_ CHAPTER IX. THE COUNTRY CHURCH
Had we not been absorbed in conversation, we might have discovered, some time previous to our arrival at the church door, that the services had commenced, for the preacher was shouting at the top of his lungs. He evidently thought the Lord either a long way off, or very hard of hearing. Not wishing to disturb the congregation while at their devotions, we loitered near the doorway until the prayer was over, and in the mean time I glanced around the vicinity.
The "meeting-house," of large unhewn logs, was a story and a half in height, and about large enough to seat comfortably a congregation of two hundred persons. It was covered with shingles, with a roof projecting some four feet over the walls, and was surmounted at the front gable by a tower, about twelve feet square. This also was built of logs, and contained a bell "to call the erring to the house of prayer," though, unfortunately, all of that character thereabouts dwelt beyond the sound of its voice. The building was located at a cross-roads, about equally distant from two little hamlets (the nearer nine miles off), neither of which was populous enough to singly support a church and a preacher. The trees in the vicinity had been thinned out, so that carriages could drive into the woods, and find under the branches shelter from the rain and the sun; and at the time of my visit, about twenty vehicles of all sorts and descriptions, from the Colonel's magnificent barouche to the rude cart drawn by a single two-horned quadruped, filled the openings. There was a rustic simplicity about the whole scene that charmed me. The low, rude church, the grand old pines that towered in leafy magnificence around it, and the soft, low wind, that sung a morning hymn in the green, wavy woods, seemed to lift the soul up to Him who inhabiteth eternity, but who deigns to visit the erring children of men.
The preacher was about to "line out" one of Watts' psalms when we entered the church, but he stopped short on perceiving us, and, bowing low, waited till we had taken our seats. This action, and the sycophantic air which accompanied it, disgusted me, and turning to the Colonel, I asked, jocosely:
"Do the chivalry exact so much obsequiousness from the country clergy? Do you require to be bowed up to heaven?"
In a low voice, but high enough, I thought, for the preacher to hear, for we sat very near, the Colonel replied:
"He's a renegade Yankee--the meanest thing on earth."
I said no more, but entered into the services as seriously as the strange gymnastic performances of the preacher would allow of my doing; for he was quite as amusing as a circus clown.
With the exception of the Colonel's, and a few other pews in the vicinity of the pulpit, all of the seats were mere rough benches, without backs, and placed so closely together as to interfere uncomfortably with the knees of the sitters. The house was full, and the congregation as attentive as any I ever saw. All classes were there; the black serving-man away off by the doorway, the poor white a little higher up, the small turpentine-farmer a little higher still, and the wealthy planter, of the class to which the Colonel belonged, on "the highest seats of the synagogue," and in close proximity to the preacher.
The "man of prayer" was a tall, lean, raw-boned, angular-built individual, with a thin, sharp, hatchet-face, a small sunken eye, and long, loose hair, brushed back and falling over the collar of a seedy black coat. He looked like a dilapidated scare-crow, and his pale, sallow face, and cracked, wheezy voice, were in odd and comic keeping with his discourse. His text was: "Speak unto the children of Israel, that they go forward." And addressing the motley gathering of poor whites and small planters before him as the "chosen people of God," he urged them to press on in the mad course their state had taken. It was a political harangue, a genuine stump-speech, but its frequent allusions to the auditory as the legitimate children of the old patriarch, and the rightful heirs of all the promises, struck me as out of place in a rural district of South Carolina, however appropriate it might have been in one of the large towns, before an audience of merchants and traders, who are, almost to a man, Jews.
The services over, the congregation slowly left the church. Gathered in groups in front of the "meeting-house," they were engaged in a general discussion of the affairs of the day, when the Colonel and I emerged from the doorway. The better class greeted my host with considerable cordiality, but I noticed that the well-to-do small planters, who composed the greater part of the assemblage, received him with decided coolness. These people were the "North County folks," on whom the overseer had invoked a hanging. Except that their clothing was more uncouth and ill-fashioned, and their faces generally less "cute" of expression, they did not materially differ in appearance from the rustic citizens who may be seen on any pleasant Sunday gathered around the doorways of the rural meeting-houses of New England.
One of them, who was leaning against a tree, quietly lighting a pipe, was a fair type of the whole, and as he took a part in the scene which followed, I will describe him. He was tall and spare, with a swinging, awkward gait, and a wiry, athletic frame. His hair, which he wore almost as long as a woman's, was coarse and black, and his face strongly marked, and of the precise color of two small rivulets of tobacco-juice that escaped from the corners of his mouth. He had an easy, self-possessed manner, and a careless, devil-may-care way about him, that showed he had measured his powers, and was accustomed to "rough it" with the world. He wore a broadcloth coat of the fashion of some years ago, but his waistcoat and nether garments of the common, reddish homespun, were loose and ill-shaped, as if their owner did not waste thought on such trifles. His hat, as shockingly bad as Horace Greeley's, had the inevitable broad brim, and fell over his face like a calash-awning over a shop-window. As I approached him he extended his hand with a pleasant "How are ye, stranger?"
"Very well," I replied, returning his grasp with equal warmth, "how are you?"
"Right smart, right smart, thank ye. You're----" the rest of the sentence was cut short by a gleeful exclamation from Jim, who, mounted on the box of the carriage, which was drawn up on the cleared plot in front of the meeting-house, waved an open newspaper over his head, and called out, as he caught sight of the Colonel:
"Great news, massa--great news from Charls'on!"
(The darky, while we were in church, had gone to the post-office, some four miles away, and got the Colonel's mail, which consisted of letters from his New York and Charleston factors, the Charleston
Courier and
Mercury and the New York
Journal of Commerce. The latter sheet, at the date of which I am writing, was in wide circulation at the South, its piety (!) and its politics being then calculated with mathematical precision for secession latitudes.)
"What is it, Jim?" shouted his master. "Give it to us."
The darky had somehow learned to read, but holding the paper at arm's length, and throwing himself into a theatrical attitude, he cried out, with any amount of gesticulation:
"De news am, massa, and gemmen and ladies, dat de ole fort fore Charls'on hab ben devacuated by Major Andersin and de sogers, and dey hab stole 'way in de dark night and gone to Sumter, whar dey can't be took; and dat de ole Gubner hab got out a procdemation dat all dat don't lub de Aberlishen Yankees shill cum up dar and clar 'em out; and de paper say dat lots ob sogers hab cum from Georgi and Al'bama, and 'way down Souf, to help 'em. Dis am w'at de
Currer say," he continued, holding the paper up to his eyes and reading: "Major Andersin, ob de United States army hab 'chieved de 'stinction ob op'ning cibil war 'tween American citizens; he hab desarted Moulfrie, and by false fretexts hab took dat ole Garrison and all his millinery stores to Fort Sumter."
"Get down, you d----d nigger," said the Colonel, laughing, and mounting the carriage-box beside him. "You can't read. Old Garrison isn't there--he's the d----d Northern Abolitionist."
"I knows dat, Cunnel, but see dar," replied Jim, holding the paper out to his master, "don't dat say he'm dar? It'm him dat make all de trubble. P'raps dis nig can't read, but ef dat aint readin' I'd like to know it!"
"Clear out," said the Colonel, now actually roaring with laughter; "it's the garrison of soldiers that the
Courier speaks of, not the Abolitionist."
"Read it yoursef, den, massa, I don't seed it dat way."
Jim was altogether wiser than he appeared, but while equally as well pleased with the news as his master, he was so for an entirely different reason. In the crisis which these tidings announced, he saw hope for his race.
The Colonel then read the paper to the assemblage. The news was received with a variety of manifestations by the auditory, the larger portion, I thought, hearing it, as I did, with sincere regret.
"Now is the time to stand by the state, my friends," said my host, as he finished the reading. "I hope every man here is ready to do his duty by old South Carolina."
"Yes,
sar! if she does
har duty by the Union. We'll go to the death for har just so long as she's in the right, but not a d----d step if she arn't," said the long-legged native I have introduced to the reader.
"And what have
you to say about South Carolina? What does she owe to
you?" asked the Colonel, turning on the speaker with a proud and angry look.
"More, a darned sight, than she'll pay, if ye cursed 'ristocrats run her to h---- as ye'r doin'. She owes me, and 'bout ten as likely niggers as ye ever seed, a living, and we've d----d hard work to get it out on her
now, let alone what's comin'."
"Don't talk to me, you ill-mannered cur," said my host, turning his back on his neighbor, and directing his attention to the remainder of the assemblage.
"Look har, Cunnel," replied the native, "if ye'll jest come down from thar, and throw 'way yer shootin'-irons, I'll give ye the all-firedest thrashing ye ever did get."
The Colonel gave no further heed to him, but the speaker mounted the steps of the meeting-house and harangued the natives in a strain of rude and passionate declamation, in which my host, the aristocrats, and the secessionists came in for about equal shares of abuse. Seeing that the native (who, it appeared, was quite popular as a stump-speaker) was drawing away his audience, the Colonel descended from the driver's seat, and motioning for me to follow, entered the carriage. Turning the horses homeward, we rode off at a brisk pace.
"Not much secession about that fellow, Colonel," I remarked, after a while.
"No," he replied, "he's a North Carolina 'corn-cracker,' one of the ugliest specimens of humanity extant. They're as thick as fleas in this part of the state, and about all of them are traitors."
"Traitors to the state, but true to the Union. As far as I've seen, that is the case with the middling class throughout the South." "Well, it may be, but they generally go with us, and I reckon they will now, when it comes to the rub. Those in the towns--the traders and mechanics--will, certain; its only these half-way independent planters that ever kick the traces. By the way," continued my host, in a jocose way, "what did you think of the preaching?"
"I thought it very poor. I'd rather have heard the stump-speech, had it not been a little too personal on you."
"Well, it was the better of the two," he replied, laughing, "but the old devil can't afford any thing good, he don't get enough pay."
"Why, how much does he get?"
"Only a hundred dollars."
"That
is small. How does the man live?"
"Well, he teaches the daughter of my neighbor, Captain Randall, who believes in praying, and gives him his board. Randall thinks that enough. The rest of the parish can't afford to pay him, and I
wont."
"Why wont you?"
"Because he's a d----d old hypocrite. He believes in the Union with all his heart--at least so Randall, who's a sincere Union man, says--and yet, he never sees me at meeting but he preaches a red-hot secession sermon."
"He wants to keep you in the faith," I replied.
A few more miles of sandy road took us to the mansion, where we found dinner in waiting. Meeting "Massa Tommy"--who had staid at home with his mother--as we entered the doorway, the Colonel asked after the overseer.
"He seems well enough, sir; I believe he's coming the possum over mother."
"I'll bet on it, Tommy; but he wont fool you and me, will he, my boy?" said his father, slapping him affectionately on the back.
After dinner I went, with my host to the room of the wounded man. His head was still bound up, and he was groaning piteously, as if in great pain; but I thought there was too fresh a color in his face to be entirely natural in one who had lost so much blood, and been so severely wounded as he affected to have been.
The Colonel mentioned our suspicions to Madam P----, and suggested that the shackles should be put on him.
"Oh! no, don't do that; it would be inhuman," said the lady; "the color is the effect of fever. If you fear he is plotting to get away, let him be watched."
The Colonel consented, but with evident reluctance, to the arrangement, and retired to his room to take a
siesta, while I lit a segar, and strolled out to the negro quarters.
Making my way through the woods to the scene of the morning's jollification, I found about a hundred darkies gathered around Jim, on the little plot in front of old Lucy's cabin. He had evidently been giving them the news. Pausing when I came near, he exclaimed:
"Har's Massa K----, he'll say dat I tells you de trufh;" and turning to me, he said: "Massa K----, dese darkies say dat Massa Andersin am an ab'lisherner, and dat none but de ab'lisherners will fight for de Union; am dat so, sar?"
"No, I reckon not, Jim; I think the whole North would fight for it if it were necessary."
"Am dat so, massa? am dat so?" eagerly inquired a dozen of the darkies; "and am dar great many folks at de Norf--more dan dar am down har?"
"Yas, you fools, didn't I tell you dat?" said Jim, as I, not exactly relishing the idea of preaching treason, in the Colonel's absence, to his slaves, hesitated to reply. "Haint I tole you," he continued, "dat in de big city ob New York dar'm more folks dan in all Car'lina? I'se been dar, and I knows; and Massa K----'ll tell you dat dey--most on 'em--feel mighty sorry for de brack man."
"No he wont," I replied, "and besides, Jim, you should not talk in this way before me; I might tell your master."
"No! you wont do dat; I knows you wont, massa. Scipio tole us he'd trust his bery life wid
you."
"Well, perhaps he might; it's true I would not injure you;" saying that, I turned away, though my curiosity was greatly excited to hear more.
I wandered farther into the woods, and a half-hour found me near one of the turpentine distilleries. Seating myself on a rosin barrel, I quietly finished my segar, and was about lighting another, when Jim made his appearance.
"Beg pardon, Massa K----," said the negro, bowing very low, "but I wants to ax you one or two tings, ef you please, sar."
"Well," I replied, "I'll tell you any thing that I ought to."
"Der yer tink, den, massa, dat dey'll git to fightin' at Charl'son?"
"Yes, judging by the tone of the Charleston papers you've read to-day, I think they will."
"And der yer tink dat de rest ob de Souf will jine wid Souf Car'lina, if she go at it fust?"
"Yes, Jim, I'm inclined to think so."
"I hard you say to massa, dat ef dey goes to war, 'twill free all de niggers--der you raily b'lieve dat, sar?"
"
You heard me say that; how did you hear it?" I exclaimed, in surprise.
"Why, sar, de front winder ob de carriage war down jess a crack, so I hard all you said."
"Did you let it down on purpose?"
"P'r'aps so, massa. Whot's de use ob habin' ears, ef you don't har?"
"Well, I suppose not much; and you tell all you hear to the other negroes?"
"I reckon so, massa," said the darky, looking very demure.
"That's the use of having a tongue, eh?" I replied, laughing.
"Dat's it 'zactly, massa."
"Well, Jim, I do think the slaves will be finally freed; but it will cost more white blood to do it than all the niggers in creation are worth. Do you think the darkies would fight for their freedom?"
"Fight, sar!" exclaimed the negro, straightening up his fine form, while his usual good-natured look passed from his face, and gave way to an expression that made him seem more like an incarnate devil than a human being; "FIGHT, sar; gib dem de chance, and den see."
"Why are you discontented? You have been at the North, and you know the blacks are as well off as the majority of the poor laboring men there."
"You says dat to
me, Massa K----; you don't say it to de
Cunnel. We am
not so well off as de pore man at de Norf! You knows dat, sar. He hab his wife and chil'ren, and his own home. What hab we, sar? No wife, no chil'ren, no home; all am de white man's. Der yer tink we wouldn't fight to be free?" and he pressed his teeth together, and there passed again over his face the same look it wore the moment before.
"Come, come, Jim, this may be true of your race; but it don't apply to yourself. Your master is kind and indulgent to
you."
"He am kine to me, sar; he orter be," said the negro, the savage expression coming again into his eyes. For a moment he hesitated; then, taking a step toward me, he placed his face down to mine, and hissed out these words, every syllable seeming to come from the very bottom of his being. "I tell you he orter be, sar, FUR I AM HIS OWN FATHER'S SON!"
"His brother!" I exclaimed, springing to my feet, and looking at him in blank amazement. "It can't be true!"
"It am true, sar--as true as there's a hell! His father had my mother--when he got tired of her, he sold her Souf.
I war too young den eben to know her!"
"This is horrible--too horrible!" I said.
"It am slavery, sar! Shouldn't we be contented?" replied the negro with a grim smile. Drawing, then, a large spring-knife from his pocket, he waved it above his head, and added: "Ef I had de hull white race dar--right dar under dat knife, don't yer tink I'd take all dar lives--all at one blow--to be FREE!"
"And yet you refused to run away when the Abolitionists tempted you, at the North. Why didn't you go then?"
"'Cause I had promised, massa."
"Promised the Colonel before you went?"
"No, sar; he neber axed me; but
I can't tell you no more. P'raps Scipio will, ef you ax him."
"Oh! I see; you're in that league of which Scip is a leader. You'll get into trouble,
sure," I replied, in a quick, decided tone, which startled him.
"You tole Scipio dat, sar, and what did
he tell you?"
"That he didn't care for his life."
"No more do I, sar," said the negro, turning on his heel with a proud, almost defiant gesture, and starting to go.
"A moment, Jim. You are very imprudent; never say these things to any other mortal; promise me that."
"You'se bery good, massa, bery good. Scipio say you's true, and he'm allers right. I ortent to hab said what I hab; but sumhow, sar, dat news brought it all up
har" (laying his hand on his breast), "and it wud come out."
The tears filled his eyes as he said this, and turning away without another word, he disappeared among the trees.
I was almost stunned by this strange revelation, but the more I reflected on it, the more probable it appeared. Now too, that my thoughts were turned in that direction, I called to mind a certain resemblance between the colonel and the negro that I had not heeded before. Though one was a high-bred Southern gentleman, claiming an old and proud descent, and the other a poor African slave, they had some striking peculiarities which might indicate a common origin. The likeness was not in their features, for Jim's face was of the unmistakable negro type, and his skin of a hue so dark that it seemed impossible he could be the son of a white man (I afterward learned that his mother was a black of the deepest dye), but it was in their form and general bearing. They had the same closely-knit and sinewy frame, the same erect, elastic step, the same rare blending of good-natured ease and dignity--to which I have already alluded as characteristic of the Colonel--and in the wild burst of passion that accompanied the negro's disclosure of their relationship, I saw the same fierce, unbridled temper, whose outbreaks I had witnessed in my host.
What a strange fate was theirs! Two brothers--the one the owner of three hundred slaves, and the first man of his district--the other, a bonded menial, and so poor that the very bread he ate, and the clothes he wore, were another's!
I passed the remainder of the afternoon in my room, and did not again meet my host until the family assembled at the tea-table. Jim then occupied his accustomed seat behind the Colonel's chair, and that gentleman was in more than his usual spirits, though Madam P----, I thought, wore a sad and absent look.
The conversation rambled over a wide range of subjects, and was carried on mainly by the Colonel and myself; but toward the close of the meal the lady said to me:
"Mr. K----, Sam and young Junius are to be buried this evening; if you have never seen a negro funeral, perhaps you'd like to attend."
"I will be happy to accompany you, Madam, if you go," I replied,
"Thank you," said the lady.
"Pshaw! Alice, you'll not go into the woods on so cold a night as this!" said the Colonel.
"Yes, I think I ought to. Our people will expect me." _