[Illustration:
PETER WHEELER.
J.W. Evans, Pinrt P. H. Reason, Sc.
]
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THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF
PETER WHEELER.
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CHAINS AND FREEDOM:
OR,
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF
PETER WHEELER,
A COLORED MAN YET LIVING.
A SLAVE IN CHAINS,
A SAILOR ON THE DEEP,
AND
A SINNER AT THE CROSS.
THREE VOLUMES IN ONE.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF THE ‘MOUNTAIN WILD FLOWER.’
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“Mind not high things; but condescend to men of low estate.”
PAUL.
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New York:
PUBLISHED BY E. S. ARNOLD & CO.
1839.
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ENTERED, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1839, in the
Clerk’s Office of the Southern District of New York.
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PREFACE.
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The following Narrative was taken entirely from the lips of Peter
Wheeler. I have in all instances given his own language, and faithfully
recorded his story as he told it, _without any change whatever_. There
are many astonishing facts related in this book, and before the reader
finishes it, he will at least feel that
“Truth is stranger than fiction.”
But the truth of every thing here stated can be relied on. The subject
of this story is well known to the author, who for a long time brake
unto him “the bread of life,” as a brother in Christ, and beloved for
the Redeemer’s sake. There are, likewise, hundreds of living witnesses,
who have for many years been acquain’ted with the man, and aware of the
incidents here recorded, who cherish perfect confidence in his veracity.
He has many times, for many years, related the same facts, to many
persons, in the same language _verbatim_; and individuals to whom the
author has read some of the following incidents, have recognized the
story and language, as they heard them from the hero’s lips long before
the author ever heard his name. There are also persons yet living, whom
I have seen and known, who witnessed many of Peter’s most awful
sufferings.
* * * * *
Of course, the book lays no claim to the merit of _literature_, and will
not be reviewed as such; but it does claim the merit of _strict verity_,
which is no mean characteristic in a book, in these days.
The subject, and the author, have but one object in view in bringing the
book before the public:—a mutual desire to contribute as far as they
can, to the freedom of enchained millions for whom Christ died. And if
any heart may be made to feel one emotion of benevolence, and lift up a
more earnest cry to God for the suffering slave; if one generous impulse
may be awakened in a slaveholder’s bosom towards his fellow traveller to
God’s bar, whose crime is, in being “born with a skin not coloured like
his own;” and if it may inspire in the youthful mind, the spirit of that
sweet verse, consecrated by the hallowed associations of a New-England
home—
“I was not born a little slave
To labour in the sun,
And wish I were but in my grave,
And all my labor done.”
it will not be in vain.
* * * * *
That it may hasten that glorious consummation which we know is fast
approaching, when slavery shall be known only in the story of past time,
is the earnest prayer of the
AUTHOR.
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_Certificate of the Citizens of Spencertown._
This is to certify, that we, the undersigned, are, and have been _well
acquain’ted_ with Peter Wheeler, for a number of years, and that we
place _full confidence in all his statements_:—
ERASTUS PRATT, Justice of the Peace.
CHARLES B. DUTCHER, Justice of the Peace.
ABIAH W. MAYHEW, Deacon of the Presbyterian Church.
CHARLES H. SKIFF, M.D.
WILLIAM. A. DEAN.
JOHN GROFF.
DANIEL BALDWIN.
ELISHA BABCOCK.
PHILIP STRONG.
PATRICK M. KNAPP.
WILLIAM TRAVER.
EPHRAIM BERNUS.
SAMUEL HIGGINS.
WILLIAM PARSONS.
JAMES BALDWIN.
FRANCIS CHAREVOY.
[It may be proper to state that many of these gentlemen have known Peter
more than thirteen years; likewise, that they are men of the first
respectability.
AUTHOR.]
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CONTENTS.
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BOOK THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
Author’s first interview with Peter—Peter calls on the Page 17–35
Author, and begins his story—his birth and residence—is
adopted by Mrs. Mather and lives in Mr. Mather’s
house—his “_red scarlet coat_”—fishing expedition on
Sunday with Hagar when he sees the Devil—a feat of
horsemanship—saves the life of master’s oldest son, and
is bit in the operation by a wild hog—an encounter with
an “old-fashioned cat owl” in the Cedar Swamp—a man
killed by wild cats—a short “sarmint” at a Quaker
Meeting—“I and John makes a pincushion of a calf’s
nose, and got _tuned_ for it I tell ye”—holyday’s
amusements—the marble egg—“I and John great
cronies”—Mistress sick—Peter hears something in the
night which he thinks a forerunner of her death—_she
dies a Christian_—her dying words—Peter’s feelings on
her death.
CHAPTER II.
Peter emancipated by his old Master’s Will—but is stolen Page 36–55
and sold at auction, and bid off by GIDEON MOREHOUSE ☜
Hagar tries to buy her brother back—parting scene—his
reception at his new Master’s—sudden change in
fortune—Master’s cruelty—the Muskrat skins—prepare to
go into “the new countries”—start on the journey
“incidents of travel” on the road—Mr. Sterling, who is
a sterling-good man, tries to buy Peter—gives him a
pocket full of “Bungtown coppers”—abuse—story of the
Blue Mountain—Oswego—Mr. Cooper, an
Abolitionist—journey’s end—Cayuga county, New York.
CHAPTER III.
They get into a wild country, “full of all kinds of Page 56–82
varmints,” and begin to build—Peter knocked off of a
barn by his master—story of a rattlesnake charming a
child—Peter hews the timber for a new house, and gets
paid in lashes—Tom Ludlow an abolitionist—Peter’s
friends all advise him to run off—the fox-tail company,
their expeditions on Oneida Lake—deer stories—Rotterdam
folks—story of a pain’ter—master pockets Peter’s share
of the booty and bounty—the girls of the family
befriend him—a sail on the Lake—Peter is captain, and
saves the life of a young lady who falls overboard, and
nearly loses his own—kindly and generously treated by
the young lady’s father, who gives Peter a splendid
suit of clothes worth seventy dollars, and “a good many
other notions”—his master ☞ steals his clothes ☜ and
wears them out himself—Mr. Tucker’s opinion of his
character, and Peter’s of his fate.
CHAPTER IV.
An affray in digging a cellar—Peter sick of a typhus Page 83–124
fever nine months—the kindness of “the
gals”—physician’s bill—a methodist preacher, and a leg
of tain’ted mutton—_“master shoots arter him” with a
rifle!!_—a bear story—where the skin went to—a glance
at religious operations in that region—“a camp
meeting”—Peter tied up in the woods in the night, and
“expects to be eat up by all kinds of wild
varmints”—master a drunkard—owns a still—abuses his
family—a story of blood, and stripes, and groans, and
cries—Peter finds ‘Lecta a friend in need—expects to be
killed—Abers intercedes for him, and “makes it his
business”—Mrs. Abers pours oil into Peter’s
wounds—Peter goes back, and is better treated a little
while—master tries to stab him with a pitchfork, and
Peter nearly kills him in self-defence—tries the rifle
and swears he will end Peter’s existence now—but the
ball don’t hit—the crisis comes, and that night Peter
swears to be free or die in the cause.
CHAPTER V.
Peter’s master prosecuted for abusing him, and fined Page 155–171
$500, and put under a bond of $2000 for good
behavior—Peter for a long time has a plan for running
away, and the girls help him in it—“the big eclipse of
1806”—Peter starts at night to run away, and the girls
carry him ten miles on his road—the parting
scene—travels all night, and next day sleeps in a
hollow log in the woods—accosted by a man on the
Skeneateles bridge—sleeps in a barn—is discovered—two
pain’ters on the road—discovered and pursued—frightened
by a little girl—encounter with “two black gentlemen
with a white ring round their necks”—“Ingens” chase
him—“Utica quite a thrifty little place”—hires out nine
days—Little Falls—hires out on a boat to go to
“Snackady”—makes three trips—is discovered by Morehouse
☜—the women help him to escape to Albany—hires out on
Truesdell’s sloop—meets master in the street—goes to
New York—a reward of $100 offered for him—Capt. comes
to take him back to his master, for “one hundred
dollars don’t grow on every bush”—“feels
distressedly”—but Capt. Truesdell promises to protect
him, “as long as grass grows and water runs”—he follows
the river.
BOOK THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
Beginning of sea stories—sails with Captain Truesdell for Page 173–185
the West-Indies—feelings on leaving the American
shore—sun-set at sea—shake hands with a French
frigate—a storm—old Neptune—a bottle or a
shave—caboose—Peter gets two feathers in his cap—St.
Bartholomews—climate—slaves—oranges—turtle—a small pig,
“but dam’ old”—weigh anchor for New York—“sail ho!”—a
wreck—a sailor on a buoy—get him aboard—his story—gets
well, and turns out to be an enormous swearer—couldn’t
draw a breath without an oath—approach to New
York—quarantine—pass the Narrows—drop anchor—rejoicing
times—Peter jumps ashore “a free nigger.”
CHAPTER II.
Peter spends the winter of 1806–7 in New York—sails in Page 185–199
June in the Carnapkin for Bristol—a sea tempest—ship
becalmed off the coast of England—catch a shark and
find a lady’s hand, and gold ring and locket in
him—this locket, &c. lead to a trial, and the murderer
hung—the mother of the lady visits the ship; sail for
home—Peter sails with captain Williams on a trading
voyage—Gibralter—description of it—sail to
Bristol—chased by a privateer—she captured by a French
frigate—sail for New York—Peter lives a gentleman at
large in “the big city of New York.”
CHAPTER III.
Peter sails for Gibralter with Captain Bainbridge—his Page 202–230
character—horrible storm—Henry falls from aloft and is
killed—a funeral at sea—English lady prays—Gibralter
and the landing of soldiers—a frigate and four
merchantmen—Napoleon—Wellington and Lord Nelson—a slave
ship—her cargo—five hundred slaves—a wake of blood
fifteen hundred miles—sharks eat ’em—Amsterdam—winter
there—Captain B. winters in Bristol—Dutchmen—visit to
an old battle field—stories about Napoleon—Peter falls
overboard and is drowned, _almost_—make New York the
fourth of July—Peter lends five hundred dollars and
loses it—sails to the West Indies with Captain
Thompson—returns to New York and winters with Lady
Rylander—sails with Captain Williams for
Gibralter—fleet thirty-seven sail—cruise up the
Mediterranean—Mt. Etna—sails to Liverpool—Lord
Wellington and his troops—war between Great Britain and
the United States—sails for New York and goes to sea no
more—his own confessions of his character—dreadful
wicked—sings a sailor song and winds up his yarn.
BOOK THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
Lives at Madam Rylander’s—Quaker Macy—Susan a colored Page 233–248
girl lives with Mr. Macy—she is kidnapped and carried
away, and sold into slavery—Peter visits at the
“Nixon’s, mazin’ respectable” colored people in
Philadelphia—falls in love with Solena—gits the consent
of old folks—fix wedding day—“ax parson”—Solena dies in
his arms—his grief—compared with Rhoderic Dhu—lives in
New Haven—sails for New York—drives hack—Susan Macy is
redeemed from slavery—she tells Peter her story of
blood and horror, and abuse, and the way she made her
escape from her chains.
CHAPTER II.
Kidnappin’ in New York—Peter spends three years in Page 249–260
Hartford—couldn’t help thinkin’ of Solena—Hartford
Convention—stays a year in Middletown—hires to a man in
West Springfield—makes thirty-five dollars fishin’
nights—great revival in Springfield—twenty
immersed—sexton of church in Old Springfield—religious
sentiments—returns to New York—_Solena again_—Susan
Macy married—pulls up for the Bay State again—lives
eighteen months in Westfield—six months in
Sharon—Joshua Nichols leaves his wife—Peter goes after
him and finds him in Spencertown, New York—takes money
back to Mrs. Nichols—returns to Spencertown—lives at
Esq. Pratt’s—Works next summer for old Captain
Beale—his character—falls in love—married—loses his
only child—wife helpless eight months—great revival of
1827—feels more like gittin’ religion—“One sabba’day
when the minister preached at me”—a resolution to get
religion—how to become a christian—evening
prayer-meeting—Peter’s convictions deep and
distressing—going home he kneels on a rock and
prayed—his prayer—the joy of a redeemed soul—his family
rejoice with him.
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BOOK THE FIRST.
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PETER WHEELER IN CHAINS.
DEDICATED TO
Every body who hates oppression, and don’t believe that it is right,
under any circumstances, to buy and sell the image of the Great God
Almighty; and to all who love Human Liberty well enough to help to
break every yoke, that the oppressed may go free——God bless all such!
“I own I am shocked at the _purchase_ of slaves,
And fear those that buy them and sell them are knaves;
What I hear of their hardships, their tortures and groans,
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones.”
COWPER.
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CHAPTER I.
Author’s first interview with Peter—Peter calls on the Author, and
begins his story—his birth and residence—is adopted by Mrs. Mather and
lives in Mr. Mather’s house—his “_red scarlet coat_“—fishing
expedition on Sunday with Hagar when he sees the Devil—a feat of
horsemanship—saves the life of master’s oldest son, and is bit in the
operation by a wild hog—an encounter with an “old-fashioned cat owl”
in the Cedar Swamp—a man killed by wild cats—a short “sarmint” at a
Quaker Meeting—“I and John makes a pincushion of a calf’s nose, and
got _tuned_ for it, I tell ye”—holyday’s amusements—the marble egg—“I
and John great cronies”—Mistress sick—Peter hears something in the
night which he thinks a forerunner of her death—_she dies a
Christian_—her dying words—Peter’s feelings on her death.
_Author._ “Peter, your history is so remarkable, that I have thought it
would make quite an interesting book; and I have a proposal to make
you.”
_Peter._ “Well, Sir, I’m always glad to hear the Domine talk; what’s
your proposal? I guess you’re contrivin’ to put a spoke in the Abolition
wheel, ain’t ye?”
A. “Peter you know I’m a friend to the black man, and try to do him
good.”
P. “Yis, I know that, I tell ye.”
A. “Well, I was going to say that this question of Slavery is all the
talk every where, and as _facts_ are so necessary to help men in coming
to correct conclusions in regard to it, I have thought it would be a
good thing to write a story of your life and adventures—for you know
that every body likes to read such books, and they do a great deal of
good in the cause of Freedom.”
P. “I s’pose then you’ve got an idee of makin’ out some sich a book as
Charles Ball, and that has done a sight of good. But it seems to me I’ve
_suffered_ as much as Charles Ball, and I’ve sartinly _travelled ten
times as fur_ as he ever did. But I should look funny enough in print,
shouldn’t I? The Life and Adventers of Peter Wheeler—!! ha! ha!! ha!!!
And then you see every feller here in town, would be a stickin’ up his
nose at the very idee, jist because I’m a “nigger” as they say—or
“snow-ball,” or somethin’ else; but never mind, if it’s a goin’ to du
any _good_, why I say _let split_, and we’ll go it nose or no
nose—snow-ball or no snow-ball.”
A. “Well, I’m engaged this morning Peter, but if you will call down to
my study this afternoon at two o’clock, I’ll be at home, and ready to
begin. I want you to put on your “thinking cap,” and be prepared to
begin your story, and I’ll write while you talk, and in this way we’ll
do a good business—good bye Peter, give my love to your family, and be
down in season.”
P. “Good bye Domine, and jist give _my_ love to your folks; and I’ll be
down afore two, if nothin’ happens more’n I know on.”
* * * * *
A. “Walk in—Ah! Peter you’re come have you? you are _punctual_ too, for
the clock is just striking. I’m glad to see you; take a seat on the
settee.”
P. “I thought I couldn’t be fur out of the way: and I’m right glad to
see _you_ tu, and you pretty well? and how does your lady du?”
A. “All well, Peter.”
P. “You seem to be all ready to weigh anchor.”
A. “Yes, and we’ll be soon under way.—And now, Peter, I have perfect
confidence in your veracity, but I want you to watch every word you
utter, for ’twill all be read by ten thousand folks, and I wouldn’t send
out any exaggerated statement, or coloured story, for all the books in
Christendom. You know it’s hard to tell ‘the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth;’ and now you will have plenty of time to _think_,
for I can’t write as fast as you will talk, and I want you to think
carefully, and speak accurately, and we’ll have a _true_ story, and I
think a _good_ one.”
P. “I’ll take good care of that, Mr. L—— and we’ll have a _true_ story
if we don’t have a big one; but I’m a thinkin’ that afore we git through
we’ll have a pretty good yarn spun, as the sailors say. I always thought
’twas bad enough to tell one lie, but a man must be pretty bad to tell
one in a book, for if he has ten thousand books printed, he will print
ten thousand lies, and that’s lying on tu big a scale.”
A. “Well, Peter, in what age, and quarter of the world were you born?”
P. “As near as I can find out, I was born the 1st of January 1789, at
Little Egg Harbour, a parish of Tuckertown, New Jersey. I was born a
slave ☜—and many a time, like old Job, I’ve _cussed_ the day I was born.
My mother has often told me, that my great grandfather was born in
Africa, and one day he and his little sister was by the seaside pickin’
up shells, and there come a small boat along shore with white sailors,
and ketches ’em both, and they cried to go back and see mother, but they
didn’t let ’em go, and they took ’em off to a big black ship that was
crowded with negroes they’d stole; and there they kept ’em in a dark
hole, and almost starved and choked for some weeks, they should guess,
and finally landed ’em in Baltimore, and there they was _sold_.
Grandfather used to set and tell these ’ere stories all over to mother,
and set and cry and cry jist like a child, arter he’d got to be an old
man, and tell how he wanted to see mother on board that ship, and how
happy he and his sister was, a playing in the sand afore the ship come;
and jist so mother used to set and trot me on her knee, and tell me
these ’ere stories as soon as I could understand ’em—”
“Well, as I was sayin’, I was born in Tuckertown, and my master’s name
was Job Mather. He was a man of family and property, and had a wife and
two sons, and a large plantation. He was a Quaker by profession, and
used to go to the Quaker meetin’s; but afore I git through with him,
I’ll show you he warn’t overstocked with Religion. He was the first and
last Quaker I ever heard on, that owned a slave,[1] and he warn’t a
_full-blooded Quaker_, for if he had been, he wouldn’t owned me; for a
full-blooded Quaker won’t own a slave. I was the only slave he owned,
and he didn’t own me ☜ but this, is the way he _come by_ me.[2] Mistress
happened to have a child the same time I was born, and the little feller
died. So she sent to Dinah my mother, and got me to nuss her, when I was
only eight days old.”
Footnote 1:
Would to God, it could be said of any other denomination of Christians
in Christendom!!
Footnote 2:
A grand distinction for some _big Doctors_ to learn!
“Well, arter I’d got weaned, and was about a year old, mother comes to
mistress, and says she, ‘Mistress, have you got through with my baby?’
‘No,’ says Mistress, ‘no Dinah, I mean to bring him up myself.’ And so
she kept me, and called me Peter Wheeler, for that was my father’s name,
and so I lived in master’s family almost jist like his own children.”
“The first thing I recollect was this:——Master and Mistress, went off up
country on a journey, and left I and John, (John was her little boy
almost my age,) with me at home, and says she as she goes away, ‘now
boys if you’ll be _good_, when I come back, I’ll bring you some handsome
presents.’”
“Well, we _was_ good, and when she comes back, she gives us both a suit
of clothes, and mine was _red scarlet_, and it had a little coat
buttoned on to a pair of trousers, and a good many buttons on ’em, all
up and down be-for’ard and behind, and I had a little cap, with a good
long tostle on it; and oh! when I first got ’em on, if I didn’t feel
_big_, I won’t guess.”
“I used to do ’bout as I was a mind tu, until I was eight or nine year
old, though Master and Mistress used to make I and John keep Sunday
_’mazin strict_; yet, I remember one Sunday, when they was gone to
Quaker meetin’, I and Hagar, (she was my sister, and lived with my
mother, and mother was free,) well, I and Hagar went down to the creek
jist by the house, a fishin’. _She_ stood on the bridge, and _I_ waded
out up to my middle, and had big luck, and in an hour I had a fine
basket full. But jist then I see a flouncin’ in the water, and a great
monstrous big thing got hold of my hook, and yauked it arter him, pole,
line, nigger and all, I’d enemost said, and if he didn’t make a
squashin’ then I’m a white man. Well, Hagar see it, and she was scart
almost to pieces, and off she put for the house, and left me there
alone. Well, I thought sure ’nough ’twas the Devil, I’d hearn tell so
much ’bout the old feller; and I took my basket and put out for the
house like a white-head, and I thought I _should_ die, I was _so scart_.
We got to the house and hid under the bed, all a tremblin’ jist like a
leaf, afeard to stir one inch. Pretty soon the old folks comes home, and
so out we crawled, and they axed us the matter, and so we up and telled
’em all about it, and Master, says he ‘why sure ’nough ’twas the Devil,
and all cause you went a fishin’ on a Sunday, and if you go down there a
fishin’ agin Sunday he’ll catch you both, and that’ll be the end of you
two snow-balls.”
A. “Didn’t he whip you, Peter, to pay for it?”
P. “Whip us? No, Sir; I tell ye what ’tis, what he telled us ’bout the
Devil, paid us more’n all the whippens in creation.”
A. “What was the big thing in the creek?”
P. “Why, I s’pose ’twas a _shark_; they used to come up the creek from
the ocean.”
A. “Did you have much Religious Instruction?”
P. “Why, the old folks used to tell us we musn’t lie and steal and play
sabba’day, for if we did, the _old boy_ would come and carry us off; and
that was ’bout all the Religion I got from them, and all I knowed ’bout
it, as long as I lived there.”
A. “What did you used to do when you got old enough to work?”
P. “Why, I lived in the house, and almost jist like a gal I knew when
washin’-day come, and I’d out with the poundin’-barrel, and _on_ with
the big kittle, and besides I used to do all the heavy cookin’ in the
kitchen, and carry the dinner out to the field hands, and scrub, and
scour knives, and all sich work.”
A. “Did you always used to have plenty to eat?”
P. “Oh? yis, Sir, I had the handlin’ of the victuals, and I had my
_fill_, I tell ye.”
A. “Did you ever go to school, Peter?”
P. “Yis, Sir, I went one day when John was sick in his place, and that
was the only day I ever went, in all my life, and I larned my A, B, C’s
through, both ways, and never forgot ’em arter that.”
A. “Well, did you ever meet with any accidents?”
P. “Why, it’s a wonder I’m _alive_, I’ve had so many wonderful
_escapes_. When I was ’bout ten year old, Master had a beautiful horse,
only he was as wild as a pain’ter, and so one day when he was gone away,
I and John gits him out, and he puts me on, and ties my legs under his
belly, so I shouldn’t git flung off, and he run, and snorted, and broke
the string, and pitched me off, and enemost broke my head, and if my
skull hadn’t a been pretty thick, I guess he would; and I didn’t get
well in almost six weeks.” Another thing I think on, Master had some of
these ’ere old-fashioned long-eared and long-legged hogs, and he used to
turn ’em out, like other folks, in a big wood nearby, and when they was
growed up, fetch ’em and pen ’em up, and fat ’em; and so Master fetched
home two that was dreadful wild, and they had tushes _so long_, and put
’em in a pen to fat. Well, his oldest son gits over in the pen one day
to clean out the trough, and one on ’em put arter him, and oh! how he
_bawled_, and run to git out; I heard him, and run and reached over the
pen, and catched hold on him, and tried to lift him out; but the old
feller had got hold of his leg, and took out a whole mouthful, and then
let go; and I pulled like a good feller, and got him most over, but the
old sarpent got hold of _my hand_, and bit it through and through, and
there’s the scar yit.”
A. “Did you let go, Peter?”
P. “Let go? No! I tell ye I didn’t; the hog got hold of his heel, and
bit the ball right off; but when he let go _that_ time, I fetched a
dreadful lift, and I got him over the pen, _safe and sound, only_ he was
badly bit.
“And while I think of it, one day Mistress took me to go with her
through the Cedar Swamp to see some Satan, only she took me as she said
to keep the snakes off. It was two miles through the woods, and we went
on a road of cedar-rails, and when we got into the swamp, I see a big
old-fashioned cat owl a settin’ on a limb up ’bout fifteen foot from the
ground I guess; and as I’d heard an owl couldn’t see in the day time, I
thought I’d creep up slily, and catch him, and I says ‘Mistress,’ says
I, ‘will you wait?’ and she says, ‘yis, if you’ll be quick.’ And so up I
got, and jist as I was agoin to grab him, he jumped down, and lit on my
head, and planted his big claws in my wool and begun to peck, and I
hollered like a loon, and swung off, and down I come, and he stuck tight
and pecked worse than ever. I hollows for Mistress, and by this time she
comes up with a club, and she pounded the old feller, but he wouldn’t
git off, and she pounded him till he was dead; and his claws stuck so
tight in my wool, Mistress had to cut ’em out with my jack-knife, and up
I got, glad ’nough to git off as I did; and I crawled out of the mud,
and the blood come a runnin’ down my head, and I was clawed and pecked
like a good feller, but I didn’t go owlin’ agin very soon, I tell ye.”
“Well, we got there, and this was Saturday, and we stayed till the next
arternoon. Sunday mornin’ I see a man go by, towards our house, with an
axe on his shoulder; and we started in the arternoon, and when we’d got
into the middle of the swamp there lay that man _dead_, with two big
wild cats by him that he’d killed: he’d split one on ’em open in the
head, and the axe lay buried in the neck of t’other; and there they all
lay dead together, all covered with blood, and sich a pitiful sight I
hain’t seen. But oh! how thick the wild cats was in that swamp, and you
could hear ’em squall in the night, as thick as frogs in the spring; but
ginerally they kept pretty still in the day time, and so we didn’t think
there was any danger till now; and we had to leave the dead man there
alone, only the dead wild cats was with him, and make tracks as fast as
we cleverly could, for home.”
A. “Did you ever go to meetings?”
P. “Sometimes I used to go to Quaker meetin’s with mistress, and there
we’d set and look first at one and then at t’other; and bi’m’by somebody
would up and say a word or two, and down he’d set, and then another, and
_down he’d set_. Sometimes they was the stillest, and sometimes the
noisiest meetin’s I ever see. One time, I remember, we went to hear a
new Quaker preacher, and there was a mighty sight of folks there; and I
guess we set still an hour, without hearin’ a word from anybody: and
that ’ere feller was a waitin’ for _his spirit_, I s’pose; and, finally
at last, an old woman gits up and squarks through her nose, and says
she, “Oh! all you young gentlemen beware of them ’ere young
ladies—Ahem!—Oh! all you young ladies beware of them ’ere young
gentlemen—Ahem—Peneroyal tea is good for a cold!” ☜ and down she sat,
and I roared right out, and I never was so tickled in all my life; and
the rest on ’em looked as sober as setten’ hens:—but I couldn’t hold in,
and I snorted out _straight_; and so mistress wouldn’t let me go agin.
And now you are a Domine, and I wants to ask you if the Lord inspired
her to git up, whether or no He didn’t forsake her soon arter she _got_
up?”
A. “Why, Peter, you’ve made the same remark about her, that a famous
historian makes about Charles Second, a wicked king of England. Some of
the king’s friends said, the Grace of God brought him to the throne—this
historian said, “if it _brought_ him to the throne it forsook him very
soon after he _got_ there.”
A. “Did you have any fun holydays, Peter.”
P. “Oh! yis, I and John used to be ‘mazing thick, and always together,
and always in mischief——One time, I recollect, when master was gone
away, we cut up a curious dido; master had a calf that was dreadful
gentle, and I and John takes him, and puts a rope round his neck, and
pulls his nose through the fence, and drove it full of pins, and he
blatted and blatted like murder, and finally mistress see us, and out
she come, and makes us pull all the pins out, one by one, and let him
go; she didn’t say much, but goes and cuts a parcel of sprouts, and I
concluded she was a goin’ to _tune_ us. But it come night, we went into
the house, and she was mighty good, and says she, ‘come boys, I guess
it’s about bed time;’ and so she hands us a couple of basins of samp and
milk, and we eat it, and off to bed, a chucklin’, to think we’d got off
as well as we had. But we’d no sooner got well to bed, and nicely
kivered up, when I see a light comin’ up stairs, and mistress was a
holdin’ the candle in one hand, and a bunch of sprouts in t’other; and
she comes up to the bed, and says she, ‘boys do you sleep warm? I guess
I’ll tuck you up a little warmer, and, at that, she off with every rag
of bed clothes, and if she _didn’t tune_ us, I miss my guess: and ‘now,’
says she, ‘John see that you be in better business next time, when your
dad’s gone; and _you nigger_, you good for nothin little rascal, you
make a pincushion of a calf’s nose agin, will ye?’ And I tell ye they
_set close, them ’ere sprouts_.”
A. “Well, Peter, you were going to talk about holydays, and I shouldn’t
think it much of a holyday to be ‘tuned with them sprouts.’”
P. “Oh! yis, Sir, we had great times every Christmas and New-Years; but
we thought the most of Sain’t Valentine’s Day. The boys and gals of the
whole neighborhood, used to git together, and carry on, and make fun,
and _sich like_. We used to play pin a good deal, and I and John used to
go snacks, and cheat like Sancho Panza; and there’s where we got the
pins to stick in the calf’s nose, I was tellin’ you on. We used to have
a good deal of _fun_ sometimes in _bilein eggs_. Mistress would send us
out to hunt eggs, and we’d find a nest of a dozen, likely, and only
carry in three or four, and lay the rest by for holydays. Well, we used
to bile eggs, as I was sayin’, and the boys would strike biled eggs
together, and the one that didn’t get his egg broke should have
t’other’s, for his’n was the best egg. Well, we got a contrivance, I and
John did, that brought us a fine bunch of eggs. John’s uncle was down
the country once, and he gin John a smooth marble egg: oh! ’twas a
dreadful funny thing, and I guess he’s got it yit, if he’s a
livin’—well, we kept this egg, year in, and year out, and we’d take it
to the holydays, and break all the eggs there, and carry home a nice
parcel, and have a good bunch to give away, and I guess as how the boys
never found it out.”
A. “Why, you had as good times as you could ask for, it seems to me.”
P. “Oh! yis, Sir, I see many bright days, and, when I was a boy, I guess
no feller had more fun than I did. And I mean, Domine, all through the
book, to tell things jist as they was, and when I was frolicsome and
happy I’ll say so, and when I was in distress, I’ll say so; for it seems
to me, a book ought to tell things jist as they be. Well, I had got
about to the end of my happy fun, for mistress, who was the best friend
I had, was took sick, and I expected her to die—and sure ’nough she did
die; and as I was kind ‘a superstitious, one night afore she died, I
heard some strange noises, that scart me, and made me think ’em
forerunners of mistress’ death; and for years and years them noises used
to trouble me distressedly. Well, mistress had been a good woman, and
died _like a christian_. When she thought she was a dyin’, she called up
her husband to her bed-side, and took him by the hand, and says, ‘I am
now goin’ to my God, and your God, and I want you to prepare to follow
me to heaven,’ and says ‘farewell;’ she puts her arms round his neck and
kisses him. Then she calls up her children, and says pretty much the
same thing to them; and then me, and she puts her arms round all our
necks, and kisses us all, and says ‘good bye dear children,’ and she
fell back into the bed and died, without a struggle or a groan.
“Oh! how I cried when mistress died. She had been kind to me, and loved
me, and it seemed I hadn’t any thing left in the world worth livin’ for;
put it all together, I guess I cried more’n a week ’bout it, and nothin’
would pacify me. I _loved_ mistress, and when I see her laid in the
grave it broke my heart. I have never in all my life with all my
sufferin’s had any affliction that broke me down as that did. I thought
I _should_ die: the world looked gloomy ‘round me, and I knew I had
nothin’ to expect from master after she was gone, and I was left in the
world friendless and alone. I had seen _some_, yis _many_, good days,
and I don’t believe on arth there was a happier boy than Peter Wheeler;
but when mistress closed her eyes in death, my sorrows begun; and oh!
the tale of ’em will make your heart ache, afore I finish, for all my
hopes, and all my fun, and all my happiness, was buried in mistress’
grave.”
A. “Well, Peter, I’m tired of writing, and suppose we adjourn till
to-morrow.”
P. “Well, Sir, that’ll do I guess—oh! afore I go, have you got any more
Friend of Man?”
A. “Oh! yes, and something better yet—here’s Thomson and Breckenridge’s
Debate.”
P. “Is that the same Thomson that the slavery folks drove out of the
country, and the gentleman of property and standing in Boston tried to
tar and feather?”
A. ☞“YES.” ☜
P. “Well, I reckon he must have rowed Breckenridge up Salt River.” ☜
A. “You’re right, Peter, and he left him on Dry Dock!!!”
P. “Good bye, Domine.”
A. “Good bye, Peter.”
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