CHAPTER X.
THE NEGRO FUNERAL.
It was about an hour after nightfall when we took our way to theburial-ground. The moon had risen, but the clouds which gathered whenthe sun went down, covered its face, and were fast spreading theirthick, black shadows over the little collection of negro-houses. Neartwo new-made graves were gathered some two hundred men and women, asdark as the night that was setting around them. As we entered the circlethe old preacher pointed to seats reserved for us, and the sable crowdfell back a few paces, as if, even in the presence of death, they didnot forget the difference between their race and ours.
Scattered here and there among the trees, torches of lightwood threw awild and fitful light over the little cluster of graves, revealing thelong, straight boxes of rough pine that held the remains of the twonegroes, and lighting up the score or two of russet mounds where sleptthe dusky kinsmen who had gone before them.
The simple head-boards that marked these humble graves chronicledno bad biography or senseless rhyme, and told no false tales oflives that might better not have been, but "SAM, AGE 22;" "JAKE'SELIZA;" "AUNT SUE;" "AUNT LUCY'S TOM;" "JOE;" and other likeinscriptions, scratched in rough characters on the unplaned boards, wereall the records there. The rude tenants had passed away and "left nosign;" their birth, their age, their deeds, were alike unknown--unknown,but not forgotten! for are they not written in the book of Hisremembrance--and when he counteth up his jewels, may not some of them bethere?
The queer, grotesque dress, and sad, earnest looks of the black group;the red, fitful glare of the blazing pine, and the white faces of thetapped trees, gleaming through the gloom like so many sheeted ghostsgathered to some death-carnival, made up a strange, wild scene--thestrangest and the wildest I had ever witnessed.
The covers of the rude coffins were not yet nailed down, and when wearrived, the blacks were, one by one, taking a last look at the faces ofthe dead. Soon, Junius, holding his weeping wife by the hand, approachedthe smaller of the two boxes, which held all that was left of theirfirst-born. The mother, kneeling by its side, kissed again and again thecold, shrunken lips, and sobbed as if her heart would break; and thestrong frame of the father shook convulsively, as he choked down thegreat sorrow which welled up in his throat, and turned away from his boyforever. As he did so, old Pompey said:
"Don't grebe, June, he'm whar de wicked cease from trubling, whar deweary am at rest."
"I knows it; I knows it, Uncle. I knows de Lord am bery good to take'im 'way; but why did he take de young chile, and leab de ole man har?"
"De little sapling dat grow in de shade may die while it'm young; degreat tree dat grow in de sun must lib till he'm rotted down."
These words were the one drop wanting to make the great grief which wasswelling in the negro's heart overflow. Giving one low, wild cry, hefolded his wife in his arms, and burst into a paroxysm of tears.
"Come now, my chil'ren," said the old preacher, kneeling down, "let uspray."
The whole assemblage then knelt on the cold ground, while the old manprayed, and a more sincere, heart-touching prayer never went up fromhuman lips to that God "who hath made of one blood all nations thatdwell on the face of the earth." Though clothed in rags, and in feebleage at the mercy of a cruel taskmaster, that old slave was richer farthan his master. His simple faith, which saw through the darkness aroundhim into the clear and radiant light of the unseen day, was of far moreworth than all the wealth and glory of this world. I know not why itwas, but as I looked at him in the dim red light, which fell on his bentform and cast a strange halo around his upturned face, I thought ofStephen, as he gazed upward and behold heaven open, and "the Son of Manseated at the right hand of the throne of God."
Rising from his knees, the old preacher turned slowly to the black massthat encircled him, and said:
"My dear brederin and sisters, de Lord say dat 'de dust shill return tode earth as it war, and de spirit to Him who gabe it,' and now, 'cordin'to dat text, my friends, we'm gwine to put dis dust (pointing to the twocoffins) in de groun' whar it cum from, and whar it shill lay till debressed Lord blow de great trumpet on de resumrection mornin'. Despirits of our brudders har de Lord hub already took to hisseff. 'Ourbrudders,' I say, my chil'ren, 'case ebery one dat de Lord hab made ambrudders to you and to me, whedder dey'm bad or good, white or brack.
"Dis young chile, who hab gone 'way and leff his pore fader and muddersuffrin' all ober wid grief, _he_ hab gone to de Lord, _shore_. _He_neber done no wrong; he allers 'bey'd his massa, and neber said no hardword, nor found no fault, not eben w'en de cruel, bad oberseer put deload so heaby on him dat it kill him. Yes, my brederin and sisters, _he_hab gone to de Lord; gone whar dey don't work in de swamps; whar delittle chil'ren don't tote de big shingles fru de water up to dar knees.No swamps am dar; no shingles am dar; dey doan't need 'em, 'case dar dehous'n haint builded wid hands, for dey'm all builded by de Lord, andgib'n to de good niggers, ready-made, and for nuffin'. De Lord don'tsay, like as ded massa say, 'Pomp, dar's de logs and de shingles' (dey'mallers pore shingles, de kine dat woant sell; but massa say, 'dey'm good'nuff for niggers,' ef de roof do leak). De Lord doan't say: 'Now, Pomp,you go to work and build you' own house; but mine dat you does you,task all de time, jess de same!' But de Lord--de bressed Lord--He say,w'en we goes up dar, 'Dar, Pomp, dar's de house dat I'se been a buildin'for you eber sence 'de foundation ob de worle.' It'm done now, and youkin cum in; your room am jess ready, and ole Sal and de chil'ren dat Ituk 'way from you eber so long ago, and dat you mourned ober and criedober as ef you'd neber see dem agin, dey'm dar too, all on 'em, awaitin' for you. Dey'm been fixin' up de house 'spressly for you alldese long years, and dey'b got it all nice and comfible now.' Yas, myfriends, glory be to Him, dat's what our Heabenly massa say, and who obyou wouldn't hab sich a massa as dat? A massa dat doan't set you no hardtasks, and dat gibs you 'nuff to eat, and time to rest and to sing andto play! A massa dat doan't keep no Yankee oberseer to foller you 'boutwid de big free-lashed whip; but dat leads you hisseff to de greenpastures and de still waters; and w'en you'm a-faint and a-tired, andcan't go no furder, dat takes you up in his arms, and carries you in hisbosom! What pore darky am dar dat wudn't hab sich a massa? What one obus, eben ef he had to work jess so hard as we works now, wudn't tinkheseff de happiest nigger in de hull worle, ef he could hab sich hous'nto lib in as dem? dem hous'n 'not made wid hands, eternal in deheabens!'
"But glory, glory to de Lord! my chil'ren, wese all got dat massa, ef weonly knowd it, and He'm buildin' dem hous'n up dar, now, for ebery oneob us dat am tryin' to be good and to lub one anoder. _For ebery one obus_, I say, and we kin all git de fine hous'n ef we try.
"Recolember, too, my brudders, dat our great Massa am rich, bery rich,and he kin do all he promise. _He_ doant say, w'en wese worked ober timeto git some little ting to comfort de sick chile, 'I knows, Pomp, you'sedone de work, an' I did 'gree to gib you de pay; but de fact am, Pomp,de frost hab come so sudden dis yar, dat I'se loss de hull ob de sebenfhdippin', and I'se pore, so pore, de chile muss go widout dis time.' No,no, brudders, de bressed Lord He neber talk so. He neber break, 'case desebenfh dip am shet off, or 'case de price of turpentime gwo down at deNorf. He neber sell his niggers down Souf, 'case he lose his money on hehoss-race. No, my chil'ren, our HEABENLY Massa am rich, RICH, I say. Heown all dis worle, and all de oder worles dat am shinin' up dar in desky. He own dem all; but he tink more ob one ob you, more ob one obyou--pore, ign'rant brack folks dat you am--dan ob all dem great worles!Who wouldn't belong to sich a Massa as dat? Who wouldn't be hisnigger--not his slave--He doant hab no slaves--but his chile; and 'efhis chile, den his heir, de heir ob God, and de jined heir wid debressed Jesus.' O my chil'ren! tink of dat! de heir ob de Lord ob all de'arth and all de sky! What white man kin be more'n dat?
"Don't none ob you say you'm too wicked to be His chile; 'ca'se youhaint. He lubs de wicked ones de best, 'ca'se dey need his lub de most.Yas, my brudders, eben de wickedest, ef dey's only sorry, and turn roun'and leab off da
r bad ways, he lub de bery best ob all, 'ca'se he'm alllub and pity.
"Sam, har, my chil'ren, war wicked, but don't _we_ pity him; don't _we_tink he hab a hard time, and don't we tink de bad oberseer, who'm layin'dar in de house jess ready to gwo and answer for it--don't we tink hegabe Sam bery great probincation?
"Dat's so," said a dozen of the auditors.
"Den don't you 'spose dat de bressed Lord know all dat, and dat He pitySam too. If we pore sinners feel sorrer for him, haint de Lord's heartbigger'n our'n, and haint he more sorrer for him? Don't you tink dat efHe lub and pity de bery worse whites, dat He lub and pity pore Sam, whowarn't so bery bad, arter all? Don't you tink He'll gib Sam a house?P'r'aps' 'twont be one ob de fine hous'n, but wont it be a comfiblehouse, dat hain't no cracks, and one dat'll keep out de wind and derain? And don't you s'pose, my chil'ren, dat it'll be big 'nuff forJule, too--dat pore, repentin' chile, whose heart am clean broke, 'ca'seshe hab broughten dis on Sam--and won't de Lord--de good Lord--detender-hearted Lord--won't He touch Sam's heart, and coax him to forgibJule, and to take her inter his house up dar? I knows he will, mychil'ren. I knows----"
The old negro paused abruptly; there was a quick swaying in the blackcrowd--a hasty rush--a wild cry--and Sam's wife burst into the openspace around the preacher, and fell at his feet. Throwing her armswildly about him, she shrieked out:
"Say dat agin, Uncle Pomp! for de lub ob de good Lord, oh! say datagin!"
Bending down, the old man raised her gently in his arms, and folding herthere, as he would have folded a child, he said, in a voice thick withemotion:
"It am so, Juley. I knows dat Sam will forgib you, and take you wid himup dar."
Fastening her arms frantically around Pompey's neck, the poor womanburst into a paroxysm of grief, while the old man's tears fell in greatdrops on her upturned face, and many a dark cheek was wet, as with rain.
The scene had lasted a few minutes, and I was turning away to hide theemotion that fast filled my eyes, and was creeping up, with a chokingfeeling, to my throat, when the Colonel, from the farther edge of thegroup, called out:
"Take that d---- d---- away--take her away, Pomp!"
The old negro turned toward his master with a sad, grieved look, butgave no heed to the words.
"Take her away, some of you, I say," again cried the Colonel. "Pomp, youmustn't keep these niggers all night in the cold."
At the sound of her master's voice the metif woman fell to the ground asif struck by a Minie-ball. Soon several negroes lifted her up to bearher off; but she struggled violently, and rent the woods with her wildcries for "one more look at Sam."
"Look at him, you d---- d----; then go, and don't let me see you again."
She threw herself on the face of the dead, and covered the cold lipswith her kisses; then she rose, and with a weak, uncertain step,staggered out into the darkness.
Was not the system which had so seared and hardened that man's heart,begotten in the lowest hell?
The old preacher said no more, but four stout negro men stepped forward,nailed down the lids, and lowered the rough boxes into the ground.Turning to Madam P----, I saw her face was red with weeping. She turnedto go as the first earth fell, with a dull, heavy sound, on the rudecoffins; and giving her my arm, I led her from the scene.
As we walked slowly back to the house, a low wail--half a chant, half adirge--rose from the black crowd, and floated off on the still nightair, till it died away amid the far woods, in a strange, unearthly moan.With that sad, wild music in our ears, we entered the mansion.
As we seated ourselves by the bright wood-fire on the library hearth,obeying a sudden impulse which I could not restrain, I said to MadamP----:
"The Colonel's treatment of that poor woman is inexplicable to me. Whyis he so hard with her? It is not in keeping with what I have seen ofhis character."
"The Colonel is a peculiar man," replied the lady. "Noble, generous, anda true friend, he is also a bitter, implacable enemy. When he onceconceives a dislike, his feelings become even vindictive. Never havinghad an ungratified wish, he does not know how to feel for the sorrows ofthose beneath him. Sam, though a proud, headstrong, unruly character,was a great favorite with him; he felt his death much; and as heattributes it to Jule, he feels terribly bitter toward her. She willhave to be sold to get her out of his way, for he will _never_ forgiveher."
It was some time before the Colonel joined us, and when at last he madehis appearance, he seemed in no mood for conversation. The lady soonretired; but feeling unlike sleep, I took down a book from the shelves,drew my chair near the fire, and fell to reading. The Colonel, too, wasdeep in the newspapers, till, after a while, Jim entered the room:
"I'se cum to ax ef you've nuffin more to-night, Cunnel?" said the negro.
"No, nothing, Jim," replied his master; "but, stay--hadn't you bettersleep in front of Moye's door?"
"Dunno, sar; jess as you say."
"I think you'd better," returned the Colonel.
"Yas, massa," and the darky left the apartment.
The Colonel shortly rose, and bade me "good-night." I continued readingtill the clock struck eleven, when I laid the book aside and went to myroom.
I lodged, as I have said before, on the first floor, and was obliged topass by the overseer's apartment in going to mine. Wrapped in hisblanket, and stretched at full length on the ground, Jim lay there, fastasleep. I passed on, thinking of the wisdom of placing a tired negro onguard over an acute and desperate Yankee.
I rose in the morning with the sun, and had partly donned my clothing,when I heard a loud uproar in the hall. Opening my door, I saw Jimpounding vehemently at the Colonel's room, and looking as pale as ispossible with a person of his complexion.
"What the d--l is the matter?" asked his master, who now, partlydressed, stepped into the hall.
"Moye hab gone, sar--he'm gone and took Firefly (my host'sfive-thousand-dollar thorough-bred) wid him."
For a moment the Colonel stood stupified; then, his face turning to acold, clayey white, he seized the black by the throat, and hurled him tothe floor. With his thick boot raised, he seemed about to dash out theman's brains with its ironed heel, when, on the instant, the octoroonwoman rushed, in her night-clothes, from his room, and, with desperateenergy, pushed him aside, exclaiming: "What would you do? Remember WHOHE IS!"
The negro rose, and the Colonel, without a word, passed into his ownapartment.
Among the Pines; or, South in Secession Time Page 11
