Among the Pines; or, South in Secession Time
Page 19
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE BURIAL OF "JULE."
The family were at supper when I returned to the mansion, and, enteringthe room, I took my accustomed place at the table. None present seemeddisposed to conversation. The little that was said was spoken in a low,subdued tone, and no allusion was made to the startling event of theday. At last the octoroon woman asked me if I had met Mrs. Barnes at thefarmer's.
"Yes," I replied, "and I was greatly pleased with her. She seems one ofthose rare women who would lend grace to even the lowest station."
"She _is_ a rare woman; a true, sincere Christian. Every one loves her;but few know all her worth; only those do who have gone to her in sorrowand trial, as--" and her voice trembled, and her eyes moistened--"as Ihave."
And so that poor, outcast, despised, dishonored woman, scorned andcast-off by all the world, had found one sympathizing, pitying friend.Truly, "He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb."
When the meal was over, all but Madam P---- retired to the library.Tommy and I fell to reading, but the Colonel shortly rose and continuedpacing up and down the apartment till the clock sounded eight. The ladythen entered, and said to him.
"The negroes are ready, David; will _you_ go, Mr. K----?"
"I think not, madam," I replied; "at least not now."
I continued reading, for a time, when, tiring of the book, I laid itdown, and followed them to the little burial-ground.
The grave of Sam was open, and the plantation blacks were gatheredaround it. In the centre of the group, and at the head of the rudecoffin, the Colonel was seated, and near him the octoroon woman and herson. The old preacher was speaking.
"My chil'ren," he said: "she hab gone ter Him, wid har chile: gone updar, whar dey doan't sorrer no more, whar dey doan't weep no more, wharall tears am wiped from dar eyes foreber. I knows she lay han's onharseff, and dat, my chil'ren, am whot none ob us shud do, 'case we'm deLord's; He put us har, an' he'll take us 'way when we's fru wid ourwork, not afore. We hab no right ter gwo afore. Pore Juley did--butp'raps she cudn't help it. P'raps de great sorrer war so big in harheart, dat she cudn't fine rest nowhar but in de cole, dark riber.P'raps she warn't ter blame--p'raps," and here his eyes filled: "p'rapsole Pomp war all ter blame, for I tole har, my chil'ren"--he could sayno more, and sinking down on a rude seat, he covered his face, andsobbed audibly. Even the Colonel's strong frame heaved with emotion, andnot a dry eye was near. After a time the old man rose again, and withstreaming eyes, and upturned face, continued:
"Dars One up dar, my chil'ren, dat say: 'Come unter Me, all ye dat am aweary an' a heaby laden, an' I will gib you ress.' He, de good Lord, Hesay dat; and p'raps Juley hard Him say it, an' dat make har gwo." Againhis voice failed, and he sank down, weeping and moaning as if his heartwould break.
A pause followed, when the Colonel rose, and aided by Jim and two otherblacks, with his own hands nailed down the lid, and lowered the rudecoffin into the ground. Then the earth was thrown upon it, and then thelong, low chant which the negroes raise over the dead, mingling now withsobs and moans, and breaking into a strange wild wail, went up among thepines, and floating off on the still night air, echoed through the darkwoods, till it sounded like music from the grave. I have been in thechamber of the dying; I have seen the young and the beautiful laid awayin the earth; but I never felt the solemn awfulness of death, as I did,when, in the stillness and darkness of night, I listened to the wildgrief of that negro group, and saw the bodies of that slave mother andher child, lowered to their everlasting rest by the side of Sam.