POMP’S ADVENTURE
Did you ever see the devil,
With his iron-wooden shovel,
A scratching up the gravel.
With his night-cap on?
* * * *
Did you ever, ever, ever,
Ever, ever, ever, ever,
Ever, ever, ever, ever,
Catch a whale by the tail! —Comic Song.
The indigenous negro, as he used to exist in New Jersey, has long since
disappeared before the inundation of new comers of the same race. Aunt
Chloe, and her kitchen friends, belonged to the good old stock, however,
such as our elder readers may remember to have met with in their youth.
They had all, at one time, been slaves in the family, and, though now
free, still regarded the Aylesfords as belonging to them, in a sense at
least. Hence they freely canvassed the conduct of all, from Mrs. Warren
down; and on this occasion, we may be sure, their criticisms were not
withheld.
In this conversation Aunt Chloe maintained the principal part. Her
auditors were the cook, a good-looking mulatto about forty years old,
whose stout and comely person bespoke the excellent living at
Sweetwater. A Madras handkerchief, tastefully wrapped about her head,
and a new dress, gave Dinah quite an imposing air this evening. Her
husband, who was at once overseer, gardener, and head ostler, a Guinea
coast African, as black as midnight, sat in front of the fire; while her
son, Pomp, a lad of eighteen, who officiated as stable boy, squatted on
the floor in the background. Two other servants hovered in the distance,
eager listeners, but not daring to join in the conversation with their
superiors, especially with Aunt Chloe.
After the fire had been discussed, the return of Aylesford was brought
up, and its effect on Major Gordon duly canvassed. Servants are more
observant than is always thought, and the kitchen at Sweetwater had
discovered the condition of our hero’s affections long before the
parlor, or even himself, had suspected it. Aunt Chloe, in spite of
having known Aylesford when an infant, leaned to the side of the Major,
chiefly, it must be confessed, in consequence of the douceur the latter
had bestowed upon her. For a similar reason, Pomp, who as stable-boy,
had often received small gratuities, secretly favored the same cause.
But, on the other hand, Dinah, as well as her husband, neither of whom
had been in the way to be favored by our hero, were warm advocates of
Aylesford.
For a time the discussion waxed quite animated, but finally it died
away, and the new minister came up for scrutiny in turn. On this subject
Aunt Chloe spoke authoritatively, laying down the law to her gaping
listeners. It is well known that illiterate negroes are somewhat
peculiar in their religious notions. The imagination has a powerful
influence over them, and they are exceedingly susceptible to nervous
excitements, as any one, who has ever been at a camp-meeting, must have
observed. Frequently, indeed, they seem to actually realize mere dreams.
Hence it is a common thing to hear them tell, with the greatest gravity,
stories of personal interviews with the Arch Enemy. Sometimes, however,
these are not delusions, but deliberate romances, invented to increase
the importance of the narrator.
“It did dis chile good,” said Aunt Chloe, “to hear dat preacher
dis morning. I bless my hebbenly master dat dar are left some who speak
de plain trufe. It ‘most made me feel as I did when I fast got
religion. Ah! dat was a happy time. It was long ago, Pomp, before you
was born, at a woods meeting over by Waldo. ‘Peared as if I was light
as a bird, and could fly right up to hebben. I nebber saw de stars shine
as dey did dat night, when I walked home; and nebber ‘spect to till I
get over Jordan, and into de New Jerusalem—dat is if de ole debbil,
dat roarin’ lion, who goes about seekin’ whom he may devour, don’t
git dis chile yet.”
Pomp, at this mention of the ubiquitous character of the enemy, mindful,
perhaps, of some late improper acts, looked fearfully over his shoulder,
as if expecting to see him lurking in the dark shadows at the further
end of the kitchen; for it was now after sunset, and the only light in
the room was that of the smouldering fire.
“Ah! dat debbil,” groaned Pomp’s sire, rolling up the whites of
his eyes. “We must watch and pray, Aunt Chloe, or he’ll git de best
of us in spite of all. He ‘most had dis chile once. He was near to me,
‘deed he was, as Pomp dis minnit.”
Pomp started as if he had been shot, and began to edge away from his
parent, at this renewed assault upon his nerves.
“You don’t say dat?” cried Aunt Chloe, lifting up both hands.
“You’re makin’ fun.”
“’Deed I isn’t, aunty. I seed de debbil, dat ole dragon, only dis
last spring, sure sartin.”
“How?” and Aunt Chloe, stuffing more tobacco into her pipe, began to
smoke anew, looking the speaker eagerly in the face.
“I was out in de cornfield, one day, hoein’,” said he, “when,
stoppin’ to rest a minnit, and looking up, I saw dat of a sudden de
woods at de odder end had clean gone away, and de field had stretched
hisself away out,” and he extended his arm as he spoke, with the palm
of the hand inclined downwards, “just so, slopin’ like, as de roof
of a barn does, yer know, only it went slopin’ down, down, till it cum
to de end of de world. But it didn’t ‘pear to be de end of de world
eider. For over again de field dar was a hill, which sloped up ‘most
as high on de odder side,” all this time going through an active
pantomine, “and between de two, and kind o’ under de one I was on,
was de bottomless pit, ‘deed dere was, wid de brimstone flames and
smoke a-shootin’ up, ebbery now and den, like fire out of de stack of
Waldo furnace. And standin’ dar between de two hills,” continued the
narrator, leaning forward, “and right ober dis pit, I saw de debbil
hisself, ‘deed I did, aunty. He had great horns on his head, and eyes
like red-hot iron, and held a big pitchfork in his hand, and ‘peared
to be a watchin’ me, as near as I could tell, for you see de smoke
kept rollin’ up and hidin’ him ‘bout half de time. ‘Oh! Lor’
Amighty!’ I said, ‘dis chile done for now; de debbil will hab him,
and no mistake.’ Wid dat, of a sudden, my knees guv way, I fell, and
as I fell I begun a slidin’ down de hill. De debbil he saw me
a-comin’, and made a grab at me wid his pitchfork; but he couldn’t
reach me yet. I tried to cotch hold of somethin’ to stop me, but de
field ‘peared to be nuffin but loose sand, widout a cornstalk left, or
a blackberry bush, or even a root. De debbil he now made anoder grab at
me, but he wasn’t near enough yet. By dis time de sand of de field
began to slide, like shelled corn pourin’ out of a half-bushel,
slippin’, slippin’, and de debbil reachin’, reachin’, to get my
poor ole soul. By’m bye, I saw dat de next time he would fotch me
sure. I was away down, yer see, just at de bottom of de hill, and could
hear de roarin’ of de flames, and Dives a lookin’ up and cryin’
for a drop of water. De debbil he kind of braced hisself, seein’ me so
close, and lifted his pitchfork to hab it ready; and I went slidin’,
slidin’, and de hill wid me, faster dan a streak of lightnin’, right
down—”
“Datll do,” cried Aunt Chloe, rising authoritatively. “Lord a
massy, how you can lie, ole nig.” And as she spoke, the expression of
her countenance, which had been one of incredulity almost from the
first, settled into disgust.
“I’ll not stay,” she continued, “to hear sich tales. I wonder
you ain’t ashamed, and before Pomp too.”
The abashed romancer could not utter a word. Dinah in vain interposed to
persuade Aunt Chloe to remain. At last the offender, eager to purchase
his peace, said that, if Aunt Chloe must go, at least she must permit
Pomp to accompany her home. “Dar was nuffin so ungenteel,” he said,
“dan fur company, ‘specially ladies, to be ‘lowed to go home
alone.”
Pomp, whose ever active fears had been unpleasantly excited already,
would fain have declined, but did not dare; and Aunt Chloe, somewhat
mollified by this civility, set off with her attendant. The distance was
about a mile, which was soon passed, too soon for Pomp, indeed, who, all
the time, had been dreading the lonely walk back.
There was no help for it, however, and so, after leaving Aunt Chloe at
her gate, the lad, whistling to keep his courage up, set his face
homewards. As long as he remained within sight of the cabin, he managed
to keep down his fears; but when he had fairly plunged into the forest,
his teeth began to chatter, his knees to shake, and his heart to
palpitate. The night was starless, as well as moonless, so that, even in
the open country, it was quite dark, while in the narrow wood road the
gloom seemed almost palpable. Pomp could not see a dozen feet ahead. He
began to recall, not only the story his father had related, and which he
firmly believed in spite of Aunt Chloe’s skepticism, but all the
supernatural narratives he had listened to during his whole lifetime.
Tales of the Arch Enemy, assuming the shape of a wild beast, and
pouncing on lonely travellers from some dark covert; tales of the dead
coming forth; tales of whole legions of devils carrying off benighted
wayfarers; these, which he had often heard beside the kitchen fire,
recurred to him now, till his hair stood on end, and he started at every
sound.
His road lead near the grave-yard, and as he approached it, his terror
redoubled.
All at once, and when at the very darkest part of the road, what seemed
a groan made him come to a halt. He immediately rallied, however, and
tried to persuade himself that it was only the wind in the tree-tops,
which had again momentarily startled him. But as he listened, it came
once more, an awful, unearthly sound, that chilled his very marrow. His
limbs now refused to support him, and he sank nerveless and shaking to
the ground. But when a moment had elapsed, and the sound was not
repeated, he began to gather a little courage, thinking that, perhaps,
it was only the distant hooting of an owl. Re-assured somewhat, by this
idea, he rose feebly to his feet. But he had not advanced a step before
the sound was heard again, and indisputably close at hand, so close
indeed, that he seemed to feel the hot breath from the invisible
presence that uttered it. He fell at once flat on his face, half dead
with horror, and expecting the next instant to be clutched and borne
off.
He was almost too frightened to pray, a duty in which, he now
remembered, he had lately been remiss: but he managed, with rattling
teeth, and nearly paralyzed jaws, to articulate at last.
“Oh! Marse Lord,” he cried, “don’t let de debbil git dis poor
chile, not dis time anyhow. ‘Twasn’t Pomp, dat was in de watermelon
patch dis mornin’, when he ought to have been at meetin’. Dar’s
some mistake, deed dar is. It’s Sam Jonsing dat you want, Marse
Debbil. Tink what my ole mammy will do if you—”
But he never finished his adjuration, for at this crisis two glowing
eyes emerged out of the darkness, and stood staring over him, two
enormous horns followed, a bellow was heard that seemed to shake the
woods for miles, and Pomp felt himself lifted bodily from the sand. It
was more than nature could endure. He fainted outright.
When he came to himself, he was lying at the side of the road, stiff
with bruises. At first he could not believe that he was still alive. But
gradually, though not till after he had pinched himself frequently, he
became assured that he was yet in mortal guise; and that his unearthly
enemy had disappeared. He now feebly struggled to his feet, and began to
feel his limbs; but none were broken, though he found his breeches torn
nearly off. Gathering courage, by degrees, he crept away, moving
fearfully and cautiously, however, till he had fairly emerged from the
woods and passed the grave-yard, when he broke into a run and fled
homewards as fast as his limbs would carry him.
Here, to a gaping audience, he recounted breathlessly his narrow escape.
“You darn fool,” said his sire, when Pomp had finished his
narration, incredulous of others, because conscious of his own habit of
romancing, “do you tink your ole farder’ll believe dat pack of lies?
You neber saw anything, but made it all up.”
“De chile didn’t,” said Dinah. “Dar! What you say to dis?”
She exposed to view, as she spoke, the damaged seat of Pomp’s
breeches, which afforded unmistakable proof of his having come into
contact with an enemy of some kind, even if not a supernatural one. But
the sire was still incredulous.
“He’s gone done tore it a purpose,” was all the stubborn skeptic
said.
But the next day he professed to solve the enigma. He came in from the
barn, where he had been giving Arab an early feed, and, laughing,
said—
“De black bull was loose all night, and went way up de road, past de
meetin’-house, ‘zactly whar dis darn fool of a Pomp says he met de
debbil. It’s lucky his breeches tore, or de critter might have killed
him, deed he might. I told you de chile was lyin’. Lor’ Amighty, to
get skeered dat way, at nuffin at all!” and he laughed till the tears
ran out of his eyes.
But Dinah as well as her son persisted in their original version of the
story, and thereafter two distinct accounts of interviews with the Arch
Enemy were told in the kitchen at Sweetwater, neither party, however,
believing a word that the other said.