CHAPTER VIII.

MEMORY AND EXPERIENCE.

“Oh! the blessed hope of freedom how with joy and glad surprise, For an instant throbs her bosom, for an instant beam her eyes!

* * * * *

Oh, my people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side.” —WHITTIER’S VOICES OF FREEDOM.

THE sun was sinking in the west, when the sound of Aunt Phoebe’s dinner-horn was heard, followed by Uncle Jesse’s cheery response.

Auntie was the model-housekeeper of the neighborhood, (not a high compliment, some readers might think, could they see many of the homes there, where the women spend most of their strength and time at field labor), she having been raised a house-servant, and, by rare chance, blessed with a mistress who gave her personal attention to the comfort of her household.

Auntie’s house boasted glazed windows, two rooms and a loft; and the broad boards of her floors were so clean and white that her kitchen was quite inviting as dining-room and sitting-room also.

Her iron tea-kettle shone and steamed beside a small cherry back-log upon the great hearth, which spread below the wide “Dutch-back” chimney, while the hoe-cakes were “keeping” between a blue-edged earthen plate, and a bright tin pan, upon a hot stone near by, and a kettle of boiling corn, filled the room with its sweet aroma.

The snowy cloth spread upon the table in the middle of the floor, was set about with crockery almost antique,—the gift of “old Missus’” when she “broke up,” because the great plantation was sold for taxes.

During the war the Confederate and Union armies had swept over the region in alternation, like swarms of locusts, taking every marketable thing; Abraham Lincoln’s Proclamation of Emancipation had freed every “hand,” and, as the old lady had lost all her sons in the war, and all her means to hire laborers, and would not lease to niggers, she folded her hands and let her remaining possessions drift from her, and finally died a pensioner upon her friends.

Many a time had Aunt Phoebe’s childish hands washed these same cups and plates, while her mother cooked for “the great house;” and as she now brought an extra large plate, she paused, and with eyes fixed upon it, a long stretch of years seemed to pass before her.

“Make hay while the sun shines,” she spelled around the sunny picture of hay-makers in the centre of the plate; and before her seemed to arise the placid face of her poor mother; and again she heard her say,—“Dat’s ’de way ’dey do at ‘de North, chile’. ’Taint ’de colored folks as does all ’de work dar’. Oh Lord! oh Lord!” I was ’mos’ free——thought I _was_ free shor’ ’dat time Missus tuck me ’not’h wid’ her. Mighty nice gem’men tole’ me I war free;—I needn’t go back South no ’mo’. So I jes walks off: but, oh laws! He didn’t know ’nuffin ’bout ’dem United States Marshal ’dey call ’em, I ’reckon; but may be ’dey didn’t ’blong to no United States, nohow. Spex’ ’dey come from South Caroline. ’Dey tole’ I ’jes got go ’long back wid Missus, or ’de whole ’dem United States ’sogers’d he afe’r me, shor; Wal, Wal, ’pears like ’day didn’t none of ’em know nohow; fo’ nother gem’men said ’dem United States Marshals hadn’t got ’nuffin to do wid me, nohow, ’cause Missus’ brung me ’long herself. I didn’t run away ’nohow, ’cause I neber was so low as a runaway nigger. ’Pears like I didn’t know who ’t believe, an so I came back ’long wid’ Missus to make shor’.

“Po’re ole’ Lize, she lived nex’ do’ to Missus’ hotel. She used to set by ’de pump in ’de back yard, evenings, and smoke and smoke. “Dar was a young miss ’dar, used to come too, ’an talk ’wid us, ’an she tole’ Lize war free, and I war’ free, ’cause we didn’t _runned away_ from ’de South. ’Reckon she war right, now; but I didn’t know, an’ she war’ young.” Lize was ole an’ been sick aheap, an’ wan’t ’woth much. She was ’gwoine to be sold in St. Loo, an’ all her chillun,—five chillun. ’_Dey_ sold right smart, but no body didn’t want Lize; but a bad man said he’d give twenty dollah.”

“Lize seen a mighty nice gem’man from de No’th da, an’ she got hold his feet, an’ roared an’ cried till he bought her.

“Wal, ’pears like he didn’t know what t’do wid her af’r all; hadn’t got no wife, no nothin’ but lots o’ money. Well, shoo’ ’nuff’ dat bery night he tuck mighty sick. Ole Lize nussed ’im night and day, six, eight weeks or mo’, till he got well, Doctah said ’Dar’s de ole creatur dat save yo’ life. It wa’nt me, nohow.’ Wal, Mars’ Sam war mighty good den to ole Lize. He tuck ’er off No’th, and spex cause he hadn’t got nothin’ nor no place, he coaxed ’er to stay wid ’is sistah. But, laws! she wa’n’t like he. She’s cross, an’ scold ole Lize a heap, when she’s crying ’bout her boys jes’ been sole ’way down t’ New Orleans, ’cause dey war so high spirited like, an’ Lize wa’n’t dar to keep ’im quiet like. Lize wanted t’ go back to St. Loo, an’ see ’er girls. Cross woman! She tole ole Lize all dat to make ’er fret; an’ Mars Sam ’ad writ dat, dat war why he didn’t wan’r Lize to come back, cause he didn’t want ’er to fret. Poor soul! couldn’t write to Mars’ Sam.

“Laws, I’s young an’ spry den, an’ wanted to be free _powerful bad_; but de Laud he say, I mus’ stay right yere, an’ cook for Missus, a slave all my life, maybe.” Fresh and clear as when first spoken, Aunt Phebe seemed to hear these tales which once impressed her youthful mind.

And then right between the hay-makers and Auntie’s eyes there came another picture. She could see the great smoke rolling up over the woods beyond the cotton field, and hear the cannon’s roar, and the shells screeching and crashing through the trees, and see “old Missus” wringing her hands and weeping, and praying the good Lord to spare her four sons who were fighting in the confederate ranks; and all the slaves were praying for the “Yankees,” while they exhausted every means to soothe and comfort “old missus.”

That same night, when the house servants were all in her cabin except Lucy, who was “staying wid Missus,” Uncle Tim, the plantation preacher, was repeating what scripture passages he could remember, there came a loud rap on the closed door behind.

“If yo’ de Laud o’ de Debbil,” said Uncle Tim, “in de name ob de Laud, I tell yo’ come in,” and a Yankee soldier entered.

There she could see him stand in the light of the “fat pine” which Tim put on the fire—the “Lincom Soger”—repeating the Proclamation of Emancipation. How plainly he stood out now! and the great light that shone around him seemed almost to smite her blind as it did then.

There was dear old granddaddy, with wrinkled hands that had toiled without recompense for nearly a century, clasped tightly together. How slowly and easily he slipped from his chair onto the floor! She thought he was kneeling; but when she bent to help him, she heard his whisper, “Free into glory! Free into glory! ’Tain’t no niggah _slave_ yo’ comin’ fo’, Angel!” and his withered lips closed forever on earth, while his “new song,” broke forth from lips of fadeless bloom, in a land where love makes slavery impossible.

And there she saw “Mammy”—the dear form swaying backwards and forwards as she wept and moaned, “Oh, wicked, cruel man to cheat poor slaves! It is too good for true! _too good for true!_”

And then, before Aunt Phebe, opened the two deep graves where they buried them side by side, father and daughter, grandfather and mother. The tardy emancipation that had opened slavery’s dungeon had opened also the pearly gates for the aged and the invalid.

The big hot tears were rolling slowly down Auntie’s cheeks and threatening a briny shower upon the hay-makers, when Uncle Jesse’s step upon the threshold startled her, and the plate fell to the floor and broke into a score of pieces.

She dropped into a chair, threw her apron over her head, and wept aloud.

“Wal! wal! wal!” said her husband, as he scraped the soil from his shoes at the door, “crying that way about a broked up plate? Oh! it’s one old Missus gave yo’,” he added, as he approached the fragments.

As suddenly as her grief had seemed to come, she flung her apron from her face, tossed up both her arms, and broke into a loud, clear strain; laughing, clapping her hands, shrieking and stamping her feet:

“Glory and honor, praise King Jesus! “Glory and honor, praise de Lamb! “Oh Jesus comin’ dis way “Don’t let your chariot wheels delay! “Jesus Christ comin’ in his own time; “Take away de mudder leabe the baby behind.”

“Oh you got that wrong,” said Uncle Jesse, who, with his two workmen had joined lustily in the chorus. It’s “Take away the baby, leave the mother behind.”

“I sings it jes as I wants it,” replied his wife. “De Laud he tuck my mudder, an’ he lef’ me behind.”

“Give me grace fo’ to run dat race, “Heaben shall be my hidin’-place; “Wet or dry, I means to try “To get up into heaben when I die. “If yo’ get dar befo’ I do, “Tell dem I am comin’ too. “Glory and honor, praise &c.

“God be callin,’ trumpet be soundin’; “Don’t dat look like judgment day? “De tombs be bustin’, de dead be risin’, “De wheels ob time shall not be no mo. “Glory and honor, praise, &c.

“Chariot dartin’ to de new grabe-yard; “Go down angels and veil wid de sun; “Go down angels and veil wid the moon, “Fo’ the wheels ob time shall not be no mo.” “Glory and honor, praise, &c.

“It’s de Debbil’s bad luck! fo’ I _seen_ dat plate gwoine down on de flo’; but I sung to de Laud, an’ He’ll break de cha’m,” said Auntie, with the evident satisfaction of one who has been at once shrewd and dutiful. (It is thought an ill omen to see crockery fall, if it breaks.)

“Auntie, I shall like mighty well to see dat chariot comin’, when I sho’ de Laud is in it, said Brother Johnson,” the class leader, who was one of the workmen, “but jes at dis pertickeler time I wants to be gnawin’ one o’ dem cawn-cobs in dat skillet.”

“A wicked an’ a glutton man de Laud He despise,” she retorted, as she arose, and casting a reproving glance upon the offender proceeded to “dish up” the repast. Meanwhile Brother Gibson struck up the following:

“I lub my sistah, dat I do! “Hope my sistah may lub me too: “If yo’ get dar yo’ gwoine to sing an’ tell “De fo’ arch-angels to tune de bell.”

Supper was announced just as the sun reached the “hour mark” upon the cabin floor, which had done duty as indicator of the time for the evening meal for many months; and further musical exercises were indefinitely postponed.

The repast had not yet been disposed of when the voice of a man was heard calling, “Whoop! whoop!”

“That is Den Bardun,” said Uncle Jesse, as he sprung from the table to the door.

“Hello! What’s wanted?” he shouted in reply.

“Man here from Baconsville wants help. Says they’re killing all the colored people over there. Will you go?”

“Come over; come over, and bring him along;” and Uncle Jesse hastened back to the table to finish his meal while the twain should be pacing the two hundred yards intervening between the two dwellings.

They entered presently, both much excited, and the Baconsville man bearing a double barreled shot-gun.

“What is the matter?” asked the host, gulping down a half cup of coffee and leaving the table to greet his guests. “I couldn’t hear half you said.”

“Ugh! Matter enough!” replied Den. “Tell him, Sterns.”

“Why, the town of Baconsville is just running over of armed white men—rifle-clubs, regular cavalry companies, and they’re going to kill all the niggers, ravish the women, and burn the houses, and put all the children to death!”

“No! no! no!” cried Uncle Jesse. “Tell a man something he can believe now! They won’t do no such thing as that. The white folks has got more sense ’n that. They won’t do no such things, and I don’t believe it! You are scart and excited.”

“Just go and see then, Mr. Roome. If you don’t believe me, may be you won’t believe your own eyes,” replied the man.

“Well, Roome, come on! Let’s go and see for ourselves; for if it is true, we ought to help,” said Brother Gibson.

“No sir! You just wait, and keep inside the law!” said Jesse Roome, after scratching his head thoughtfully a moment. “I believe in _law_, and them that has kept inside the law is the ones that is coming out ahead.”

Sterns then gave a graphic description of the incidents, threats, and indications in Baconsville, up to the close of the court-scene at about half past four o’clock.

Of course the whole group were intensely excited, and Aunt Phebe listened, shrieked, and prayed by turns; but Uncle Jesse was still firm in his first decision to keep inside the law.”

“There’s been heaps of threats, I know, enough to make a man intimidate of his shadow; but there’s a pile o’ bluster and brag in these old aristocrats; just like a barking dog though, he’ll never bite.”

“Heigh! but they be a biting _now_, sho,” said Sterns with a shrug.

“And then our folks ha’n’t always done right,” Mr. Roome continued. “It’s a new thing for us to make laws and be officers, and all that; and some thinks ’cause they make the laws, that they needn’t keep ’em; and some is mighty ambitious, and likes to pay off old scores through the laws. Now that a’n’t right, and it can’t do no good, nohow. Some laws has been made wrong, and some has been executed wrong, and it a’n’t reasonable to suppose that a man that has been a slave all his life, and ha’n’t had nothing to do ’bout no laws only to be lashed when his master has a mind to, is going to rise right up and know everything at once. And the masters that has been masters over us so long, I suppose it’s mighty hard for them to stand the nigger majorities in this State, and have the niggers that they used to have under them, just like that dog now, making laws for them, and in the offices. Well, now, we ought to think o’ these things, on both sides, and have patience and do the best we can, and _keep inside the law_. If the militia company and the white folks has got up a quarrel over there in Baconsville, and either of them is going to breaking the laws—well, I a’n’t going over there to join ’em in doing it! That is all.”

“But it’s the white folks that is breaking the laws; and I’m surprised that yo,’ Mr. Roome, a’n’t ready to help us against ’em. They’re all there, mounted and armed, and officered; and they says they shall have these men and their guns. The militia ha’n’t got guns enough there, and not scarcely no ammunition; and they’re just going to be massacred!”

“No! no!” replied Uncle Jesse, “that won’t be done. Them white folks know we’ve got a Governor and courts.”

“But there’s too many of ’em for the courts to stop ’em. There’s two or three thousand, all armed, and some of ’em is the biggest men in the State, the old aristocrats; and the Governor’s militia can’t do nothing against these Rifle Clubs yo’ know, these old confederate soldiers that served in the war. They’re all _them_, or the one’s they’ve trained up, are officering now.”

“I know, I know,” said Jesse, “but you know there’s the United States. The United States won’t see us killed off that way.”

“‘Cause the United States is _too fur off_ to see it; and when we’re all killed, the United States can’t bring us alive again.”

“Why didn’t they just let them two young fellows go through that company in the first place on the 4th of July? It’s mighty provoking to see the niggers celebrating the 4th with the same flag _they_ used to brag so much about ’fore the wa’, (though they have hated it ever since), and the State guns, and all! We’ve growed so big now, we can afford to stoop down to such little fellows as they’ve got to being. What’s the use o’ keeping up a quarrel when we’ve got to live together?”

“Now, Jesse,” said Den Bardun, “we’ve been stooped mighty nigh double all our lives, and our fathers and grandfathers before us, and some of their backs is getting stiff. It’s well enough to make a bow, but some folks don’t enjoy being rid over, and I reckon _yo’r one_.”

“I can’t stay to hear yo’ talk, and if yo’ a’n’t men enough to go and help yo’ neighbors when they is getting jist _slayed_, I’m gwine to find some _men_ somewhar; and if ever yo’ wants help like us, to save yo’ life and property, maybe yo’ll get it. I hope so,” and Sterns hastened away.

Uncle Jesse paced up and down the room for some moments, with his arms folded and his chin upon his breast; while Den Bardun leaned against the door-post, and watched alternately this neighbor and the chickens a hen was endeavoring to call into a coop in which she was confined near the door.

“It _seems_ hard! It does seem hard!” said Roome, without raising his eyes from the floor, “and it seems cruel like, I know it does. But it is _right_! _I know it is right!_ and I feel it right in my breast,” looking up with an assured manner, and striking his broad chest with his palms. “Sit down, Den, sit down. What do you think about this doings?”

“I believe it’s a mighty hard affair, and I’m afraid it’s a big one; and I don’t believe it’s all about the 4th of July scrape, either. It’s more like the democratic party, and they’re playing off that it’s the militia.”

“What makes you think so, Dan?”

“Well, Deacon Atwood, he says to me the other day, says he, “All the officers of the Republican party has got to be killed out, shor;” and I asked him what for?”

“Was he talking of the colored officers or of all of ’em?”

_White_ and _black_, making no exceptions. He says, “we’re going to have this election, and the only way we can get it, will be to kill out the leading men, and then the ignorant men will do right.”

“Mr. Atwood came here the other day,” said Jesse, “I’d hired Mott Erkrap, you know, to work for me, and he left me because I wouldn’t give him 4th of July; and he wanted to come back, and I wouldn’t take him back. The Deacon came concerning him, and he said then that the Republican party, before long, was going to ketch the Devil, (Uncle Jesse lowered his voice as if in awe of his Satanic Majesty.) Says he “There’ll be worse than seventy-seven claps of thunder striking right against them. Of course we was astonished at his speaking so rash and ’reverent right here in the yard. We was all very much astonished, me and my wife, and Mott Erkrap, and a stranger from the city that came with Mott, at his speaking so rash and ’revrent at what would happen to the Republican party in short time.”

“Hark!” exclaimed Aunt Phebe, raising her hands. “Oh, Lord! they be a killing ’em!”

The sound of small arms came unmistakably upon the evening air.

“Oh, no! It takes more’n one bird to make a spring. It a’nt so strange to hear a gun fire!” said Uncle Jesse; at the same time approaching the door to listen.

“But there’s another! and another! and heaps of ’em!” said she, becoming almost frantic with excitement.

“Good Lord! they be a fighting!” exclaimed both Dan and Jesse.

Several of the nearer neighbors soon came running up, breathless and alarmed, to ask what should be done.

“What _is_ all we gwoine to do, Uncle Jesse?” asked a small coal-black man, rushing up to the yard, gun in hand. “Don’t ye think we ought to go down and help ’em!—!—! but it’s awful to hear them guns and stand here with my good rifle in my hands doing nothin’;” and he strode back and forth in front of the door where the group was standing, clasping his trusty weapon to his breast.

“You’d best remember the Lord in such a time as this, anyhow, and not be swearing,” replied Roome. “The more goes there, the worse and the bigger that fuss has got to be, and the more colored people will get killed any how for the whites has got to beat. No, no, Penny you’d best keep away if you don’t want to be killed.”

“I wonder where Deacon Atwood is?” asked Den Bardum.

“He a’n’t there, you may be shor. He’ll talk big, and put the rest up, but keep safe hisself,” said Jesse.

“How about that Sheriff’s office?” and Penny looked significantly at both Jesse and Den.

“That’s so,” said Den, “we three did promise to get him nominated on the Republican ticket, didn’t we? He was mighty in love with our Governor then.”

“But the Governor won’t support this kind of doings,” said Roome.

“Goodness gracious! Just hear the guns!” said Penny, “We’ll see fire pretty soon. They’ll be burning houses, certain.”

“I do hope this isn’t our folks begun this,” said Jesse. “I hope they’ll keep inside the law, and then the United States can protect us, and not let the white folks here kill us all off. But if our folks begun this, the good Laud knows what will become of us all. If Deacon Atwood goes in for this kind of thing, I’ll go back on _him_; for I won’t stick to any body that violates the law. My motto is to punish every man, white and black, that violates the law. It does seem mighty hard to stand here, and hear them guns, and believe that somebody’s getting killed; but I feel in my breast that it is the right thing to do. Does any of you know who’s gone over from Bean Island?—any of the neighbors?”

“Of the white folks? or the colored?”

“Either one.”

“Dr. Ave, Joe Ennery, Coot Hogg, and Ramal Bardun, John Rammel, and Robert Blending has gone; and Captain Black, and Williams, and I expect the Payne boys.”

“Do you _know_ that, Penny?” and Uncle Jesse bit his lips.

“Yes, I met them near sundown, gallopping hard that way; or rather, I didn’t meet the Payne boys.”

“Hist! There comes the old man.”

“Good evening Mr. Payne,” said the host, extending his right hand in a cordial welcome, while with his left he made a sign behind his back, commanding caution.

This was clearly visible, though the sun’s light had entirely faded; for the cabin door, near the outside of which they stood, was wide open, and a fire of fat pine was filling the broad chimney’s throat with a sheet of flame.

“Old man Payne” was a small man, with a large head, quick, deep-set gray eyes, under a broad brow which was crowned with snowy hair.

He it was who had counselled discretion, moderation and honorable dealing at the Club meeting at which Watson Atwood was initiated into the mysteries of modern southern politics.

A descendant of an honored southern family, he yet seemed from infancy to have inherited many notions which were antagonistic to the environments of his childhood, and which several seasons spent in New England, in the early home of his mother, served to strengthen and intensify.

His wife, always fully Southern in ideas and sympathies, had reared their children so, aided by their surroundings, while he had very quietly cherished his own sentiments.

A chair was brought, and he seated himself without speaking, sighed heavily, folded his small nervous hands, and gazed away into the darkness; and as volley followed volley, he shuddered, and wept.

“Good God,” said he at length, “I had hoped this kind of thing was over! Jesse, what do you know about this?”

“Nothing,” was the prompt reply. “I know nothing; at least, I’ve just _heard_ that there’s a fuss between the Militia company and the white folks. Do you know who’s in it, Mr. Payne. Who begun it, I mean?”

“I only know they say the officers would not go to court, but just fortified themselves in the armory, and defied the law, and said they were going to fight. Joe Morey says they’ve been making awful threats lately, and so the Rifle clubs were called out to sustain General Baker, who undertook to conduct the suit for Robert Baker and Gaston.”

“Defied the law? How’s that, Mr. Payne?”

“I don’t know Jesse, but that is what Joe Morey said.”

“Is that all you know about it?”

“Yes.”

“Has any body gone over from here, from the Island, I mean?”

“Yes, some on both sides, I guess.”

“And what is the intentions of the white folks?”

“I do not know, except that they intend to get some security that the negroes shall give up their guns, and stop drilling. They say they do not feel secure in their lives and property while the Militia is drilling with arms in their hands.”

“What has the colored people ever done? And why don’t they treat them so well that they won’t be afraid of them? They’re State Militia.”

“I know, I know that Jesse; but our boys will listen to nothing. I’m afraid of the consequences, and do not want another war.”

“A good many of ’em is pretty old “boys,”—old Confederate soldiers,” said Roome, “and there can’t be much that is worse than this, judging by the guns we hear. How do you know there’s any gone?”

“They went by my store, and I tried to persuade them not to go.”

“Who was they?”

“I can not give names, Jesse.”

“Did Hankins go, Mr. Payne?”

“I cannot tell, Jesse; but I’m glad you are all here. If you stay here, you will not be hurt. But I didn’t think till now,——some of them may be straggling off here, and I had better go back to my store,” and the old man walked sadly away.

The night had set in, dark and moonless; and an hour’s brisk discharge of small arms was followed, (after an interval of respite), by the booming of cannon, which heightened the terror and direful forebodings of the listeners.

Uncle Jesse’s dwelling became a tabernacle to the Lord that night; for from it arose the ceaseless voice of true prayer—“the soul’s sincere desire,” through all those hours of darkness and terror, till just ere the dawn of the Sabbath morning, his neighbors departed to their several places of abode.