Among the Pines; or, South in Secession Time

by James R. Gilmore

  CHAPTER II.

  WAYSIDE HOSPITALITY.

  Years ago--how many it would not interest the reader to know, and mightembarrass me to mention--accompanied by a young woman--a blue-eyed,golden-haired daughter of New-England--I set out on a long journey; ajourney so long that it will not end till one or the other of us haslaid off forever the habiliments of travel.

  One of the first stations on our route was--Paris. While there,strolling out one morning alone, accident directed my steps to the _Arcd'Etoile_, that magnificent memorial of the greatness of a great man.Ascending its gloomy staircase to the roof, I seated myself, to enjoythe fine view it affords of the city and its environs.

  I was shortly joined by a lady and gentleman, whose appearance indicatedthat they were Americans. Some casual remark led us into a conversation,and soon, to our mutual surprise and gratification, we learned that thelady was a dear and long-time friend of my travelling-companion. Theacquaintance thus begun, has since grown into a close and abidingfriendship.

  The reader, with this preamble, can readily imagine my pleasure onlearning, as we were seated after our evening meal, around that pleasantfireside in far-off Carolina, that my Paris acquaintance was a favoriteniece, or, as he warmly expressed it, "almost a daughter" of my host.This discovery dispelled any lingering feeling of "strangeness" that hadnot vanished with the first cordial greeting of my new-found friends,and made me perfectly "at home."

  The evening wore rapidly away in a free interchange of "news," opinions,and "small-talk," and I soon gathered somewhat of the history of myhost. He was born at the North, and his career affords a strikingillustration of the marvellous enterprise of our Northern character. Anative of the State of Maine, he emigrated thence when a young man, andsettled down, amid the pine-forest in that sequestered part ofCottondom. Erecting a small saw-mill, and a log shanty to shelterhimself and a few "hired" negroes, he attacked, with his own hands, themighty pines, whose brothers still tower in gloomy magnificence aroundhis dwelling.

  From such beginnings he had risen to be one of the wealthiest land andslave owners of his district, with vessels trading to nearly everyquarter of the globe, to the Northern and Eastern ports, Cadiz, the WestIndies, South America, and if I remember aright, California. It seemedto me a marvel that this man, alone, and unaided by the usual appliancesof commerce, had created a business, rivalling in extent thetransactions of many a princely merchant of New York and Boston.

  His "family" of slaves numbered about three hundred, and a more healthy,and to all appearance, happy set of laboring people, I had never seen.Well fed, comfortably and almost neatly clad, with tidy and well-orderedhomes, exempt from labor in childhood and advanced age, and cared for insickness by a kind and considerate mistress, who is the physician andgood Samaritan of the village, they seemed to share as much physicalenjoyment as ordinarily falls to the lot of the "hewer of wood anddrawer of water." Looking at them, I began to question if Slavery is, inreality, the damnable thing that some untravelled philanthropists havepictured it. If--and in that "_if_" my good Abolition friend, is theonly unanswerable argument against the institution--if they were taught,if they knew their nature and their destiny, the slaves of such an ownermight unprofitably exchange situations with many a white man, who, withnothing in the present or the future, is desperately struggling for amiserable hand-to-mouth existence in our Northern cities. I say "of suchan owner," for in the Southern Arcadia such masters are "few and farbetween"--rather fewer and farther between than "spots upon the sun."

  But they are _not_ taught. Public sentiment, as well as State law,prevents the enlightened master, who would fit the slave by knowledgefor greater usefulness, from letting a ray of light in upon his darkenedmind. The black knows his task, his name, and his dinner-hour. He knowsthere is a something within him--he does not understand preciselywhat--that the white man calls his soul, which he is told will not restin the ground when his body is laid away in the grave, but will--if heis a "good nigger," obeys his master, and does the task allottedhim--travel off to some unknown region, and sing hallelujahs to theLORD, forever. He rather sensibly imagines that such everlasting singingmay in time produce hoarseness, so he prepares his vocal organs for thelong concert by a vigorous discipline while here, and at the same timecultivates instrumental music, having a dim idea that the LORD has anear for melody, and will let him, when he is tired of singing, vary theexercise "wid de banjo and de bones." This is all he knows; and hisowner, however well-disposed he may be, cannot teach him more. Noble,Christian masters whom I have met--have told me that they did not _dare_instruct their slaves. Some of their negroes were born in their houses,nursed in their families, and have grown up the playmates of theirchildren, and yet they are forced to see them live and die like thebrutes. One need not be accused of fanatical abolitionism if he deemssuch a system a _little_ in conflict with the spirit of the nineteenthcentury!

  The sun had scarcely turned his back upon the world, when a few drops ofrain, sounding on the piazza-roof over our heads, announced a comingstorm. Soon it burst upon us in magnificent fury--a real, old-fashionedthunderstorm, such as I used to lie awake and listen to when a boy,wondering all the while if the angels were keeping a Fourth of July inheaven. In the midst of it, when the earth and the sky appeared to havemet in true Waterloo fashion, and the dark branches of the pines seemedwrithing and tossing in a sea of flame, a loud knock came at thehall-door (bells are not the fashion in Dixie), and a servant soonushered into the room a middle-aged, unassuming gentleman, whom my hostreceived with a respect and cordiality which indicated that he was noordinary guest. There was in his appearance and manner that indefinablesomething which denotes the man of mark; but my curiosity was soongratified by an introduction. It was "Colonel" A----. This title, Iafterward learned, was merely honorary: and I may as well remark here,that nearly every one at the South who has risen to the ownership of anegro, is either a captain, a major, or a colonel, or, as my ebonydriver expressed it: "Dey'm all captins and mates, wid none to row deboat but de darkies." On hearing the name, I recognized it as that ofone of the oldest and most aristocratic South Carolina families, and thenew guest as a near relative to the gentleman who married the beautifuland ill-fated Theodosia Burr.

  In answer to an inquiry of my host, the new-comer explained that he hadleft Colonel J----'s (the plantation toward which I was journeying),shortly before noon, and being overtaken by the storm after leavingConwayboro, had, at the solicitation of his "boys" (a familiar term forslaves), who were afraid to proceed, called to ask shelter for thenight.

  Shortly after his entrance, the lady members of the family retired; andthen the "Colonel," the "Captain," and myself, drawing our chairs nearthe fire, and each lighting a fragrant Havana, placed on the table byour host, fell into a long conversation, of which the following was apart:

  "It must have been urgent business, Colonel, that took you so far intothe woods at this season," remarked our host.

  "These are urgent times, Captain B----," replied the guest. "All whohave any thing at stake, should be _doing_."

  "These _are_ unhappy times, truly," said my friend; "has any thing newoccurred?"

  "Nothing of moment, sir; but we are satisfied Buchanan is playing usfalse, and are preparing for the worst."

  "I should be sorry to know that a President of the United States hadresorted to underhand measures! Has he really given you pledges?"

  "He promised to preserve the _statu quo_ in Charleston harbor, and wehave direct information that he intends to send out reinforcements,"rejoined Colonel A----.

  "Can that be true? You know, Colonel, I never admired your friend, Mr.Buchanan, but I cannot see how, if he does his duty, he can avoidenforcing the laws in Charleston, as well as in the other cities of theUnion."

  "The 'Union,' sir, does not exist. Buchanan has now no more right toquarter a soldier in South Carolina than I have to march an armed forceon to Boston Common. If he persists in keeping troops near Charleston,we shall dislodge them."
/>   "But that would make war! and war, Colonel," replied our host, "would bea terrible thing. Do you realize what it would bring upon us? And whatcould our little State do in a conflict with nearly thirty millions?"

  "We should not fight with thirty millions. The other Cotton States arewith us, and the leaders in the Border States are pledged to Secession.They will wheel into line when we give the word. But the North will notfight. The Democratic party sympathizes with us, and some of itsinfluential leaders are pledged to our side. They will sow divisionthere, and paralyze the Free States; besides, the trading andmanufacturing classes will never consent to a war that will work theirruin. With the Yankees, sir, the dollar is almighty."

  "That may be true," replied our host; "but I think if we go too far,they will fight. What think you, Mr. K----?" he continued, appealing tome, and adding: "This gentleman, Colonel, is very recently from theNorth."

  Up to that moment, I had avoided taking part in the conversation. Enoughhad been said to satisfy me that while my host was a staunchUnionist,[B] his visitor was not only a rank Secessionist, but one ofthe leaders of the movement, and even then preparing for desperatemeasures. Discretion, therefore, counselled silence. To this directappeal, however, I was forced to reply, and answered: "I think, sir, theNorth does not yet realize that the South is in earnest. When it wakesup to that fact, its course will be decisive."

  "Will the Yankees _fight_, sir?" rather impatiently and imperiouslyasked the Colonel, who evidently thought I intended to avoid a directanswer to the question.

  Rather nettled by his manner, I quickly responded: "Undoubtedly theywill, sir. They have fought before, and it would not be wise to countthem cowards."

  A true gentleman, he at once saw that his manner had given offence, andinstantly moderating his tone, rather apologetically replied: "Notcowards, sir, but too much absorbed in the 'occupations of peace,' to goto war for an idea."

  "But what you call an 'idea,'" said our host, "_they_ may think a greatfact on which their existence depends. _I_ can see that we will losevastly by even a peaceful separation. Tell me, Colonel, what we willgain?"

  "Gain!" warmly responded the guest. "Everything! Security, freedom, roomfor the development of our institutions, and each progress in wealth asthe world has never seen."

  "All that is very fine," rejoined the "Captain," "but where there iswealth, there must be work; and who will do the work in your newEmpire--I do not mean the agricultural labor; you will depend for that,of coarse, on the blacks--but who will run your manufactories and doyour mechanical labor? The Southern gentleman would feel degraded bysuch occupation; and if you put the black to any work requiringintelligence, you must let him _think_, and when he THINKS, _he isfree_!"

  "All that is easily provided for," replied the Secessionist. "We shallform intimate relations with England. She must have our cotton, and wein return will take her manufactures."

  "That would be all very well at present, and so long as you should keepon good terms with her; but suppose, some fine morning, Exeter Hall gotcontrol of the English Government, and hinted to you, in John Bullfashion, that cotton produced by free labor would be more acceptable,what could three, or even eight millions, cut off from the sympathy andsupport of the North, do in opposition to the power of the Britishempire?"

  "Nothing, perhaps, if we _were_ three or even eight millions, but weshall be neither one nor the other. Mexico and Cuba are ready, now, tofall into our hands, and before two years have passed, with or withoutthe Border States, we shall count twenty millions. Long before Englandis abolitionized, our population will outnumber hers, and our territoryextend from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and as far south as theIsthmus. We are founding, sir, an empire that will be able to defy allEurope--one grander than the world has seen since the age of Pericles!"

  "You say, with or without the Border States," remarked our host. "Ithought you counted on their support."

  "We do if the North makes war upon us, but if allowed to go in peace, wecan do better without them. They will be a wall between us and theabolitionized North."

  "You mistake," I said, "in thinking the North is abolitionized. TheAbolitionists are but a handful there. The great mass of our people arewilling the South should have undisturbed control of its domesticconcerns."

  "Why, then, do you send such men as Seward, Sumner, Wilson, and Grow toCongress? Why have you elected a President who approves ofnigger-stealing? and why do you tolerate such incendiaries as Greeley,Garrison, and Phillips?"

  "Seward, and the others you name," I replied, "are not Abolitionists;neither does Lincoln approve of nigger-stealing. He is an honest man,and I doubt not, when inaugurated, will do exact justice by the South.As to incendiaries, you find them in both sections. Phillips andGarrison are only the opposite poles of Yancey and Wise."

  "Not so, sir; they are more. Phillips, Greeley, and Garrison create andcontrol your public opinion. They are mighty powers, while Yancey andWise have no influence whatever. Yancey is a mere bag-pipe; we play uponhim, and like the music, but smile when he attempts to lead us. Wise isa harlequin; we let him dance because he is good at it, and it amusesus. Lincoln may be honest, but if made President he will be controlledby Seward, who hates the South. Seward will whine, and wheedle, andattempt to cajole us back, but mark what I say, sir, I _know_ him; he isphysically, morally, and constitutionally a COWARD, and will neverstrike a blow for the UNION. If hard pressed by public sentiment, hemay, to save appearances, bluster a little, and make a show of gettingready for a fight; but he will find some excuse at the last moment, andavoid coming to blows. For our purposes, we had rather have the Northunder his control than under that of the old renegade, Buchanan!"

  "All this may he very true," I replied, "but perhaps you attach too muchweight to what Mr. Seward or Mr. Lincoln may or may not do. You seem toforget that there are twenty intelligent millions at the North, who willhave something to say on this subject, and who may not consent to bedriven into disunion by the South, or wheedled into it by Mr. Seward."

  "I do not forget," replied the Secessionist, "that you have fourmillions of brave, able-bodied men, while we have not, perhaps, morethan two millions; but bear in mind that you are divided, and thereforeweak; we united, and therefore strong!"

  "But," I inquired, "_have_ you two millions without counting yourblacks; and are _they_ not as likely to fight on the wrong as on theright side?"

  "They will fight on the right side, sir. We can trust them. You havetravelled somewhat here. Have you not been struck with the contentmentand cheerful subjection of the slaves?"

  "No, sir, I have not been! On the contrary, their discontent is evident.You are smoking a cigar on a powder-barrel."

  An explosion of derisive laughter from the Colonel followed this remark,and turning to the Captain, he good-humoredly exclaimed: "Hasn't thegentleman used his eyes and ears industriously!"

  "I am afraid he is more than half right," was the reply. "If this thingshould go on, I would not trust my own slaves, and I think they aretruly attached to me. If the fire once breaks out, the negroes will rushinto it, like horses into a burning barn."

  "Think you so!" exclaimed the Colonel in an excited manner. "By Heaven,if I believed it, I would cut the throat of every slave in Christendom!What," addressing me, "have you seen or heard, sir, that gives you thatopinion?"

  "Nothing but a sullen discontent and an eagerness for news, which showthey feel intense interest in what is going on, and know it concerns_them_."

  "I haven't remarked that," he said rather musingly, "but it _may_ be so.Does the North believe it? If we came to blows, would they try to exciteservile insurrection among us?"

  "The North, beyond a doubt, believes it," I replied, "yet I think eventhe Abolitionists would aid you in putting down an insurrection; butwar, in my opinion, would not leave you a slave between the Rio Grandeand the Potomac."

  The Colonel at this rose, remarking: "You are mistaken. You aremistaken, sir!" then turning to our host, said: "Captain, it is
late:had we not better retire?" Bidding me "good-night," he was gone.

  Our host soon returned from showing the guest to his apartment, and witha quiet but deliberate manner, said to me: "You touched him, Mr. K----,on a point where he knows we are weakest; but allow me to caution youabout expressing your opinions so freely. The Colonel is a gentleman,and what you have said will do no harm, but, long as I have lived here,_I_ dare not say to many what you have said to him to-night."

  Thanking the worthy gentleman for the caution, I followed him up stairs,and soon lost, in a sweet oblivion, all thoughts of Abolitionists,niggers, and the "grand empire."

  I was awakened in the morning by music under my window, and looking outdiscovered about a dozen darkies gathered around my ebony driver, whowas clawing away with all his might at a dilapidated banjo, while hisauditory kept time to his singing, by striking the hand on the knee, andby other gesticulations too numerous to mention. The songs were not muchto boast of, but the music was the genuine, dyed-in-the-wool, darkyarticle. The following was the refrain of one of the songs, which thereader will perceive was an exhortation to early rising:

  "So up, good massa, let's be gwoin', Let's be scratchin' ob de grabble; For soon de wind may be a blowin', An' we'se a sorry road to trabble."

  The storm of the previous night had ceased, but the sky was overcast,and looked as if "soon de wind might be a-blowin'." Prudence counselledan early start, for, doubtless, the runs, or small creeks, had becomeswollen by the heavy rain, and would be unsafe to cross after dark.Besides, beyond Conwayboro, our route lay for thirty miles through acountry without a solitary house where we could get decent shelter, werewe overtaken by a storm.

  Hurriedly performing my toilet, I descended to the drawing-room, where Ifound the family assembled. After the usual morning salutations wereexchanged, a signal from the mistress caused the sounding of a bell inthe hall, and some ten or twelve men and women house-servants, ofremarkably neat and tidy appearance, among whom was my darky driver,entered the apartment. They took a stand at the remote end of the room,and our host, opening a large, well-worn family BIBLE, read thefifty-fourth chapter of Isaiah. Then, all kneeling, he made a shortextemporaneous petition, closing with the LORD'S Prayer; all present,black as well as white, joining in it. Then Heber's beautiful hymn,"From Greenland's icy mountains," was sung; the negroes, to my ear,making much better music than the whites.

  The services over, we adjourned to the dining-room, and after we wereseated, the "Colonel" remarked to me: "Did you notice how finely thatnegro 'boy' (he was fully forty years old) sung?"

  "Yes," I replied, "I did. Do you know him, sir?"

  "Oh! yes, very well. His mistress wishes to sell him, but findsdifficulty in doing so. Though a likely negro, people will not buy him.He's too smart."

  "That strikes me as a singular objection," I remarked.

  "Oh! no, not at all! These _knowing_ niggers frequently make a world oftrouble on a plantation."

  It was after ten o'clock before we were ready to start. The mills, thenegro-quarters, and various other parts of the plantation, and thenseveral vessels moored at the wharf, had to be seen before I could getaway. Finally, I bade my excellent host and his family farewell, andwith nearly as much regret as I ever felt at leaving my own home. I hadexperienced the much-heard-of Southern hospitality, and had found thereport far below the reality.

  The other guest had taken his leave some time before, but not till hehad given me a cordial invitation to return by the way I came, and spenda day or two with him, at his plantation on the river, some twenty milesbelow.

  The sky was lowery, and the sandy road heavy with the recent rain, whenwe started. The gloomy weather seemed to have infected the driver aswell as myself. He had lost the mirthfulness and loquacity of theprevious day, and we rode on for a full hour in silence. Tiring at lastof my own thoughts, I said to him: "Scip, what is the matter with you?what makes you so gloomy?"

  "Nuffin, massa; I war only tinkin'," he abstractedly replied.

  "And what are you thinking about?"

  "I's wond'rin', massa, if de LORD mean de darkies in dose words of HISdat Massa B---- read dis mornin'."

  "What words do you mean?

  "Dese, massa: 'O dou 'fflicted! tossed wid de tempest, and habin nocomfort, behold, I will make you hous'n ob de fair colors, and lay darfoundations wid safomires. All dy chil'ren shill be taught ob de LORD,and great shill be dar peace. In de right shill dey be 'stablished; deyshill hab no fear, no terror; it shan't come nigh 'em, and who comeagainst dem shill fall. Behold! I hab make de blacksmif dat blow decoals, and make de weapons; and I hab make de waster dat shill destroyde oppressors.'"

  If he had repeated one of Webster's orations I could not have been moreastonished. I did not remember the exact words of the passage, but Iknew he had caught its spirit. Was this his recollection of the readingheard in the morning? or had he previously committed it to memory? Thesequestions I asked myself; but, restraining my curiosity, I answered:"Undoubtedly they are meant for both the black and the white."

  "Do dey mean, massa, dat we shall be like de wite folks--wid our ownhous'n, our chil'ren taught in de schools, and wid weapons to strikeback when dey strike us?"

  "No, Scipio, they don't mean that. They refer principally to spiritualmatters. They were a promise to _all the world_ that when the SAVIOURcame, all, even the greatly oppressed and afflicted, should hear thegreat truths of the BIBLE about GOD, REDEMPTION, and the FUTURE."

  "But de SAVIOUR hab come, massa; and dose tings an't taught to de blackchil'ren. We hab no peace, no rights; nuffin but fear, 'pression, andterror."

  "That is true, Scipio. The LORD takes HIS own time, but HIS time will_surely_ come."

  "De LORD bless you, massa, for saying dat; and de LORD bless you fortelling dat big Cunnel, dat if dey gwo to war de brack man will beFREE!"

  "Did you hear what we said?" I inquired, greatly surprised, for Iremembered remarking, during the interview of the previous evening,that our host carefully kept the doors closed.

  "Ebery word, massa."

  "But how _could_ you hear? The doors and windows were shut. Where wereyou?"

  "On de piazzer; and when I seed fru de winder dat de ladies war gwine, Iknow'd you'd talk 'bout politics and de darkies--gemmen allers do. So Iopened de winder bery softly--you didn't har 'cause it rained and blowedbery hard, and made a mighty noise. Den I stuffed my coat in de crack,so de wind could'nt blow in and lef you know I was dar, but I lef a holebig 'nough to har. My ear froze to dat hole, massa, bery tight, I 'shoreyou."

  "But you must have got very wet and very cold."

  "Wet, massa! wetter dan a 'gator dat's been in de riber all de week, butI didn't keer for de rain or de cold. What I hard made me warm all deway fru."

  To my mind there was a rough picture of true heroism in that poor darkystanding for hours in his shirt-sleeves, in the cold, stormy night, thelightning playing about him, and the rain drenching him to theskin--that he might hear something he thought would benefit hisdown-trodden race.

  I noticed his clothing though bearing evident marks of a drenching, wasthen dry, and I inquired: "How did you dry your clothes?"

  "I staid wid some ob de cullud folks, and arter you gwoes up stars, Iwent to dar cabin, and dey gabe me some dry cloes. We made up a bigfire, and hung mine up to dry, and de ole man and woman and me sot upall night and talked ober what you and de oder gemmen said."

  "Will not those folks tell what you did, and thus get you into trouble?"

  "Tell! LORD bless you, massa, _de bracks am all freemasons_; dat ar oleman and woman wud die 'fore dey'd tell."

  "But are not Captain B---'s negroes contented?" I asked; "they seem tobe well treated."

  "Oh! yas, dey am. All de brack folks 'bout har want de Captin to buy'em. He bery nice man--one ob de LORD'S own people. He better man danDavid, 'cause David did wrong, and I don't b'lieve de Captin eber did."

  "I should think he was a very good man," I replie
d.

  "Bery good man, massa, but de white folks don't like him, 'cause dey sayhe treats him darkies so well, all dairn am uncontented."

  "Tell me, Scipio," I resumed after a while, "how it is you can repeatthat passage from Isaiah so well?"

  "Why, bless you, massa, I know Aziar and Job and de Psalms 'most all byheart. Good many years ago, when I lib'd in Charles'on, the gub'nesslearned me to read, and I hab read dat BOOK fru good many times."

  "Have you read any others?" I asked.

  "None but dat and Doctor Watts. I hab _dem_, but wite folks wont sellbooks to de bracks, and I wont steal 'em. I read de papers sometimes."

  I opened my portmanteau, that lay on the floor of the wagon, and handedhim a copy of Whittier's poems. It happened to be the only book,excepting the BIBLE, that I had with me.

  "Read that, Scipio," I said. "It is a book of poetry, but written by agood man at the North, who greatly pities the slave."

  He took the book, and the big tears rolled down his cheeks, as he said:"Tank you, massa, tank you. Nobody war neber so good to me afore."

  During our conversation, the sky, which had looked threatening all themorning, began to let fall the big drops of rain; and before we reachedConwayboro, it poured down much after the fashion of the previous night.It being cruelty to both man and beast to remain out in such a deluge,we pulled up at the village hotel (kept, like the one at Georgetown, bya lady), and determined to remain overnight, unless the rain shouldabate in time to allow us to reach our destination before dark.

  Dinner being ready soon after our arrival (the people of Conwayboro,like the "common folks" that Davy Crockett told about, dine at twelve),I sat down to it, first hanging my outer garments, which were somewhatwet, before the fire in the sitting-room. The house seemed to be a sortof public boarding-house, as well as hotel, for quite a number ofpersons, evidently town's-people were at the dinner-table. My appearanceattracted some attention, though not more, I thought, than would benaturally excited in so quiet a place by the arrival of a stranger; but"as nobody said nothing to me, I said nothing to nobody."

  Dinner over, I adjourned to the "sitting-room," and seating myself bythe fire, watched the drying of my "outer habiliments." While thusengaged, the door opened, and three men--whom I should have taken forSouth Carolina gentlemen, had not a further acquaintance convinced me tothe contrary--entered the room. Walking directly up to where I wassitting, the foremost one accosted me something after this manner:

  "I see you are from the North, sir."

  Taken a little aback by the abruptness of the "salute," but guessing hisobject, I answered: "No, sir; I am from the South."

  "From what part of the South?"

  "I left Georgetown yesterday, and Charleston two days before that," Ireplied, endeavoring to seem entirely oblivious to his meaning.

  "We don't want to know whar you war yesterday; we want to know whar you_belong_," he said, with a little impatience.

  "Oh! that's it. Well, sir, I belong _here_ just at present, or rather Ishall, when I have paid the landlady for my dinner."

  Annoyed by my coolness, and getting somewhat excited, he repliedquickly: "You mustn't trifle with us, sir. We know you. You're from theNorth. We've seen it on your valise, and we can't allow a man whocarries the New York _Independent_ to travel in South Carolina."

  The scoundrels had either broken into my portmanteau, or else a copy ofthat paper had dropped from it on to the floor of the wagon when I gavethe book to Scipio. At any rate, they had seen it, and it was evident"Brother Beecher" was getting me into a scrape. I felt indignant at theimpudence of the fellow, but determined to keep cool, and, a littlesarcastically, replied to the latter part of his remark:

  "That's a pity, sir. South Carolina will lose by it."

  "This game wont work, sir. We don't want such people as you har, and thesooner you make tracks the better."

  "I intend to leave, sir, as soon as the rain is over, and shall travelthirty miles on your sandy roads to-day, if you don't coax me to stayhere by your hospitality," I quietly replied.

  The last remark was just the one drop needed to make his wrath "bileover," and he savagely exclaimed: "I tell you, sir, we will not betrifled with. You must be off to Georgetown at once. You can have justhalf an hour to leave the Boro', not a second more."

  His tone and manner aroused what little combativeness there is in me.Rising from my chair, and taking up my outside-coat, in which was one ofColt's six-shooters, I said to him: "Sir, I am here, a peaceable man, onpeaceable, private business. I have started to go up the country, and gothere I shall; and I shall leave this place at my convenience--notbefore. I have endured your impertinence long enough, and shall have nomore of it. If you attempt to interfere with my movements, you will doso at your peril."

  My blood was up, and I was fast losing that better part of valor calleddiscretion; and _he_ evidently understood my movement, and did notdislike the turn affairs were taking. There is no telling what mighthave followed had not Scip just at that instant inserted his woolly headbetween us, excitedly exclaiming: "Lord bless you, Massa B----ll; what_am_ you 'bout? Why, dis gemman am a 'ticlar friend of Cunnel A----.He'm a reg'lar sesherner. He hates de ablisherners worser dan de debble.I hard him swar a clar, blue streak 'bout dem only yesterday."

  "Massa B----ll" was evidently taken aback by the announcement of thenegro, but did not seem inclined to "give it up so" at once, for heasked: "How do you know he's the Colonel's friend, Scip? Who told youso?"

  "Who told me so?" exclaimed the excited negro, "why, didn't he stay atCaptin B----'s, wid de Cunnel, all night last night; and didn't dey setup dar doin' politic business togedder till arter midnight? Didn't deCunnel come dar in all de storm 'pressly to see dis gemman?"

  The ready wit and rude eloquence of the darky amused me, and the idea ofthe "Cunnel" travelling twenty miles through the terrible storm of theprevious night to meet a man who had the New York _Independent_ abouthim, was so perfectly ludicrous, that I could not restrain my laughter.That laugh did the business for "Massa B----ll." What the negro hadsaid staggered, but did not convince him; but my returning good-humorbrought him completely round. Extending his hand to me, he said: "I see,sir, I've woke up the wrong passenger. Hope you'll take no offence. Inthese times we need to know who come among us."

  "No offence whatever, sir," I replied. "It is easy to be mistaken; but,"I added smilingly, "I hope, for the sake of the next traveller, you'llbe less precipitate another time."

  "I _am_ rather hasty; that's a fact," he said. "But no harm is done. Solet's take a drink, and say no more about it. The old lady har keepsnary a thing, but we can get the _raal stuff_ close by."

  Though not a member of a "Total Abstinence Society," I have alwaysavoided indulging in the quality of fluid that is the staple beverage atthe South. I therefore hesitated a moment before accepting thegentleman's invitation; but the alternative seemed to be squarelypresented, pistols or drinks; cold lead or poor whiskey, and--I amashamed to confess it--I took the whiskey.

  Returning to the hotel, I found Scip awaiting me. "Massa," he said, "webetter be gwine. Dat dar sesherner am ugly as de bery ole debble; andsoon as he knows I cum de possum ober him 'bout de Cunnel, he'll bedown on you _shore_."

  The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, which the sun was vigorouslystruggling to get through with a tolerable prospect of success, and Iconcluded to take the African's advice. Wrapping myself in anIndia-rubber overcoat, and giving the darky a blanket of the samematerial, I started.

  [Footnote B: I very much regret to learn, that since my meeting withthis most excellent gentleman, being obnoxious to the Secession leadersfor his well-known Union sentiments, he has been very onerously assessedby them for contributions for carrying on the war. The sum he has beenforced to pay, is stated as high as forty thousand dollars, but that maybe, and I trust is, an exaggeration. In addition--and this fact iswithin my own knowledge--five of his vessels have been seized in theNorthern ports by our Government. This exposure of true U
nion men to adouble fire, is one of the most unhappy circumstances attendant uponthis most unhappy war.]