University of Virginia Library

THE BLACK SAXONS.

Mr. Duncan was sitting alone in his elegantly furnished
parlour, in the vicinity of Charleston, South
Carolina. Before him lay an open volume, Thierry's
History of the Norman Conquest. From the natural
kindliness of his character, and democratic theories
deeply imbibed in childhood, his thoughts dwelt more
with a nation prostrated and kept in base subjection by
the strong arm of violence, than with the renowned
robbers, who seized their rich possesions, and haughtily
trampled on their dearest rights.

“And so that bold and beautiful race became slaves!”
thought he. “The brave and free-souled Harolds,
strong of heart and strong of arm; the fair-haired
Ediths, in their queenly beauty, noble in soul as well
as ancestry; these all sank to the condition of slaves.
They tamely submitted to their lot, till their free,
bright beauty passed under the heavy cloud of animal
dullness, and the contemptuous Norman epithet of

`base Saxon churls' was but too significantly true.
Yet not without efforts did they thus sink. How often
renewed, or how bravely sustained, we know not;
for Troubadours rarely sing of the defeated, and conquerors
write their own History. That they did not
relinquish freedom without a struggle, is proved by
Robin Hood and his bold followers, floating in dim and
shadowy glory on the outskirts of history; brave outlaws
of the free forest, and the wild mountain-passes,
taking back, in the very teeth of danger, a precarious
subsistence from the rich possessions that were once
their own; and therefore styled thieves and traitors by
the robbers who had beggared them. Doubtless they
had minstrels of their own; unknown in princely
halls, untrumpeted by fame, yet singing of their exploits
in spirit-stirring tones, to hearts burning with a
sense of wrong. Troubled must be the sleep of those
who rule a conquered nation!”

These thoughts were passing through his mind,
when a dark mulatto opened the door, and making a
servile reverence, said, in wheedling tones, “Would
massa be so good as gib a pass to go to Methodist
meeting?”

Mr. Duncan was a proverbially indulgent master;
and he at once replied, “Yes, Jack, you may have a
pass; but you must mind and not stay out all night.”

“Oh, no, massa. Tom neber preach more than
two hours.”

Scarcely was the pass written, before another servant
appeared with a similar request; and presently
another; and yet another. When these interruptions

ceased, Mr. Duncan resumed his book, and quietly
read of the oppressed Saxons, until the wish for a glass
of water induced him to ring the bell. No servant
obeyed the summons. With an impatient jerk of the
rope, he rang a second time, muttering to himself,
“What a curse it is to be waited upon by slaves! If
I were dying, the lazy loons would take their own
time, and come dragging their heavy heels along, an
hour after I was in the world of spirits. My neighbours
tell me it is because I never flog them. I believe
they are in the right. It is a hard case, too, to
force a man to be a tyrant, whether he will or no.”

A third time he rang the bell more loudly; but
waited in vain for the sound of coming footsteps.
Then it occurred to him that he had given every one
of his slaves a pass to go to the Methodist meeting.
This was instantly followed by the remembrance, that
the same thing had happened a few days before.

We were then at war with Great Britain; and
though Mr. Duncan often boasted the attachment of
his slaves, and declared them to be the most contented
and happy labourers in the world, who would not
take their freedom if they could, yet, by some coincidence
of thought, the frequency of Methodist meetings
immediately suggested the common report that British
troops were near the coast, and about to land in
Charleston. Simultaneously came the remembrance
of Big-boned Dick, who many months before had absconded
from a neighbouring planter, and was suspected
of holding a rendezvous for runaways, in the
swampy depths of some dark forest. The existence

of such a gang was indicated by the rapid disappearance
of young corn, sweet potatoes, fat hogs, &c.,
from the plantations for many miles round.

“The black rascal!” exclaimed he: “If my boys
are in league with him”—

The coming threat was arrested by a voice within,
which, like a chorus from some invisible choir, all at
once struck up the lively ballad of Robin Hood; and
thus brought Big-boned Dick, like Banquo's Ghost,
unbidden and unwelcome, into incongruous association
with his spontaneous sympathy for Saxon serfs,
his contempt of “base Saxon churls,” who tamely
submitted to their fate, and his admiration of the bold
outlaws, who lived by plunder in the wild freedom of
Saxon forests.

His republican sympathies, and the “system entailed
upon him by his ancestors,” were obviously out
of joint with each other; and the skilfullest soldering
of casuistry could by no means make them adhere together.
Clear as the tones of a cathedral bell above
the hacks and drays of a city, the voice of Reason
rose above all the pretexts of selfishness, and the apologies
of sophistry, and loudly proclaimed that his sympathies
were right, and his practice wrong. Had
there been at his elbow some honest John Woolman,
or fearless Elias Hicks, that hour might perhaps have
seen him a freeman, in giving freedom to his serfs.
But he was alone; and the prejudices of education,
and the habits of his whole life, conjured up a fearful
array of lions in his path; and he wist not that they
were phantoms. The admonitions of awakened conscience
gradually gave place to considerations of personal

safety, and plans for ascertaining the real extent
of his danger.

The next morning he asked his slaves, with assumed
nonchalance, whether they had a good meeting.

“Oh, yes, massa; bery good meeting.”

“Where did you meet?”

“In the woods behind Birch Grove, massa.”

The newspaper was brought, and found to contain
a renewal of the report that British troops were prowling
about the coast. Mr. Duncan slowly paced the
room for some time, apparently studying the figures
of the carpet, yet utterly unconscious whether he trod
on canvass or the greensward. At length, he ordered
his horse and drove to the next plantation. Seeing a
gang at work in the fields, he stopped; and after some
questions concerning the crop, he said to one of the
most intelligent, “So you had a fine meeting last
night?”

“Oh, yes, massa, bery nice meeting.”

“Where was it?

The slave pointed far east of Birch Grove. The
white man's eye followed the direction of the bondman's
finger, and a deeper cloud gathered on his
brow. Without comment he rode on in another direction,
and with apparent indifference made similar
inquiries of another gang of labourers. They pointed
north of Birch Grove, and replied, “In the Hugonot
woods, massa.”

With increasing disquietude, he slowly turned his
horse toward the city. He endeavoured to conceal
anxiety under a cheerful brow; for he was afraid to
ask counsel, even of his most familiar friends, in a

community so prone to be blinded by insane fury under
the excitement of such suspicions. Having purchased
a complete suit of negro clothes, and a black
mask well fitted to his face, he returned home, and
awaited the next request for passes to a Methodist
meeting.

In a few days, the sable faces again appeared before
him, one after another, asking permission to hear Tom
preach. The passes were promptly given, accompanied
by the cool observation, “It seems to me, boys,
that you are all growing wonderfully religious of
late.”

To which they eagerly replied, “Ah, if massa could
hear Tom preach, it make his hair stand up. Tom
make ebery body tink weder he hab a soul.”

When the last one had departed, the master hastily
assumed his disguise, and hurried after them. Keeping
them within sight, he followed over field and meadow,
through woods and swamps. As he went on,
the number of dark figures, all tending toward the
same point, continually increased. Now and then,
some one spoke to him; but he answered briefly, and
with an effort to disguise his voice. At last, they arrived
at one of those swamp islands, so common at
the South, insulated by a broad, deep belt of water,
and effectually screened from the main-land by a luxuriant
growth of forest trees, matted together by a rich
entanglement of vines and underwood. A large tree
had been felled for a bridge; and over this dusky
forms were swarming, like ants into their new-made
nest.

Mr. Duncan had a large share of that animal instinct

called physical courage; but his heart throbbed
almost audibly, as he followed that dark multitude.

At the end of a rough and intricate passage, there
opened before him a scene of picturesque and imposing
grandeur. A level space, like a vast saloon, was
enclosed by majestic trees, uniting their boughs over
it, in fantastic resemblance to some Gothic cathedral.
Spanish moss formed a thick matted roof, and floated
in funereal streamers. From the points of arches
hung wild vines in luxuriant profusion, some in heavy
festoons, others lightly and gracefully leaping upward.
The blaze of pine torches threw some into bold relief,
and cast others into a shadowy background. And
here, in this lone sanctuary of Nature, were assembled
many hundreds of swart figures, some seated in
thoughtful attitudes, others scattered in moving groups,
eagerly talking together. As they glanced about,
now sinking into dense shadow, and now emerging
into lurid light, they seemed to the slaveholder's excited
imagination like demons from the pit, come to
claim guilty souls. He had, however, sufficient presence
of mind to observe that each one, as he entered,
prostrated himself, till his forehead touched the ground,
and rising, placed his finger on his mouth. Imitating
this signal, he passed in with the throng, and seated
himself behind the glare of the torches. For some
time, he could make out no connected meaning amid
the confused buzz of voices, and half-suppressed
snatches of songs. But, at last, a tall man mounted
the stump of a decayed tree, nearly in the centre of
the area, and requested silence.

“When we had our last meeting,” said he, “I sup

pose most all of you know, that we all concluded it
was best for to join the British, if so be we could get
a good chance. But we didn't all agree about our
masters. Some thought we should never be able to
keep our freedom, without we killed our masters, in
the first place; others didn't like the thoughts of that;
so we agreed to have another meeting to talk about
it. And now, boys, if the British land here in Caroliny,
what shall we do with our masters?”

He sat down, and a tall, sinewy mulatto stepped into
his place, exclaiming, with fierce gestures, “Ravish
wives and daughters before their eyes, as they have
done to us! Hunt them with hounds, as they have
hunted us! Shoot them down with rifles, as they
have shot us! Throw their carcasses to the crows,
they have fattened on our bones; and then let the
Devil take them where they never rake up fire o'
nights. Who talks of mercy to our masters?”

“I do,” said an aged black man, who rose up before
the fiery youth, tottering as he leaned both hands on
an oaken staff. “I do;—because the blessed Jesus
always talked of mercy. I know we have been fed
like hogs, and shot at like wild beasts. Myself found
the body of my likeliest boy under the tree where
buckra[1] rifles reached him. But thanks to the
blessed Jesus, I feel it in my poor old heart to forgive
them. I have been member of a Methodist church
these thirty years; and I've heard many preachers,
white and black; and they all tell me Jesus said, Do
good to them that do evil to you, and pray for them
that spite you. Now I say, let us love our enemies;

let us pray for them; and when our masters flog us,
and sell our piccaninnies, let us break out singing:
That's the way to glorify the Lord.”

Scarcely had the cracked voice ceased the tremulous
chant in which these words were uttered, when
a loud altercation commenced; some crying out vehemently
for the blood of the white men, others maintaining
that the old man's doctrine was right. The
aged black remained leaning on his staff, and mildly
replied to every outburst of fury, “But Jesus said, do
good for evil.” Loud rose the din of excited voices;
and the disguised slaveholder shrank deeper into the
shadow.

In the midst of the confusion, an athletic, gracefully-proportioned
young man sprang upon the stump, and
throwing off his coarse cotton garments, slowly turned
round and round, before the assembled multitude.

Immediately all was hushed; for the light of a dozen
torches, eagerly held up by fierce revengeful comrades,
showed his back and shoulders deeply gashed by the
whip, and still oozing with blood. In the midst of
that deep silence, he stopped abruptly, and with stern
brevity exclaimed, “Boys! shall we not murder our
masters?”

“Would you murder all?” inquired a timid voice at
his right hand. “They don't all cruellize their
slaves.”

“There's Mr. Campbell,” pleaded another; “he
never had one of his boys flogged in his life. You
wouldn't murder him, would you?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” shouted many voices; “we
wouldn't murder Mr. Campbell. He's always good
to coloured folks.”

“And I wouldn't murder my master,” said one of
Mr. Duncan's slaves; “and I'd fight anybody that
set out to murder him. I an't a going to work for
him for nothing any longer, if I can help it; but he
shan't be murdered; for he's a good master.”

“Call him a good master, if ye like!” said the
bleeding youth, with a bitter sneer in his look and
tone. “I curse the word. The white men tell us
God made them our masters; I say it was the Devil.
When they don't cut up the backs that bear their burdens;
when they throw us enough of the grain we
have raised, to keep us strong for another harvest;
when they forbear to shoot the limbs, that toil to make
them rich; there are fools who call them good masters.
Why should they sleep on soft beds, under
silken curtains, while we, whose labour bought it all,

lie on the floor at the threshold, or miserably coiled up
in the dirt of our own cabins? Why should I clothe
my master in broadcloth and fine linen, when he
knows, and I know, that he is my own brother? and
I, meanwhile, have only this coarse rag to cover my
aching shoulders?” He kicked the garment scornfully,
and added, “Down on your knees, if ye like,
and thank them that ye are not flogged and shot.
Of me they'll learn another lesson!”

Mr. Duncan recognised in the speaker, the reputed
son of one of his friends, lately deceased; one of that
numerous class, which southern vice is thoughtlessly
raising up, to be its future scourge and terror.

The high, bold forehead, and flashing eye, indicated
an intellect too active and daring for servitude; while
his fluent speech and appropriate language betrayed
the fact that his highly educated parent, from some
remains of instinctive feeling, had kept him near his
own person, during his lifetime, and thus formed
his conversation on another model than the rude jargon
of slaves.

His poor, ignorant listeners stood spell-bound by the
magic of superior mind; and at first it seemed as if
he might carry the whole meeting in favour of his
views. But the aged man, leaning on his oaken staff,
still mildly spoke of the meek and bleesed Jesus;
and the docility of African temperament responded
to his gentle words.

Then rose a man of middle age, short of stature,
with a quick roguish eye, and a spirit of knowing
drollery lurking about his mouth. Rubbing his head
in uncouth fashion, he began: “I don't know how to

speak like Bob; for I never had no chance. He says
the Devil made white men our masters. Now dat's
a ting I've thought on a heap. Many a time I've
axed myself how pon arth it was, that jist as sure as
white man and black man come togeder, de white
man sure to git he foot on de black man. Sometimes
I tink one ting, den I tink anoder ting; and dey all
be jumbled up in my head, jest like seed in de cotton,
afore he put in de gin. At last, I find it all out.
White man always git he foot on de black man; no
mistake in dat. But how he do it? I'll show you
how!”

Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he took out a
crumpled piece of printed paper, and smoothing it
carefully on the palm of his hand, he struck it significantly
with his finger, and exclaimed triumphantly,
“Dat's de way dey do it! Dey got de knowledge!
Now, it'll do no more good to rise agin our
masters, dan put de head in de fire and pull him out
agin; and may be you can't pull him out agin.
When I was a boy, I hear an old conjuring woman
say she could conjure de Divil out of anybody. I ask
her why she don't conjure her massa, den; and she
tell me, `Oh, nigger neber conjure buckra—can't do't.'
But I say nigger can conjure buckra. How he do it?
Get de knowledge! Dat de way. We make de
sleeve wide, and fill full of de tea and de sugar, ebery
time we get in missis' closet. If we take half so much
pains to get de knowledge, de white man take he foot
off de black man. Maybe de British land, and maybe
de British no land; but tell you sons to marry de free
woman, dat know how to read and write; and tell

you gals to marry de free man, dat know how to read
and write; and den, by'm bye, you be de British
yourselves! You want to know how I manage to get
de knowledge? I tell you. I want right bad to
larn to read. My old boss is the most begrudgfullest
massa, and I know he won't let me larn. So, when
I see leetle massa wid he book, (he about six year
old,) I say to him, What you call dat? He tell me
dat is A. Oh, dat is A! So I take old newspaper,
and I ax missis, may I hab dis to rub my brasses? She
say yes. I put it in my pocket, and by'm by, I look to
see I find A; and I look at him till I know him bery
well. Den I ask my young massa, What you call
dat? He say, dat is B. So I find him on my paper,
and look at him, till I know him bery well. Den I ask
my young massa what C A T spell? He tell me
cat. Den, after great long time, I can read de newspaper.
And what you tink I find dere? I read
British going to land! Den I tell all de boys British
going to land; and I say what you do, s'pose British
land? When I stand behind massa's chair, I hear
him talk, and I tell all de boys what he say. Den
Bob say must hab Methodist meeting, and tell massa,
Tom going to preach in de woods. But what you
tink I did toder day? You know Jim, massa Gubernor's
boy? Well, I want mighty bad to let Jim
know British going to land. But he lib ten mile off,
and old boss no let me go. Well, massa Gubernor
he come dine my massa's house; and I bring he
horse to de gate; and I make my bow, and say,
massa Gubernor, how Jim do? He tell me Jim bery
well. Den I ax him, be Jim good boy? He say
yes. Den I tell him Jim and I leetle boy togeder;
and I want mighty bad send Jim someting. He tell
me Jim hab enough of ebery ting. Oh, yes, massa
Gubernor, I know you bery good massa, and Jim hab
ebery ting he want; but when leetle boy togeder,
dere is always someting here (laying his hand on his
heart). I want to send a leetle backy to Jim. I know
he hab much backy he want; but Jim and I leetle
boy togeder, and I want to send Jim someting. Massa
Gubernor say, bery well, Jack. So I gib him de
backy, done up in de bery bit o' newspaper dat tell
British going to land! And massa Gubernor himself
carry it! And massa Gubernor himself carry it!!”

He clapped his hands, kicked up his heels, and
turned somersets like a harlequin. These demonstrations
were received with loud shouts of merriment;
and it was sometime before sufficient order was restored
to proceed with the question under discussion.

After various scenes of fiery indignation, gentle
expostulation, and boisterous mirth, it was finally decided,
by a considerable majority, that in case the
British landed, they would take their freedom without
murdering their masters; not a few, however, went
away in wrathful mood, muttering curses deep.

With thankfulness to Heaven, Mr. Duncan again
found himself in the open field, alone with the stars.
Their glorious beauty seemed to him, that night,
clothed in new and awful power. Groups of shrubbery
took to themselves startling forms; and the sound
of the wind among the trees was like the unsheathing
of swords. Again he recurred to Saxon history, and
remembered how he had thought that troubled must

be the sleep of those who rule a conquered people.
A new significance seemed given to Wat Tyler's address
to the insurgent labourers of his day; an emphatic,
and most unwelcome application of his indignant
question why serfs should toil unpaid, in wind and
sun, that lords might sleep on down, and embroider
their garments with pearl.

“And these Robin Hoods, and Wat Tylers, were
my Saxon ancestors,” thought he. “Who shall so
balance effects and causes, as to decide what portion
of my present freedom sprung from their seemingly
defeated efforts? Was the place I saw to-night, in
such wild and fearful beauty, like the haunts of the
Saxon Robin Hoods? Was not the spirit that gleamed
forth as brave as theirs? And who shall calculate what
even such hopeless endeavours may do for the future
freedom of this down-trodden race?”

These cogitations did not, so far as I ever heard,
lead to the emancipation of his bondmen; but they did
prevent his revealing a secret, which would have
brought hundreds to an immediate and violent death.
After a painful conflict between contending feelings
and duties, he contented himself with advising the
magistrates to forbid all meetings whatsoever among
the coloured people until the war was ended.

He visited Boston several years after, and told the
story to a gentleman, who often repeated it in the
circle of his friends. In brief outline it reached my
ears. I have told it truly, with some filling up by
imagination, some additional garniture of language,
and the adoption of fictitious names, because I have
forgotten the real ones.