"Speak low," said I; "tell me who you are."
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you; what is your name?"
"My name Nick."
"What are you doing here?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you; what are you doing here?"
"I'se des' a-restin', mahsa; I'se mighty tired."
"You are hiding from the soldiers."
"What sojers, mahsa?"
Clearly Nick was no simpleton; he was gaining time; he might not yet
know which side I belonged to. I must end this matter. The night was
cool. I had no blanket or overcoat. While walking I had been warm, but
now I was getting chilly.
Yet, after all, suppose Nick was not a friend. However, such, a
supposition was heterodox; every slave must desire freedom; a slave who
does not wish to be free is an impossibility.
"Who were the soldiers who rode by just now?"
"I dunno, mahsa."
"Then, why did you hide from them?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes; why did you run and hide?"
"De s'caze I dunno who dey is."
This was very simple; but it did not relieve the complication. I must be
the first to declare myself.
"Were they not--" I checked myself in time, I was going to say rebels,
but thought better of it; the word would declare my sympathies. I was
not so ready, after all.
"W'at dat you gwine to say, mahsa?"
Neither was Nick ready to speak first; he was a quick-witted negro.
"I was going to ask if they were Southern soldiers."
"You dunno who dey is, mahsa?"
Yes; Nick was sharp; I must be discreet now, and wary--more so. I knew
that many Confederate officers had favourite slaves as camp servants,
slaves whom they thought so attached to them as to be trustworthy. Who
could know, after all, that there were no exceptions amongst slaves? My
doubts became so keen that I should not have believed Nick on his oath.
He might tell me a lie with the purpose of leading me into a rebel
camp. I must get rid of him somehow.
"Mahsa," said Nick, "is you got any 'bacco?"
"No" said I; then, "yes, I have some smoking tobacco."
"Dat's mighty good hitse'f; won't you please, sa', gimme a little?"
I was not a smoker, but I knew that there was a little loose tobacco in
one of my pockets; how it came to be there I did not know.
"Thankee; mahsa; dis 'bacoo makes me bleeve you is a--" Nick hesitated,
"A what?"
"A good man," said Nick.
"Nick," I said, "I want to go up the road."
"W'at fur you gwine up de road, mahsa?"
"I want to see some people up there."
Nick did not reply. Could he fear that I was wanting to take him into
the Southern lines? It looked so.
The thought almost took away any fear I yet had that he might betray me.
His hesitation was assuring.
I repeated, "I want to see--I mean I want to look at--some people up the
road."
"Dem sojers went up the road des' now, mahsa."
"Do you think they will come back soon?"
"I dunno, mahsa; maybe dey will en' maybe dey won't."
"Didn't you come from up the road?"
"Mahsa, how come you ain't got no gun?"
This threatened to be a home-thrust; but I managed to parry it; and to
give him as good.
"Do Southern officers carry guns?"
"You Southern officer, mahsa?"
"Southern officers carry swords and pistols," said I; "didn't you know
that, Nick?"
"Mahsa," said Nick, very seriously.
"What is it, Nick?"
"Mahsa, fo' God you ain't no Southern officer."
"What makes you think so, Nick?"
"Caze, of you was a Southern officer you wouldn't be a-gwine on lak you
is; you 'ud des' say, 'Nick, you dam black rascal, git back to dem
breswucks on' to dat pick en' to dat spade dam quick, or I'll have you
strung up;' dat's w'at you'd say."
Unless Nick was intentionally fooling me, he was not to be feared. He
was willing for me to believe that he had run away from the
Confederates.
"But suppose I don't care whether you get back or not; there are enough
niggers working on the fortifications without you. I'd like to give you
a job of a different sort," said I, temptingly.
"W'at dat job you talkin' 'bout, mahsa?"
"I want you to obey my orders for one day,"
"W'at I hatto do, mahsa?"
"Go up the road with me," said I.
Nick was silent; my demand did not please him; yet if he wanted to
betray me to the rebels, now was his chance. I interpreted his silence
to mean that he wanted to go down the road, that is to say, that he
wanted, to make his way to the Union army and to freedom. I felt so sure
of this that I should not have been surprised if he had suddenly set out
running down the road; yet I supposed that he was still in doubt of my
character and feared a pistol-shot from me. He was silent so long that I
fully made up my mind that I could trust him a little.
"Nick," said I, "look at my clothes. I am neither a Southern officer nor
a Northern officer. I know what you want: you want to go to Fortress
Monroe. You shall not go unless you serve me first; if you serve me
well, I will help you in return. Go with me for one day, and I'll make
it worth your while."
"W'at you want me to go wid you fer? W'at I hatto do?"
"Guide me," said I; "show me the way to the breastworks; show me how to
see the breastworks and not be seen myself."
"Den w'at you gwine do fer me?"
It amused me to see that Nick had dropped his "mahsa." Did he think it
out of place, now that he knew I was not a Southern soldier?
"Nick, I will give you a dollar for your day's work; then I will give
you a note to a friend of mine, and the note will bring you another
dollar and a chance to make more."
Nick considered. The dollar was tempting; as to the note, the sequel
showed that he did not regard it of any importance, finally, he said
that if I would make it two dollars he would be my man, I felt in my
pockets, and found about four dollars, I thought, and at once closed
the bargain.
"Now; Nick," said I, "here is a dollar; go with me and be faithful, and
I will give you another before dark to-morrow."
"I sho' do it," said Nick, heartily; "now w'at I hatto do?"
"Where is the first Confederate post?"
"You mean dem Southern sojers?"
"Yes."
"You mean dem dat's do fust a-gwine _up_ de road, or dem dat's fust
a-comin' _down_ de road?"
"The nearest to us in this direction," said I, pointing.
"Dey is 'bout half a mile up dis road," said Nick.
"Did you see them?"
"I seed 'em fo' true, but dey didn't see me."
"How did you keep them from seeing you?"
"I tuck to do bushes; ef dey see me, dey string me up."
"How long ago was it since you saw them?"
"Sence sundown," said Nick,
"When did you leave the breastworks?"
"Las' night."
"And you have been a whole day and night getting here?"
"In de daytime I laid up," said Nick; "caze I dunno w'en I might strak
up wid 'em."
"How far have you come in all?"
"'Bout 'leben or ten mile, I reckon. I laid up in de Jim Riber swamp all
day."
"Did you have anything to eat?"
"Yassa; but I ain't got nothin' now no mo'."
"Do you know where we can get anything to eat to-morrow?"
"Dat I don't; how is we a-gwine to hole out widout sum'hm to eat?"
"We must risk it. I hope we shall not suffer."
"Dis country ain't got nothin' in it," said Nick; "de folks is almos'
all done gone to Richmon' er summers[1] en' I don't know w'at we's
a-gwine to do; I don't. I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do fer sum'hm
to eat. And I don't know w'at I's a-gwine to do fer 'bacco nudda."
[1] Somewhere [Ed.].
"Well, Nick, I can give you a little more tobacco; but I expect you to
find something to eat; if you can find it, I will pay for it."
We were wasting time; I wanted to make a start.
"Now, Nick" said I; "I want to go to Young's Mill, or as near it as I
can get without being seen."
"Dat all you want to do?" asked Nick.
"No; I want to do that first; then I want to see the breastworks. First,
I want to go to Young's Mill."
"W'ich Young's Mill?" asked Nick; "dey is two of 'em."
"Two?"
"Yassa; one Young's Mill is by de chu'ch on de Worrick road; de yudda
one is de ole Young's Mill fudda down on de creek."
"I want the one on the Warwick road," said I.
"Den dat's all right," said Nick; "all you got to do is to keep dis
straight road."
"But we must not show ourselves," said I.
"Don't you fret about dat; I don't want nobody to see me nudda; des'
you follow me."
Nick left the road, I following. We went northeast for half a mile, then
northwest for a mile or more, and found ourselves in the road again.
"Now we's done got aroun' 'em," said Nick; "we's done got aroun' de fust
ones; we's done got aroun' 'em; dis is twicet I's done got aroun' 'em,
'en w'en I come back I's got to git aroun' 'em agin."
"How far is it to Young's Mill, Nick?"
"I 'spec' hit's 'bout fo' mile," said Nick.
We were now within the rebel lines, and my capture might mean death. We
went on, always keeping out of the road. Nick led the way at a rapid and
long stride, and I had difficulty in keeping him in sight. The night was
getting cold, but the walk heated me. Here and there were dense clumps
of small trees; at the little watercourses there was larger growth. The
roar of the sea was heard no longer. It must have been about midnight.
We came upon swampy ground; just beyond it a road crossed ours.
"Stop a little, Nick," said I.
Nick came to a halt, and we talked in low tones; we could see a hundred
yards in every direction.
"Where does that road go?" I asked.
"Dat road," said Nick, pointing to the left; "hit goes to ole Young's
Mill."
"How far is old Young's Mill?"
"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."
"Where does the right-hand lead?"
"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick; "en' at Mis Cheeseman's dey is
calvry, on' at ole Young's Mill dey is calvry, but dey is on de yudda
side o' de creek."
"How far is it to Mrs. Cheeseman's?"
"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."
We went on. The ground was again swampy. We came to a road running
almost west; a church stood on the other side of the road.
"Dat's Danby Chu'ch," said Nick, "en' dat road hit goes to Worrick."
"And where does the right-hand lead?"
"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick.
"And where is Young's Mill?" I asked.
"Hit's right on dis same road we's on, en not fur off, nudda."
We had now almost reached my first objective. I knew that Nick was
telling me the truth, in the main, for the plan of the map was still
before my mind's eye.
"Can we get around Young's Mill without being seen?" I asked.
"Dey's a picket-line dis side," said Nick.
"How far this side?"
"'Bout a quauta' en' a ha'f a quata.'"
"How near can we get to the picket-line?"
"We kin git mos' up to 'em, caze dey's got de trees cut down."
"The trees cut down in their front?"
"Yassa; dey's got mos' all de trees out down, so dey is."
"And we can get to this edge of the felled timber?"
"Yassa; we kin git to de falled timba', but we's got to go roun' de
pon'."
"And if we go around the pond first; we shall then find the
picket-line?"
"De picket-line at Young's Mill?"
"Yes."
"Ef we gits roun' de pon', we'll be done got roun' de picket-line, en'
de trees w'at dey cut down, en' Young's Mill, en' all."
"Well, then, Nick, lead the way around the pond, and keep your eyes wide
open."
Nick went forward again, but more slowly for a while; then he turned to
the right, through the woods. We went a long distance and crossed a
creek on a fallen log. I found that this negro could see in the darkness
a great deal better than I could; where I should have groped my way, had
I been alone, he went boldly enough, putting his foot down flat as
though he could see where he was stepping. Nick said that there were no
soldiers in these woods and swamps; they were all on the road and at
Young's Mill, now a mile at our left.
At length we reached the road again. By this time I was very tired; but,
not wanting to confess it, I said to Nick that we should wait by the
side of the road for a while, to see if any soldiers should pass. We sat
in the bushes; soon Nick was on his back, asleep, and I was not sorry to
see him go to sleep so quickly, for I felt sure that he would not have
done so if he had meant to betray me.
I kept awake. Only once did I see anything alarming. A single horseman
came down the road at a leisurely trot, and passed on, his sabre
rattling by his side. When the sound of the horse's hoofs had died away,
I aroused Nick, and we continued west up the road. At last Nick stopped.
"What's the matter now, Nick?" I whispered.
"We's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he said.
"Again? Have we gone wrong?"
"We ain't gone wrong--but we's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he
repeated.
"Where are we?"
"We's gittin' mos' to Worrick; ef we gits up to de place, den w'at you
gwine to do?"
"I want to stay there till daylight, so that I can see them and know how
many they are."
"Den w'at you gwine to do?"
"Then I want to follow their line as near as I can, going toward
Yorktown."
"Den all I got to say is dat hit's mighty cole to be a-layin' out in de
woods widout no fiah en' widout no kiver en' widout noth'n' to eat."
"That's true, Nick; do you know of any place where we could get an hour
or two of sleep without freezing?"
"Dat's des' w'at I was a-gwine to say; fo' God it was; ef dat's w'at you
gwine to do; come on."
He led the way again, going to the left. We passed through woods, then a
field, and came to a farmhouse,
"Hold on. Nick," said I; "it won't do to go up to that house."
"Dey ain't nobody dah," said Nick; "all done runned off to Richmon' er
summers."
The fences were gone, and a general air of desolation marked the place.
Nick went into an outhouse--a stable with a loft--- and climbed up into
the loft. I climbed up after him. There was a little loose hay in the
loft; we speedily stretched ourselves. I made Nick promise to be awake
before sunrise, for I feared the place would be visited by the rebels.
X