Our World Or the Slaveholder's Daughter Part 25

"Sit down here!-Isaac, Abraham, Daniel, or whatever yer name is-Mr.

M'Fadden addresses himself to his preacher. Ye'll get yer share on't when ye gits to my place." He sets the jug down, and pa.s.ses the gourd back, saying: "What a saucy hussy ye are!" slapping the woman's black shoulder playfully. "Give him some-won't ye', boys?"

he concludes.

Mr. M'Fadden (the cars are not yet ready to start, but the dep"t is thronging with travellers, and the engine is puffing and snorting, as the driver holds his hand on the throttle, and the stoker crams with pitch pine knots the iron steed of fiery swiftness) will step out and take the comfort of his cigar. He pats his preacher on the shoulder, takes off his shackles, rubs his head with his hand, tells the boys to keep an eye on him. "Yes, mas'r," they answer, in tones of happy ignorance. The preacher must be jolly, keep on a bright face, never mind the old gal and her young 'uns, and remember what a chance he will have to get another. He can have two or more, if he pleases; so says his very generous owner.

Mr. M'Fadden shakes hands with his friends on the platform, smokes his cigar leisurely, mingles with the crowd importantly, thinking the while what an unalloyed paragon of amiability he is. Presently the time-bell strikes its warning; the crowd of pa.s.sengers rush for the cars; the whistle shrieks; the exhaust gives forth its gruff snorts, the connections clank, a jerk is felt, and onward bounds-mighty in power, but controlled by a finger's slightest touch-the iron steed, dragging its curious train of living merchandise.

M'Fadden again finds his way to the negroes' car, where, sitting down in front of his property, he will take a bird's-eye view of it.

It is very fascinating to a man who loves the quality of such articles as preachers. He will draw his seat somewhat closer to the minister; his heart bounds with joy at the prime appearance of his purchase. Reaching out his hand, he takes the cap from Harry's head, throws it into the woman's lap; again rubs his hair into a friz.

Thus relieved of his pleasing emotions, he will pa.s.s into one of the fas.h.i.+onable cars, and take his place among the aristocrats.

"Boss mighty funny when 'e come t' town, and git just so 'e don't see straight: wish 'e so good wen 'e out da'h on de plantation yander," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es one of the negroes, who answers to the name-Joe!

Joe seems to have charge of the rest; but he watches M'Fadden's departure with a look of sullen hatred.

"Hard old Boss on time-an't he, boys?" enquires Harry, as an introduction to the conversation.

"Won't take ye long t' find 'um out, I reckon! Git n.i.g.g.e.r on de plantation 'e don't spa' him, nohow," rejoins another.

"Lor', man, if ye ain't tough ye'll git used up in no time, wid him!" the woman speaks up, sharply. Then, pulling her ragged skirts around her, she casts a sympathising look at Harry, and, raising her hand in a threatening att.i.tude, and shaking it spitefully in the direction M'Fadden has gone, says:--"If only had dat man, old Boss, where 'um could revenge 'um, how a' would make 'um suffer! He don'

treat 'e n.i.g.g.e.r like 'e do 'e dog. If 'twarn't fo'h Buckra I'd cut 'e troat, sartin." This ominous expression, delivered with such emphasis, satisfies Harry that he has got into the hands of a master very unlike the kind and careless Marston.

Onward the cars speed, with clanking music making din as they go.

One of the negroes will add something to change the monotony.

Fumbling beneath the seats for some minutes, he draws forth a little bag, carefully unties it, and presents his favourite violin. Its appearance gladdens the hearts of his comrades, who welcome it with smiling faces and loud applause. The instrument is of the most antique and original description. It has only two strings; but Simon thinks wonders of it, and would not swap it for a world of modern fiddles, what don't touch the heart with their music. He can bring out tremendous wailings with these two strings; such as will set the whole plantation dancing. He puts it through the process of tuning, adding all the scientific motions and twists of an Italian first-fiddling artiste. Simon will moisten its ears by spitting on them, which he does, turning and twisting himself into the att.i.tudes of a pompous maestro. But now he has got it in what he considers the very nick of tune; it makes his face glow with satisfaction.

"Jest-lef'-'um c.u.m, Simon;--big and strong!" says Joe, beginning to keep time by slapping his hands on his knees. And such a sawing, such a sc.r.a.ping, as he inflicts, never machine of its kind, ancient or modern, got before. Simon and his companions are in ecstasies; but such cross-grained, such painful jingling of sounds! Its charm is irresistible with the negro; he mustn't lose a note of the tune; every creak is exhausted in a break-down dance, which the motion of the "Jim Crow" car makes more grotesque by every now and then jolting them into a huddle in one corner.

Mr. M'Fadden has been told that his property are having a lively time, and thinks he will leave his aristocratic friends, and go to see it; here he is followed by several young gentlemen, anxious to enjoy the hilarity of the scene.

"All my property,--right prime, isn't it?" says M'Fadden, exultingly, nudging one of the young men on the shoulder, as he, returning, enters the car. The gentleman nods a.s.sent, sits down, and coolly lights his cigar. "Good thing to have a fiddler on a plantation! I'd rather have it than a preacher; keeps the boys together, and makes 'um a deal better contented," he adds, beginning to exhale the fumes from his weed.

"Yes!-and ye sees, fellers, how I'ze bought a parson, too. Can do the thing up brown now, boys, I reckon," remarks the happy politician, slapping his professional gentleman on the knee, and laughing right heartily.

Turning to Harry with a firm look, he informs the gentlemen that "this critter's kind o got the sulks, a'cos Romescos-he hates Romescos-has bought his wench and young 'uns. Take that out on him, at my place," he adds.

The dancing continues right merrily. One of the young gentlemen would like to have the fiddler strike up "Down in Old Tennessee."

The tune is sounded forth with all that warmth of feeling the negro only can add to the comical action of his body.

"Clar' the way; let the boys have a good time," says Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden, taking Harry by the arm and giving him a violent shake. He commands him to join in, and have a jolly good tune with the rest on 'em.

"Have no call for that, master. Let me act but the part of servant to you."

"Do you mean to come n.i.g.g.e.r sulks over this child?" interrupts M'Fadden, impatiently, scowling his heavy eyebrows, and casting a ferocious look at Harry. After ordering him to stow himself in a corner, he gets the others upon the floor, and compels them to shuffle what he calls a plantation "rip-her-up." The effect of this, added to the singular positions into which they are frequently thrown by the motion of the cars, affords infinite amus.e.m.e.nt.

"You see, gentlemen, there's nothing like putting the springs of life into property. Makes it worth fifty per cent. more; and then ye'll get the hard knocks out to a better profit. Old southerners spoil n.i.g.g.e.rs, makin' so much on 'em; and soft-soapin' on 'em. That bit o' property's bin spiled just so-he points to Harry, crouched in the corner-And the critter thinks he can preach! Take that out on him with a round turn, when I git to my place," he continues.

Harry cares very little for M'Fadden's conversation; he sits as quietly and peaceably as if it had been addressed to some other negro. M'Fadden, that he may not be found wanting in his efforts to amuse the young gentlemen, reaches out his hand to one of them, takes his cigar from a case, lights it, and proceeds to keep time by beating his hands on his knees.

The train is approaching the crossing where Mr. M'Fadden will discharge his property,--his human merchandise, and proceed with it some eleven miles on the high road. The noise created by the exuberance of feeling on the part of Mr. M'Fadden has attracted a numerous a.s.semblage of pa.s.sengers to the "Jim Crow" car. The conductor views this as violating the rules of the corporation; he demands it shall be stopped. All is quiet for a time; they reach the "crossing" about five o'clock P.M., where, to Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's great delight, he finds himself surrounded by a promiscuous a.s.sembly of sovereign citizens, met to partake of the hospitalities offered by the candidate for the a.s.sembly, who, having offered himself, expects the distinguished honour of being elected.

The a.s.sembled citizens will hear what the learned man's going to talk about when he gets into the a.s.sembly.

As Mr. M'Fadden is a great politician, and a greater democrat-we speak according to the southern acceptation-his presence is welcomed with an enthusiastic burst of applause. Shout after shout makes the very welkin ring, as his numerous friends gather round him, smile solicitously, shake him warmly by the hand, honour him as the peasantry honour the Lord of the Manor.

The crossing-one of those points so well known in the south-is a flat, wooded lawn, interspersed here and there with clumps of tall pine-trees. It is generally dignified with a grocery, a justice's office, and a tavern, where entertainment for man and beast may always be had. An immense deal of judicial and political business "is put through a process" at these strange places. The squire's law-book is the oracle; all settlements must be made by it; all important sayings drawn from it. The squire himself is scarcely less an individual of mysterious importance; he draws settled facts from his copious volume, and thus saves himself the trouble of a.n.a.lysing them. Open it where he will, the whys and wherefores for every case are never wanting.

Our present crossing is a place of much importance, being where the political effervescence of the state often concentrates. It will not do, however, to a.n.a.lyse that concentration, lest the fungi that give it life and power may seem to conflict with the safety of law and order. On other occasions it might be taken for a place of rural quiet, instead of those indescribable gatherings of the rotten membranes of a bad political power.

Here the justice's office is attached to the grocery, a little shop in which all men may drink very deleterious liquor; and, in addition to the tavern, which is the chief building-a quadrangular structure raised a few feet from the ground on piles of the palmetto tree-there is a small church, s.h.i.+ngled and clapboarded, and having a belfry with lattice-work sides. An upper and lower veranda surround the tavern, affording gentlemen an opportunity to enjoy the shade.

Several of Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's friends meet him at the station, and, as he receives his property, a.s.sist him in securing it with irons preparatory to lodging it in a place of safe keeping.

"Goin' t' make this chap a deacon on my place; can preach like sixty. It'll save the trouble sendin' north for such trash as they send us. Can make this feller truer on southern principles," says M'Fadden, exultingly, addressing himself to his companions, looking Harry smilingly in the face, and patting him on the shoulder. The gentlemen view Harry with particular admiration, and remark upon his fine points with the usual satisfaction of connoisseurs. Mr.

M'Fadden will secure his preacher, in iron fellows.h.i.+p, to the left hand of the woman slave.

"All right!" he says, as the irons are locked, and he marches his property up to the tavern, where he meets mine host-a short, fat man, with a very red and good-natured face, who always dresses in brown clothes, smiles, and has an extra laugh for 'lection days-who stands his consequential proportions in the entrance to the lower veranda, and is receiving his customers with the blandest smiles. "I thinks a right smart heap on ye, or I would'nt a' 'gin ye that gal for a mate," continues M'Fadden, walking along, looking at Harry earnestly, and, with an air of self-congratulation, ejecting a quant.i.ty of tobacco-juice from his capacious mouth. "Mr. M'Fadden is very, very welcome;" so says mine host, who would have him take a social gla.s.s with his own dear self.

Mr. M'Fadden must be excused until he has seen the place in which to deposit his preacher and other property.

"Ah, ha!"-mine host cants his ear, enquiringly;--"want grits for 'em, I s'pose?" he returns, and his round fat face glows with satisfaction. "Can suit you to a shavin'."

"That's right, Colonel; I know'd ye could," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es the other.

Mine host is much elated at hearing his t.i.tle appended. Colonel Frank Jones-such is mine host's name--never fought but one duel, and that was the time when, being a delegate to the southern blowing-up convention, lately holden in the secession city of Charleston, he entered his name on the register of the Charleston Hotel--"Colonel Frank Jones, Esq., of the South Carolina Dragoons;" beneath which an impertinent wag scrawled-"Corporal James Henry Williamson M'Donal Cudgo, Esq. of the same regiment." Colonel Frank Jones, Esq. took this very gross insult in the highest kind of dudgeon, and forthwith challenged the impertinent wag to settle the matter as became gentlemen. The duel, however, ended quite as harmlessly as the blowing-up convention of which Mr. Colonel Frank Jones was a delegate, the seconds-thoughtless wretches-having forgot to put bullets in the weapons.

Our readers must excuse us for digressing a little. Mine host rubs his hands, draws his mouth into a dozen different puckers, and then cries out at the top of his voice, "Ho, boys, ho!"

Three or four half-clad negroes come scampering into the room, ready to answer the summons. "Take charge o' this property o' my friend's here. Get 'em a good tuck out o' grits."

"Can grind 'em themselves," interrupts M'Fadden, quickly. "About the price, Colonel?"

"That's all straight," spreading his hands with an accompanying nod of satisfaction: "'commodate ye with a first-rate lock-up and the grits at seven-pence a day."

"No objection." Mr. M'Fadden is entirely satisfied. The waiters take the gentleman's property in charge, and conduct it to a small building, an appropriate habitation of hens and pigs. It was of logs, rough hewn, without c.h.i.n.king; without floor to keep Mr.

M'Fadden's property from the ground, damp and cold. Unsuited as it is to the reception of human beings, many planters of great opulence have none better for their plantation people. It is about ten feet high, seven broad, and eleven long.

"Have a dandy time on't in here to-night," says Mr. M'Fadden, addressing himself to Harry, as one of the waiters unlocks the door and ushers the human property into its dreary abode. Mr. M'Fadden will step inside, to take a bird's-eye view of the security of the place. He entertains some doubts about the faith of his preacher, however, and has half an inclination to turn round as he is about making his exit. He will. Approaches Harry a second time; he feels his pockets carefully, and suggests that he has some mischievous weapon of liberty stowed away somewhere. He presses and presses his hands to his skirts and bosom. And now he knew he was not mistaken, for he feels something solid in the bosom of his s.h.i.+rt, which is not his heart, although that thing makes a deuce of a fluttering. Mr.

M'Fadden's anxiety increases as he squeezes his hands over its shapes, and watches the changes of Harry's countenance. "Book, ha'h!" he exclaims, drawing the osnaburg tight over the square with his left hand, while, with his right, he suddenly grasps Harry firmly by the hair of the head, as if he has discovered an infernal machine. "Book, ha'h!"

"Pull it out, old buck. That's the worst o' learned n.i.g.g.e.rs; puts the very seven devils in their black heads, and makes 'em carry their conceit right into n.i.g.g.e.r stubbornness, so ye have t' bring it out by las.h.i.+n' and botherin'. Can't stand such n.i.g.g.e.r nonsense nohow."

Harry has borne all very peaceably; but there is a time when even the worm will turn. He draws forth the book,--it is the Bible, his hope and comforter; he has treasured it near his heart-that heart that beats loudly against the rocks of oppression. "What man can he be who feareth the word of G.o.d, and says he is of his chosen?

Master, that's my Bible: can it do evil against righteousness? It is the light my burdened spirit loves, my guide--"

"Your spirit?" inquires M'Fadden, sullenly, interrupting Harry. "A black spirit, ye' mean, ye' n.i.g.g.e.r of a preacher. I didn't buy that, nor don't want it. 'Taint worth seven coppers in picking time. But I tell ye, cuff, wouldn't mind lettin' on ye preach, if a feller can make a spec good profit on't." The gentleman concludes, contracting his eyebrows, and scowling at his property forbiddingly.

"You'll let me have it again when I gets on the plantation, won't ye, master?" inquires Harry, calmly.

"Let you have it on the plantation?"-Mr. M'Fadden gives his preacher a piercingly fierce look-"that's just where ye won't have 't. Have any kind o' song-book ye' wants; only larn 'em to other n.i.g.g.e.rs, so they can put in the chorus once in a while. Now, old buck (I'm a man o' genius, ye know), when n.i.g.g.e.rs get larnin' the Bible out o' ther'

own heads, 't makes 'em sa.s.sy'r than ther's any calculatin' on. It just puts the very d-l into property. Why, deacon," he addresses himself to Harry with more complacency, "my old father-he was as good a father as ever came from Dublin-said it was just the spilin'

on his children to larn 'em to read. See me, now! what larnin' I'ze got; got it all don't know how: c.u.m as nat'ral as daylight. I've got the allfired'st sense ye ever did see; and it's common sense what makes money. Yer don't think a feller what's got sense like me would bother his head with larnin' in this ar' down south?" Mr. M'Fadden exhibits great confidence in himself, and seems quite playful with his preacher, whom he pats on the shoulder and shakes by the hand.