 | CHAPTER IV. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
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.
| CHAPTER IV. The wigwam and the cabin | |