away from you so long ago. She
is on her way to the farther South in search of her mother."
"Is she? Dear chile! I hope she'll fine her! She puts me in mine ob my
pore little Marie. Well, I'se got one chile, an' I means to keep on
prayin' tell I fine my daughter. I'm _so_ happy! I feel's like a new
woman!"
"My dear mother," said Robert, "now that I have found you, I mean to
hold you fast just as long as you live. Ever since the war I have been
trying to find out if you were living, but all efforts failed. At last,
I thought I would come and hunt you myself and, now that I have found
you, I am going to take you home to live with me, and to be as happy as
the days are long. I am living in the North, and doing a good business
there. I want you to see joy according to all the days wherein you have
seen sorrow. I do hope this young lady will find _her_ ma and that, when
found, she will prove to be your daughter!"
"Yes, pore, dear chile! I specs her mudder's heart's mighty hungry fer
her. I does hope she's my gran'chile."
Tenderly and caressingly Iola bent over the happy mother, with her heart
filled with mournful memories of her own mother.
Aunt Linda was induced to stay until the next morning, and then gladly
assisted Robert's mother in arranging for her journey northward. The
friends who had given her a shelter in their hospitable home, learned to
value her so much that it was with great reluctance they resigned her to
the care of her son. Aunt Linda was full of bustling activity, and her
spirits overflowed with good humor.
"Now, Harriet," she said, as they rode along on their return journey,
"you mus' jis' thank me fer finin' yore chile, 'cause I got him to come
to dat big meetin' wid me."
"Oh, Lindy," she cried, "I'se glad from de bottom ob my heart ter see
you's all. I com'd out dere ter git a blessin', an' I'se got a double
po'tion. De frens I war libin' wid war mighty good ter me. Dey lib'd wid
me in de lower kentry, an' arter de war war ober I stopped wid 'em and
helped take keer ob de chillen; an' when dey com'd up yere dey brought
me wid 'em. I'se com'd a way I didn't know, but I'se mighty glad I'se
com'd."
"Does you know dis place?" asked Aunt Linda, as they approached the
settlement.
"No'n 'deed I don't. It's all new ter me."
"Well, dis is whar I libs. Ain't you mighty tired? I feels a little
stiffish. Dese bones is gittin' ole."
"Dat's so! But I'se mighty glad I'se lib'd to see my boy 'fore I crossed
ober de riber. An' now I feel like ole Simeon."
"But, mother," said Robert, "if you are ready to go, I am not willing to
let you. I want you to stay ever so long where I can see you."
A bright smile overspread her face. Robert's words reassured and
gladdened her heart. She was well satisfied to have a pleasant aftermath
from life on this side of the river.
After arriving home Linda's first thought was to prepare dinner for her
guests. But, before she began her work of preparation, she went to the
cupboard to get a cup of home-made wine.
"Here," she said, filling three glasses, "is some wine I made myself
from dat grape-vine out dere. Don't it look nice and clar? Jist taste
it. It's fus'rate."
"No, thank you," said Robert. "I'm a temperance man, and never take
anything which has alcohol in it."
"Oh, dis ain't got a bit ob alcohol in it. I made it myself."
"But, Aunt Linda, you didn't make the law which ferments grape-juice and
makes it alcohol."
"But, Robby, ef alcohol's so bad, w'at made de Lord put it here?"
"Aunt Lindy," said Iola, "I heard a lady say that there were two things
the Lord didn't make. One is sin, and the other alcohol."
"Why, Aunt Linda," said Robert, "there are numbers of things the Lord
has made that I wouldn't touch with a pair of tongs."
"What are they?"
"Rattlesnakes, scorpions, and moccasins."
"Oh, sho!"
"Aunt Linda," said Iola, "the Bible says that the wine at last will bite
like a serpent and sting like an adder."
"And, Aunt Linda," added Robert, "as I wouldn't wind a serpent around my
throat, I don't want to put something inside of it which will bite like
a serpent and sting as an adder."
"I reckon Robby's right," said his mother, setting down her glass and
leaving the wine unfinished. "You young folks knows a heap more dan we
ole folks." "Well," declared Aunt Linda, "you all is temp'rence to de
backbone. But what could I do wid my wine ef we didn't drink it?"
"Let it turn to vinegar, and sign the temperance pledge," replied
Robert.
"I don't keer 'bout it myself, but I don't 'spect John would be willin'
ter let it go, 'cause he likes it a heap."
"Then you must give it up for his sake and Job's," said Robert. "They
may learn to like it too well."
"You know, Aunt Linda," said Iola, "people don't get to be drunkards all
at once. And you wouldn't like to feel, if Job should learn to drink,
that you helped form his appetite."
"Dat' so! I beliebs I'll let dis turn to winegar, an' not make any
more."
"That's right, Aunt Linda. I hope you'll hold to it," said Robert,
encouragingly.
Very soon Aunt Linda had an excellent dinner prepared. After it was over
Robert went with Iola to C----, where her friend, the bishop, was
awaiting her return. She told him the wonderful story of Robert's
finding his mother, and of her sweet, childlike faith.
The bishop, a kind, fatherly man, said, "Miss Iola, I hope that such
happiness is in store for you. My dear child, still continue to pray and
trust. I am old-fashioned enough to believe in prayer. I knew an old
lady living in Illinois, who was a slave. Her son got a chance to come
North and beg money to buy his mother. The mother was badly treated, and
made up her mind to run away. But before she started she thought she
would kneel down to pray. And something, she said, reasoned within her,
and whispered, 'Stand still and see what I am going to do for you.' So
real was it to her that she unpacked her bundle and desisted from her
flight. Strange as it may appear to you, her son returned, bringing
with him money enough to purchase her freedom, and she was redeemed from
bondage. Had she persisted in running away she might have been lost in
the woods and have died, exhausted by starvation. But she believed, she
trusted, and was delivered. Her son took her North, where she could find
a resting place for the soles of her feet."
That night Iola and the bishop left for the South.