Various - Continental Monthly, Vol. II. July, 1862. No. 1.

V >> Various >> Continental Monthly, Vol. II. July, 1862. No. 1.

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A perfect storm of applause followed. The assemblage rose, and one long
wild shout rent the old woods, and made the great trees tremble. It was
some minutes before the uproar subsided; when it did, a voice near the
speaker's stand called out: 'Andy Jones!' The call was at once echoed by
another voice, and soon a general shout for 'Andy!' 'Union Andy!' 'Bully
Andy!' went up from the same crowd which a moment before had so wildly
applauded the secession speaker.

Andy rose from where he was seated beside me, and quietly ascended the
steps of the platform. Removing his hat, and passing to his mouth a huge
quid of tobacco, from a tin box in his pantaloons-pocket, he made
several rapid strides up and down the speaker's stand, and then turned
squarely to the audience.

The reader has noticed a tiger pacing up and down in his cage, with his
eyes riveted on the human faces before him. He has observed how he will
single out some individual, and finally stopping short in his rounds,
turn on him with a look of such intense ferocity as makes a man's blood
stand still, and his very breath come thick and hard, as he momentarily
expects the beast will tear away the bars of his cage and leap forth on
the obnoxious person. Now, Andy's fine, open, manly face had nothing of
the tiger in it, but for a moment, I could not divest myself of the
impression, as he halted in his walk up and down the stage, and turned
full and square on the previous speaker--who had taken a seat among the
audience near me--that he was about to spring upon him. Riveting his eye
on the man's face, he at last slowly said:

'A man stands har and quotes Scriptur agin his feller-man, and forgets
thet 'God made of one blood all nations thet dwell on the face of the
'arth.' A man stands har and calls his brother a thief, and his mother a
harlot, and axes us to go his doctrines! I don't mean his brother in the
Scriptur' sense, nor his mother in a fig'rative sense, but I mean the
brother of his own blood, and the mother that bore him; for HE,
gentlemen, (and he pointed his finger directly at the recent speaker,
while his words came slow and heavy with intense scorn,) HE is a Yankee!
And now, I say, gentlemen, d--n sech doctrins; d--n sech principles; and
d--n the man thet's got a soul so black as to utter 'em!'

A breathless silence fell on the assemblage, as the person alluded to
sprang to his feet, his face on fire, and his voice thick and broken
with intense rage, and yelled out: 'Andy Jones, by ----, you shall
answer for this!'

'Sartin', said Andy, coolly inserting his thumbs in the armholes of his
waistcoat; 'eny whar you likes--har--now--ef 'greeable to you.'

'I've no weapon here, sir, but I'll give you a chance mighty sudden,'
was the fierce reply.

'Suit yourself' said Andy, with perfect imperturbability; 'but as you
han't jest ready, s'pose you set down and har me tell 'bout your
relation: they're a right decent set--them as I knows--and I'll swar
they're 'shamed of you.'

A buzz went through the crowd, and a dozen voices called out, 'Be civil,
Andy'--'Let him blow'--'Shet up'--'Go in, Jones'--with other like
elegant exclamations.

A few of his friends took the aggrieved gentleman aside, and, soon
quieting him, restored order.

'Wal, gentlemen,' resumed Andy, 'all on you know whar I was raised--over
thar in South-Car'lina. I'm sorry to say it, but it's true. And you all
know my father was a pore man, who couldn't give his boys no chance--and
ef he could, thar warn't no schules in the district--so we couldn't hev
got no book-larning ef we'd been a minded to. Wal, the next plantation
to whar we lived was old Cunnel J----'s, the father of this Cunnel. He
was a d--d old nullifier, jest like his son--but not half so decent a
man. Wal, on his plantation was an old nigger called Uncle Pomp, who'd
sumhow larned to read. He was a mighty good nigger, and he'd hev been in
heaven long afore now ef the Lord hadn't a had sum good use for him down
har--but he'll be thar yet a d--d sight sooner than sum on us white
folks--that's sartin. Wal, as I was saying, Pomp could read, and when I
was 'bout sixteen, and had never seed the inside of a book, the old
darkey said to me one day--he was old then, and thet was thirty years
ago--wal, he said to me: 'Andy, chile, ye orter larn to read--'twould be
ob use to ye when you're grow'd up, and it moight make you a good and
'spected man. Now, come to ole Pomp's cabin, and he'll larn you, Andy,
chile.' I reckon I went. He hadn't nothin' but a Bible and Watts' Hymns;
yet we used to stay thar all the long winter evenings, and by the light
of the fire--we war both so durned pore we couldn't raise a candle
atween us--wal, by the light of the fire he larned me, and 'fore long I
could spell right smart.

'Now, jest think on thet, gentlemen! I, a white boy, and, 'cordin' to
the Declaration of Independence, jest as good blood as the old Cunnel,
bein' larned to read by an old slave, and that old slave a'most worked
to death, and takin' his nights, when he orter hev been a restin' his
old bones, to larn me! I'm d--d if he don't get to heaven for that one
thing, if for nothin' else.

'Wal, you all know the rest--how, when I'd grow'd up, I settled har, in
the old North State, and how the young Cunnel backed my paper and set
me a runnin' at turpentinin'. P'r'aps you don't think this has much to
do with the Yankees, but it has a durned sight, as ye'll see raather
sudden. Wal, arter a while, when I'd got a little 'forehanded, I begun
shippin' my truck to York and Bosting; and at last my Yankee factor, he
come out har, inter the backwoods, to see me, and says he: 'Jones, come
North and take a look at us.' I'd sort o' took to him. I'd had lots to
do with him afore ever I seed him, and I allers found him as straight as
a shingle. Wal, I went North, and he took me round, and showed me how
the Yankees does things. Afore I knowed him, I allers thought--as
p'r'aps most on ye do--that the Yankee war a sort o' cross atween the
devil and a Jew; but how do you s'pose I found 'em? I found that they
_sent the pore man's children to schule_. FREE--and that the
schulehouses war a d--d sight thicker than the bugs in Miles Privett's
beds! and thet's saying a heap, for ef eny on you kin sleep in his
house, excep' he takes to the soft side of the floor, I'm d--d. Yas, the
pore man's children are larned thar FREE!--all on 'em--and they've jest
so good a chance as the sons of the rich man! Now, arter that, do you
think that I--as got all my schulin' from an old slave, by the light of
a borrored pine-knot--der you think that _I_ kin say any thing agin the
Yankees? P'r'aps they _do_ steal--though I don't know it--p'r'aps they
_do_ debauch thar wives and darters, and sell thar mothers' vartue for
dollers--but ef they do, I'm d--d ef they don't send pore children ter
schule--and that's more'n we do--and let me tell you, until we do, we
must count on thar bein' cuter and smarter nor we are.

'This gentleman, too, my friends, who's been a givin' sech a hard
settin' down ter his own relation, arter they've broughten him up and
givin' him sech a good schulein' for nothin', he says the Yankees want
to interfere with our niggers. Now, thet han't so, and they couldn't ef
they would, 'cause it's agin the Constitution--and they stand on the
Constitution a durned sight solider nor we do. Didn't thar big
gun--Daniel Webster--didn't he make mince-meat o' South-Carolina Hayne
on that ar subject? But I tell you they han't a mind to meddle with our
niggers; they're a goin' ter let us go ter h--l our own way--and we're
goin' thar mighty fast, or I hevn't read the last census.'

'P'r'aps you han't heerd on th' Ab'lisheners, Andy?' cried a voice from
among the audience.

'Wal, I reckon I hev,' responded the orator. 'I've heerd on 'em, and
seed 'em, too. When I was North I went ter one on thar conventions, and
I'll tell you how they look. They've all long, wimmin's hair, and thin,
shet lips, with big, bawlin' mouths, and long, lean, tommerhawk
faces--'bout as white as vargin dip--and they all talk through the nose,
[giving a specimen,] and they look for all the world jest like the
South-Car'lina fire-eaters--and they _are_ as near like 'em as two peas,
excep' they don't swar quite so bad, but they make up for that in
prayin'--and prayin' too much, I reckon, when a man's a d--d hippercrit,
is 'bout as bad as swearin'. But I tell you, the decent folks up North
han't ab'lisheners. They look on 'em jest as we do on mad dogs, the
itch, or the nigger-traders.

'Now, 'bout this secession bis'ness--though tan't no use ter talk on
thet, 'cause this State never'll secede--South-Car'lina has done it, and
I'm raather glad she has, for though I was born thar, I say she orter
hev gone to h--l long ago, and now she's got thar--_let her stay!_ But,
'bout thet bis'ness, I'll tell you a story.

'I know'd an old gentleman once by the name o' Uncle Sam, and he'd a
heap o' sons. They war all likely boys--and strange ter tell, though
they'd all the same mother, and she a white woman, 'bout half on 'em war
colored--not black, but sorter half-and-half. Now, the white sons war
well-behaved, industrious, hard-workin' boys, who got 'long well,
edicated that children, and allers treated the old man decently; but the
mulatter fellers war a pesky set--though some on 'em war better nor
others. They wouldn't work, but set up for airystocrocy--rode in
kerriges, kept fast hosses, bet high, and chawed tobaccer like the
devil. Wal, the result was, _they_ got out at the elbows, and 'cause
they warn't gettin' 'long quite so fast as the white 'uns--though that
war all thar own fault--they got jealous, and one, on 'em, who was
blacker nor all the rest--a little feller, but terrible big on
braggin'--he packed up his truck one night, and left the old man's
house, and swore he'd never come back. He tried ter make the other
mulatters go 'long too, but they put thar fingers ter thar nose, and
says they: 'No you don't!' _I_ was in favor o' lettin' on him stay out
in the cold, but the old man was a bernevolent old critter--so _he_
says: 'Now, sonny, you jest come back and behave yourself, and I'll
forgive you all on your old pranks, and treat you jest as I allers used
ter; but, ef you won't, why, I'll make you--that's all!'

'Now, gentlemen, that querrelsome, oneasy, ongrateful, tobaccer-chawin',
high-bettin', hoss-racin', big-braggin', nigger-stealin',
wimmin-whippin', yaller son of the devil, is South-Car'lina; and ef she
don't come back and behave herself in futur', I'm d--d ef she won't be
ploughed with fire, and sowed with salt, and--Andy Jones will help ter
do it.'

The speaker was frequently interrupted in the course of his remarks by
uproarious applause--but as he closed and descended from the platform,
the crowd sent up cheer after cheer, and a dozen strong men, making a
seat of their arms, lifted him from the ground, and bore him to the head
of the table, where dinner was in waiting.

The whole of the large assemblage then fell to eating. The dinner was
made up of the barbecued 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-whisky. (The latter beverage, I thought, had
been subjected to the rite of immersion, for it tasted wonderfully like
water.)

Songs and speeches were intermingled with the masticating exercises, and
the whole company were 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 was also a guest and a friend of _his_ very particular friend,
'that d--d seceshener, Cunnel J----.'

Before we left the table, the secession orator happening near, Andy rose
from his seat, and extended his hand to him, saying:

'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, thar'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 glass of whisky together, and then leaving the table,
proceeded to where the ox had been barbecued, 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 side 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 who had them in charge, but
had not been groomed. Andy, seeing that, 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, and the horse's coat was
soon as smooth and glossy as if recently rubbed by an English groom.

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

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, make some 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 undertake an
overland journey to the free States, but would endeavor to reach some
town on the Mississippi, where he could dispose of the horse, and secure
a passage up the river.

As no time was to be lost, it was decided that we should return to the
plantation on the following morning. Accordingly, with the first streak
of day, we bade 'good-by' 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 home 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 that 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 for 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 Juley and her child have
gone.'

'Gone!' exclaimed my host, 'gone where?'

'I don't know. We have searched every where, but have found no clue to
them. The morning you left, Sam set Juley 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 Sam's doing it. It did
not seem to me to be right to punish her for not doing what she had not
strength to do. When she was released from the cabin, she came to thank
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 on
your return. I promised you would not, and when she left me, she seemed
more cheerful. I supposed she would go directly home, after getting her
child from the nurse's quarters; but it appears she then went to
Pompey's, where she staid till after ten o'clock. Neither she nor the
child have since been seen.'

'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 hound
tracked her directly from Pompey's cabin to 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', massa; I 'shures you, nuffin'. De pore chile say nuffin' to
ole Pomp 'bout dat.'

'What did she say?'

'Wal, you see, massa, 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
for to be whipped, she come to me wid her baby in her arms, all a-faint
and a-tired, and her pore heart clean broke, and she say dat she'm jess
ready to drop down and die. Den I tries to comfut her, massa; I takes
her up from de floor, and I say to har dat de good Lord he pity her--dat
he doan't bruise de broken reed, and woan't put no more on har dan she
kin b'ar--dat he'd touch you' heart, massa--and I toled har you's a
good, kine heart at de bottom--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 her'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 to 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, massa, she took on bery hard 'bout Sam, and axed me ef I raily
reckoned de Lord had forgib'n him, and took'n him to heseff, and gib'n
him one of dem hous'n up dar in de sky. I toled har dat I _know'd_ it;
but she say it didn't 'pear so to har, 'case Sam had a been wid har out
dar in de woods, all fru de day; dat she'd a _seed_ him, massa, and
dough he hadn't a said nuffin', he'd looked at har wid sech a sorry,
grebed look, dat it went clean fru har heart, till she'd no strength
leff, and fell 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'raps he warn't so much ter blame, massa,' continued the old
negro, in a deprecatory tone; 'may be he s'pose she war shirking 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 her gwo
to de work; and she did gwo, but she feel like as ef she'd die. I toled
her de good ma'am wudn't leff big Sam 'buse har no more 'fore you cum
hum, and dat you'd hab 'passion on har, and not leff har out in de
woods, but put har 'mong de nusses, like as she war 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 was
dat Sam would forgib har, and cum to har in de oder worle, and tell har
so. Den she cried, and took on awful; but de good Lord, massa, dat am so
bery kine to de bery wuss sinners, he put de words inter my mouf, and I
tink dey gabe har comfut, fur she say 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 gwoes '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 ob dat. And now dat I tinks on it, I'se
afeard dat what I tole har put har up to 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 good Lord oberlooked many
tings dat pore sinners does when dey can't help 'emseffs, 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_ doan't, massa--I knows you doan't, and you's bery good
notter; but oh!' and his body swayed to and fro with the great grief; 'I
fears de Lord do, massa, for I'se sent har to 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 fur _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 then 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 when he was a child.

Such scenes are not for the eye of a stranger, and turning away, I left
the room.

The family met at the breakfast-table at the customary hour on the
following morning; but I noticed that Jim was not in his accustomed
place behind the Colonel's chair. That gentleman exhibited his usual
good spirits, but Madam P---- looked sad and anxious, and I had not
forgotten the scene of the previous evening.

While we were seated at the meal, the negro Junius hastily entered the
room, and in an excited manner exclaimed:

'O massa, massa! you muss cum ter de cabin--Jim hab draw'd his knife,
and he swar he'll kill de fuss un dat touch him!'

'He does, does he!' said his master, springing from his seat, and
abruptly leaving the apartment.

Remembering the fierce burst of passion I had seen in the negro, and
fearing there was danger a-foot, I rose to follow, saying as I did so:

'Madam, can not you prevent this?'

'I can not, sir; I have already done all I can. Go and try to pacify the
Colonel. Jim will die before he'll be whipped.'

Jim was standing at the farther end of the old cabin, with his back to
the wall, and the large spring-knife in his hand. Some half-dozen
negroes were in the centre of the room, apparently cowed by his fierce
and desperate looks, and his master stood within a few feet of him.

'I tell you, Cunnel,' cried the negro, as I entered, 'you touch me at
your peril.'

'You d--d nigger, do you dare to speak so to me?' said his master,
taking a step toward him.

The knife rose in the air, and the black, in a cool, sneering tone,
replied: 'Say your prayers 'fore you come ony nigher, for, so help me
God, you're a dead man!'

I laid my hand on the Colonel's arm, to draw him back, saying as I did
so: 'There's danger in him! I _know_ it Let him go, and he shall ask
your pardon.'

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