 | The wigwam and the cabin |  |
THE LAZY CROW.
A STORY OF THE CORNFIELD.
1. CHAPTER I.
We were on the Savannah river when the corn was coming
up; at the residence of one of those planters of the middle country,
the staid, sterling, old-time gentlemen of the last century,
the stock of which is so rapidly diminishing. The season was
advanced and beautiful; the flowers every where in odour, and
all things promised well for the crops of the planter. Hopes and
seed, however, set out in March and April, have a long time to
go before ripening, and when I congratulated Mr. Carrington on
the prospect before him, he would shake his head, and smile and
say, in a quizzical inquiring humour, “wet or dry, cold or warm,
which shall it be? what season shall we have? Tell me that,
and I will hearken with more confidence to your congratulations.
We can do no more than plant the seed, scuffle with the grass,
say our prayers, and leave the rest to Him without whose blessing
no labour can avail.”
“There is something more to be done, and of scarcely less importance
it would seem, if I may judge from the movements of
Scipio—kill or keep off the crows.”
Mr. Carrington turned as I spoke these words; we had just left
the breakfast table, where we had enjoyed all the warm comforts
of hot rice-waffles, journey-cake, and glowing biscuit, not to
speak of hominy and hoe-cake, without paying that passing acknowledgment
to dyspeptic dangers upon which modern physicians
so earnestly insist. Scipio, a sleek, well-fed negro, with a round,
good-humoured face, was busy in the corner of the apartment;
in a similar slice of fried bacon, which he had just received
from his young mistress;—while the other carefully selected
from the corner, one of half-a-dozen double-barrelled guns,
which he was about to raise to his shoulder, when my remark
turned the eye of his master upon him.
“How now, Scipio, what are you going to shoot?” was the inquiry
of Mr. Carrington.
“Crow, sa; dere's a dratted ugly crow dat's a-troubling me,
and my heart's set for kill 'um.”
“One only; why Scip, you're well off if you hav'n't a hundred.
Do they trouble you very much in the pine land field?”
“Dare's a plenty, sa; but dis one I guine kill, sa, he's wuss
more nor all de rest. You hab good load in bote barrel, mossa?”
“Yes, but small shot only. Draw the loads, Scip, and put in
some of the high duck; you'll find the bag in the closet. These
crows will hardly let you get nigh enough, Scipio, to do them any
mischief with small shot.”
“Ha! but I will trouble dis black rascal, you see, once I set
eye 'pon um. He's a cussed ugly nigger, and he a'n't feared.
I can git close 'nough, mossa.”
The expression of Scipio's face, while uttering the brief declaration
of war against the innumerable, and almost licensed pirates
of the cornfield, or rather against one in particular, was
full of the direst hostility. His accents were not less marked by
malignity, and could not fail to command our attention.
“Why, you seem angry about it, Scipio; this crow must be
one of the most impudent of his tribe, and a distinguished character.”
“I'll 'stinguish um, mossa,—you'll see. Jist as you say, he's
a mos' impudent nigger. He no feared of me 't all. When I
stan' and look 'pon him, he stan' and look 'pon me. I tak' up
dirt and stick, and trow at um, but he no scare. When I chase
um, he fly dis way, he fly dat, but he nebber gone so far, but he
can turn round and cock he tail at me, jist when he see me 'top.
He's a mos' cussed sassy crow, as ebber walk in a cornfield.”
“But Scip, you surprise me. You don't mean to say that it is
one crow in particular that annoys you in this manner.”
“De same one ebbery day, mossa; de same one;” was the reply.
“How long has this been?”
“Mos' a week now, massa; ebber sence las' Friday.”
“Indeed! but what makes you think this troublesome crow always
the same one, Scipio? Do you think the crows never
change their spies?”
“Enty, I know um, mossa; dis da same crow been trouble me,
ebber since las' Friday. He's a crow by hese'f, mossa. I
nebber see him wid t'oder crows he no hab complexion ob t'oder
crow, yet he's crow, all de same.”
“Is he not black like all his tribe?”
“Yes, he black, but he ain't black like de t'oder ones. Dere's
someting like a grey dirt 'pon he wing. He's black, but he no
pot black—no jet;—he hab dirt, I tell you, mossa, on he wing,
jis' by de skirt ob he jacket—jis yer;” and he lifted the lappel
of his master's coat as he concluded his description of the bird
that troubled him.
“A strange sort of crow indeed, Scipio, if he answers your
description. Should you kill him, be sure and bring him to me.
I can scarcely think him a crow.”
“How, no crow, mossa? Enty, I know crow good as any
body! He's a crow, mossa,—a dirty, black nigger ob a crow,
and I'll shoot um t'rough he head, sure as a gun. He trouble
me too much; look hard 'pon me as ef you bin gib um wages
for obersee. Nobody ax um for watch me, see wha' I do!
Who mak' him obersheer?”
“A useful crow, Scipio; and now I think of it, it might be just
as well that you shouldn't shoot him. If he does such good service
in the cornfield as to see that you all do your work, I'll
make him my overseer in my absence!”
This speech almost astounded the negro. He dropped the butt
of the gun upon the floor, suffered the muzzle to rest in the hollow
of his arm, and thus boldly expostulated with his master
against so strange a decision.
“No shoot um, mossa; no shoot crow dat's a-troubling you.
Dickens, mossa, dat's too foolish now, I mus' tell you; and
to tell you de blessed trut', ef you don't shoot dis lazy crow
I tell you ob, or le' me shoot 'um, one or t'oder, den you
he place. I can't work wid dat ugly ting, looking at me so
sassy. When I turn, he turn; if I go to dis hand, why, he's
dere; if I change 'bout, and go t'oder hand, dere's de critter,
jis de same. He nebber git out ob de way, 'till I run at um
wid stick.”
“Well, well, Scipio, kill your crow, but be sure and bring him
in when you do so. You may go now.”
“I hab um to-night for you, mossa, ef God spare me. Look
ya, young missis, you hab any coffee lef' in de pot; I tanks
you.”
Jane Carrington,—a gentle and lovely girl of seventeen—who
did the honours of the table, supplied Scipio's wants, and leaving
him to the enjoyment of his mug of coffee, Mr. C. and myself
walked forth into the plantation.
The little dialogue just narrated had almost entirely passed out
of my mind, when, at evening, returning from his labours in the
cornfield, who should make his appearance but Scipio. He came
to place the gun in the corner from which he had taken it; but
he brought with him no trophies of victory. He had failed to
scalp his crow. The inquiry of his master as to his failure,
drew my attention to the negro, who had simply placed the weapon
in the rest, and was about to retire, with a countenance, as
I thought, rather sullen and dissatisfied, and a hang-dog, sneaking
manner, as if anxious to escape observation. He had utterly
lost that air of confidence which he had worn in the morning.
“What, Scipio! no crow?” demanded his master.
“I no shoot, sa,” replied the negro, moving off as he spoke,
as if willing that the examination should rest there. But Mr.
Carrington, who was something of a quiz, and saw that the poor
fellow laboured under a feeling of mortified self-conceit, was not
unwilling to worry him a little further.
“Ah, Scip, I always thought you a poor shot, in spite of your
bragging; now I'm sure of it. A crow comes and stares you
out of countenance, walks round you, and scarcely flies when
you pelt him, and yet, when the gun is in your hands, you do
nothing. How's that?”
“I tell you, mossa, I no bin shoot. Ef I bin shoot, I bin hurt
um in he head for true; but dere' no use for shoot, tel you can
get shot, enty? Wha' for trow 'way de shot?—you buy 'em,
—he cos' you money; well, you hab money for trow 'way?
No! Wha' den—Scip's a big rascal for true, ef he trow 'way
you money. Dat's trow 'way you money, wha's trow 'way you
shot,—wha's trow you corn, you peas, you fodder, you hog-meat,
you chickens and eggs. Scip nebber trow 'way you property,
mossa; nobody nebber say sich ting.”
“Cunning dog—nobody accuses you, Scipio. I believe you to
be as honest as the rest, Scipio, but haven't you been throwing
away time; haven't you been poking about after this crow to the
neglect of your duty. Come, in plain language, did you get
through your task to-day?”
“Task done, mossa; I finish um by tree 'clock.”
“Well, what did you do with the rest of your time? Have
you been at your own garden, Scipio?”
“No, sa; I no touch de garden.”
“Why not? what employed you from three o'clock?”
“Dis same crow, mossa; I tell you, mossa, 'tis dis same dirty
nigger ob a crow I bin looking arter, ebber since I git over de
task. He's a ting da's too sassy and aggrabates me berry much.
I follow um tel de sun shut he eye, and nebber can git shot. Ef
I bin git shot, I nebber miss um, mossa, I tell you.”
“But why did you not get a shot? You must have bungled
monstrously, Scipio, not to succeed in getting a shot at a bird that
is always about you. Does he bother you less than he did before,
now that you have the gun?”
“I spec' he mus' know, mossa, da's de reason; but he bodder
me jis' de same. He nebber leff me all day I bin in de cornfield,
but he nebber come so close for be shoot. He say to he sef,
dat gun good at sixty yard, in Scip hand; I stan' sixty, I stan'
a hundred; ef he shoot so far, I laugh at 'em. Da's wha' he say.”
“Well, even at seventy or eighty yards, you should have tried
him, Scipio. The gun that tells at sixty, will be very apt to tell
at seventy or eighty yards, if the nerves be good that hold it,
and the eye close. Try him even at a hundred, Scipio, rather
than lose your crow; but put in your biggest shot.”
2. CHAPTER II.
The conference ended with this counsel of the master. The
fellow promised to obey, and the next morning he sallied forth
with the gun as before. By this time, both Mr. Carrington and
myself had begun to take some interest in the issue thus tacitly
made up between the field negro and his annoying visiter. The
anxiety which the former manifested, to destroy, in particular,
one of a tribe, of which the corn-planter has an aversion so
great as to prompt the frequent desire of the Roman tyrant touching
his enemies, and make him wish that they had but one neck
that a single blow might despatch them—was no less ridiculous
than strange; and we both fell to our fancies to account for an
hostility, which could not certainly be accounted for by any ordinary
anxiety of the good planter on such an occasion. It was
evident to both of us that the imagination of Scipio was not inactive
in the strife, and, knowing how exceeding superstitious the
negroes generally are, (and indeed, all inferior people,) after canvassing
the subject in various lights, without coming to any rational
solution, we concluded that the difficulty arose from some
grotesque fear or fancy, with which the fellow had been inspired,
probably by some other negro, on a circumstance as casual as
any one of the thousand by which the Roman augur divined, and
the soothsayer gave forth his oracular responses. Scipio had
good authority for attaching no small importance to the flight or
stoppage of a bird; and, with this grave justification of his troubles,
we resolved to let the matter rest till we could join the
negro in the cornfield, and look for ourselves into the condition of
the rival parties.
This we did that very morning. “'Possum Place,”—for such
had been the whimsical name conferred upon his estate by the
proprietor, in reference to the vast numbers of the little animal,
nightly found upon it, the opossum, the meat of which a sagacious
negro will always prefer to that of a pig,—lay upon the Santee
which he raised his cotton, and fine high pine-land hammock, on
which he made his corn. To one of the fields of the latter we
made our way about mid-day, and were happy to find Scipio in
actual controversy with the crow that troubled him. Controversy
is scarce the word, but I can find no fitter at this moment.
The parties were some hundred yards asunder. The negro was
busy with his hoe, and the gun leaned conveniently at hand on a
contiguous and charred pine stump, one of a thousand that dotted
the entire surface of the spacious field in which he laboured.
The crow leisurely passed to and fro along the alleys, now lost
among the little hollows and hillocks, and now emerging into sight,
sometimes at a less, sometimes at a greater distance, but always
with a deportment of the most lord-like indifference to the
world around him. His gait was certainly as stately and as lazy
as that of a Castilian the third remove from a king and the tenth
from a shirt. We could discover in him no other singularity but
this marked audacity; and both Mr. Carrington's eyes and mine
were stretched beyond their orbits, but in vain, to discover that
speck of “gray dirt upon he wing,” which Scipio had been very
careful to describe with the particularity of one who felt that the
duty would devolve on him to brush the jacket of the intruder.
We learned from the negro that his sooty visiter had come alone
as usual,—for though there might have been a sprinkling of some
fifty crows here and there about the field, we could not perceive
that any of them had approached to any more familiarity with
the one that annoyed him, than with himself. He had been able
to get no shot as yet, though he did not despair of better fortune
through the day; and, in order to the better assurance of his
hopes, the poor fellow had borne what he seemed to consider the
taunting swagger of the crow all around him, without so much
as lifting weapon, or making a single step towards him.
“Give me your gun,” said Mr. Carrington. “If he walks no
faster than now, I'll give him greater weight to carry.”
But the lazy crow treated the white man with a degree of deference
that made the negro stare. He made off at full speed
with the first movement towards him, and disappeared from sight
and fern of a little bay that lay a few hundred yards beyond us.
“What think you of that, Scip?” demanded the master. “I've
done more with a single motion than you've done for days, with
all your poking and pelting. He'll hardly trouble you in a hurry
again, though, if he does, you know well enough now, how to get
rid of him.”
“The negro's face brightened for an instant, but suddenly
changed, while he replied,—
“Ah, mossa, when you back turn, he will come 'gen—he dah
watch you now.”
Sure enough,—we had not proceeded a hundred yards, before
the calls of Scipio drew our attention to the scene we had left.
The bedevilled negro had his hand uplifted with something of an
air of horror, while a finger guided us to the spot where the lazy
crow was taking his rounds, almost in the very place from whence
the hostile advance of Mr. Carrington had driven him; and with
a listless, lounging strut of aristocratic composure, that provoked
our wonder quite as much as the negro's indignation.
“Let us see it out,” said Mr. C., returning to the scene of
action. “At him, Scipio; take your gun and do your best.”
But this did not seem necessary. Our return had the effect of
sending the sooty intruder to a distance, and, after lingering some
time to see if he would reappear while we were present, but without
success, we concluded to retire from the ground. At night,
we gathered from the poor negro that our departure was the signal
for the crow's return. He walked the course with impunity,
though Scipio pursued him several times, and towards the close
of day, in utter desperation, gave him both barrels, not only
without fracturing a feather, but actually, according to Scip's
story, without occasioning in him the slightest discomposure or
alarm. He merely changed his place at each onset, doubled on
his own ground, made a brief circuit, and back again to the old
station, looking as impudently, and walking along as lazily as
ever.
3. CHAPTER III.
Some days passed by and I saw nothing of Scipio. It appears,
however, that his singular conflict with the lazy crow was carried
on with as much pertinacity on the one side, and as little patience
on the other, as before. Still, daily, did he provide himself
with the weapon and munitions of war, making as much fuss in
loading it, and putting in shot as large as if he purposed warfare
on some of the more imposing occupants of the forest, rather than
a simple bird, so innocent in all respects except the single one
of corn-stealing, as the crow. A fact, of which we obtained
possession some time after, and from the other negroes, enlightened
us somewhat on the subject of Scipio's own faith as to the true
character of his enemy. In loading his gun, he counted out his
shot, being careful to get an odd number. In using big buck he
numbered two sevens for a load; the small buck, three; and
seven times seven duck shot, when he used the latter, were
counted out as a charge, with the studious nicety of the jeweller
at his pearls and diamonds. Then followed the mystic process of
depositing the load within the tube, from which it was to issue
forth in death and devastation. His face was turned from the
sunlight; the blaze was not suffered to rest upon the bore or barrel;
and when the weapon was charged, it was carried into the
field only on his left shoulder. In spite of all these preparations,
the lazy crow came and went as before. He betrayed no change
of demeanour; he showed no more consciousness of danger; he
submitted to pursuit quietly, never seeming to hurry himself in
escaping, and was quite as close an overseer of Scipio's conduct,
as he had shown himself from the first. Not a day passed that
the negro failed to shoot at him; always, however, by his own
account, at disadvantage, and never, it appears, with any success.
The consequence of all this was, that Scipio fell sick. What
with the constant annoyance of the thing, and a too excitable
imagination, Scipio, a stout fellow nearly six feet high, and half
the week, and was placed on the sick-list accordingly. But as a
negro will never take physic if he can help it, however ready he
may be to complain, it was not till Sunday afternoon, that Jane
Carrington, taking her customary stroll on that day to the negro
quarters, ascertained the fact. She at once apprised her father,
who was something of a physician, (as every planter should be,)
and who immediately proceeded to visit the invalid. He found
him without any of the customary signs of sickness. His pulse
was low and feeble, rather than full or fast; his tongue tolerably
clean; his skin not unpleasant, and, in all ordinary respects
Scipio would have been pronounced in very good condition for his
daily task, and his hog and hominy. But he was an honest fellow,
and the master well knew that there was no negro-on his
plantation so little given to “playing 'possum,” as Scipio. He
complained of being very unwell, though he found it difficult to
designate his annoyances, and say where or in what respect his ailing
lay. Questions only confused and seemed to vex him, and,
though really skilful in the cure of such complaints as ordinarily
occur on a plantation, Mr. Carrington, in the case before him,
was really at a loss. The only feature of Scipio's disease that
was apparent, was a full and raised expression of the eye, that
seemed to swell out whenever he spoke, or when he was required
to direct his attention to any object, or answer to any specific inquiry.
The more the master observed him, the more difficult it
became to utter an opinion, and he was finally compelled to leave
him for the night, without medicine, judging it wiser to let nature
take the subject in hand until he could properly determine
in what respect he suffered. But the morrow brought no alleviation
of Scipio's sufferings. He was still sick as before—incapable
of work,—indeed, as he alleged, unable to leave his bed,
though his pulse was a little exaggerated from the night previous,
and exhibited only that degree of energy and fulness, which
might be supposed natural to one moved by sudden physical excitement.
His master half-suspected him of shamming, but the
lugubrious expression of the fellow's face, could scarcely be assumed
for any purpose, and was to all eyes as natural as could
be. He evidently thought himself in a bad way. I suggested
which could do no harm, and which could lessen the patient's
apprehensions, which seemed to increase with the evident
inability of his master to give him help. Still he could scarcely
tell where it hurt him; his pains were every where, in head,
back, shoulder, heels, and strange to say, at the tips of his ears.
Mr. C. was puzzled, and concluded to avoid the responsibility of
such a case, by sending for the neighbouring physician.
Dr. C—, a very clever and well-read man, soon made his
appearance, and was regularly introduced to the patient. His replies
to the physician were as little satisfactory as those which he
had made to us; and, after a long and tedious cross examination
by doctor and master, the conclusion was still the same. Some
few things, however, transpired in the inquiry, which led us all to
the same inference with the doctor, who ascribed Scipio's condition
to some mental hallucination. While the conversation had
been going on in his cabin—a dwelling like most negro houses,
made with poles, and the chinks stopped with clay,—he turned
abruptly from the physician to a negro girl that brought him soup,
and asked the following question.
“Who bin tell Gullah Sam for come in yer yesserday?”
The girl looked confused, and made no answer.
“Answer him,” said the master.
“Da's him—why you no talk, nigger?” said the patient authoritatively.
“I ax you who bin tell Gullah Sam for come in
yer yesserday?”
“He bin come?” responded the girl with another inquiry.
“Sure, he bin come—enty I see um wid he dirty gray jacket,
like dirt on a crow wing. He tink I no see um—he 'tan dere in
dis corner, close de chimney, and look wha's a cook in de pot.
Oh, how my ear bu'n—somebody's a talking bad tings 'bout
Scipio now.”
There was a good deal in this speech to interest Mr. Carrington
and myself; we could trace something of his illness to his strife
with the crow; but who was Gullah Sam? This was a question
put both by the doctor and myself, at the same moment.
“You no know Gullah Sam, enty? Ha! better you don't
he own bis'ness.”
With these words the patient turned his face to the wall of his
habitation, and seemed unwilling to vouchsafe us any farther
speech. It was thought unnecessary to annoy him with farther
inquiries, and, leaving the cabin, we obtained the desired information
from his master.
“Gullah Sam,” said he, “is a native born African from the
Gold Coast, who belongs to my neighbour, Mr. Jamison, and was
bought by his father out of a Rhode Island slaver, some time before
the Revolution. He is now, as you may suppose, rather an
old man; and, to all appearances, would seem a simple and silly
one enough; but the negroes all around conceive him to be a great
conjurer, and look upon his powers as a wizard, with a degree of
dread, only to be accounted for by the notorious superstition of ignorance.
I have vainly endeavoured to overcome their fears and
prejudices on this subject; but the object of fear is most commonly,
at the same time, an object of veneration, and they hold on to
the faith which has been taught them, with a tenacity like that
with which the heathen clings to the idol, the wrath of which he
seeks to deprecate, and which he worships only because he fears.
The little conversation which we have had with Scipio, in his
partial delirium, has revealed to me what a sense of shame has
kept him from declaring before. He believes himself to be bewitched
by Gullah Sam, and, whether the African possesses any
power such as he pretends to or not, is still the same to Scipio, if
his mind has a full conviction that he does, and that he has become
its victim. A superstitious negro might as well be bewitched,
as to fancy that he is so.”
“And what do you propose to do?” was my inquiry.
“Nay, that question I cannot answer you. It is a work of
philosophy, rather than of physic, and we must become the masters
of the case, before we can prescribe for it. We must note
the fancies of the patient himself, and make these subservient to
the cure. I know of no other remedy.”
4. CHAPTER IV.
That evening, we all returned to the cabin of Scipio. We
found him more composed—sane, perhaps, would be the proper
word—than in the morning, and, accordingly, perfectly silent on
the subject of Gullah Sam. His master took the opportunity of
speaking to him in plain language.
“Scipio, why do you try to keep the truth from me? Have
you ever found me a bad master, that you should fear to tell me
the truth?”
“Nebber say sich ting! Who tell you, mossa, I say you bad?”
replied the negro with a lofty air of indignation, rising on his arm
in the bed.
“Why should you keep the truth from me?” was the reply.
“Wha' trut' I keep from you, mossa?”
“The cause of your sickness, Scipio. Why did you not tell me
that Gullah Sam had bewitched you?”
The negro was confounded.
“How you know, mossa?” was his demand.
“It matters not,” replied the master, “but how came Gullah
Sam to bewitch you?”
“He kin 'witch den, mossa?” was the rather triumphant demand
of the negro, who saw, in his master's remark, a concession
to his faith, which had always been withheld before. Mr. Carrington
extricated himself from the dilemma with sufficient
promptness and ingenuity.
“The devil has power, Scipio, over all that believe in him. If
you believe that Gullah Sam can do with you what he pleases, in
spite of God and the Saviour, there is no doubt that he can; and
God and the Saviour will alike give you up to his power, since,
when you believe in the devil, you refuse to believe in them.
They have told you, and the preacher has told you, and I have
told you, that Gullah Sam can do you no sort of harm, if you will
refuse to believe in what he tells you. Why then do you believe
and the preacher, and myself?”
“I can't help it, mossa—de ting's de ting, and you can't change
'um. Dis Gullah Sam—he wus more nor ten debble—I jis' laugh
at 'um t'oder day—tree week 'go, when he tumble in de hoss
pond, and he shake he finger at me, and ebber since he put he bad
mout' pon me. Ebber sence dat time, dat ugly crow bin stand
in my eyes, whichebber way I tu'n. He hab gray dirt on he
wing, and enty dere's a gray patch on Gullah Sam jacket?
Gullah Sam hab close 'quaintan' wid dat same lazy crow da's
walk roun' me in de cornfield, mossa. I bin tink so from de fuss;
and when he 'tan and le' me shoot at 'um, and no 'fraid, den I
sartain.”
“Well, Scipio,” said the master, “I will soon put an end to
Sam's power. I will see Mr. Jamison, and will have Sam well
flogged for his witchcraft. I think you ought to be convinced
that a wizard who suffers himself to be flogged, is but a poor
devil after all.”
The answer of the negro was full of consternation.
“For Chris' sake, mossa, I beg you do no sich ting. You
lick Gullah Sam, den you lose Scipio for eber and eber, amen.
Gullah Sam nebber guine take off de bad mout' he put on
Scip, once you lick em. De pains will keep in de bones—de leg
will dead, fuss de right leg, den de lef, one arter t'oder, and you
nigger will dead, up and up, till noting lef for dead but he head.
He head will hab life, when you kin put he body in de hole, and
cubbur um up wid du't. You mus' try n'oder tings, mossa, for
get you nigger cure—you lick Gullah Sam, 'tis kill um for
ebber.”
A long conversation ensued among us, Scipio taking occasional
part in it; for, now that his secret was known, he seemed somewhat
relieved, and gave utterance freely to his fears and superstitions;
and determined for and against the remedies which we
severally proposed, with the authority of one, not only more deeply
interested in the case than any one beside, but who also knew
more about it. Having unscrupulously opposed nearly every plan,
even in its inception, which was suggested, his master, out of all
patience, at last exclaimed,
“Well, Scipio, it seems nothing will please you. What would
you have? what course shall I take to dispossess the devil, and
send Gullah Sam about his business?”
After a brief pause, in which the negro twisted from side to
side of his bed, he answered as follows:
“Ef you kin trow way money on Scip, mossa, dere's a way I
tink 'pon, dat'll do um help, if dere's any ting kin help um now,
widout go to Gullah Sam. But it's a berry 'spensive way, mossa.”
“How much will it cost?” demanded the master. “I am not
unwilling to pay money for you, either to cure you when you are
sick, as you ought to know by my sending for the doctor, or by
putting more sense into your head than you seem to have at present.
How much money do you think it will take to send the
devil out of you?”
“Ha! mossa, you no speak 'spectful 'nough. Dis Gullah Sam
hard to move; more dan de lazy crow dat walk in de cornfield.
He will take money 'nough; mos' a bag ob cotton in dese hard
times.”
“Pshaw—speak out, and tell me what you mean!” said the
now thoroughly impatient master.
“Dere's an old nigger, mossa, dat's an Ebo,—he lib ober on
St. Matt'ew's, by de bluff, place of Major Thompson. He's mighty
great hand for cure bad mout'. He's named 'Tuselah, and he's
a witch he sef, worse more nor Gullah Sam. Gullah Sam fear'd
um—berry fear'd um. You send for 'Tuselah, mossa, he cos'
you more nor twenty dollars. Scipio git well for sartin, and you
nebber yerry any more 'bout dat sassy crow in de cornfield.”
“If I thought so,” replied Mr. Carrington, looking round upon
us, as if himself half ashamed to give in to the suggestions of the
negro; “if I thought so, I would certainly send for Methuselah.
But really, there's something very ridiculous in all this.”
“I think not,” was my reply. “Your own theory will sustain
you, since, if Scipio's fancy makes one devil, he is equally assured,
by the same fancy, of the counter power of the other.”
“Besides,” said the doctor, “you are sustained by the proverb,
`set a thief to catch a thief.' The thing is really curious.
I shall be anxious to see how the St. Matthew's wizard overcomes
him of Santee; though, to speak truth, a sort of sectional interest
be defeated. This should certainly be my prayer, were it not
that I have some commiseration for Scipio. I should be sorry to
see him dying by inches.”
“By feet rather,” replied his master with a laugh. “First the
right leg, then the left, up and up, until life remains to him in
his head only. But, you shall have your wish, Scipio. I will
send a man to-morrow by daylight to St. Matthew's for Methuselah,
and if he can overcome Gullah Sam at his own weapons, I
shall not begrudge him the twenty dollars.”
“Tenks, mossa, tousand tenks,” was the reply of the invalid;
his countenance suddenly brightening for the first time for a
week, as if already assured of the happy termination of his affliction.
Meanwhile, we left him to his cogitations, each of us musing
to himself, as well on the singular mental infirmities of a
negro, at once sober, honest, and generally sensible, and that
strange sort of issue which was about to be made up, between the
respective followers of the rival principles of African witchcraft,
the Gullah and the Ebo fetishes.
5. CHAPTER V.
The indulgent master that night addressed a letter to the owner
of Methuselah, stating all the circumstances of the case, and
soliciting permission for the wizard, of whom such high expectations
were formed, or fancied, to return with the messenger, who
took with him an extra horse that the journey might be made
with sufficient despatch. To this application a ready assent was
given, and the messenger returned on the day after his departure,
attended by the sage personage in question.
Methuselah was an African, about sixty-five years of age, with
a head round as an owl's, and a countenance quite as grave and
contemplative. His features indicated all the marked characteristics
of his race, low forehead, high cheek bone, small eyes, flat
nose, thick lips, and a chin sharp and retreating. He was not
more than five feet high, and with legs so bowed that—to use
Scipio's expression, when he was so far recovered as to be able
again to laugh at his neighbour,—a yearling calf might easily
run between them without grazing the calf. There was nothing
promising in such a person but his sententiousness and gravity,
and Methuselah possessed these characteristics in remarkable
degree. When asked—
“Can you cure this fellow?” his answer, almost insolently
expressed, was,—
“I come for dat.”
“You can cure people who are bewitched?”
“He no dead?”
“No.”
“Belly well; I cure em;—can't cure dead nigger.”
There was but little to be got out of such a character by examination,
direct or cross; and attending him to Scipio's wigwam, we
tacitly resolved to look as closely into his proceedings as we could,
assured, that in no other way could we possibly hope to arrive at
any knowledge of his modus operandi in so curious a case.
Scipio was very glad to see the wizard of St. Matthew's, and
pointing to a chair, the only one in his chamber, he left us to the
rude stools, of which there happened to be a sufficient supply.
“Well, brudder,” said the African abruptly, “wha's matter?”
“Ha, Mr. 'Tuselah, I bin hab berry bad mout' put 'pon me.”
“I know dat—you eyes run water—you ears hot—you hab
knee shake—you trimble in de joint.”
“You hit um; 'tis jis' dem same ting. I hab ears bu'n berry
much,” and thus encouraged to detail his symptoms, the garrulous
Scipio would have prolonged his chronicle to the crack of
doom, but that the wizard valued his time too much, to suffer any
unnecessary eloquence on the part of his patient.
“You see two tings at a time?” asked the African.
“How! I no see,” replied Scipio, not comprehending the question,
which simply meant, do you ever see double? To this,
when explained, he answered in a decided negative.
“'Tis a man den, put he had mout' 'pon you,” said the
African.
“Gor-a-mighty, how you know dat?” exclaimed Scipio.
“Hush, my brudder—wha' beas' he look like?”
“He's a d—n black nigger ob a crow—a dirty crow, da's lazy
for true.”
“Ha! he lazy—you sure he ain't lame?”
“He no lame.”
Scipio then gave a close description of the crow which had
pestered him, precisely as he had given it to his master, as recorded
in our previous pages. The African heard him with patience,
then proceeded with oracular gravity.
“'Tis old man wha's trouble you!”
“Da's a trute!”
“Hush, my brudder. Whay you bin see dis crow?”
“Crow in de cornfiel', Mr. 'Tuselah; he can't come in de
house.”
“Who bin wid you all de time?”
“Jenny—de gal—he 'tan up in de corner now.”
The magician turned and looked upon the person indicated by
Scipio's finger—a little negro girl, probably ten years old. Then
turning again to Scipio, he asked,
“You bin sick two, tree, seben day, brudder—how long you bin
on you bed?”
“Since Saturday night—da's six day to-day.”
“And you hab nobody come for look 'pon you, since you bin
on de bed, but dis gal, and de buckrah?”
Scipio confessed to several of the field negroes, servants of his
own master, all of whom he proceeded to describe in compliance
with the requisitions of the wizard, who, as if still unsatisfied, bade
him, in stern accents, remember if nobody else had been in the
cabin, or, in his own language, had “set he eye 'pon you.”
The patient hesitated for awhile, but the question being repeated,
he confessed that in a half-sleep or stupor, he had fancied seeing
Gullah Sam looking in upon him through the half-opened door;
and at another time had caught glimpses, in his sleep, of the same
features, through a chink between the logs, where the clay had
fallen.
“Ha! ha!” said the wizard, with a half-savage grin of mingled
delight and sagacity—“I hab nose,—I smell. Well, brudder, I
mus' gib you physic,—you mus' hab good sweat to-night, and
smood skin to-morrow.”
Thus ended the conference with Scipio. The man of mystery
arose and left the hovel, bidding us follow, and carefully fastening
the door after him.
This done, he anointed some clay, which he gathered in the
neighbourhood, with his spittle, and plastered it over the lintel.
He retired with us a little distance, and when we were about to
separate, he for the woods, and we for the dwelling-house, he said
in tones more respectful than those which he employed to Mr.
Carrington on his first coming,
“You hab niggers, mossa—women is de bes'—dat lub for talk
too much?”
“Yes, a dozen of them.”
“You sen' one to de plantation where dis Gullah Sam lib, but
don't sen' um to Gullah Sam; sen' um to he mossa or he missis;
and borrow someting—any ting—old pot or kettle—no matter if
you don't want 'em, you beg um for lend you. Da's 'nough.”
Mr. Carrington would have had the wizard's reasons for this
wish, but finding him reluctant to declare them, he promised his
was to let Gullah Sam know that a formidable enemy had taken
the field against him, and in defence of his victim.[1] This would
seem to account for his desire that the messenger should be a woman,
and one “wha' lub for talk too much.” He then obtained
directions for the nearest path to the swamp, and when we looked
that night into the wigwam of Scipio, we found him returned with
a peck of roots of sundry sorts, none of which we knew, prepared
to make a decoction, in which his patient was to be immersed from
head to heels. Leaving Scipio with the contemplation of this
steaming prospect before him, we retired for the night, not a little
anxious for those coming events which cast no shadow before us,
or one so impenetrably thick, that we failed utterly to see
through it.
Since penning the above conjecture, I remember a story which was related
to me several years ago, by a venerable country lady of South Carolina,
who, to the merit of telling a good story well, added the equally commendable
merit of always believing the story which she told—in which it was insisted
upon, in these controversies between rival wizards, and, if I mistake not, in all
cases where witch or wizard aimed to operate, that, to obtain complete success,
it was necessary that they should succeed in borrowing something out of the
house which was to be the scene of their diablerie. In this story, though a
mere boy at the time, I can well remember the importance attached by a
mother to the instructions which she gave her daughter, on going abroad, to
lend nothing out of the house, under any circumstances, or to any body, during
her absence. She had scarcely disappeared,—the story went on to relate,
—before an old woman of the neighbourhood, whose intentions were already
suspected, came to borrow a sieve. The girl, without admitting her into the
house, for the door had been locked by the provident mother, answered her
demand through the window by an unvarying refusal. Baffled in her aim by
the child's firmness, the prayers and entreaties of the applicant were changed
into the bitterest abuse and execrations, clearly showing, whatever might have
been her pretensions or powers of evil, the devilish malignity of purpose which
she entertained.
6. CHAPTER VI.
In the morning, strange to say, we found Scipio considerably
better, and in singularly good spirits. The medicaments of the
African, or more likely the pliant imagination of the patient himself,
had wrought a charm in his behalf; and instead of groaning
at every syllable, as he had done for several days before, he
now scarcely uttered a word that was not accompanied by a grin.
The magician seemed scarcely less pleased than his patient, particularly
when he informed us that he had not only obtained the
article the woman was sent to borrow, but that Gullah Sam had
been seen prowling, late at night, about the negro houses, without
daring, however, to venture nigh that of the invalid—a forbearance
which the necromancer gave us to understand, was entirely
involuntary, and in spite of the enemy's desire, who was baffled and
kept away by the spell contained in the ointment which he had
placed on the lintel, in our presence the evening before. Still,
half-ashamed of being even quiescent parties merely to this solemn
mummery, we were anxious to see the end of it, and our
African promised that he would do much towards relieving
Scipio from his enchantment, by the night of the same day. His
spells and fomentations had worked equally well, and Scipio was
not only more confident in mind, but more sleek and strong in
body. With his own hands, it appears, that the wizard had rubbed
down the back and shoulders of his patient with corn-shucks
steeped in the decoction he had made, and, what was a more
strange specific still, he had actually subjected Scipio to a smarter
punishment, with a stout hickory, than his master had given
him for many a year. This, the poor fellow not only bore
with Christian fortitude, but actually rejoiced in, imploring additional
strokes when the other ceased. We could very well understand
that Scipio deserved a whipping for laughing at an aged
man, because he fell into the water, but we failed to ascertain
from the taciturn wizard, that this was the rationale of an application
over, Scipio was again put to bed, a green twig hung over the
door of his cabin within, while the unctuous plaster was renewed
freshly on the outside. The African then repeated certain uncouth
sounds over the patient, bade him shut his eyes and go to
sleep, in order to be in readiness and go into the fields by the
time the sun was turning for the west.
“What,” exclaimed Mr. Carrington, “do you think him able
to go into the field to-day? He is very weak; he has taken little
nourishment for several days.”
“He mus' able,” returned the imperative African; “he 'trong
'nough. He mus' able—he hab for carry gun.”
With these words the wizard left us without deigning any explanation
of his future purposes, and, taking his way towards the
swamp, he was soon lost to our eyes in the mighty depth of its
shrouding recesses.
When he returned, which was not till noon, he came at once
to the mansion-house, without seeking his patient, and entering
the hall where the family was all assembled, he challenged our
attention as well by his appearance as by his words. He had,
it would seem, employed himself in arranging his own appearance
while in the swamp; perhaps, taking one of its thousand lakes or
ponds for his mirror. His woolly hair, which was very long,
was plaited carefully up, so that the ends stuck out from his
brow, as pertly and pointedly as the tails of pigs, suddenly
aroused to a show of delightful consciousness on discovering a
forgotten corn-heap. Perhaps that sort of tobacco, known by the
attractive and characteristic title of “pigtail,” would be the most
fitting to convey to the mind of the reader the peculiar form of
plait which the wizard had adopted for his hair. This mode of
disposing of his matted mop, served to display the tattooed and
strange figures upon his temples,—the certain signs, as he assured
us, of princely rank in his native country. He carried a long
wand in his hand, freshly cut and peeled, at one end of which he
had tied a small hempen cord. The skin of the wand was plaited
round his own neck. In a large leaf he brought with him a
small portion of some stuff which he seemed to preserve very
carefully, but which appeared to us to be nothing more than coarse
he obtained from the mistress of the house, and which he stirred
together in our presence until the salt had been lost to the eye in
the sand or gravel, or whatever might have been the article which
he had brought with him. This done, he drew the shot from both
barrels of the gun, and in its place, deposited the mixture which
he had thus prepared.
“Buckrah will come 'long now. Scipio guine looka for de
crow.”
Such were his words, which he did not wait to hear answered
or disputed, but taking the gun, he led the way towards
the wigwam of Scipio. Our anxiety to see the conclusion of
the adventure, did not suffer us to lose any time in following him.
To our surprise, we found Scipio dressed and up; ready, and it
would seem perfectly able, to undertake what the African assigned
him. The gun was placed in his hands, and he was told to
take his way to the cornfield as usual, and proceed to work. He
was also informed by the wizard, with a confidence that surprised
us, that the lazy crow would be sure to be there as usual; and
he was desired to get as close as he could, and take good aim at
his head in shooting him.
“You sure for hit um, brudder,” said the African; “so, don't
'tan too long for look. Jis' you git close, take you sight, and gib
um bot' barrel. But fuss, 'fore you go, I mus' do someting wid
you eye.”
The plaster was taken from the door, as Scipio passed through
it, re-softened with the saliva of the wizard, who, with his finger,
described an arched line over each of the patient's eyes.
“You go 'long by you'sef now, brudder, and shoot de crow
when you see um. He's a waiting for you now, I 'spec'.”
We were about to follow Scipio to the field, but our African
kept us back; and leading the way to a little copse that divided
it from the swamp, he took us to its shelter, and required us to
remain with him out of sight of the field, until some report from
Scipio or his gun, should justify us in going forth.
7. CHAPTER VII.
Here we remained in no little anxiety for the space of nearly
two hours, in which time, however, the African showed no sort
of impatience, and none of that feverish anxiety which made us
restless in body and eager, to the last degree, in mind. We
tried to fathom his mysteries, but in vain. He contented himself
with assuring us that the witchcraft which he used, and that
which he professed himself able to cure, was one that never
could affect the white man in any way. He insisted that the respective
gods of the two races were essentially very different;
as different as the races themselves. He also admitted that
the god of the superior race was necessarily equal to the task of
governing both, while the inferior god could only govern the one
—that of taking charge of his, was one of those small businesses,
with which it was not often that the former would soil his hands.
To use his own phrase, “there is a god for de big house, and another
for de kitchen.”
While we talked over these topics, and strove, with a waste of
industry, to shake the faith of the African in his own peculiar
deities and demons, we heard the sound of Scipio's gun—a sound
that made us forget all nicer matters of theology, and set off with
full speed towards the quarter whence it came. The wizard followed
us slowly, waving his wand in circles all the way, and pulling
the withes from his neck, and casting them around him as he
came. During this time, his mouth was in constant motion, and
I could hear at moments, strange, uncouth sounds breaking from
his lips. When we reached Scipio, the fellow was in a state little
short of delirium. He had fired both barrels, and had cast
the gun down upon the ground after the discharge. He was
wringing his hands above his head in a sort of phrensy of joy,
and at our approach he threw himself down upon the earth,
laughing with the delight of one who has lost his wits in a dream
of pleasure.
“Where's the crow?” demanded his master.
“I shoot um—I shoot um in he head—enty I tell you, mossa,
I will hit um in he head? Soon he poke he nose ober de ground,
I gib it to um. Hope he bin large shot. He gone t'rough he
head,—t'rough and t'rough. Ha! ha! ha! If dat crow be Gullah
Sam! if Gullah Sam be git in crow jacket, ho, mossa! he
nebber git out crow jacket 'till somebody skin um. Ha! ha! ho!
ho! ho! ki! ki! ki! ki! la! ki! Oh, mossa, wonder how Gullah
Sam feel in crow jacket!”
It was in this strain of incoherent exclamation, that the invalid
gave vent to his joyful paroxysm at the thought of having put a
handful of duck shot into the hide of his mortal enemy. The unchristian
character of his exultation received a severe reproof
from his master, which sobered the fellow sufficiently to enable
us to get from him a more sane description of his doings. He
told us that the crow had come to bedevil him as usual, only—
and the fact became subsequently of considerable importance,—
that he had now lost the gray dirt from his wing, which had so peculiarly
distinguished it before, and was now as black as the most
legitimate suit ever worn by crow, priest, lawyer, or physician.
This change in the outer aspect of the bird had somewhat confounded
the negro, and made him loth to expend his shot, for fear of wasting
the charmed charge upon other than the genuine Simon Pure.
But the deportment of the other—lazy, lounging, swaggering, as
usual—convinced Scipio in spite of his eyes, that his old enemy
stood in fact before him; and without wasting time, he gave him
both barrels at the same moment.
“But where's the crow?” demanded the master.
“I knock um ober, mossa; I see um tumble; 'speck you find
um t'oder side de cornhill.”
Nothing could exceed the consternation of Scipio, when, on
reaching the designated spot, we found no sign of the supposed
victim. The poor fellow rubbed his eyes, in doubt of their visual
capacities, and looked round aghast, for an explanation, to the wizard
who was now approaching, waving his wand in long sweeping
circles as he came, and muttering, as before, those strange uncouth
sounds, which we relished as little as we understood. He
abruptly asked of him—“Whay's de fus' water, brudder Scip?”
“De water in de bay, Mass 'Tuselah,” was the reply; the
speaker pointing as he spoke to the little spot of drowned land on
the very corner of the field, which, covered with thick shoots of
the small sweet bay tree,—the magnolia glauca,—receives its
common name among the people from its almost peculiar growth.
“Push for de bay! push for de bay!” exclaimed the African,
“and see wha' you see. Run, Scip; run, nigger—see wha' lay
in de bay!”
These words, scarcely understood by us, set Scipio in motion.
At full speed he set out, and, conjecturing from his movement,
rather than from the words of the African, his expectations, off
we set also at full speed after him. Before we reached the spot,
to our great surprise, Scipio emerged from the bay, dragging behind
him the reluctant and trembling form of the aged negro, Gullah
Sam. He had found him washing his face, which was covered
with little pimples and scratches, as if he had suddenly fallen
into a nest of briars. It was with the utmost difficulty we
could prevent Scipio from pummelling the dreaded wizard to
death.
“What's the matter with your face, Sam?” demanded Mr.
Carrington.
“Hab humour, Mass Carrington; bin trouble berry mosh wid
break out in de skin.”
“Da shot, mossa—da shot. I hit um in crow jacket; but whay's
de gray di't? Ha! mossa, look yer; dis de black coat ob Mass
Jim'son dat Gullah Sam hab on. He no wear he jacket with gray
patch. Da's make de diff'rence.”
The magician from St. Matthew's now came up, and our surprise
was increased when we saw him extend his hand, with an
appearance of the utmost good feeling and amity, to the rival he
had just overcome.
“Well, brudder Sam, how you come on?”
The other looked at him doubtfully, and with a countenance in
which we saw, or fancied, a mingling expression of fear and hostility;
the latter being evidently restrained by the other. He
“I will come take supper wid you to-night, brudder Sam,” continued
the wizard of St. Matthew's, with as much civility as if
he spoke to the most esteemed friend under the sun. “Scip, boy,
you kin go to you mossa work—you quite well ob dis bus'ness.”
Scipio seemed loth to leave the company while there appeared
something yet to be done, and muttered half aloud,
“You no ax Gullah Sam, wha' da' he bin do in de bay.”
“Psha, boy, go 'long to you cornfiel'—enty I know,” replied
Methuselah. “Gullah Sam bin 'bout he own bus'ness, I s'pose.
Brudder, you kin go home now, and get you tings ready for supper.
I will come see you to-night.”
It was in this manner that the wizard of St. Matthew's was disposed
to dismiss both the patient and his persecutor; but here the
master of Scipio interposed.
“Not so fast, Methuselah. If this fellow, Sam, has been playing
any of his tricks upon my people, as you seem to have taken
for granted, and as, indeed, very clearly appears, he must not be
let off so easily. I must punish him before he goes.”
“You kin punish um more dan me?” was the abrupt, almost
stern inquiry of the wizard.
There was something so amusing as well as strange in the
whole business, something so ludicrous in the wo-begone visage
of Sam, that we pleaded with Mr. Carrington that the whole case
should be left to Methuselah; satisfied that as he had done so well
hitherto, there was no good reason, nor was it right, that he should
be interfered with. We saw the two shake hands and part, and
ascertained from Scipio that he himself was the guest of Gullah
Sam, at the invitation of Methuselah, to a very good supper that
night of pig and 'possum. Scipio described the affair as having
gone off very well, but he chuckled mightily as he dwelt upon the
face of Sam, which, as he said, by night, was completely raw
from the inveterate scratching to which he had been compelled to
subject it during the whole day. Methuselah the next morning
departed, having received, as his reward, twenty dollars from the
master, and a small pocket Bible from the young mistress of the
negro; and to this day, there is not a negro in the surrounding
does not believe that Scipio was bewitched by Gullah
Sam, and that the latter was shot in the face, while in the shape
of a common crow in the cornfield, by the enchanted shot provided
by the wizard of St. Matthew's for the hands of the other.
The writer of this narrative, for the sake of vitality and dramatic
force, alone, has made himself a party to its progress. The
material has been derived as much from the information of others,
as from his own personal experience; though it may be as well to
add, that superstition among the negroes is almost as active to
this day, in the more secluded plantations, as it was prior to the
revolution. Nor is it confined to the negro only. An instance
occurred only a few years ago,—the facts of which were given
me by a gentleman of unquestionable veracity,—in which one of
his poor, uneducated white neighbours, labouring under a protracted,
and perhaps, novel form of disease, fancied himself the
victim of a notorious witch or wizard in his own district, and
summoned to his cure the rival wizard of another. Whether the
controversy was carried in the manner of that between Gullah
Sam and Methuselah, I cannot say; nor am I sure that the conquest
was achieved by the wizard summoned. My authorities
are no less good than various, for the procès nécromantique, as detailed
above. It may be that I have omitted some of the mummery
that seemed profane or disgusting; for the rest—
But tell the tale as 'twas told to me.”
| The wigwam and the cabin | |