Chapter 18

CROSSING THE "RUNS."

The long, tumble-down bridge which spans the Waccamaw at Conwayboro, trembled beneath our horse's tread, as with lengthened stride he shook the secession mud from his feet, and whirled us along into the dark, deep forest. It may have been the exhilaration of a hearty dinner of oats, or it may have been sympathy with the impatience of his fellow-travellers that spurred him on; whichever it was, away he went as if Lucifer--that first Secessionist--were following close at his heels.

The sun, which for a time had been industriously wedging his way into the dark masses of cloud, finally slunk out of sight and left us enveloped in a thick fog, which shut from view all of Cottondom, except a narrow belting of rough pines, and a few rods of sandy road that stretched out in dim perspective before us. There being nothing in the outside creation to attract my attention, I drew the apron of the carriage about me, and settling myself well back on the seat to avoid the thick-falling mist, fell into a train of dreamy reflection.

Niggers, slave-auctions, cotton-fields, rice-swamps, and King Cotton himself, that blustering old despot, with his swarthy arms and "under-pinning," his face of brass, and body of "raw material," passed through my mind, like Georgia trains through the Oconee Swamp, till finally my darky friend came into view. He seemed at first a little child, amid the blazing ruins of his wilderness home, gazing in stupid horror on the burning bodies of his father and his kindred. Then he was kneeling at the side of his dying mother in the slave-pen at Cape Lopez, and--still a child--cooped in the "Black-hole" of the accursed slave-ship, his little frame burning with the fever-fire, and his child-heart longing for death. Then he seemed mounting the Cuban slave-block, and as the "going! going! gone!" rung in my ear, he was hurried away, and driven to the cruel task--still a child--on the hot, unhealthy sugar-field. Again he appeared, stealing away at night to a lonely hut, and by the light of a pine-knot, wearily poring over the BOOK of BOOKS, slowly putting letters into words, and words into sentences, that he might know _"What God says to the black man."_ Then he seemed a man--splendid of frame, noble of soul--suspended in the whipping-rack, his arms bound above his head, his body resting on the tips of his toes, and the merciless lash falling on his bare back, till the red stream ran from it like a river--scourged because he would not aid in creating beings as wretched as himself, and make merchandise of his own blood to gorge the pocket of an incarnate white devil.

As these things passed before me, and I thought of his rare intelligence, of his fine traits of character, and of the true heroism he had shown in risking, perhaps, his own life to get me--a stranger--out of an ugly hobble, I felt a certain spot in my left side warming toward him, very much as it might have done had his blood been as pure as my own. It seemed to me a pity--anti-Abolitionist and Southern-sympathizer though I was--that a man of such rare natural talent, such character and energy, should have his large nature dwarfed, be tethered for life to a cotton-stalk, and made to wear his soul out in a tread-mill, merely because his skin had a darker tinge and his shoe a longer heel than mine.

As I mused over his "strange, eventful history," and thought of the handy way nature has of putting the _right_ man in the _wrong_ place, it occurred to me how "Brother Beecher" one evening, not a long time before, had charmed the last dollar from my waistcoat pocket by exhibiting, _à la_ Barnum, a remarkably ugly "cullud pusson" on his pulpit stairs, and by picturing the awful doom which awaited her--that of being reduced from baby-tending to some less useful employment--if his audience did not at once "do the needful." Then it occurred to me how much finer a spectacle my ebony friend would make; how well his six feet of manly sinew would grace those pulpit stairs; how eloquently the reverend gentleman might expatiate on the burning sin of shrouding the light of such an intellect in the mists of niggerdom, only to see it snuffed out in darkness; how he might enlarge on what the black could do in elevating his race, either as "cullud" assistant to "Brother Pease" at the Five-Points, or as co-laborer with Fred Douglass at abolition conventions, or, if that didn't _pay_, how, put into the minstrel business, he might run the white "troupes" off the track, and yield a liberal revenue to the "Cause of Freedom." As I thought of the probable effect of this last appeal, it seemed to me that the thing was already done, and that SCIP was FREE.

I got back from dreamland by the simple act of opening my eyes, and found myself still riding along in that Jersey wagon, over that heavy, sandy road, and drenched with the mists of that dreary December day. The reverie made, however, a deep impression on me, and I gave vent to it somewhat as follows:

"Colonel A---- tells me, Scip, that your mistress wants to sell you. Do you know what she asks?"

"She ax fifteen hundred dollar, massa, but I an't worth dat now. Nigger property's mighty low."

"What is your value now?"

"P'raps eight hundred, p'raps a thousand dollar, massa."

"Would your mistress take a thousand for you?"

"Don't know, sar, but reckon she would. She'd be glad to get shut of me. She don't like me on de plantation, 'cause she say de oder darkies tink too much ob me; and she don't like me in de city, 'cause she 'fraid I run away."

"Why afraid you'll runaway? Did you ever try to?"

"Try to! LOR, massa, I neber taught ob such a ting--wouldn't gwo ef I could."

"But wouldn't you?" I asked, thinking he had conscientious scruples about running away; "wouldn't you if you could buy yourself, and go honestly, as a _free_ man?"

"Buy myself, sar!" he exclaimed in surprise; "buy _my own_ flesh and blood dat de LORD hissef gabe me! No, no! massa; I'd likes to be free, but I'd neber do _dat_!"

"Why not do that?" I asked.

"'Cause 't would be owning dat de white folks hab a right to de brack; and 'cause, sar, if I war free I couldn't stay har."

"Why should you stay here? You have no wife nor child; why not go where the black man is respected and useful?"

"I'se 'spected and useful har, massa. I hab no wife nor child, and dat make me feel, I s'pose, like as ef all de brack people war my chil'ren."

"But they are not your children; and you can be of no service to them. At the North you might learn, and put your talents to some use."

"Sar," he replied, a singular enthusiasm lighting up his face, "de LORD, dat make me what I ar, put me har, and I must stay. Sometimes when tings look bery brack, and I feel a'most 'scouraged, I goes to HIM, and I say, 'LORD, I's ob no use, take me 'way; let me get fru wid dis; let me no more see de suffrin' and 'pression ob de pore cullud race;' den HE say to me, just so plain as I say it to you, 'Keep up good courage, Scipio, de time will come;'[C] and now, bless de LORD, de time am coming!"

"_What_ time is coming, Scipio?"

He gave me a quick, suspicious glance, but his face in a moment resumed its usual expression, as he replied: "I'se sure, massa, dat I could trust you. I feel you am my friend, but I can't say no more."

"You need not, Scip--I can guess. What you have said is safe with me. But let me counsel you--wait for the white man. Do not let your freedom come in blood!"

"It will come, massa, as de LORD will. When HE war freed _de earth shook, and de vail ob de temple war rent in twain_!"

We said no more, but rode on in silence; the darky absorbed in his own reflections, I musing over the black volcano, whose muffled echoes I then heard "away down South in Dixie."

We had ridden on for about an hour, when an opening in the trees disclosed a by-path, leading to a plantation. Following it for a short distance, we came upon a small clearing, in the midst of which, flanked by a ragged corn and potato patch, squatted a dilapidated, unpainted wooden building, a sort of "half-way house" between a hut and a shanty. In its door-way, seated on a chair which wanted one leg and a back, was a suit of linsey-woolsey, adorned by enormous metal buttons, and surmounted by a queer-looking headpiece that might have passed for either a hat or an umbrella. I was at a loss to determine whether the object were a human being or a scarecrow, when, at the sound of our approach, the umbrella-like article lifted, and a pair of sunken eyes, a nose, and an enormous beard, disclosed themselves. Addressing myself to the singular figure, I inquired how far we were from our destination, and the most direct route to it.

"Wal, stranger," was the reply, "it's a right smart twenty mile to the Cunnel's, but I reckon ye'll get thar, if ye follow yer critter's nose, and ar good at swimming."

"Why good at swimming?" I inquired.

"'Cause the 'runs' have ris, and ar considerable deep by this time."

"That's comforting news."

"Yas, to a man as seems in a hurry," he replied, looking at my horse, which was covered with foam.

"How far is it to the nearest run?" I asked.

"Wal, it mought be six mile; it mought be seven, but you've one or two all-fired ones to cross arter that."

Here was a pleasant predicament. It was nearly five o'clock, and our horse, though a noble animal, could not make the distance on an unobstructed route, in the then heavy state of the roads, in less than three hours. Long before that time it would be dark, and no doubt stormy, for the sky, which had lowered all the afternoon, every now and then uttered an ominous growl, and seemed ready to fall down upon us. But turning back was out of the question, so, thanking the "native," I was about to proceed, when he hailed me as follows:

"I say, stranger, what's the talk in the city?"

"Nothing, sir," I replied, "but fight and Secession."

"D--n Secession!" was the decidedly energetic answer.

"Why so, my friend? That doctrine seems to be popular hereabouts."

"Yas, pop'lar with them South Car'lina chaps. They'd be oneasy in heaven if Gabriel was cook, and the LORD head-waiter."

"They must be hard to suit," I said; "I 'kalkerlate' _you're_ not a South Carolinian."

"No, sir-ee! not by several mile. My mother moved over the line to born me a decent individual."

"But why are you for the Union, when your neighbors go the other way?"

"'Cause it's allers carried us 'long as slick as a cart with new-greased wheels; and 'cause, stranger, my grand'ther was one of Marion's boys, and spilt a lettle claret at Yewtaw for the old consarn, and I reckon he'd be oneasy in his grave if I turned my back on it now."

"But, my friend," I said, "they say Lincoln is an Abolitionist, and if inaugurated, he will free every darky you've got."

"He can't do that, stranger, 'cordin' to the Constetution, and grand'ther used to say that ar dokermunt would hold the d--l himself; but, for my part, I'd like to see the niggers free."

"See the niggers free!" I replied in undisguised astonishment; "why, my good sir, that is rank treason and abolition."

"Call it what yer a mind to, them's my sentiments; but I say, stranger, if thar's ony thing on airth that I uttarly dispise it ar a Northern dough-face, and it's clar yer one on 'em."

"There, my friend, you're mistaken. I'm neither an Abolitionist nor a dough-face. But _why_ do you go for freeing the niggers?"

"'Cause the white folks would be better off. You see, I have to feed and clothe my niggers, and pay a hundred and twenty and a hundred and fifty a year for 'em, and if the niggers war free, they'd work for 'bout half that."

Continuing the conversation, I learned that the umbrella-hatted gentleman worked twenty hired negroes in the gathering of turpentine; and that the district we were entering was occupied by persons in the same pursuit, who nearly all employed "hired hands," and entertained similar sentiments; Colonel J----, whom I was about to visit, and who was a large slave-_owner_, being about the only exception. This, the reader will please remember, was the state of things at the date of which I am writing, in the _very heart_ of Secessiondom.

Bidding the turpentine-getter a rather reluctant "good-by," I rode on into the rain.

It was nearly dark when we reached the first "run," but, fortunately, it was less swollen than our way-side acquaintance had represented, and we succeeded in crossing without difficulty. Hoping that the others might be equally as fordable, we pushed rapidly on, the darkness meanwhile gathering thickly about us, and the rain continuing to fall. Our way lay through an unbroken forest, and as the wind swept fiercely through it, the tall dark pines which towered on either side, moaned and sighed like a legion of unhappy spirits let loose from the dark abodes below. Occasionally we came upon a patch of woods where the turpentine-gatherer had been at work, and the white faces of the "tapped" trees, gleaming through the darkness, seemed an army of "sheeted ghosts" closing steadily around us. The darkness, the rain, and the hideous noises in the forest, called up unpleasant associations, and I inwardly determined to ask hospitality from the first human being, black or white, whom we should meet.

We had ridden on for about an hour after dark, when suddenly our horse's feet plashed in the water, and he sank to his middle in a stream. My first thought was that we were in the second "run," but as he pushed slowly on, the water momentarily growing deeper, and spreading on either side as far as we could see, it flashed upon me that we had missed the road in the darkness, and were fairly launched into the Waccamaw river! Turning to the darky, who was then driving, I said quickly:

"Scip, stop the horse. Where are we?"

"Don't know, massa; reckon we'se in de riber."

"A comfortable situation this. We can't turn round. The horse can't swim such a stream in harness. What shall we do?"

"Can you swim, massa?" he quietly asked.

"Yes, like an eel."

"Wal, den, we'd better gwo on. De hoss'll swim. But, massa, you might take off your boots and overcoat, and be ready for a spring ef he gwo down."

I did as he directed, while he let down the apron and top of the wagon, and fastened the reins loosely to the dash-board, saying as he did so, "You must allers gib a hoss his head when he swim, massa; if you rein him, he gwo down, shore." Then, undoing a portion of the harness, to give the horse the free use of his legs, he shouted, "Gee up, ole Gray," and we started.

The noble animal stepped off slowly and cautiously, as if fully aware of the danger of the passage, but had proceeded only about fifty yards when he lost his footing, and plunged us into an entirely new and decidedly cold hip-bath. "Now's de time, ole Gray," "show your broughten up, ole boy," "let de gemman see you swim, ole feller," and similar remarks proceeded rapidly from the darky, who all the time avoided touching the reins.

It may have been one minute, it may have been five minutes--I took "no note of _time_"--before the horse again struck bottom, and halted from sheer exhaustion, the water still almost level with his back, and the opposite bank too far-off to be seen through the darkness. After a short rest, he again "breasted the waters," and in a few moments landed us on the shore; not, unfortunately, in the road, but in the midst of the pine-trees, there so entangled with under-growth, that not even a man, much less a horse, could make his way through them. Wet to the skin, and shivering with the cold, we had no time to lose "in gittin' out of dat," if we would avoid greater dangers than those we had escaped. So, springing from the wagon, the darky waded up the stream, near its bank, to reconnoitre. Returning in a few minutes, he reported that we were about a hundred yards below the road. We had been carried that far down stream by the strength of the current. Our only course was to follow the "run" up along its bank; this we did, and in a short time had the satisfaction of striking the high road. Arranging the harness, we were soon under way again, the horse bounding along as if he felt the necessity of vigorous exercise to restore his chilled circulation. We afterward learned that it was not the Waccamaw we had crossed, but the second "run" our native friend had told us of, and that the water in the middle of its stream was fifteen feet deep!

Half-dead with cold and wet, we hurried on, but still no welcome light beckoned us to a human habitation. The darkness grew denser till we could not even distinguish the road, much less our horse's nose, which we had been directed to follow. Inwardly cursing the folly which brought me into such a wilderness, I said to the darky:

"Scip, I'm sorry I took you on such a trip as this."

"Oh! neber mind me, massa; I ruther like de dark night and de storm."

"Like the night and the storm! why so?"

"'Cause den de wild spirits come out, and talk in de trees. Dey make me feel bery strong _har_," he replied, striking his hand on his breast.

"The night and the storm, Scip, make _me_ feel like cultivating another sort of _spirits_. There are some in the wagon-box; suppose we stop and see what they are."

We stopped, and I took out a small willow-flask, which held the "spirits of Otard," and offered it to the darky.

"No, massa," he said, laughing, "I neber touch dem sort ob spirits; dey raise de bery ole deble."

Not heeding the darky's example, I took "a long and a strong pull," and--felt the better for it.

Again we rode on, and again and again I "communed with the spirits," till a sudden exclamation from Scip aroused me from the half-stupor into which I was falling. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"A light, massa, a light!"

"Where?"

"Dar, way off in de trees--"

"Sure enough, glory, hallelujah, there it is! We're all right now, Scip."

We rode on till we came to the inevitable opening in the trees, and were soon at the door of what I saw, by the light which came through the crevices in the logs, was a one-story shanty, about twenty feet square. "Will you let us come in out of de rain?" asked Scip of a wretched-looking, half-clad, dirt-bedraggled woman, who thrust her head from the doorway.

"Who ar ye?" was the reply.

"Only massa and me, and de hoss, and we'm half dead wid de cold," replied Scip; "can we cum in out ob de rain?"

"Wal, strangers," replied the woman, eyeing us as closely as the darkness would permit, "you'll find mighty poor fixins har, but I reckon ye can come in."

[Footnote C: The Southern blacks, like all ignorant people, are intensely fanatical on religious subjects. The most trifling occurrences have to their minds a hidden significance, and they believe the LORD speaks to them in signs and dreams, and in almost every event of nature. This superstition, which has been handed down from their savage ancestry, has absolute sway over them, and one readily sees what immense power it would give to some leading, adroit mind, that knew how to use it. By means of it they might be led to the most desperate deeds, fully believing all the while that they were "led ob de LORD."]