University of Virginia Library

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

as many broad, laid himself at length in his cabin, at the end of
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
some simple medicine, such as salts or castor oil—any thing, indeed,
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

know 'um—he's a nigger da's more dan nigger—wish he min'
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.”