Part 2

“Make it eighteen,” said Mr. Cozart.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the trader, closing his eyes and pursing his mouth in a business-like way. “I’ll give you sixteen fifty—no more, no less. Come, now, that’s fair. Split the difference.”

Thereupon Mr. Cozart said it was a bargain, and the trader paid him the money down after the necessary papers were drawn up. Balaam seemed to be perfectly satisfied. All he wanted, he said, was to have a master who would treat him well. He went with Berrien to the hotel to fetch his little belongings, and if the trader had searched him when he returned he would have found strapped around his body a belt containing fifty dollars in specie.

Having thus, in a manner, replenished his empty purse, Mr. Berrien Cozart made haste to change his field of operations. To his competitors in his own special department of industry he let drop the hint that he was going to Columbus, and thence to Mobile and New Orleans, where he would hang on the outskirts of the racing season, picking up such crumbs and contributions as might naturally fall in the way of a professional gentleman who kept his eyes open and his fingers nimble enough to deal himself a winning hand.

As a matter of fact Mr. Cozart went to Nashville, and he had not been gone many days before Balaam disappeared. He had been missing two days before Colonel Strother, his new master, took any decided action, but on the morning of the fourth day the following advertisement appeared among others of a like character in the columns of the Atlanta “Intelligencer”:—

$100 reward will be paid for the apprehension of my negro boy _Balaam_. Thirty-odd years old, but appeared younger; tall, pleasant-looking, quick-spoken, and polite. Was formerly the property of the Hon. William Cozart. He is supposed to be making his way to his old home. Was well dressed when last seen. Milledgeville “Recorder” and “Federal Union” please copy.

BOZEMAN STROTHER, Atlanta, Georgia.

(d. & w. 1 mo.)

This advertisement duly appeared in the Milledgeville papers, which were published not far from Billville, but no response was ever made; the reward was never claimed. Considering the strength and completeness of the patrol system of that day, Balaam’s adventure was a risky one; but, fortunately for him, a wiser head than his had planned his flight and instructed him thoroughly in the part he was to play. The shrewdness of Berrien Cozart had provided against all difficulties. Balaam left Atlanta at night, but he did not go as a fugitive. He was armed with a “pass” which formally set forth to all to whom it might concern that the boy David had express permission to join his master in Nashville, and this “pass” bore the signature of Elmore Avery, a gentleman who existed only in the imagination of Mr. Berrien Cozart. Attached thereto, also, was the signature seal of the judge of ordinary. With this little document Balaam would have found no difficulty whatever in traveling. The people he met would have reasoned that the negro whose master trusted him to make so long a journey alone must be an uncommonly faithful one, but Balaam met with an adventure that helped him along much more comfortably than the pass could have helped him. It is best, perhaps, to tell the story in his own language, as he told it long afterwards.

“I won’t say I weren’t skeered,” said Balaam, “kaze I was; yit I weren’t skeered ’nough fer ter go slippin’ ’longside er de fences an’ ’mongst de pine thickets. I des kep’ right in de big road. Atter I got out er town a little piece, I tuck off my shoes an’ tied de strings tergedder an’ slung ’em ’cross my shoulder, on top my satchel, an’ den I sorter mended my gait. I struck up a kind er dog-trot, an’ by de time day come a many a mile lay ’twix’ me an’ Atlanta. Little atter sun-up I hear some horses trottin’ on de road de way I come, an’ bimeby a man driv up in a double buggy. He say, ‘Hello, boy! Whar you gwine?’ I pulled off my hat, an’ say, ‘I gwine whar my marster is, suh.’ Den de white man ’low, ‘W’at he name?’ Well, suh, when de man ax me dat, hit come over me like a big streak er de chill an’ fever dat I done clean fergit de name what Marse Berry choosen ter be call by. So I des runned my han’ und’ de lindin’ er my hat an’ pulled out de pass, an’ say, ‘Boss, dis piece er paper kin talk lots better dan I kin.’

“De man look at me right hard, an’ den he tuck de pass an’ read it out loud. Well, suh, w’en he come ter de name I des grabbed holt un it wid my min’, an’ I ain’t never turned it loose tell yit. De man was drivin’ long slow, an’ I was walkin’ by de buggy. He helt de pass in his han’s some little time, den he look at me an’ scratch his head. Atter a while he ’low: ‘You got a mighty long journey befo’ you. Kin you drive? Ef you kin, put on yo’ shoes an’ mount up here an’ take dese lines.’

“Well, suh, I wuz sorter glad, an’ yit I wuz sorter skittish, but I tol’ de white man thankydo, an’ le’pt up in dat buggy like I was de gladdes’ nigger in de worl’. De man he keep on lookin’ at me, an’ bimeby he say, ‘I tuck a notion when I fust see you dat you was de boy w’at Cozart had in Atlanta.’ Mon! you could er knocked me over wid a feather, I was dat weak; but I bu’st out laughin’ an’ ’low, ‘Lord, boss! ef I wa’n’t no better lookin’ dan dat ar Cozart nigger I’d quit bein’ a nigger an’ take up wid de monkey tribe.’ De man say, ‘I had de idee dat de Cozart nigger was a mighty likely boy. What was his name? Balaam?’ I was so skeered it fair make me sick at de stomach, yit I talk right out. I ’low, ‘Dey call ’im Balaam, an’ dey have ter whale ’im.’ De man he laugh, ‘He got a great big scyar on de side er his neck now whar somebody hit ’im a diff, an’ he lay roun’ dem hotels an’ drink dram all night long.’ De man look sideways at my neck. ‘Dat nigger got so bad dat his marster had ter sell ’im, an’ dey tells me, suh, dat de man w’at buy ’im ain’ no mo’ dan paid de money fer ’im dan he have ter take ’im down and strop ’im.’

“Well, suh, de man look at me an laugh so funny dat it make my ve’y limbs ache. Yes, suh. My heart hit up ’g’inst my ribs des like a flutter-mill; an’ I wuz so skeered it make my tongue run slicker dan sin. He ax me mo’ questions dan I could answer now, but I made answer den des like snappin’ my fingers. W’at make me de mo’ skeered was de way dat ar white man done. He’d look at me an’ laugh, an’ de plumper I gin ’im de answer de mo’ he’d laugh. I say ter myse’f, I did: ‘Balaam, you’r’ a goner, dat w’at you is. De man know you, an’ de fust calaboose he come ter he gwine slap you in dar.’ I had a mighty good notion ter jump out er dat buggy an’ make a break fer de woods, but stidder dat I sot right whar I wuz, kaze I knowed in reason dat ef de man want me right bad an’ I wuz ter break an’ run he’d fetch me down wid a pistol.

“Well, suh, dat man joke an’ laugh de whole blessed mornin,’ an’ den bimeby we drove in a town not much bigger dan Bivvle” (which was Balaam’s pet name for Billville), “an’ dar de white man say we’d stop fer dinner. He ain’t say de word too soon fer me, mon, kaze I was so hongry an’ tired it make my head swim. We driv up ter tavern, we did, an’ de folks dar dey holler, ‘Howdy, Judge,’ an’ de white man he holler ‘Howdy’ back, an’ den he tol’ me ter take de horses an’ buggy down ter de liberty stable an’ have ’em fed, an’ den come back an’ git my dinner. Dat wuz mighty good news; but whilst I wuz eatin’ my dinner I hear dat white man laughin’, an’ it come over me dat he know who I wuz an’ dat he wuz gwine ter gi’ me up; yit dat ain’t hender my appetite, an’ I des sot dar an’ stuff myse’f tell I des make de yuther niggers open der eyes. An’ den, when I git my belly full, I sot in de sun an’ went right fast ter sleep. I ’spec’ I tuck a right smart nap, kaze when some un hollered at me an’ woke me up de sun wuz gwine down de hill right smartly. I jumped up on my feet, I did, an’ I say, ‘Who dat callin’ me?’ Somebody ’low, ‘Yo’ marster want you.’ Den I bawl out, ‘Is Marse Berry come?’ De niggers all laugh, an’ one un ’em say, ‘Dat nigger man dreamin’, mon. He ain’t woke good yit.’

“By dat time I done come ter my senses, an’ den I ax dem wharbouts marster is. Bimeby, when I done foun’ de white man w’at bring me in his buggy, he look at me sorter funny an’ say, ‘You know whar you lef’ my buggy: well, you go down an’ raise up de seat an’ fetch me de little box you’ll fin’ in dar. Wrop it up in de buggy rug an’ fetch it an’ put it on de table dar.’ Well, suh, I went an’ got dat box, an’ time I put my han’ on it I knowed des ’zactly w’at wuz on de inside er it. I done seed too many er ’em. It wuz under lock an’ key, but I knowed it wuz a farrar box like dem w’at Marse Berry done his gamblin’ wid. By de time I got back ter de room in de tavern de white man done had de table kivered wid a piece er cloff w’at he got out ’n his satchel. He tuck de box, onlocked it, rattled de chips in his han’, an’ shuffled de kyards. Den he look at me an’ laugh. He was de quarest white man dat ever I laid eyes on.

“Atter while I ax ’im ef I hadn’t better be gitten’ ’long todes de eend er my journey. He ’low: ‘Lord, no! I want you ter set round yere atter supper an’ gi’ me luck. You ain’t losin’ no time, kaze I’m a-gwine plumb to Chattanoogy, an’ ef you’ll be ez spry ez you kin be I’ll take you ’long wid me.’ De ups an’ odds er it was dat I stayed wid de man. De folks named ’im Judge, an’ he was a judge, mon. ’Long ’bout nine dat night he come ter his room, whar I was waitin’ fer ’im, an’ soon atter dat de young gentlemens ’bout town ’gun ter drap in, an’ ’t wa’n’t long ’fo’ de game got started. Look like de man ain’t wanter play, but de yuthers dey kep’ on coaxin’, an’ presently he fotch out de box an’ opened up. Well, sah, I done seed lots er gamblin’ fust an’ last, but dat white man beat my time. Dey played poker, stidder farrar, an’ it look like ter me dat de man done got de kyards trained. He dealt ’em ’boveboard, an’ dey des come in his han’ ’zackly like he want ’em ter come. Ef he had any tricks like w’at Marse Berry played on folks, dey was too slick fer my eye, yit he des beated dem yuther mens scand’lous. It was des like one er dese yere great big river cats ketchin’ minners.

“Atter dey been playin’ some little time, de white man what brung me dar ’low: ‘Boy, you better go git some sleep. We’ll start soon in de mornin’.’ But I say, ‘No, suh; I’ll des set in de cornder here an’ nod, an’ I’ll be close by ef so be you want me.’ I sot dar, I did, an’ I had a good chance ter sleep, kaze, bless yo’ heart! dem mens ain’t make much fuss. Dey des grip der kyards an’ sorter hol’ der bref. Sometimes one un ’em would break out an’ cuss a word er two, but inginer’lly dey ’d plank up der scads an’ lose ’em des like dey wuz usen ter it. De white man w’at dey call Judge he des wiped ’em up, an’ at de een’ he wuz des ez fresh ez he wuz at de start. It wuz so nigh day when de game broke up dat Marse Judge ’lowed dat it was too late fer supper an’ not quite soon ’nough fer breakfas’, an’ den he say he wuz gwine ter take a walk an’ git some a’r.

“Well, suh, it wuz dat away all de time I wuz wid dat white man—laughin’ an’ jokin’ all day, an’ gamblin’ all night long. How an’ when he got sleep I’ll never tell you, kaze he wuz wide awake eve’y time I seed ’im. It went on dis away plumb till we got ter de Tennessy River, dar whar Chattynoogy is. Atter we sorter rested, de white man tuck me ’cross de river, an’ we druv on ter whar de stage changes hosses. Dar we stopped, an’ whilst I wuz waitin’ fer de stage de white man ’low, ‘Balaam!’ He kotch me so quick, dat I jump des like I’d been shot, an’ hollered out, ‘Suh!’ Den he laugh sorter funny, an’ say: ‘Don’t look skeered, Balaam; I knowed you fum de offstart. You’r’ a mighty good boy, but yo’ marster is a borned rascal. I’m gwine send you whar you say he is, an’ I want you ter tell ’im dis fum me—dat dough he tried ter rob me, yit fer de sake er his Cousin Sally, I he’ped you ter go whar he is.’

“Den de man got in his buggy an’ driv back, an’ dat de las’ time I ever laid eyes on ’im. When de stage come ’long I got up wid de driver, an’ ’t wa’n’t long ’fo’ I wuz wid Marse Berry, an’ I ain’t no sooner seed ’im dan I knowed he was gwine wrong wuss and wuss: not but w’at he was glad kaze I come, but it look like his face done got mo’ harder. Well, suh, it was des dat away. I ain’t gwine ter tell you all w’at he done an’ how he done it, kaze he was my own marster, an’ he never hit me a lick amiss, ’ceppin’ it was when he was a little boy. I ain’t gwine ter tell you whar we went an’ how we got dar, kaze dey done been too much talk now. But we drapped down inter Alabam’, an’ den inter Massasip’, an’ den inter Arkansaw, an’ back ag’in inter Massasip’; an’ one night whilst we wuz on one er dem big river boats, Marse Berry he got inter a mighty big row. Dey wuz playin’ kyards fer de bigges’ kind er stakes, an’ fust news I know de lie was passed, an’ den de whole gang made fer Marse Berry. Dey whipped out der knives an’ der pistols, an’ it look like it wuz gwine ter be all night wid Marse Berry. Well, suh, I got so skeered dat I picked up a cheer an’ smashed de nighest man, and by dat time Marse Berry had shot one; an’, suh, we des cleaned ’em out. Den Marse Berry made a dash fer de low’-mos’ deck, an’ I dashed atter ’im. Den I hear sumpin’ go ker-slosh in de water, an’ I ’lowed it was Marse Berry, an’ in I splunged head-foremos’. An’ den—but, Lord, suh, you know de balance des good ez I does, kaze I hear tell dat dey wuz sumpin’ n’er ’bout it in de papers.”

This was as far as Balaam ever would go with the story of his adventure. He had made a hero of Berrien Cozart from his youth, and he refused to dwell on any episode in the young man’s career that, to his mind, was not worthy of a Cozart. When Berrien leaped to the lower deck of the steamboat his foot touched a stick of wood. This he flung into the river, and then hid himself among the cotton bales that were piled on the forward part of the boat. It will never be known whether he threw the piece of wood into the water knowing that Balaam would follow, or whether his sole intention was to elude pursuit. A shot or two was fired, but the bullets fell wide of their mark, and the boat swept on, leaving the negro swimming around, searching for his master.

At the next landing-place Berrien slipped ashore unseen. But fortune no longer favored him; for the next day a gentleman who had been a passenger on the boat recognized him, and an attempt was made to arrest him. He shot the high sheriff of the county through the head, and became a fugitive indeed. He was pursued through Alabama into Georgia, and being finally captured not a mile away from Billville, was thrown into jail in the town where he was born. His arrest, owing to the standing of his family, created a tremendous sensation in the quiet village. Before he was carried to jail he asked that his father be sent for. The messenger tarried some little time, but he returned alone.

“What did my father say?” Berrien asked with some eagerness.

“He said,” replied the messenger, “that he didn’t want to see you.”

“Did he write that message?” the young man inquired.

“Oh, no!” the messenger declared. “He just waved his arm—so—and said he didn’t want to see you.”

At once the troubled expression on Berrien Cozart’s face disappeared. He looked around on the crowd and smiled.

“You see what it is,” he said with a light laugh, “to be the pride of a family! Gentlemen, I am ready. Don’t let me keep you waiting.” And so, followed by half the population of his native village, he was escorted to jail.

This building was a two-story brick structure, as solid as good material and good work could make it, and there was no fear that any prisoner could escape, especially from the dungeon where Berrien’s captors insisted on confining him. Nevertheless the jailer was warned to take unusual precautions. This official, however, who occupied with his family the first story of the jail, merely smiled. He had grown old in the business of keeping this jail, and certainly he knew a great deal more about it than those Mississippi officials who were strutting around and putting on such airs.

To his other duties the jailer added those of tyler of the little lodge of freemasons that had its headquarters in a hall on the public square, and it so happened that the lodge was to meet on the very night that Berrien was put into jail. After supper the jailer, as had been his habit for years, smoked his pipe, and then went down to the village and lighted the lamps in the masonic hall. His wife and daughter, full of the subject of Berrien Cozart’s imprisonment, went to a neighbor’s not far away for the purpose of discussing the matter. As they passed out of the gate they heard the jailer blowing the tin trumpet which was the signal for the masons to assemble.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when the jailer returned, but he found his wife and daughter waiting for him. Both had a troubled air, and they lost no time in declaring that they had heard weeping and sobbing upstairs in the dungeon. The jailer himself was very sympathetic, having known Berrien for many years, and he took another turn at his pipe by way of consolation. Then, as was his custom, he took his lantern and went around the jail on a tour of inspection to see that everything was safe.

He did not go far. First he stumbled over a pile of bricks, and then his shoulder struck a ladder. He uttered a little cry and looked upward, and there, dim as his lantern was, he could see a black and gaping hole in the wall of the dungeon. He ran into the house as fast as his rheumatic legs could carry him, and he screamed to his wife and daughter:—

“Raise the alarm! Cozart has escaped! We are ruined!”

Then he ran to the dungeon door, flung it open, and then fell back with a cry of terror. What did he see, and what did the others who joined him there see? On the floor lay Berrien Cozart dead, and crouching beside him was Balaam. How the negro had managed to make his way through the masonry of the dungeon without discovery is still one of the mysteries of Billville. But, prompt as he was, he was too late. His master had escaped through a wider door. He had made his way to a higher court. Death, coming to him in that dark dungeon, must have visited him in the similitude of a happy dream, for there under the light of the lanterns he lay smiling sweetly as a little child that nestles on its mother’s breast; and on the floor near him, where it had dropped from his nerveless hand, was a golden locket, from which smiled the lovely face of Sally Carter.

A CONSCRIPT’S CHRISTMAS.

On a Sunday afternoon in December, 1863, two horsemen were making their way across Big Corn Valley in the direction of Sugar Mountain. They had started from the little town of Jasper early in the morning, and it was apparent at a glance that they had not enjoyed the journey. They sat listlessly in their saddles, with their carbines across their laps, and whatever conversation they carried on was desultory.

To tell the truth, the journey from Jasper to the top of Sugar Mountain was not a pleasant one even in the best of weather, and now, with the wind pushing before it a bitterly cold mist, its disagreeableness was irritating. And it was not by any means a short journey. Big Corn Valley was fifteen miles across as the crow flies, and the meanderings of the road added five more. Then there was the barrier of the foothills, and finally Sugar Mountain itself, which when the weather was clear lifted itself above all the other mountains of that region.

Nor was this all. Occasionally, when the wind blew aside the oilskin overcoats of the riders, the gray uniform of the Confederacy showed beneath, and they wore cavalry boots, and there were tell-tale trimmings on their felt hats. With these accoutrements to advertise them, they were not in a friendly region. There were bushwhackers in the mountains, and, for aught the horsemen knew, the fodder stacks in the valley, that rose like huge and ominous ghosts out of the mist on every side, might conceal dozens of guerrillas. They had that day ridden past the house of the only member of the Georgia State convention who had refused to affix his signature to the ordinance of secession, and the woods, to use the provincial phrase, were full of Union men.

Suddenly, and with a fierce and ripping oath, one of the horsemen drew rein. “I wish I may die,” he exclaimed, his voice trembling with long pent up irritation, “if I ain’t a great mind to turn around in my tracks an’ go back. Where does this cussed road lead to anyhow?”

“To the mountain—straight to the mountain,” grimly remarked the other, who had stopped to see what was the matter with his companion.

“Great Jerusalem! straight? Do you see that fodder stack yonder with the hawk on the top of the pole? Well, we’ve passed it four times, and we ain’t no further away from it now than we was at fust.”

“Well, we’ve no time to stand here. In an hour we’ll be at the foot of the mountain, and a quarter of a mile further we’ll find shelter. We must attend to business and talk it over afterwards.”

“An’ it’s a mighty nice business, too,” said the man who had first spoken. He was slender in build, and his thin and straggling mustache failed to relieve his effeminate appearance. He had evidently never seen hard service. “I never have believed in this conscriptin’ business,” he went on in a complaining tone. “It won’t pan out. It has turned more men agin the Confederacy than it has turned fer it, or else my daddy’s name ain’t Bill Chadwick, nor mine neither.”

“Well,” said the other curtly, “it’s the law, Bill Chadwick, and it must be carried out. We’ve got our orders.”

“Oh, yes! You are the commander, Cap’n Moseley, an’ I’m the army. Ain’t I the gayest army you ever had under you? I’ll tell you what, Cap’n Moseley (I’d call you Dick, like I useter, if we wasn’t in the ranks), when I j’ined the army I thought I was goin’ to fight the Yankees, but they slapped me in the camp of instruction over there at Adairsville, an’ now here we are fightin’ our own folks. If we ain’t fightin’ ’em, we are pursuin’ after ’em, an’ runnin’ ’em into the woods an’ up the mountains. Now what kind of a soldier will one of these conscripts make? You needn’t tell me, Cap’n! The law won’t pan out.”

“But it’s the law,” said Captain Moseley. The captain had been wounded in Virginia, and was entitled to a discharge, but he accepted the position of conscript officer. He had the grit and discipline of a veteran, and a persistence in carrying out his purposes that gave him the name of “Hardhead” in the army. He was tall and muscular, but his drooping left shoulder showed where a Federal bullet had found lodgment. His closely cropped beard was slightly streaked with gray, and his face would have been handsome had not determination left its rude handwriting there.

The two rode on together in silence a little space, the cold mists, driven by the wind, tingling in their faces. Presently Private Chadwick, who had evidently been ruminating over the matter, resumed the thread of his complaints.

“They tell me,” he said, “that it’s a heap easier to make a bad law than it is to make a good one. It takes a lot of smart men a long time to make a good one, but a passel of blunderbusses can patch a bad one up in a little or no time. That’s the way I look at it.