Among the Pines Part 32

The whole of the large a.s.semblage then fell to eating. The dinner was made up of the barbacued beef and the usual mixture of viands found on a planter's table, with water from the little brook hard by, and a plentiful supply of corn-whiskey. (The latter beverage had, I thought, been subjected to the rite of immersion, for it tasted wonderfully of water.)

Songs and speeches were intermingled with the masticating exercises, and the whole company was soon in the best of humor.

During the meal I was introduced by Andy to a large number of the "natives," he taking special pains to tell each one that I was a Yankee, and a Union man, but always adding, as if to conciliate all parties, that I also was a guest and a friend of _his_ very particular friend, "thet d----d seceshener, Cunnel J----."

Before we left the table, the secession orator happening near where we were seated, Andy rose from his seat, and, extending his hand to him, said: "Tom, you think I 'sulted you; p'r'aps I did, but you 'sulted my Yankee friend har, and your own relation, and I hed to take it up, jest for the looks o' the thing. Come, there's my hand; I'll fight you ef you want ter, or we'll say no more 'bout it--jest as you like."

"Say no more about it, Andy," said the gentleman, very cordially; "let's drink and be friends."

They drank a gla.s.s of whiskey together, and then leaving the table, proceeded to where the ox had been barbacued, to show me how cooking on a large scale is done at the South.

In a pit about eight feet deep, twenty feet long, and ten feet wide, laid up on the sides with stones, a fire of hickory had been made, over which, after the wood had burned down to coals, a whole ox, divested of its hide and entrails, had been suspended on an enormous spit. Being turned often in the process of cooking, the beef had finally been "done brown." It was then cut up and served on the table, and I must say, for the credit of Southern cookery, that it made as delicious eating as any meat I ever tasted.

I had then been away from my charge--the Colonel's horses--as long as seemed to be prudent. I said as much to Andy, when he proposed to return with me, and, turning good-humoredly to his reconciled friend, he said: "Now, Tom, no secession talk while I'm off."

"Nary a word," said "Tom," and we left.

The horses had been well fed by the negro whom I had left in charge of them, but had not been groomed. Seeing that, Andy stripped off his coat, and setting the black at work on one, with a handful of straw and pine leaves, commenced operations on the other, whose hair was soon as smooth and glossy as if it had been rubbed by an English groom.

The remainder of the day pa.s.sed without incident till eleven at night, when the Colonel returned from Wilmington.

CHAPTER XV.

THE RETURN.

Moye had not been seen or heard of, and the Colonel's trip was fruitless. While at Wilmington he sent telegrams, directing the overseer's arrest, to the various large cities of the South, and then decided to return home, make arrangements preliminary to a protracted absence from the plantation, and proceed at once to Charleston, where he would await replies to his dispatches. Andy agreed with him in the opinion that Moye, in his weak state of health, would not take an overland route to the free states, but would endeavor to reach some town on the Mississippi, where he might dispose of the horse, and secure a pa.s.sage up the river.

As no time was to be lost, we decided to return to the plantation on the following morning. Accordingly, with the first streak of day we bade "good-bye" to our Union friend, and started homeward.

No incident worthy of mention occurred on the way, till about ten o'clock, when we arrived at the house of the Yankee schoolmistress, where we had been so hospitably entertained two days before. The lady received us with great cordiality, forced upon us a lunch to serve our hunger on the road, and when we parted, enjoined on me to leave the South at the earliest possible moment. She was satisfied it would not for a much longer time be safe quarters for a man professing Union sentiments. Notwithstanding the strong manifestations of loyalty I had observed among the people, I was convinced the advice of my pretty "countrywoman" was judicious, and I determined to be governed by it.

Our horses, unaccustomed to lengthy journeys, had not entirely recovered from the fatigues of their previous travel, and we did not reach our destination till an hour after dark. We were most cordially welcomed by Madam P----, who soon set before us a hot supper, which, as we were jaded by the long ride, and had fasted for twelve hours, on bacon-sandwiches and cold hoe-cake, was the one thing needful to us.

While seated at the table the Colonel asked:

"Has every thing gone right, Alice, since we left home?"

"Every thing," replied the lady, "except"--and she hesitated, as if she dreaded the effect of the news; "except that Jule and her child have gone."

"Gone!" exclaimed my host; "gone where?"

"I don't know. We have searched everywhere, but have found no clue to them. The morning you left Sam set Jule at work among the pines; she tried hard, but could not do a full task, and at night was taken to the cabin to be whipped. I heard of it, and forbade it. It did not seem to me that she ought to be punished for not doing what she had not strength to do. When released from the cabin, she came and thanked me for having interfered for her, and talked with me awhile. She cried and took on fearfully about Sam, and was afraid you would punish her when you returned. I promised you would not, and she left me seeming more cheerful. I supposed she would go directly home after getting her child from the nurse's quarters; but it appears she went to Pompey's, where she staid till after ten o'clock. Neither she nor the child have been seen since."

"Did you get no trace of her in the morning?"

"Yes, but soon lost it. When she did not appear at work, Sam went to her cabin to learn the cause, and found the door open, and her bed undisturbed. She had not slept there. Knowing that Sandy had returned, I sent for him, and, with Jim and his dog, he commenced a search. The dog tracked her directly from Pompey's cabin to the bank of the run near the lower still. There all trace of her disappeared. We dragged the stream, but discovered nothing. Jim and Sandy then scoured the woods for miles in all directions, but the hound could not recover the trail. I hope otherwise, but I fear some evil has befallen her."

"Oh, no! there's no fear of that," said the Colonel: "she is smart: she waded up the run far enough to baffle the dog, and then made for the swamp. That is why you lost her tracks at the stream. Rely upon it, I am right: but she shall not escape me."

We shortly afterward adjourned to the library. After being seated there a while the Colonel, rising quickly, as if a sudden thought had struck him, sent for the old preacher.

The old negro soon appeared, hat in hand, and taking a stand near the door, made a respectful bow to each one of us.

"Take a chair, Pompey," said Madam P----, kindly.

The black meekly seated himself, when the Colonel asked: "Well, Pomp, what do you know about Jule's going off?"

"Nuffin', ma.s.sa--I shures you, nuffin'. De pore chile say nuffin to ole Pomp 'bout dat."

"What did she say?"

"Wal, you see, ma.s.sa, de night arter you gwo 'way, and arter she'd worked hard in de brush all de day, and been a strung up in de ole cabin fur to be whipped, she come ter me wid har baby in har arms, all a-faint and a-tired, and har pore heart clean broke, and she say dat she'm jess ready ter drop down and die. Den I tries ter comfut har, ma.s.sa; I takes har up from de floor, and I say ter har dat de good Lord He pity har--dat He woant bruise de broken reed, and woant put no more on her dan she kin b'ar--dat He'd touch you' heart, and I toled har you'se a good, kine heart at de bottom, ma.s.sa--and I knows it, 'case I toted you 'fore you could gwo, and when you's a bery little chile, not no great sight bigger'n har'n, you'd put your little arms round ole Pomp's neck, and say dat when you war grow'd up you'd be bery kine ter de pore brack folks, and not leff 'em be 'bused like dey war in dem days."

"Never mind what _you_ said," interrupted the Colonel, a little impatiently, but showing no displeasure; "what did _she_ say?"

"Wal, ma.s.sa, she tuk on bery hard 'bout Sam, and axed me ef I raaily reckoned de Lord had forgib'n him, and took'n him ter Heself, and gibin'

him one o' dem hous'n up dar, in de sky. I toled her dat I _know'd_ it; but she say it didn't 'pear so ter har, 'case Sam had a been wid har out dar in de woods, all fru de day; dat she'd a _seed_ him, ma.s.sa, and dough he handn't a said nuffin', he'd lukd at har wid sech a sorry, grebed luk, dat it gwo clean fru har heart, till she'd no strength leff, and fall down on de ground a'most dead. Den she say big Sam come 'long and fine har dar, and struck har great, heaby blows wid de big whip!"

"The brute!" exclaimed the Colonel, rising from his chair, and pacing rapidly up and down the room.

"But p'r'aps he warn't so much ter blame, ma.s.sa," continued the old negro, in a deprecatory tone; "maybe he 'spose she war shirkin' de work.

Wal, den she say she know'd nuffin' more, till byme-by, when she come to, and fine big Sam dar, and he struck har agin, and make har gwo ter de work; and she did gwo, but she feel like as ef she'd die. I toled har de good ma'am wudn't leff big Sam 'buse har no more 'fore you c.u.m hum, and dat you'd hab 'pa.s.sion on har, and not leff har gwo out in de woods, but put har 'mong de nusses, like as afore.

"Den she say it 'twarn't de work dat trubble har--dat she orter work, and orter be 'bused, 'case she'd been bad, bery bad. All she axed war dat Sam would forgib har, and c.u.m to har in de oder worle, and tell har so. Den she cried, and tuk on awful; but de good Lord, ma.s.sa, dat am so bery kine ter de bery wuss sinners, He put de words inter my mouf, and I tink dey gib har comfut, fur she say dat it sort o' 'peared to har den dat Sam _would_ forgib har, and take har inter his house up dar, and she warn't afeard ter die no more.

"Den she takes up de chile and gwo 'way, 'pearin' sort o' happy, and more cheerful like dan I'd a seed har eber sense pore Sam war shot."

My host was sensibly affected by the old man's simple tale, but continued pacing up and down the room, and said nothing.

"It's plain to me, Colonel," I remarked, as Pompey concluded, "she has drowned herself and the child--the dog lost the scent at the creek."

"Oh, no!" he replied; "I think not. I never heard of a negro committing suicide--they've not the courage to do it."

"I fear she _has_, David," said the lady. "The thought of going to Sam has led her to it; yet, we dragged the run, and found nothing. What do you think about it, Pompey?"

"I dunno, ma'am, but I'se afeard of dat; and now dat I tinks ob it, I'se afeard dat what I tole har put har up ter it," replied the old preacher, bursting into tears. "She 'peared so happy like, when I say she'd be 'long wid Sam in de oder worle, dat I'se afeard she's a gone and done it wid har own hands. I tole har, too, dat de Lord would oberlook good many tings dat pore sinners do when dey can't help 'emselfs--and it make har do it! Oh! it make har do it!" and the old black buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.

"Don't feel so, Pomp," said his master, _very_ kindly. "You did the best you could; no one blames you."

"I knows _you_ doant, ma.s.sa--I knows you doant, and you'se bery good nottur--but oh! ma.s.sa, de Lord!" and his body swayed to and fro with the great grief; "I fears de Lord do, ma.s.sa, for I'se sent har ter Him wid har own blood, and de blood of dat pore innercent chile, on har hands.

Oh, I fears de Lord neber'll forgib me--neber'll forgib me for _dat_."

"He will, my good Pomp--He will!" said the Colonel, laying his hand tenderly on the old man's shoulder. "The Lord will forgive you, for the sake of the Christian example you've set your master, if for nothing else;" and here the proud, strong man's feelings overpowering him, his tears fell in great drops on the breast of the old slave, as they had fallen there in his childhood.