 | CHAPTER I. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
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.”
| CHAPTER I. The wigwam and the cabin | |