Among the Pines; or, South in Secession Time

by James R. Gilmore

  CHAPTER XV.

  THE RETURN.

  Moye had not been seen or heard of, and the Colonel's trip wasfruitless. While at Wilmington he sent telegrams, directing theoverseer's arrest, to the various large cities of the South, and thendecided to return home, make arrangements preliminary to a protractedabsence from the plantation, and proceed at once to Charleston, where hewould await replies to his dispatches. Andy agreed with him in theopinion that Moye, in his weak state of health, would not take anoverland route to the free states, but would endeavor to reach some townon the Mississippi, where he might dispose of the horse, and secure apassage up the river.

  As no time was to be lost, we decided to return to the plantation on thefollowing morning. Accordingly, with the first streak of day we bade"good-bye" to our Union friend, and started homeward.

  No incident worthy of mention occurred on the way, till about teno'clock, when we arrived at the house of the Yankee schoolmistress,where we had been so hospitably entertained two days before. The ladyreceived us with great cordiality, forced upon us a lunch to serve ourhunger on the road, and when we parted, enjoined on me to leave theSouth at the earliest possible moment. She was satisfied it would notfor a much longer time be safe quarters for a man professing Unionsentiments. Notwithstanding the strong manifestations of loyalty I hadobserved among the people, I was convinced the advice of my pretty"countrywoman" was judicious, and I determined to be governed by it.

  Our horses, unaccustomed to lengthy journeys, had not entirely recoveredfrom the fatigues of their previous travel, and we did not reach ourdestination till an hour after dark. We were most cordially welcomed byMadam P----, who soon set before us a hot supper, which, as we werejaded by the long ride, and had fasted for twelve hours, onbacon-sandwiches and cold hoe-cake, was the one thing needful to us.

  While seated at the table the Colonel asked:

  "Has every thing gone right, Alice, since we left home?"

  "Every thing," replied the lady, "except"--and she hesitated, as if shedreaded the effect of the news; "except that Jule and her child havegone."

  "Gone!" exclaimed my host; "gone where?"

  "I don't know. We have searched everywhere, but have found no clue tothem. The morning you left Sam set Jule at work among the pines; shetried hard, but could not do a full task, and at night was taken to thecabin to be whipped. I heard of it, and forbade it. It did not seem tome that she ought to be punished for not doing what she had not strengthto do. When released from the cabin, she came and thanked me for havinginterfered for her, and talked with me awhile. She cried and took onfearfully about Sam, and was afraid you would punish her when youreturned. I promised you would not, and she left me seeming morecheerful. I supposed she would go directly home after getting her childfrom the nurse's quarters; but it appears she went to Pompey's, whereshe staid till after ten o'clock. Neither she nor the child have beenseen since."

  "Did you get no trace of her in the morning?"

  "Yes, but soon lost it. When she did not appear at work, Sam went to hercabin to learn the cause, and found the door open, and her bedundisturbed. She had not slept there. Knowing that Sandy had returned, Isent for him, and, with Jim and his dog, he commenced a search. The dogtracked her directly from Pompey's cabin to the bank of the run near thelower still. There all trace of her disappeared. We dragged the stream,but discovered nothing. Jim and Sandy then scoured the woods for milesin all directions, but the hound could not recover the trail. I hopeotherwise, but I fear some evil has befallen her."

  "Oh, no! there's no fear of that," said the Colonel: "she is smart: shewaded up the run far enough to baffle the dog, and then made for theswamp. That is why you lost her tracks at the stream. Rely upon it, I amright: but she shall not escape me."

  We shortly afterward adjourned to the library. After being seated therea while the Colonel, rising quickly, as if a sudden thought had struckhim, sent for the old preacher.

  The old negro soon appeared, hat in hand, and taking a stand near thedoor, made a respectful bow to each one of us.

  "Take a chair, Pompey," said Madam P----, kindly.

  The black meekly seated himself, when the Colonel asked: "Well, Pomp,what do you know about Jule's going off?"

  "Nuffin', massa--I shures you, nuffin'. De pore chile say nuffin to olePomp 'bout dat."

  "What did she say?"

  "Wal, you see, massa, de night arter you gwo 'way, and arter she'dworked hard in de brush all de day, and been a strung up in de ole cabinfur to be whipped, she come ter me wid har baby in har arms, all a-faintand a-tired, and har pore heart clean broke, and she say dat she'm jessready ter drop down and die. Den I tries ter comfut har, massa; I takeshar up from de floor, and I say ter har dat de good Lord He pityhar--dat He woant bruise de broken reed, and woant put no more on herdan she kin b'ar--dat He'd touch you' heart, and I toled har you'se agood, kine heart at de bottom, massa--and I knows it, 'case I toted you'fore you could gwo, and when you's a bery little chile, not no greatsight bigger'n har'n, you'd put your little arms round ole Pomp's neck,and say dat when you war grow'd up you'd be bery kine ter de pore brackfolks, and not leff 'em be 'bused like dey war in dem days."

  "Never mind what _you_ said," interrupted the Colonel, a littleimpatiently, but showing no displeasure; "what did _she_ say?"

  "Wal, massa, she tuk on bery hard 'bout Sam, and axed me ef I raailyreckoned de Lord had forgib'n him, and took'n him ter Heself, and gibin'him one o' dem hous'n up dar, in de sky. I toled her dat I _know'd_ it;but she say it didn't 'pear so ter har, 'case Sam had a been wid har outdar in de woods, all fru de day; dat she'd a _seed_ him, massa, anddough he handn't a said nuffin', he'd lukd at har wid sech a sorry,grebed luk, dat it gwo clean fru har heart, till she'd no strength leff,and fall down on de ground a'most dead. Den she say big Sam come 'longand fine har dar, and struck har great, heaby blows wid de big whip!"

  "The brute!" exclaimed the Colonel, rising from his chair, and pacingrapidly up and down the room.

  "But p'r'aps he warn't so much ter blame, massa," continued the oldnegro, in a deprecatory tone; "maybe he 'spose she war shirkin' de work.Wal, den she say she know'd nuffin' more, till byme-by, when she cometo, and fine big Sam dar, and he struck har agin, and make har gwo terde work; and she did gwo, but she feel like as ef she'd die. I toled harde good ma'am wudn't leff big Sam 'buse har no more 'fore you cum hum,and dat you'd hab 'passion on har, and not leff har gwo out in de woods,but put har 'mong de nusses, like as afore.

  "Den she say it 'twarn't de work dat trubble har--dat she orter work,and orter be 'bused, 'case she'd been bad, bery bad. All she axed wardat Sam would forgib har, and cum to har in de oder worle, and tell harso. Den she cried, and tuk on awful; but de good Lord, massa, dat am sobery kine ter de bery wuss sinners, He put de words inter my mouf, and Itink dey gib har comfut, fur she say dat it sort o' 'peared to har dendat Sam _would_ forgib har, and take har inter his house up dar, and shewarn't afeard ter die no more.

  "Den she takes up de chile and gwo 'way, 'pearin' sort o' happy, andmore cheerful like dan I'd a seed har eber sense pore Sam war shot."

  My host was sensibly affected by the old man's simple tale, butcontinued pacing up and down the room, and said nothing.

  "It's plain to me, Colonel," I remarked, as Pompey concluded, "she hasdrowned herself and the child--the dog lost the scent at the creek."

  "Oh, no!" he replied; "I think not. I never heard of a negro committingsuicide--they've not the courage to do it."

  "I fear she _has_, David," said the lady. "The thought of going to Samhas led her to it; yet, we dragged the run, and found nothing. What doyou think about it, Pompey?"

  "I dunno, ma'am, but I'se afeard of dat; and now dat I tinks ob it, I'seafeard dat what I tole har put har up ter it," replied the old preacher,bursting into tears. "She 'peared so happy like, when I say she'd be'long wid Sam in de oder worle, dat I'se afeard she's a gone and doneit wid har own hands. I tole har, too, dat de Lord would oberlook goodmany tings dat pore sinners
do when dey can't help 'emselfs--and it makehar do it! Oh! it make har do it!" and the old black buried his face inhis hands, and wept bitterly.

  "Don't feel so, Pomp," said his master, _very_ kindly. "You did the bestyou could; no one blames you."

  "I knows _you_ doant, massa--I knows you doant, and you'se bery goodnottur--but oh! massa, de Lord!" and his body swayed to and fro with thegreat grief; "I fears de Lord do, massa, for I'se sent har ter Him widhar own blood, and de blood of dat pore innercent chile, on har hands.Oh, I fears de Lord neber'll forgib me--neber'll forgib me for _dat_."

  "He will, my good Pomp--He will!" said the Colonel, laying his handtenderly on the old man's shoulder. "The Lord will forgive you, for thesake of the Christian example you've set your master, if for nothingelse;" and here the proud, strong man's feelings overpowering him, histears fell in great drops on the breast of the old slave, as they hadfallen there in his childhood.

  Such scenes are not for the eye of a stranger, and turning away, I leftthe room.