 | The wigwam and the cabin |  |
CALOYA;
OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER.
1. CHAPTER I.
When I was a boy, it was the custom of the Catawba Indians
—then reduced to a pitiful remnant of some four hundred persons,
all told—to come down, at certain seasons, from their far
homes in the interior, to the seaboard, bringing to Charleston a
little stock of earthen pots and pans, skins and other small matters,
which they bartered in the city for such commodities as
were craved by their tastes, or needed by their condition. They
did not, however, bring their pots and pans from the nation, but
descending to the low country empty-handed, in groups or families,
they squatted down on the rich clay lands along the Edisto,
raised their poles, erected their sylvan tents, and there established
themselves in a temporary abiding place, until their simple potteries
had yielded them a sufficient supply of wares with which
to throw themselves into the market. Their productions had their
value to the citizens, and, for many purposes, were considered by
most of the worthy housewives of the past generation, to be far
superior to any other. I remember, for example, that it was a
confident faith among the old ladies, that okra soup was always inferior
if cooked in any but an Indian pot; and my own impressions
make me not unwilling to take sides with the old ladies on
this particular tenet. Certainly, an iron vessel is one of the last
which should be employed in the preparation of this truly southern
dish. But this aside. The wares of the Indians were not ill
made, nor unseemly to the eye. They wrought with much cleaner
hands than they usually carried; and if their vases were
these defects were more than compensated by their freedom from
flaws and their general capaciousness and strength. Wanting,
perhaps, in the loveliness and perfect symmetry of Etruscan art,
still they were not entirely without pretensions of their own. The
ornamental enters largely into an Indian's idea of the useful, and
his taste pours itself out lavishly in the peculiar decorations which
he bestows upon his wares. Among his first purchases when he
goes to the great city, are vermilion, umber, and other ochres,
together with sealing wax of all colours, green, red, blue and yellow.
With these he stains his pots and pans until the eye becomes
sated with a liberal distribution of flowers, leaves, vines
and stars, which skirt their edges, traverse their sides, and completely
illuminate their externals. He gives them the same ornament
which he so judiciously distributes over his own face, and
the price of the article is necessarily enhanced to the citizen, by
the employment of materials which the latter would much rather
not have at all upon his purchases. This truth, however, an Indian
never will learn, and so long as I can remember, he has still
continued to paint his vessels, though he cannot but see that the
least decorated are those which are always the first disposed of.
Still, as his stock is usually much smaller than the demand for it,
and as he soon gets rid of it, there is no good reason which he
can perceive why he should change the tastes which preside
over his potteries.
Things are greatly altered now-a-days, in these as in a thousand
other particulars. The Catawbas seldom now descend to
the seaboard. They have lost the remarkable elasticity of character
which peculiarly distinguished them among the aboriginal
nations, and, in declining years and numbers, not to speak of the
changing circumstances of the neighbouring country, the ancient
potteries are almost entirely abandoned. A change has taken
place among the whites, scarcely less melancholy than that which
has befallen the savages. Our grandmothers of the present day
no longer fancy the simple and rude vessels in which the old
dames took delight. We are for Sêvre's Porcelain, and foreign
goods wholly, and I am saddened by the reflection that I have
seen the last of the Indian pots. I am afraid, henceforward, that
nay, even now, as it comes upon the table, dark, dingy and discoloured
to my eye, I think I see unequivocal tokens of metallic
influence upon the mucilaginous compound, and remember with
a sigh, the glorious days of Catawba pottery. New fashions, as
usual, and conceited refinements, have deprived us of old pleasures
and solid friends. A generation hence, and the fragment of an
Indian pot will be a relic, a treasure, which the lover of the antique
will place carefully away upon the upper shelf of the sanctum,
secure from the assaults of noisy children and very tidy
housekeepers, and honoured in the eyes of all worthy-minded
persons, as the sole remaining trophy of a time when there was
perfection in one, at least, of the achievements of the culinary art.
I am afraid that I have seen the last of the Indian pots!
But let me avoid this melancholy reflection. Fortunately, my
narrative enables me to do so. It relates to a period when this
valuable manufacture was in full exercise, and, if not encouraged
by the interference of government, nor sought after by a foreign
people, was yet in possession of a patronage quite as large as it
desired. To arrive at this important period we have only to go
back twenty years—a lapse made with little difficulty by most
persons, and yet one which involves many and more trying changes
and vicissitudes than any of us can contemplate with equanimity.
The spring season had set in with the sweetest of countenances,
and the Catawbas, in little squads and detachments, were soon
under way with all their simple equipments on their backs for
the lower country. They came down, scattering themselves along
the Edisto, in small bodies which pursued their operations independently
of each other. In this distribution they were probably
governed by the well known policy of the European Gipseys,
who find it much easier, in this way, to assess the several neighbourhoods
which they honour, and obtain their supplies without
provoking apprehension and suspicion, than if they were, en masse,
to concentrate themselves on any one plantation. Their camps
might be found in famed loam-spots, from the Eutaws down to
Parker's Ferry, on the Edisto, and among the numerous swamps
that lie at the head of Ashley River, and skirt the Wassamasaw
country. Harmless usually, and perfectly inoffensive, they were
contiguously to a planter's settlements; though, at such periods,
the proprietor had his misgivings that his poultry yard suffered
from other enemies than the Wild-cat, and his hogs from an assailant
as unsparing as the Alligator. The overseer, in such
cases, simply kept a sharper lookout than ever, though it was not
often that any decisive consequences followed his increased vigilance.
If the Indians were at any time guilty of appropriation,
it was not often that they suffered themselves to be brought to conviction.
Of all people, they, probably, are the most solicitous to
obey the scripture injunction, and keep the right hand from any
unnecessary knowledge of the doings of the left.
2. CHAPTER II.
One morning, early in this pleasant season, the youthful proprietor
of a handsome plantation in the neighbourhood of the Ashley
River, might have been seen taking his solitary breakfast, at
a moderately late hour, in the great hall of his family mansion.
He was a tall, fine-looking young man, with quick, keen, lively
gray eyes, that twinkled with good humour and a spirit of playful
indulgence. A similar expression marked his features in general,
and lessened the military effect of a pair of whiskers, of which
the display was too lavish to be quite becoming. He had but
recently come into possession of his property, which had been
under the guardianship of an uncle. His parents had been cut
off by country fever while he was yet a child, and, as an only son,
he found, at coming of age, that his estates were equally ample
and well managed. He was one of those unfortunate young
bachelors, whose melancholy loneliness of condition is so apt to
arrest the attention, and awaken the sympathies of disinterested
damsels, and all considerate mothers of unappropriated daughters,
who are sufficiently well-informed in scripture authority, to know
that “it is not meet for man to be alone.” But young Col. Gillison
was alone, and continued, in spite of good doctrine, to be
alone for several long years after. Into the causes which led to
this strange and wilful eccentricity, it forms no part of our object
to inquire. Our story does not so much concern the master of
the plantation as one of his retainers, whom the reader will please
to imagine that he has seen, more than once, glancing his eye impatiently
from the piazza through the window, into the apartment,
awaiting the protracted moment when his young master should
descend to his breakfast. This was a stout negro fellow, of portly
figure and not uncomely countenance. He was well made
and tall, and was sufficiently conscious of his personal attractions,
to take all pains to exhibit them in the most appropriate costume
and attitude. His pantaloons were of very excellent nankin, and
known to the southern country. It was fashioned after the Indian
hunting shirt, and formed a very neat and well-fitting frock,
which displayed the broad shoulders and easy movements of
Mingo—for that was the negro's name—to the happiest advantage.
Mingo was the driver of the estate. The driver is a sort of drill-sergeant
to the overseer, who may be supposed to be the Captain.
He gets the troops in line, divides them into squads, sees to their
equipments, and prepares them for the management and command
of the superiors. On the plantation of Col. Gillison, there
was at this time no overseer; and, in consequence, the importance
of Mingo was not a little increased, as he found himself
acting in the highest executive capacity known to his experience.
Few persons of any race, colour, or condition, could have had
a more elevated idea of their own pretensions than our present
subject. He trod the earth very much as its Lord—the sovereign
shone out in every look and movement, and the voice of supreme
authority spoke in every tone. This feeling of superiority imparted
no small degree of grace to his action, which, accordingly,
would have put to shame the awkward louting movements of one
half of those numbed and cramped figures which serve at the
emasculating counters of the trading city. Mingo was a Hercules
to the great majority of these; and, with his arms akimbo,
his head thrown back, one foot advanced, and his hands, at intervals,
giving life to his bold, and full-toned utterance, he would
startle with a feeling not unlike that of awe, many of those bent,
bowed and mean-looking personages who call themselves freemen,
and yet have never known the use, either of mind or muscle, in
one twentieth part the degree which had been familiar to this
slave.
At length, after a delay which evidently did not diminish the
impatience of Mingo, his young master descended to the breakfast
room. His appearance was the signal for the driver to enter the
same apartment, which he accordingly did without pause or
preparation.
“Well, Mingo,” said the young man, with lively tones—
“what's the word this morning? Your face seems full of news!
and now that I consider you closely, it seems to have smitten your
Out with your burden, man, before you burst. What sow's littered—what
cow's cast her calf—how many panels in the fence
are burnt—how many chickens has the hawk carried off this
morning? What! none of these?” he demanded, as the shake
of the head, on the part of his hearer, which followed every distinct
suggestion of the speaker, disavowed any subject of complaint
from those current evils which are the usual subject of a
planter's apprehension. “What's the matter, then, Mingo?”
“Matter 'nough, Mossa, ef we don't see to it in time,” responded
Mingo, with a becoming gravity. “It's a needcessity,” a driver's
English is sometimes terribly emphatic, “it's a needcessity,
Sir, to see to other cattle, besides hogs and cows. The chickens
too, is intended to, as much as they wants; and I ha'nt lost a
panel by fire, eber sence Col. Parker's hands let the fire get 'way
by Murray's Thick. There, we did lose a smart chance, and
put us back mightily, I reckon; but that was in old mossa's time,
and we had Mr. Groning, den, as the obershar—so, you see, Sir,
I couldn't be considered bound 'sponsible for that; sence I've had
the management, there ha'nt been any loss on my plantation of
any kind. My fences ha'nt been burn, my cattle's on the rise,
and as for my hogs and chickens, I reckon there's not a plantation
on the river that kin make so good a count at Christmas.
But—”
“Well, well, Mingo,” said the youthful proprietor, who knew
the particular virtue of the driver, and dreaded that his tongue
should get such headway as to make it unmanageable—“if
there's no loss, and no danger of loss—if the hogs and chickens
are right, and the cattle and the fences—we can readily defer
the business until after breakfast. Here, boy, hand up the coffee.”
“Stop a bit, Mossa—it aint right—all aint right—” said the
impressive Mingo—“it's a business of more transaction and deportance
than the cattle and the fences—it's—”
“Well, out with it then, Mingo—there's no need for a long
preamble. What is the trouble?”
“Why, Sir, you mus' know,” began the driver, in no degree
pleased to be compelled to give his testimony in any but his own
fashion, and drawling out his accents accordingly, so as to increase
sounds of his own voice—sounds which he certainly esteemed to
be among the most musical in nature.—“You mus' know den,
Sir, that Limping Jake came to me a while ago, tells me as how,
late last night, when he was a-hunting 'possum, he came across
an Indian camp, down by the `Red Gulley.' They had a fire,
and was a-putting up the poles, and stripping the bark to cover
them. Jake only seed two of them; but it's onpossible that they'll
stick at that. Before we know anything, they'll be spreading
like varmints all about us, and putting hands and teeth on every
thing, without so much as axing who mout be the owner.”
“Well, Mingo, what of all this?” demanded the master, as the
driver came to a pause, and looked volumes of increased dignity,
while he concluded the intelligence which he meant to be astounding.
“Wha' of all this, Mossa!—Why, Sir, de'rs 'nough of it. Ef
the hogs and the chickens did'nt go before, they'll be very apt to
go now, with these red varmints about us.”
“Surely, if you don't look after them; but that's your business,
Mingo. You must see to the poultry houses yourself, at
night, and keep a close watch over these squatters so long as they
are pleased to stay.”
“But, Mossa, I aint gwine to let 'em stay! To my idee, that's
not the wisdom of the thing. Now, John Groning, the obershar
of old mossa—though I don't much reprove of his onderstanding
in other expects, yet he tuk the right reason, when he druv them
off, bag and baggage, and wouldn't let hoof nor hide of 'em stretch
off upon the land. I ha'nt seen these red varmints, myself, but I
come to let you know, that I was gwine out to asperse, and send
'em off, under the shake of a cowhide, and then there's no farther
needcessity to keep a look out upon them. I'm not willing to let
such critters hang about my plantation.”
The reader has already observed, that an established driver
speaks always of his charge as if it were a possession of his own.
With Mingo, as with most such, it was my horse, my land, my ox,
and my ass, and all that is mine. His tone was much subdued,
as he listened to the reply of his master, uttered in accents something
sterner than he had been wont to hear.
“I'm obliged to you, Mingo, for coming to inform me of your
intentions. Now, I command you to do nothing of this sort. Let
these poor devils remain where they are, and do you attend to
your duty, which is to see that they do no mischief. If I mistake
not, the `Red Gulley' is the place where they have been getting
their clay ever since my grandfather settled this plantation.”
“That's a truth, Sir, but—”
“Let them get it there still. I prefer that they should do so,
even though I may lose a hog now and then, and suffer some decrease
in the fowl yard. I am pleased that they should come to
the accustomed place for their clay—”
“But, Sir, only last year, John Groning druv 'em off.”
“I am the better pleased then, at the confidence they repose
in me. Probably they know that John Groning can no longer
drive them off. I am glad that they give me an opportunity to treat
them more justly. They can do me little harm, and as their
fathers worked in the same holes, I am pleased that they, too,
should work there. I will not consent to their expulsion for such
small evils as you mention. But I do not mean, Mingo, that they
shall be suffered to infest the plantation, or to do any mischief.
You will report to me, if you see any thing going wrong, and to
do this while they stay; you will look very closely into their
proceedings. I, myself, will have an eye upon them, and if there
be but two of them, and they seem sober, I will give them an allowance
of corn while they stay.”
“Well, but Mossa, there's no needcessity for that, and considering
that the Corn-House aint oberfull—”
“No more at present, Mingo. I will see into the matter during
the day. Meanwhile, you can ride out to the `Red Gulley,'
see these people, and say to them, from me, that, so long as
they behave themselves civilly, they may remain. I am not satisfied
that these poor wretches should be denied camping ground
and a little clay, on a spot which their people once possessed exclusively.
I shall probably see them after you, and will then be
better able to determine upon their deserts.”
3. CHAPTER III.
Mingo retired from the conference rather chap-fallen. He
was not so well satisfied with the result of his communication.
He had some hope to commend himself more than ever to his
youthful master by the zeal and vigilance which he had striven to
display. Disappointed in this hope, he was still further mortified
to perceive how little deference was shown him by one, whose
youthful judgment he hoped to direct, and of whose inexperience
he had possibly some hope to take advantage. He loved to display
his authority, and sometimes seemed absolutely to fancy
himself the proprietor, whose language of command he had habituated
himself to employ; on the present occasion, he made his
way from the presence of his master with no complacent feelings,
and his displeasure vented itself very unequivocally upon a favourite
hound who lay at the foot of the outer steps, and whom he
kicked off with a savage satisfaction, and sent howling to his
kennel. A boy coming to him with a message from the kitchen,
was received with a smart application of his wagon whip, and
made to follow the example, if he did not exactly imitate the peculiar
music of the hound. Mingo certainly made his exit in a
rage. Half an hour after, he might have been seen, mounted on
his marsh tacky, making tracks for the “Red Gulley,” determined,
if he was not suffered to expel the intruders, at least, to
show them that it was in his power, during their stay, to diminish
very considerably the measure of their satisfaction. His wrath
—like that of all consequential persons who feel themselves in the
wrong, yet lack courage to be right—was duly warmed by nursing;
and, pregnant with terrible looks and accents, he burst
upon the little encampment at “Red Gulley,” in a way that “was
a caution” to all evil doers!
The squatters had only raised one simple habitation of poles,
and begun a second which adjoined it. The first was covered in
with bushes, bark and saplings; the second was slightly advanced,
and the hatchet lay before it, in waiting for the hand by
strewed in front of the former, and a lean cur—one of those gaunt,
far sighted, keen nosed animals which the Indians employed;
dock tailed, short haired, bushy eyed—lay among the ashes, and
did not offer to stir at the appearance of the terror-breathing
Mingo. Still, though he moved not, his keen eyes followed the
movements of the Driver with as jealous a glance as those of his
owner would have done; while the former alighted from his
horse, peered around the wigwam, and finally penetrated it.
Here he saw nobody, and nothing to reward his scrutiny. Reappearing
from the hut, he hallooed with the hope of obtaining
some better satisfaction, but his call was unanswered. The dog
alone raised his head, looked up at the impatient visitor, and, as
if satisfied with a single glance, at once resumed his former luxurious
position. Such stolidity, bad enough in an Indian, was
still more impertinent in an Indian dog; and, forgetting every
thing but his consequence, and the rage with which he had set
out from home, Mingo, without more ado, laid his lash over the
animal with no measured violence of stroke. It was then that
he found an answer to his challenge. A clump of myrtles opened
at a little distance behind him, and the swarthy red cheeks of
an Indian man appeared through the aperture, to which his voice
summoned the eyes of the assailant.
“You lick dog,” said the owner, with accents which were rather
soft and musical than stern, “dog is good, what for you lick dog?”
Such a salutation, at the moment, rather startled the imperious
driver; not that he was a timid fellow, or that his wrath had in the
least degree abated; but that he was surprised completely. Had
the voice reached him from the woods in front, he would have
been better prepared for it; but, coming from the rear, his imagination
made it startling, and increased its solemnity. He turned
at the summons, and, at the same moment, the Indian, making
his way through the myrtles, advanced toward the negro. There
was nothing in his appearance to awaken the apprehensions of
the latter. The stranger was small and slight of person, and
evidently beyond the middle period of life. Intemperance, too,
the great curse of the Indian who has long been a dweller in contact
with the Anglo-Saxon settler—(the French, par parenthese,
drunkard)—had made its ravages upon his form, and betrayed itself
in every lineament of his face. His step, even while he approached
the negro, was unsteady from the influence of liquor;
and as all these signs of feebleness became obvious to the eye of
Mingo, his courage, and with it his domineering insolence of character,
speedily returned to him.
“Lick dog!” he exclaimed, as he made a movement to the
Catawba, and waved his whip threateningly, “lick dog, and lick
Indian too.”
“Lick Indian—get knife!” was the quiet answer of the savage,
whose hand, at the same instant, rested upon the horn handle of
his couteau de chasse, where it stuck in the deerskin belt that
girdled his waist.
“Who's afeard?” said Mingo, as he clubbed his whip and
threw the heavy loaded butt of it upon his shoulder. The slight
frame of the Indian moved his contempt only; and the only circumstance
that prevented him from instantly putting his threat
into execution, was the recollection of that strange interest which
his master had taken in the squatters, and his positive command
that they should not be ill treated or expelled. While he hesitated,
however, the Catawba gave him a sufficient excuse, as he
fancied, for putting his original intention into execution. The
threatening attitude, partial advance of the foe, together with the
sight of the heavy handled whip reversed and hanging over him,
had, upon the mind of the savage, all the effect of an absolute
assault. He drew his knife in an instant, and flinging himself
forward to the feet of the negro, struck an upright blow with his
weapon, which would have laid the entrails of his enemy open
to the light, but for the promptitude of the latter, who, receding
at the same instant, avoided and escaped the blow. In the next
moment, levelling his whip at the head of the stooping Indian, he
would most probably have retorted it with fatal effect, but for an
unlooked for interruption. His arms were both grappled by some
one from behind, and, for the perilous moment, effectually prevented
from doing any harm. With some difficulty, he shook off
the last comer, who, passing in front, between the hostile parties,
proved to be an Indian woman.
4. CHAPTER IV.
Before this discovery was fairly made, the wrath of Mingo
had been such as to render him utterly forgetful of the commands
of his master. He was now ready for the combat to the knife;
and had scarcely shaken himself free from his second assailant,
before he advanced with redoubled resolution upon the first. He,
by the way, equally aroused, stood ready, with closed lips, keen
eye and lifted knife, prepared for the encounter. All the peculiarities
of the Indian shone out in the imperturbable aspect, composed
muscles, and fiery gleaming eyes of the now half-sobered
savage; who, as if conscious of the great disparity of strength between
himself and foe, was mustering all his arts of war, all his
stratagems and subtleties, to reduce those inequalities from which
he had every thing to apprehend. But they were not permitted
to fight. The woman now threw herself between them; and, at
her appearance, the whip of Mingo fell from his shoulder, and
his mood became instantly pacific. She was the wife of the
savage, but certainly young enough to have been his daughter.
She was decidedly one of the comeliest squaws that had ever
enchanted the eyes of the Driver, and her life-darting eyes, the
emotion so visible in her face, and the boldness of her action, as
she passed between their weapons, with a hand extended toward
each, was such as to inspire him with any other feelings than
those which possessed him towards the squatters. Mingo was
susceptible of the tender influences of love. As brave as Julius
Cæsar, in his angry mood, he was yet quite as pliant as Mark
Antony in the hour of indulgence; and the smile of one of the
ebon damsels of his race, at the proper moment, has frequently
saved her and others from the penalties incurred by disobedience
of orders, or unfinished tasks. Nor were his sentiments towards
the sex confined to those of his master's plantation only. He
penetrated the neighbouring estates with the excursive and reckless
nature of the Prince of Troy, and, more than once, in consequence
scarcely less fierce, though less protracted than those of Ilium.
His success with the favoured sex was such as to fill him with a
singular degree of confidence in his own prowess and personal
attractions. Mingo knew that he was a handsome fellow, and
fancied a great deal more. He was presumptuous enough—
surely there are no white men so!—to imagine that it was scarcely
possible for any of the other sex, in their sober senses, to withstand
him. This impression grew singularly strong, as he gazed upon
the Indian woman. So bright an apparition had not met his eyes
for many days. His local associations were all staling—the
women he was accustomed to behold, had long since lost the
charm of novelty in his sight—and, with all his possessions, Mingo,
like Alexander of Macedon, was still yearning for newer conquests.
The first glance at the Indian woman, assured his
roving fancies that they had not yearned in vain. He saw in
her a person whom he thought destined to provoke his jaded
tastes anew, and restore his passions to their primitive ascendancy.
The expression of his eye softened as he surveyed her. War
fled from it like a discomfited lion; and if love, squatting quietly
down in his place, did not look altogether so innocent as the lamb,
he certainly promised not to roar so terribly. He now looked
nothing but complacence on both the strangers; on the woman
because of her own charms; on the man because of the charms
which he possessed in her. But such was not the expression in
the countenance of the Indian. He was not to be moved by the
changes which he beheld in his enemy, but still kept upon him a
wary watch, as if preparing for the renewal of the combat.
There was also a savage side-glance which his keen fiery eyes
threw upon the woman, which seemed to denote some little anger
towards herself. This did not escape the watchful glance of our
gay Lothario, who founded upon it some additional hope of success
in his schemes. Meanwhile, the woman was not idle nor silent.
She did not content herself with simply going between the combatants,
but her tongue was active in expostulation with her
sovereign, in a dialect not the less musical to the ears of Mingo
because he did not understand a word of it. The tones were
sweet, and he felt that they counselled peace and good will to the
expression of his face, and the mere sounds of his brief, guttural
replies, had, like Sempronius, a voice for war only. Something,
too, of a particular harshness in his manner, seemed addressed to
the woman alone. Her answers were evidently those of deprecation
and renewed entreaty; but they did not seem very much
to influence her Lord and master, or to soften his mood. Mingo
grew tired of a controversy in which he had no share, and fancied,
with a natural self-complacency, that he could smooth down some
of its difficulties.
“Look yer, my friend,” he exclaimed, advancing, with extended
hand, while a volume of condescension was written upon
his now benignant features—“Look yer, my friend, it's no use
to be at knife-draw any longer. I didn't mean to hurt you when I
raised the whip, and as for the little touch I gin the dog, why
that's neither here nor there. The dog's more easy to squeal
than-most dogs I know. Ef I had killed him down to the brush
at his tail eend, he could'nt ha' holla'd more. What's the sense
to fight for dogs? Here—here's my hand—we won't quarrel any
longer, and, as for fighting, I somehow never could fight when
there was a woman standing by. It's onbecoming, I may say,
and so here's for peace between us. Will you shake?”
The proffered hand was not taken. The Indian still kept
aloof with the natural caution of his race; but he seemed to
relax something of his watchfulness, and betrayed less of that
still and deliberate anxiety which necessarily impresses itself
upon the most courageous countenance in the moment of expected
conflict. Again the voice of the woman spoke in tones of reconciliation,
and, this time, words of broken English were audible, in
what she said, to the ears of the Driver. Mingo fancied that he
had never heard better English—of which language he considered
himself no humble proficient—nor more sweetly spoken by any
lips. The savage darted an angry scowl at the speaker in return,
uttered but a single stern word in the Catawba, and pointed his
finger to the wigwam as he spoke. Slowly, the woman turned
away and disappeared within its shelter. Mingo began to be
impatient of the delay, probably because of her departure, and
proceeded, with more earnestness than before, to renew his proposition
of his race in remembering threats and injuries.
“Lick dog, lick Indian; lick Indian, get knife—hah!”
“Who's afeard!” said the Driver. “Look yer, my friend:
'taint your knife, let me tell you, that's gwine to make me turn
tail on any chicken of your breed. You tried it, and what did
you git? Why, look you, if it hadn't been for the gripe of the
gal—maybe she's your daughter, mout-be your sister?—but it's
all one—ef it hadn't been her gripe which fastened my arm, the
butt of my whip would have flattened you, until your best friend
couldn't ha' said where to look for your nose. You'd ha' been
all face after that, smooth as bottom land, without e'er a snag or
a stump; and you'd have passed among old acquaintance for
any body sooner than yourself. But I'm no brag dog—nor I
don't want to be a biting dog, nother; when there's nothing to
fight for. Let's be easy. P'rhaps you don't feel certain whose
plantation you're on here. Mout be if you know'd, you'd find
out it wa'nt altogether the best sense to draw knife on Mingo
Gillison.—Why, look you, my old boy, I'm able to say what I
please here—I makes the law for this plantation—all round
about, so far as you can see from the top of the tallest of them
'ere pine trees, I'm the master! I look 'pon the pine land field,
and I say, `Tom, Peter, Ned, Dick, Jack, Ben, Toney, Sam—
boys—you must 'tack that field to-morrow.' I look 'pon the
swamp field, and I say to 'nother ten, `boys, go there!'—high
land and low land, upland and swamp, corn and cotton, rice and
rye, all 'pen 'pon me for order; and jis' as Mingo say, jis' so
they do. Well, wha' after dat! It stands clear to the leetlest
eye, that 'taint the best sense to draw knife on Mingo Gillison;
here, on he own ground. 'Spose my whip can't do the mischief,
it's a needcessity only to draw a blast out of this 'ere horn, and
there'll be twenty niggers 'pon you at once, and ebery one of dem
would go off wid 'he limb. But I ain't a hard man, my fren', ef
you treat me softly. You come here to make your clay pots and
pans. Your people bin use for make 'em here for sebenty
nine—mout-be forty seben year—who knows? Well, you can
make 'em here, same as you been usen to make 'em, so long as
you 'habe you'self like a gemplemans. But none of your
you. 'Mout-be, I'll trade with you for some of your pots.
Clay-pot is always best for bile hom'ny.”
We have put in one paragraph the sum and substance of a
much longer discourse which Mingo addressed to his Indian
guest. The condescensions of the negro had a visible effect upor
the squatter, the moment that he was made to comprehend the
important station which the former enjoyed; and when the Indian
woman was fairly out of sight, Richard Knuckles, for such was the
English name of the Catawba, gradually restored his knife to his
belt, and the hand which had been withheld so long, was finally given
in a gripe of amity to the negro, who shook it as heartily as if
he had never meditated towards the stranger any but the most
hospitable intentions. He was now as affectionate and indulgent,
as he had before shown himself hostile; and the Indian, after a
brief space, relaxed much of the hauteur which distinguishes the
deportment of the Aborigines. But Mingo was pained to observe
that Richard never once asked him into his wigwam, and, while he
remained, that the squaw never once came out of it. This reserve
betokened some latent apprehension of mischief; and the whole
thoughts of our enamoured Driver were bent upon ways and
means for overcoming this austerity, and removing the doubts of
the strangers. He contrived to find out that Caloya—such was
the woman's name—was the wife of the man; and he immediately
jumped to a conclusion which promised favourably for his
schemes. “An ole man wid young wife!” said he, with a
complacent chuckle, “Ah, ha! he's afeard!—well, he hab' good
'casion for fear'd, when Mingo Gillison is 'pon de ground.”
5. CHAPTER V.
But though warmed with these encouraging fancies, our conceited
hero found the difficulties to be much more numerous and
formidable than he had anticipated. The woman was as shy as
the most modest wife could have shown herself, and no Desdemona
could have been more certainly true to her liege lord.
Mingo paid no less than three visits that day to the wigwam, and
all without seeing her, except at his first coming, when she was
busied with, but retired instantly from, her potteries, in which
Richard Knuckles took no part, and seemingly no interest. Lazy,
like all his race, he lay in the sun, on the edge of the encampment,
with an eye but half open, but that half set directly upon
the particular movements of his young wife. Indians are generally
assumed to be cold and insensible, and some doubts have
been expressed, whether their sensibilities could ever have been
such as to make them open to the influence of jealousy. These
notions are ridiculous enough; and prove nothing half so decidedly
as the gross ignorance of those who entertain them. Something,
of course, is to be allowed for the natural differences
between a civilized and savage people. Civilization is prolific,
barbarism sterile. The dweller in the city has more various
appetites and more active passions than the dweller in the camp;
and the habits of the hunter, lead, above all things, to an intense
gathering up of all things in self; a practice which tends, necessarily,
to that sort of independence which is, perhaps, neither
more nor less than one aspect of barrenness. But, while the
citizen is allowed to have more various appetites and intenser passions
in general, the Indian is not without those which, indeed,
are essential to constitute his humanity. That he can love, is
undeniable—that he loves with the ardour of the white, may be
more questionable. That he can love, however, with much
intensity, may fairly be inferred from the fact that his hate is
subtle and is nourished with traditional tenacity and reverence.
savage state, even if true, would not apply to the same animal in
his degraded condition, as a borderer of the white settlements.
Degraded by beastly habits, and deprived by them of the fiercer
and warlike qualities of his ancestors, he is a dependent, (and
jealousy is a creature of dependence)—a most wretched dependent,
and that, too, upon his women—she who, an hundred years ago,
was little other than his slave, and frequently his victim. In his
own feebleness, he learns to esteem her strength; and, in due
degree with his own degradation, is her rise into importance in
his sight. But it does not matter materially to our present narrative,
whether men should, or should not agree, as to the sensibilities
of the savage to the tender passion. It is probable, that
few warlike nations are very susceptible of love; and as for the
middle ages, which might be urged as an exception to the justice
of this remark, Sismondi is good authority to show that Burke
had but little reason to deplore their loss: “Helas! cet heroisme
universel nous avons nomme la chevalerie, n'exista jamais comme
fictions brillantes!” There were no greater brutes than the
warriors of the middle ages.
Richard Knuckles, whether he loved his young wife or not,
was certainly quite as jealous of her as Othello was of his.
Not, perhaps, so much of her affections as of her deference; and
this, by the way, was also something of the particular form of
jealousy under which the noble Moor suffered. The proud spirit
chafes that another object should stand for a moment between his
particular sunlight and himself. His jealousy had been awakened
long before, and this led to his temporary separation from his
tribe. Caloya, it may be added, yielded, without a murmur, to
the caprices of her lord, to whom she had been given by her
father. She was as dutiful as if she loved him; and, if conduct
alone could be suffered to test the quality of virtue, her affection
for him was quite as earnest, pure and eager, as that of the most
devoted woman. That she could not love him, is a conclusion
only to be drawn from the manifest inequalities between them.
He was old and brutal—a truly worthless, sottish savage—while
she, if not a beauty, was yet comely to the eye, very youthful,
tidy in person, and good humoured in disposition.
Our hero, Mingo, was not only persuaded that she could not
love Knuckles, but he equally soon became convinced that she
could be made to love himself. He left no opportunity untried to
effect this desirable result; and, after a most fatiguing trial, he
succeeded so far in a part of his scheme as to beguile the husband
into good humour if not blindness. Returning towards
nightfall to the camp, Mingo brought with him a “chunk-bottle”
of whiskey, the potency of which, over the understanding of an
Indian, he well knew; and displaying his treasure to Knuckles,
was invited by him, for the first time, with a grunt of cordiality,
to enter the wigwam of the squatters. The whiskey while it
lasted convinced Knuckles, that he had no better friend in the
world than Mingo Gillison, and he soon became sufficiently
blinded by its effects, to suffer the frequent and friendly glances
of the Driver towards his wife, without discovering that they
were charged with any especial signs of intelligence. Yet never
was a more ardent expression of wilful devotion thrown into
human eyes before. Mingo was something of an actor, and
many an actor might have taken a goodly lesson of his art from
the experienced Driver. He was playing Romeo, an original
part always, to his own satisfaction. Tenderness, almost to tears,
softened the fiery ardour of his glance, and his thick lips grew
doubly thick, in the effort to throw into them an expression of
devoted languor. But all his labour seemed to go for nothing
—nay, for something worse than nothing—in the eyes of the
faithful wife. If her husband could not see the arts of the amorous
negro, she would not see them; and when, at supper, it
sometimes became necessary that her eyes should look where the
lover sat, the look which she gave him was stony and inexpressive
—cold to the last degree; and, having looked, it would be averted
instantly with a haste, which, to a less confident person would
have been vastly discouraging and doubtful. As it was, even
the self-assured Mingo was compelled to acknowledge, in his
mental soliloquy that night as he made his way homeward, that,
so far his progress was not a subject of brag, and scarcely of
satisfaction. The woman, he felt, had resisted his glances, or,
owing, so he fancied, entirely to her caution and the natural
dread which she had of her fiercely minded sovereign. Mingo
retired to his couch that night to plan, and to dream of plans, for
overcoming the difficulties in the way of his own, and, as he persisted
in believing, the natural desires of Caloya. It may be
stated in this place, that, under the new aspects which the squatters
had assumed in his eyes, he did not think it necessary to make
any very copious statement of his proceedings to his master; but,
after the fashion of certain public committees, when in difficulty
among themselves, he wisely concluded to report progress and
beg permission to sit again.
6. CHAPTER VI.
“Dem 'ere Indians,” he said the next morning to his master—
“dem 'ere Indians—der's only two ob 'em come yet, sir—I
aint altogether sure about 'em—I has'n't any exspecial 'spicion,
sir, from what I seed yesterday, that they's very honest
in particklar, and then agen, I see no reasons that they aint honest.
It mout be, they might steal a hen, sir, if she was reasonable
to come at—it mout be, they mout eben go deeper into a
hog;—but then agen, it mout'n't be after all, and it wouldn't be
right justice to say, tell a body knows for certain. There's no
telling yet, sir. An Indian, as I may say, naterally, is honest or
he aint honest;—and there's no telling which, sir, 'tell he steals
something, or tell he goes off without stealing;—and so all that
kin be done, sir, is to find out if he's a thief, or if he's not a thief;
and I think, sir, I'm in a good way to git at the rights of the matter
before worse comes to worser. As you say, Mossa, it's my business
to see that you ain't worsened by 'em.”
Without insisting that Col. Gillison entirely understood the ingenious
speech of his driver, we can at least assert, with some
confidence, that he was satisfied with it. Of an indolent disposition,
the young master was not unwilling to be relieved from the
trouble of seeing himself after the intruders; and though he dismissed
the amorous Mingo with an assurance, that he would take
an early opportunity to look into their camp, the cunning driver,
who perhaps guessed very correctly on the subject of his master's
temperament, was fully persuaded that his own movements would
suffer no interruption from the command or supervision of the
other. Accordingly, sallying forth immediately after breakfast,
he took his way to the encampment, where he arrived in time to
perceive some fragments of a Catawba dejeûné, which, while it
awakened his suspicions, did not in any measure provoke his appetite.
There were numerous small well-picked bones, which
might have been those of a squirrel, as Richard Knuckles somewhat
of his master's brood-hens, as Mingo Gillison half suspected. But,
though he set forth with a declared resolve not to suffer his master's
interests to be “worsened,” our driver did not seem to think
it essential to this resolution to utter his suspicions, or to search
more narrowly into the matter. He seemed to take for granted
that Richard Knuckles had spoken nothing but the truth, and he
himself showed nothing but civility. He had not made his visit
without bringing with him a goodly portion of whiskey in his flask,
well knowing that no better medium could be found for procuring
the confidence and blinding the jealous eyes of the Indian. But
he soon discovered that this was not his true policy, however
much he had fancied in the first instance that it might subserve
it. He soothed the incivilities of the Catawba, and
warmed his indifference by the liquor, but he, at the same time,
and from the same cause, made him stationary in the camp. So
long as the whiskey lasted, the Indian would cling to the spot,
and when it was exhausted he was unable to depart. The prospect
was a bad one for the Driver that day in the camp of the squatters,
since, though the woman went to her tasks without delay,
and clung to them with the perseverance of the most devoted industry,
the Hunter was neither able nor willing to set forth upon his.
The bow was unbent and unslung, lying across his lap, and he,
himself, leaning back against his tree, seemed to have no wish beyond
the continued possession of the genial sunshine in which
he basked. In vain did Mingo, sitting beside him, cast his
wistful eyes towards the woman who worked at a little distance,
and whom, while her husband was wakeful, he did
not venture to approach. Something, he thought, might be
done by signs, but the inflexible wife never once looked up
from the clay vessel which her hands were employed to round
—an inflexibility which the conceited negro ascribed not so
much to her indifference to his claims, as to her fears of her
savage husband. We must not forget to say that the tongue of
the Driver was seldom silent, however much his thoughts might be
confused and his objects baffled. He had a faith in his own eloquence,
not unlike that of the greater number of our young and promising
statesmen; and did not doubt, though he could not speak
reach her senses, and make the desired impression. With this idea,
it may be readily supposed that he said a great many things
which were much better calculated to please her, than to meet the
assent of her husband.
“Now,” for example, continuing a long dissertation on the
physiological and psychological differences between his own and
the Indian race, in which he strove to prove to the satisfaction of
the Catawba, the infinite natural and acquired superiorities of the
former,—“Now,” said he, stretching his hand forth towards the
toiling woman, and establishing his case, as he thought conclusively,
by a resort to the argumentum ad hominem—“now, you
see, if that 'ere gal was my wife instead of your'n, Knuckles, do
you think I'd let her extricate herself here in a br'iling sun, working
her fingers off, and I lying down here in the grass a-doing nothing,
and only looking on? No! I'd turn in and give her good resistance;
'cause why, Knuckles? 'Cause, you see, it's not, I may say, a
'spectable sight to see the woman doing all the work what's a
needcessity, and the man a-doing nothing. The woman warn't
made for hard work at all. My women I redulges—I never pushes
'em—I favours them all that I kin, and it goes agin me mightily,
I tell you, when it's a needcessity to give 'em the lash. But
I scores the men like old Harry. I gives them their desarbings;
and if so be the task ain't done, let them look out for thick jackets.
'Twont be a common homespun that'll keep off my cuts. I
do not say that I overwork my people. That's not the idee. My
tasks is a'most too easy, and there's not a nigger among 'em that
can't get through, if he's exposed that way, by tree o'clock in de
day. The women has their task, but they're twice as easy, and
then I don't open both eyes when I'm looking to see if they've got
through 'em. 'Tain't often you hear my women in trivilation; and,
I know, it stands to reason what I'm telling you, that a black Gentlemen
is always more 'spectable to a woman than an Indian.
Dere's your wife now, and dere's you. She ain't leff her business
since I bin here, and you haint gone to your'n, nor you ain't
gin her a drop of the whiskey. Not to say that a gal so young
as that ought to drink whiskey and chaw tobacco—but for the sake
of compliment now, 'twas only right that you should ha' ax her
her; you ain't done a stroke since breakfast. Ef you was
under me, Knuckles, I'd a laid this green twig over your red jacket
in a way that would ha' made a 'possum laugh.”
“Eh!” was the only exclamation of the half drunken Indian,
at this characteristic conclusion of the negro's speech; but, though
Knuckles said nothing that could denote his indignation at the irreverent
threat, which, though contingent only, was excessively
annoying to the amour propre of the Catawba, there was a gleam
of angry intelligence which flashed out for a moment from his
eyes and his thin lips parted to a grin that showed his white teeth
with an expression not unlike that of a wolf hard pressed by one
more daring cur than the rest. Either Mingo did not see this, or
he thought too lightly of the prowess of his companion to heed it.
He continued in the same strain and with increasing boldness.
“Now I say, Knuckles, all that's onbecoming. A woman's a
woman, and a man's a man. A woman has her sort of work,
and it's easy. And a man has his sort of work, and that's hard.
Now, here you make this poor gal do your work and her own too.
That's not fair, it's a despisable principle, and I may say, no man's
a gempleman that believes it. Ha'n't I seed, time upon time, Indian
men going along, stiff and straight as a pine tree, carrying
nothing but a bow and arrow, and mout be, a gun; and, same
time, the squaws walking a most double under the load. That's
a common ex-servation. Iv'e seed it a hundred times. Is that
'spectful or decent to the fair seck? I say no, and I'll stand by, and
leave it to any tree gentlemen of any complexion, ef I ain't right.”
It was well, perhaps, for the maintenance of peace between the
parties, that Knuckles was too drunk and too ignorant to comprehend
all that was spoken by the Driver. The leading idea, however,
was sufficiently clear for his comprehension, and to this he
answered with sufficient brevity and phlegm.
“Indian woman is good for work—Indian man for hunt; woman
is good for hab children; man for shoot—man for fight. The
Catawba man is very good for fight;” and as the poor, miserable
creature spoke, the fire of a former and a better day, seemed to
kindle his cheeks and give lustre to his eye. Probably, the
memory of that traditional valour which distinguished the people
with the neighbouring nations, came over his thoughts, and
warned him with something like a kindred sentiment with those
which had been so long forgotten by his race.
“Oh, go 'long!” said the negro. “How you talk, Knuckles!
wha make you better for fight more dan me? Ki, man! Once
you stan' afore Mingo, you tumble. Ef I was to take you in my
arms and give you one good hug, Lor' ha' massy 'pon you!
You'd neber feel yourself after that, and nothing would be lef' of
you for you wife to see, but a long greasy mark, most like a little
old man, yer, 'pon my breast and thighs. I never seed the Indian
yet that I could'nt lick, fair up and down, hitch cross, or big
cross, hand over, hand under, arm lock and leg lock, in seventeen
and nine minutes, by the sun. You don't know, Knuckles,
else you would'nt talk so foolish. Neber Indian kin stan' agen
black man, whedder for fight or work. That's the thing I'm
talking 'bout. You can't fight fair and you can't work. You
aint got strengt' for it. All your fighting is bush fighting and
behind tree, and you' woman does the work. Now, wha' make
you lie down here, and not go 'pon you' hunting? That's 'cause
you're lazy. You come look at my hands, see 'em plough, see
'em hoe, see 'em mak' ditch, cut tree, split rail, buil' house—
when you see dem, you'll see wha' I call man. I would'nt give
tree snap of a finger for any pusson that's so redolent as an Indian.
They're good for nothing but eat.”
“Catawba man is good for fight!” sullenly responded the Indian
to a speech which the negro soon found to have been imprudently
concerted and rashly spoken, in more respects than one.
“Nigger man and squaw is good for work!” continued the other
disdainfully, his thin lips curling into an expression of scorn
which did not escape the eyes of Mingo, obtuse as his vanity
necessarily made him. “Catawba man is a free man, he can
sleep or he can hunt,” pursued the savage, retorting decidedly
upon the condition of the slave, but without annoying the sleek,
well fed and self-complacent driver. “Nigger man ain't free
man—he must work, same like Indian squaw.”
“Oh, skion! Oh! skion! wha's all dat, Knuckles? You don't
know wha' you say. Who make you free? wha' make you
'pon poor woman for work your pot, and half de time you got
not'ing to put in 'em. Now, I is free man! Cause, you see my
pot is always full, and when I does my work like a gempleman,—
who cares? I laughs at mossa jist the same as I laughs at you.
You free eh?—you! Whay you hab coat like mine? Whay, you
hab breeches? Why, Knuckles, you aint decent for stan' 'fore
you wife. Dat's trut' I'm telling you. How you can be free
when you aint decent? How you can be free when you no
work? How you can be free when you half-starbing all de time?
When you aint got blanket to you' back—when you aint got fat
'pon you rib. When here, you expen' 'pon my land to get the
mud-stuff for you' pots and pans! Psho, psho, Knuckles, you
don't know wha' you talk 'bout. You aint hab sensible notion of
dem tings wha make free pusson. Nebber man is freeman, ef
he own arm can't fill he stomach. Nebber man is freeman if he
own work can't put clothes 'pon he back. Nebber man is freeman—no,
nor gempleman neider, when he make he purty young
wife do all de work, him lying same time, wid he leg cross and
he eye half shut, in de long grass smelling ob de sunshine. No,
no, Knuckles, you must go to you' work, same as I goes to mine,
ef you wants people to desider you a freeman. Now you' work
is hunting—my work is for obersee my plantation. It's a trut',
your work aint obermuch—'taint wha' gempleman kin call work
altogedder, but nebber mind, it's someting. Now, wha for you no
go to you' work? Come, I gwine to mine. You strike off now
'pon your business. I reckon you' wife can make he pots, same
as ef we bin' stan' look 'pon 'em. Woman don't like to be
obershee, and when I tink 'pon de seck, I don't see any needcessity
for it.”
The Indian darted a fierce glance at the authoritative negro,
and simply exclaiming, “Eh! Eh!” rose from his position, and
tottering towards the spot where the woman was at work, uttered
a few brief words in her ear which had the immediate effect of
sending her out of sight, and into the hovel. He then returned
quietly to his nest beneath the tree. Mingo was somewhat annoyed
by the conviction that he had overshot his object, and had
provoked the always eager suspicions of the savage. Knuckles
fierce glances, even if he had no words to declare his feelings,
sufficiently betrayed to the negro the jealousies that were awakened
in his mind. The latter felt troubled. He fancied that, in the
pursuit of his desires, were the woman alone concerned, he should
have no difficulty, but he knew not what to do with the man. To
scare him off was impossible—to beguile him from his treasure
seemed equally difficult, and, in his impatience, the dogmatical
driver, accustomed to have his will instantly obeyed, could scarcely
restrain himself from a second resort to the whip. A moment's
reflection brought a more prudent resolution to his mind, and seeing
that the squatters were likely to go without food that day, he
determined to try the effect which the presentation of a flitch of
his master's bacon would have, upon the jealousy of the husband,
and the affections of the wife. With this resolution, he retired from
the ground, though without declaring his new and gracious purpose
to either of the parties whom it was intended especially to
benefit.
7. CHAPTER VII.
The flitch was brought, boiled, and laid before the squatters.
It was accompanied by a wholesome supply of corn bread; and
this liberality, which had, for its sanction, in part, the expressed
determination of the master, had for its effect, the restoration of
Mingo to that favour in the mind of the savage, which his imprudent
opinions had forfeited. Even a jealous Indian, when so very
hungry as our Catawba, and so utterly wanting in resources of
his own, cannot remain insensible to that generosity, however
suspicious, which fills his larder with good cheer in the happy
moment. He relaxed accordingly, Mingo was invited into the
hovel, and made to partake of the viands which he had provided.
A moderate supply of whiskey accompanied the gift, enough to
give a flavour to the meal, yet not enough to produce intoxication.
Mingo was resolved henceforth, to do nothing which would keep
himself and Knuckles from an uninterrupted pursuit of their several
game. But while the meal lasted, he saw but few results,
beyond the thawing of Knuckles, which promised him success in
his object. Caloya was, if possible, more freezing than ever.
She never deigned him the slightest acknowledgment for his numerous
civilities, which were not merely profitless, but which
had the additional disadvantage of attracting the eyes, and finally
re-awakening the jealous apprehensions of Knuckles; still, the
good cheer was so good, and the facility with which it had been
procured, so very agreeable to a lazy Indian, that he swallowed
his dissatisfaction with his pottage, and the meal passed over
without any special outbreak. Mingo, so near the object of his
desire, was by no means disposed to disputation with her husband,
and contented himself with only an occasional burst of declamation,
which was intended rather for her ears than for those of her
lord. But he strove to make amends for their forbearance, by addressing
the most excruciating glances across the table to the fair
did not often seem to see.
Mingo was in hopes, when dinner was over, that Knuckles
would take up his bow and arrows, and set forth on the hunt.
To this he endeavoured, in an indirect manner, to urge the savage.
He told him that game was plenty in the neighbouring
woods and swamps—that deer might be found at all hours, and
even proceeded to relate several marvellous stories of his own
success, which failed as well to persuade as to deceive the hunter.
The whiskey being exhausted by this time, and his hunger being
pacified, the jealous fit of the latter returned upon him with all the
vigour of an ague. “Why,” he asked himself, “should this negro
steal his master's bacon to provide Richard Knuckles with a dinner?
Because Richard Knuckles has a young wife, the youngest
and handsomest of the whole tribe. Why should he urge me
to go hunting, and take such pains to show me where the buck
stalks, and the doe sleeps, but that he knows I must leave my
doe behind me? Why should he come and sit with me half a
dozen times a day, but that he may see and sit with my young
wife also?” An Indian reasons very much like every body else,
and jumps very rationally to like conclusions. The reserve of
Knuckles grew with his reflections, and Mingo had sense enough
to perceive that he could hope for no successful operations that
day. The woman was sent from the presence, and her husband
began to exhibit very decided symptoms of returning sulks. He
barely answered the civilities of the driver, and a savage grin
displayed his white teeth, closely clenched, whenever his thin
lips parted to reply. The parting speech of the negro was not
precisely the D. I. O. of the rattle-dandy of fashionable life, but
was very much like it. If he did not swear like a trooper at bidding
adieu, he marked every step on his way homewards with a
most bitter oath.
But success is no ripe fruit to drop at the first opening of the
mouth of the solicitous. Mingo was not the person to forego his
efforts, and he well knew from old experience, that a woman is
never so near won, as when she seems least willing. He was
not easily given to despair, however he might droop, and the next
day, and the next, and the next, found him still a frequent visitor
and the whiskey, and still he found the Catawba a patient recipient
of his favours. The latter saw no reason to leave home
to hunt venison when his larder was so easily provided, and the
former could not, but at some discredit, discontinue the liberal
practices which he had so improvidently begun.
But if Knuckles was not unwilling to be fed after this fashion,
he was not altogether insensible to some of the conditions
which it implied. He could not but perceive that the negro had
his objects, and those objects his jealous blood had led him
long before to conjecture with sufficient exactness. He raged inwardly
with the conviction that the gallant, good looking, and always
well dressed Driver sought to compass his dishonour; and
he was not without the natural fears of age and brutality that,
but for his own eminent watchfulness, he might be successful.
As there was no equality in the conditions of himself and wife,
there was but little confidence between them—certainly none on
his part;—and his suspicions—schooled into silence in the presence
of Mingo, as well because of the food which he brought, as
of the caution which the great physical superiority of the latter
was calculated to inspire—broke out with unqualified violence
when the two were alone together. The night of the first day
when Mingo provided the table of the squatters so bountifully,
was distinguished by a concussion of jealousy, on the part of
Knuckles, which almost led the poor woman to apprehend for her
life. The effects of the good cheer and the whiskey had subsided
and the departure of Mingo was the signal for the domestic
storm.
“Hah! hah! nigger is come for see Ingin wife. Ingin wife
is look 'pon nigger—hah?”
It was thus that he begun the warfare. We have endeavoured
to put into the Indian-English, as more suitable to the subject, and
more accessible to the reader, that dialogue which was spoken in
the most musical Catawba. The reply of the woman, though
meekly expressed, was not without its sting.
“Ingin man eats from nigger hand, drinks from nigger bottle,
and sits down by nigger side in the sunshine. Is Caloya to say,
nigger go to the cornfield—Ingin man go look for meat?”
The husband glared at the speaker with fiery eyes, while his
teeth gleamed maliciously upon her, and were suddenly gnashed
in violence, as he replied:
“Hah! Ingin man must not look pon his wife! Hah! Ingin
woman says—`go hunt, man, go—that no eyes may follow nigger
when he crawls through the bush. Hah!' ”
“Caloya is blind when the nigger comes to the camp. Caloya
looks not where he lies in the sunshine with the husband of Caloya.
Is Enefisto (the Indian name for Knuckles) afraid of nigger?—is
he afraid of Caloya?—let us go: Caloya would go to
her people where they camp by the Edisto.”
“Hah! What said Chickawa, to Caloya? Did he say, come
to our people where they camp by the Edisto? Wherefore should
Caloya go beside the Edisto—Hah?”
This question declared another object of the husband's jealousy.
The woman's reply was as wild as it was immediate.
“Caloya sees not Chickawa—she sees not the nigger—she sees
the clay and she sees the pans—and she sees Enefisto—Enefisto
has said, and her eyes are shut to other men.”
“Caloya lies!”
“Ah!”
“Caloya lies!”
The woman turned away without another word, and re-entering
the miserable wigwam, slunk out of sight in the darkest corner
of it. Thither she was pursued by the inveterate old man,
and there, for some weary hours, she suffered like language of
distrust and abuse without uttering a sentence either of denial or
deprecation. She shed no tears, she uttered no complaints, nor
did her tormentor hear a single sigh escape from her bosom; yet,
without question, her poor heart suffered quite as much from his
cruelty and injustice, as if her lips had betrayed all the extravagant
manifestations known to the sorrows of the civilized.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
It is at least one retributive quality of jealousy, to torment the
mind of the tormentor quite as much, if not more, than it does
that of the victim. The anger of Richard Knuckles kept him
awake the better part of the night; and, in his wakefulness, he
meditated little else than the subject of his present fears. The
indirect reproaches of his wife stung him, and suggested, at the
same time, certain additional reasons for his suspicions. He reflected
that, while he remained a close sentinel at home, it was
impossible that he should obtain sufficient evidence to convict the
parties whom he suspected, of the crime which he feared; for,
by so doing, he must deprive the sooty Paris, who sought his
hovel, of every opportunity for the prosecution of his design.
With that morbid wilfulness of temper which marks the passions
of man aroused beyond the restraints of right reason, he determined
that the negro should have his opportunity; and, changing
his plans, he set forth the next morning before day-peep, obviously
for the purpose of hunting. But he did not remain long absent.
He was fortunate enough just after leaving his cabin to shoot a
fat wild turkey from his roost, on the edge of a little bay that
stood about a mile from his camp; and with this on his shoulder,
he returned stealthily to its neighbourhood, and, hiding himself in
the covert, took such a position as enabled him to keep a keen
watch over his premises and all the movements of Caloya. Until
ten o'clock in the day he saw nothing to produce dissatisfaction
or to alarm his fears. He saw the patient woman come
forth according to custom, and proceed instantly to the “Red Gulley,”
where she resumed her tasks, which she pursued with quite
as much industry, and, seemingly, much more cheerfulness than
when she knew that he was watching. Her lips even broke forth
into song while she pursued her tasks, though the strain was monotonous
and the sentiment grave and melancholy. At ten o'clock,
however, Knuckle's ague returned as he saw the negro make
heaviest shaft upon the string of his bow, and awaited the progress
of events. The movements of Mingo were made with due
circumspection. He did not flatter himself, at first, that the field
was clear, and looked round him with grave anxiety in momentary
expectation of seeing the husband. His salutation of the
wife was sufficiently distant and deferential. He began by asking
after the chief, and received an answer equally cold and unsatisfactory.
He gathered from this answer, however, that
Knuckles was absent; but whether at a distance or at hand, or
for how long a period, were important items of intelligence, which,
as yet, he failed to compass; and it was only by a close cross-examination
of the witness that he arrived at the conclusion, that
Knuckles had at length resumed the duties of the hunter. Even
this conclusion reached him in a negative and imperfect form.
“Shall Ingin woman say to Ingin man, when he shall hunt and
where, and how long he shall be gone?” demanded the woman in
reply to the eager questioning of the negro.
“Certainly not, most angelical!” was the elevated response of
the black, as his lips parted into smiles, and his eyes shot forth
the glances of warmer admiration than ever. The arrow of
Knuckles trembled meanwhile upon the string.
“Certainly not, most angelical!—but Ingin man, ef he lob
and respects Indian woman, will tell her all about his consarns
without her axing. I'm sure, most lubly Caloya, ef you was wife
of mine, you should know all my outgivings and incomings, my
journeyings and backslidings, to and fro,—my ways and my
wishes;—there shouldn't be nothing that I wouldn't let you know.
But there's a mighty difference, you see, twixt an old husband
and a young one. Now, an old man like Knuckles, he's mighty
close—he don't talk out his mind like a young fellow that's full
of infections—a young fellow like me, that knows how to look
'pon a handsome young wife, and treat her with proper respectableness.
Do you think now, ef you was wife of mine, that I'd
let you do all that work by yourself? No! not for all the pots
and jars twixt this and Edisto forks! Ef I did ask you to do the
pans, and round 'em, and smooth 'em, and put the red stain 'pon
em, why that wouldn't be onreasonable, you see, 'cause sich delical
despects better than man's—but then, I'd dig the clay for you,
my gal—I'd work it, ef I hadn't horse, I'd work it with my own
legs—I'd pile it up 'pon the board, and cut the wood to make the
fire, and help you to burn it; and when all was done, I'd bend
my own shoulders to the load, and you should follow me to
Charleston, like a Lady, as you is. That's the way, my gal, that
I'd treat wife of mine. But Ingin don't know much 'bout woman,
and old Ingin don't care;—now, black Gempleman always
has strong infections for the seck—he heart is tender—he eye is
lub for look 'pon beauty—he hab soul for consider 'em in de right
way, and when he sees 'em bright eye, and smood, shiny skin,
and white teet', and long arm, and slender wais', and glossy black
hair, same like you's, ah, Caloya, he strengt' is melt away widin
'em, and he feels like not'ing only so much honey, lub and infections.
He's all over infections, as I may say. Wha' you tink?”
Here the Driver paused, not so much from having nothing more
to say, as from a lack of the necessary breath with which to say
it. Knuckles heard every word, though it would be an error to
assume that he understood one half. Still, the liquorish expression
in the face of the negro sufficiently illustrated his meaning,
to satisfy the husband that the whole speech was pregnant with
the most audacious kind of impertinence. The reflection upon
his weight of years, and the exulting reference to his own
youth and manhood, which Mingo so adroitly introduced, was,
however, sufficiently intelligible and insulting to the Catawba,
and he hesitated whether to draw the arrow to its head at once
and requite this second Paris for his affront, even in the midst of
it, or to await until farther wrong should yield him a more perfect
justification for the deed. He reflected upon the danger of
the attempt, and his resolution was already taken as to the mode
and direction of his flight. But a morbid wish to involve Caloya
in the same fate—a lingering desire to find a sanction in her
weakness and guilt for all his own frequent injustice and brutality,
determined him to await her answer, and see to what extremities
the negro would be permitted to carry his presumption.
Strange to say, the answer of the wife, which was such as must
“Black man is too foolish!” said the woman with equal brevity
and scorn in reply to the long speech of the Driver.
“Don't say so, most lubly of all the Catawba gals—you don't
mean what you say for sartain. Look you—yer is as nice a
pullet as ever was roasted, and yer is some hard biled eggs, and
hoecake. I reckon that old fellow, your husband, aint brung in
your breckkus yet; so you must be mighty hungry by this time,
and there's no better stay-stomach in the worl than hard biled
eggs. It's a mighty hard thing to work tell the sun stands atop
of your head, afore getting any thing to go 'pon: I guessed how
'twould be, and so I brung you these few eatables.”
He set down a small basket as he spoke, but the woman did
not seem to perceive it, and manifested no sort of disposition to
avail herself of his gift and invitation.
“What! you wont take a bite?”
“Enefisto will thank you when he come,” was the answer,
coldly spoken, and the woman toiled more assiduously, while she
spoke, at her potteries.
“Enefisto!—oh, that's only an Ingin name for Knuckles, I
s'pose. But who care for him, Caloya? Sure, you don't care
'bout an old fellow like that—fellow that makes you work and
gives you not eben dry hominey? Prehaps, you're feard he'll
beat you; but don't you feard—neber he kin lay heaby hand
'pon you, so long as Mingo is yer.”
Could Mingo have seen the grin which appeared upon the
mouth of the Indian as he heard these words, and have seen the
deliberateness with which he thrice lifted the shaft and thrust its
point between the leaves so as to bear upon his heart, he might
have distrusted his own securities and strength, and have learned
to be more respectful in estimating the powers of his foe. But
the Indian seemed to content himself with being in a state of preparedness
and in having possession of the entire field. He did
not shoot; his worse feelings remained unsatisfied—he saw nothing
in the deportment of Caloya which could feed the morbid passion
which prevailed over all others in his breast, and he probably
by a little delay he might yet secure another.
“Black man is too foolish. Why he no go to his work?
Catawba woman is do her work.”
“And I will help you, my gal. It's mighty hard to do all by
you self, so here goes. Lor', if I was your husband, Caloya,
instead of that old fellow, Knuckles, you should be a lady—I'd
neber let you touch a pot or a pan, and you should hab a frock
all ob seersuck jist like this.”
As the negro spoke, he threw off his hunting shirt, which he
cast over a bush behind him, rolled up his shirt sleeves, displaying
his brawny and well made arms to the woman—perhaps the
chief motive for his present gallant proceeding—and, advancing to
the pile of clay in which Caloya was working, thrust his hands into
the mass and began to knead with all the energy of a baker, striving
with his dough. The woman shrank back from her place,
as she received this new accession of labour, and much to the annoyance
of Mingo, retired to a little distance, where she seemed
to contemplate his movements in equal surprise and dissatisfaction.
Meanwhile, a change had taken place in the mood and
movements of Knuckles. The sight of the gaudy garment which
Mingo had hung upon the myrtle bushes behind him, awakened
the cupidity of the Catawba. For a time, a stronger passion than
jealousy seized his mind, and he yearned to be the possessor of a
shirt which he felt assured would be the envy of the tribe. It
hung in his eyes like a fascination—he no longer saw Caloya—
he no longer heeded the movements of the negro who had been
meditating so great an injury to his honour and peace of mind;
and, so long as the bright stripes of the seersucker kept waving
before him, he forgot all his own deeply meditated purposes of
vengeance. The temptation at last became irresistible. With the
stealthy movement of his race, he rose quietly from the spot
where he had been lurking, sank back in the depths of the woods
behind him, and, utterly unheard, unobserved and unsuspected
by either of the two in front, he succeeded in making a compass,
still under cover, which brought him in the rear of the myrtles
on which the coat was suspended. Meanwhile, Mingo, with his
face to the kneading trough, and his back upon the endangered
the favourite Seersucker disappeared in the rapid grasp of the husband,
while he was most earnest, though at a respectful distance,
in an endeavour to deprive the Indian of a yet dearer possession.
In this aim his arguments and entreaties were equally fond and
impudent; and with his arms buried to the elbows in the clay,
and working the rigid mass as if life itself depended upon it, he
was pouring forth a more unctuous harangue than ever, when, suddenly
looking up to the spot where Caloya had retreated, his eye
rested only upon the woods. The woman had disappeared from
sight. He had been “wasting his sweetness on the desert air”—
he had been talking to the wind only. Of this, at first, he was not
so perfectly assured.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, “Whare you gone, Caloya? Hello—
hello! Whoo—whoo—whoop!”
He waited in silence until he became convinced that his responses
were those only of the echo.
“Can't be!” he exclaimed, “can't be, he gone and lef' me in
de middle of my talking! Caloya, Caloya,—Hello, gal! hello!
—whay you day? Whoo! whoop!”
Utter silence followed the renewal of his summons. He stuck
his fingers, coated as they were with clay, into his wiry shock of
wool—a not unfrequent habit with the negro when in a quandary,
—and, could the blushes of one of his colour have been seen, those
of Mingo would have been found of a scarlet beyond all comparison
as the conviction forced itself upon him, that he was laughed
at and deserted.
“Cuss de woman!” he exclaimed, “wha make me lub em so.
But he mus'nt tink for git 'way from me wid dis sort of acceedint.
'Speck he can't be too fur; ef he day in dese woods
wha' for keep me from fin' 'em. As for he husband, better he
no meet me now. Ef he stan' in my way tree minutes, I'll tumble
em sure as a stone.”
Thus soliloquizing, he darted into the woods, traversing every
opening and peeping behind every bush and tree for a goodly
hour, but without success. Man and wife had disappeared with
a success and secrecy equally inscrutable. Breathless and angry
he emerged once more, and stood within the camp. His anger
He looked round for the dog, intending to renew the
flogging which he had administered on the first day of his acquaintance,
and in bestowing which he had been so seasonably interrupted
by the owner; but the cur had departed also; and no
signs remained of any intention on the part of the squatters to
resume their temporary lodging place, but the rude specimens of
clay manufacture, some two dozen pots and pans, which stood under
a rude shelter of twigs and bushes, immediately adjoining the wigwam.
These, with foot and fist, Mingo demolished, trampling, with
the ingenious pains-taking of a wilful boy, the yet unhardened
vases out of all shape and character into the earth on which they
rested. Having thus vented his spleen and displayed a less noble
nature than he usually pretended to, the driver proceeded to
resume his coat, in mood of mind as little satisfied with what he
had done in his anger as with the disappointment that had provoked
it. But here a new wonder and vexation awaited him.
His fingers again recurred to his head, but no scratching of which
they were capable, could now keep him from the conviction that
there was “magic in the web of it.” He looked and lingered,
but he was equally unsuccessful in the search after his hunting
shirt, as for his good humour. He retired from the ground in some
doubt whether it was altogether safe for him to return to a spot
in which proceedings of so mysterious a character had taken
place. All the events in connection with his new acquaintance
began to assume a startling and marvellous character in his
eyes;—the lazy dog;—the old husband of a wife so young and
lovely! What could be more strange or unnatural! But her
flight—her sudden disappearance, and that too at a time when he
was employing those charms of speech which heretofore had
never proved ineffectual! Mingo jumped to the conclusion that
Knuckles was a Catawba wizard, and he determined to have
nothing more to do with him:—a determination which he maintained
only until the recollection of Caloya's charms made him
resolve, at all hazards, to screen her from so ugly an enchanter.
9. CHAPTER IX.
But a little time had passed after Mingo had left the camp
when Knuckles returned to it. He approached with stealthy
pace, keeping himself under cover until he found that the enemy
had departed. During the search which the Driver had
made after himself and wife, he had been a quiet observer of all
his movements. He fancied that the search was instituted for
the recovery of the hunting shirt, and did not dream that his
wife had left the ground as well as himself to the single possession
of the visitor. When he returned and found her gone,
his first impression was that she had departed with the negro.
But a brief examination of their several footsteps, soon removed
his suspicions and enabled him to pursue the route which the
woman had taken on leaving the camp. He found her without
difficulty, as she came forward, at his approach, from the copse
in which she had concealed herself. He encountered her with
the bitterest language of suspicion and denunciation. His jealousy
had suffered no decrease in consequence of his failure to
find cause for it; but fattening from what it fed on—his own consciousness
of unworthiness—the conviction that he did not deserve
and could not please one, so far superior and so much
younger than himself—vented itself in coarse charges and vindictive
threats. With the patience of Griselda, the Catawba
woman followed him in silence to the camp, where they soon
found cause for new affliction in the discovery which they there
made, of the manner in which the disappointed Driver had vented
his fury upon their wares. The wrath of Knuckles increased at
this discovery, though it did not, as it should have done, lead to
any abatement of his jealous feeling towards his wife. Perhaps,
on the contrary, it led to the farther proceeding of extremity,
which he now meditated, and which he began to unfold to her
ears. We forbear the unnecessary preliminaries in the conversation
which followed between them, and which were given simply
and on hers of a simple and effortless denial of them. Her final
reply, spoken of course in her own language, to the reiterated
accusation, was such as to show that even the exemplary patience
which she had hitherto manifested was beginning to waver.
There was something in it to sting the worthless old sinner, not
with a feeling of remorse, but of shame and vexation.
“If Enefisto loves not the black man, wherefore does he take
the meat which he brings, and the poison drink from his bottle?
If he loves not the black man, wherefore takes he the garment
which wrapt his limbs? Caloya loves not the black man, and
has eaten none of his meat, has drank none of his poison water,
and has stolen none of his garments. Let Enefisto cast the shirt
over the myrtles, and now, now, let the woman go back to seek
her people that camp on the waters of the Edisto. Caloya looks
not where the black man sits; Caloya sees not where he stands,
and hears not when he speaks. Caloya hears only a snake's hissing
in her ears. Enefisto believes not the woman, and she cares not
much to speak;—but let him take up the hatchet and the bow, and
she will follow where he leads. Let her go to her people, where
there is no black man. She would not stay at the `Red Gulley,'
where the black man comes.”
“But she would go to the Edisto where is Chickawa? Hah!
Caloya shall stay by the `Red Gulley,' where is Enefisto—she
shall not go to the Edisto where is Chickawa. Enefisto sees;
Enefisto knows.”
“Ah, and Caloya knows! Caloya knows! Enefisto sees
Chickawa and the nigger Mingo every where. But let Enefisto
take up his hatchet and go from this place. See,” pointing to
the broken pottery, “there is nothing to stay for. The nigger
will break the pans when she makes them.”
“Enefisto will take up the hatchet,—he will drive it into the
head of the nigger. He will not go where Caloya may see Chickawa.
She shall stay by the `Red Gulley,' and when Mingo, the
nigger comes, she shall smile upon him. She shall go into the
wigwam. Then will he go to her in the wigwam—Hah?”
“What would Enefisto?” demanded the squaw in some consternation
of her spouse.
“Mingo will say to Caloya, `come, old man is gone hunting,
come. Am I not here for Caloya, come. I love Caloya, let
Caloya love Mingo, come!' ”
“But Caloya hates Mingo, Caloya will spit upon the nigger!”
was the indignant exclamation.
“Oh, no, no!” was the almost musical and certainly wild reply
of the husband, while a savage smile of scorn and suspicion
covered his features. “Caloya knows not what she says—she
means not what she says. Nigger is young man—Enefisto is old
man. Nigger hab good meat—Enefisto is old hunter, he cannot
see where the deer sleep, he cannot follow the deer in a long
chase, for his legs grow weary. Caloya loves young man who
can bring her 'nough venison and fine clothes, hah? Let Caloya
go into the wigwam, and nigger will say `come,' and Caloya will
come.”
“Never!' was the indignant answer. “Caloya will never
come to the nigger—Caloya will never come to Chickawa. Let
Enefisto strike the hatchet into the head of Caloya, for his words
make her very wretched. It is better she should die.”
“Caloya shall live to do the will of Enefisto. She shall go
where Mingo comes into the wigwam, and when he shall follow
her, she shall stay and look upon him face to face. Mingo is
young,—Caloya loves to look upon young man. When he shall
put his hand upon the shoulder of Caloya then shall Caloya put
her hand upon his. So shall it be—thus says Enefisto.”
“Wherefore shall it be so?”
“Thus says Enefisto. Will Caloya say no?”
“Let Enefisto kill Caloya ere her hand rests upon the shoulder
of Mingo. The hatchet of Enefisto—”
“Shall sink into the head of the nigger, when his hand is upon
the shoulder of Caloya.”
“Ha!”
“It is done. Does Caloya hear?”
“She hears.”
“Will she go into the wigwam when Mingo comes?”
“She will go.”
“And when he follows her,—when he puts his hand upon her
shoulder, and looks, Ha! ha! ha!—looks thus, thus, into her
eyes”—his own assumed an expression, or he strove at that moment
to make them assume an expression of the most wilful love,
—an attempt in which he signally failed, for hate, scorn and
jealousy predominating still, gave him a most ghastly aspect,
from which the woman shrunk with horror—“when he looks
thus into her eyes, then will Caloya put her hand upon the shoulder
of Mingo and hold him fast till the hatchet of Enefisto goes
deep into his head. Will Caloya do this,—Ha? Will Caloya
look on him thus, and grasp him thus, until Enefisto shall strike
him thus, thus, thus, till there shall be no more life in his forehead?”
A moment's pause ensued, ere the woman spoke.
“Let Enefisto give the hatchet to Caloya. Caloya will herself
strike him in the head if he goes after her into the wigwam.”
“No! Caloya shall not. Enefisto will strike. Caloya shall
grasp him on the shoulder. Enefisto will see by this if Caloya
loves not that the black man should seek her always in the wigwam
of the chief. Is Caloya ready—will she do this thing?”
“Caloya is ready—she will do it.”
“Ha! ha!—black man is foolish to come to the camp of Enefisto,
and look on the woman of Enefisto. He shall die.”
10. CHAPTER X.
Mingo Gillison almost stumbled over his young master that
morning, as he was returning home from his visit so full of
strange and unwonted incidents. The latter was about to visit
the camp of the squatters in compliance with his promise to that
effect, when diverted from his intention by the intelligence which
the negro gave him, that the Indians were gone from home.
Somehow, it seemed to Mingo Gillison, that it was no part of his
present policy that his master should see the intruders. A consciousness
of guilt—a conviction that he had not been the faithful
custodian of the interests given to his charge, and that, in some
respects, they had suffered detriment at his hands, made him
jealously apprehensive that the mere visit of his owner to the
Red Gulley, would bring his defection to light.
“But where's your coat, Mingo?” was the natural question
of Colonel Gillison, the moment after meeting him. Mingo was
as ready as any other lover at a lie, and taking for granted that
Jove would laugh at this, quite as generously as at a more dangerous
perjury, he told a long cock-and-a-bull story about his
having had it torn to such a degree in hunting cattle the evening
before, as to put it beyond the power of recovery by the seamstress.
“A handsome coat, too, Mingo: I must give you another.”
Mingo was gratified and expressed his acknowledgments quite
as warmly as it was in his power to do under the feeling of shame
and undesert which at that moment oppressed him. His master
did not fail to see that something had occurred to lessen the assurance
of his driver, and diminish the emphasis and abridge the
eloquence of his usual speech, but being of an inert disposition of
mind, he was not curious enough to seek the solution of a circumstance
which, though strange, was unimportant. They separated
after a few inquiries on the part of the latter, touching
various plantation topics, to all of which the answers of Mingo
make them satisfactory. The master returned to the residence,
while Mingo went off to the negro quarter to meditate how to
circumvent Richard Knuckles, and win the smiles of his handsome
but haughty wife.
It was probably two hours after the supper things had been removed,
that the youthful proprietor of the estate of which Mingo
held the highly important office in the duties of which we have
seen him busy, was startled by the easy opening of the door of
the apartment in which he sat, groping through the newspapers
of the day, and, immediately after, by the soft treat of a female
footstep, heedfully set down upon the floor. He turned at the unusual
interruption, for it may as well be stated passingly, that
young Gillison had set out in life with notions of such inveterate
bachelorship that his domestic establishment was not suffered to
be invaded by any of the opposite sex in any capacity. It is not
improbable, that, later in life, his rigour in this respect, may have
undergone some little relaxation, but as we are concerned with
present events only, it will be no object with us either to speculate
upon or to inquire into the future. Sufficient for the day is
the evil thereof. Enough for us that his present regulations were
such as we have here declared them, and had been laid down with
so much emphasis in his household, on coming to his estate, that
he turned upon the servant,—for such he assumed the intruder
to be—with the determination to pour forth no stinted measure of
anger upon the rash person who had shown herself so heedless of
his commands.
The reader will be pleased to express no surprise, when we tell
him that the nocturnal visitant of our young bachelor was no other
than the Indian woman, Caloya. She had threaded her way, after
nightfall, through all the mazes of the plantation, and, undiscovered
and unnoticed, even by the watch dog who lay beneath the porch,
had penetrated into the mansion and into the presence of its master.
She had probably never been in the same neighbourhood
before, but with that sagacity,—we might almost deem it an instinct—which
distinguishes the North American Indian, probably,
beyond all other people,—she had contrived to elude every habitation
which lay between the “Red Gulley” and the dwelling-house—to
keep herself concealed from all observation, until that moment
when she pleased to discover herself. The surprise of Gillison
was natural enough. He rose, however, as soon as he was conscious
that the intruder was stranger, and perceiving her to be
an Indian, he readily concluded that she must be one of the squatters
at the “Red Gulley,” of whom the eloquent Mingo had given
him such emphatic warning. With that due regard for the sex
which always distinguishes the true gentleman, even when the
particular object which calls for it may be debased and inferior,
Gillison motioned her to a chair, and, with a countenance expressing
no other feelings than those of kindness and consideration, inquired
into her wants and wishes. His language, to one of a tribe
whom it is customary to regard as thieves and beggars, would
have proved him to be something less hostile to the sex, than his
household regulations would altogether seem to indicate.
Caloya advanced with firmness, and even dignity, into the apartment.
Her deportment was equally respectful and unconstrained.
Her face was full of sadness, however, and when she spoke, it
might have been observed that her tones were rather more tremulous
than usual. She declined the proffered seat, and proceeded
to her business with the straightforward simplicity of one having
a single purpose. She began by unfolding a small bundle which
she carried beneath her arm, and in which, when unrolled and
laid upon the table, Col. Gillison fancied he discovered a strong
family likeness to that hunting shirt of his driver, of the fate of
which he had received such melancholy intelligence a few hours
before. But for the particularity of Mingo, in describing the
rents and rips, the slits and slashes of his favourite garment, the
youthful proprietor would have rashly jumped to the conclusion
that this had been the same. His large confidence in the veracity
of Mingo, left him rather unprepared for the narrative which
followed. In this narrative, Caloya did not exhibit the greatest
degree of tenderness towards the amorous driver. She freely
and fully declared all the particulars of his forced intimacy with
herself and husband from the beginning; and though, with instinctive
feminine delicacy, she suppressed every decided overture
which the impudent Mingo had made to herself par amours, still
game which his driver, had been playing. Nor, in this narrative,
did the woman omit to inform him of the hams and eggs, the
chickens and the corn, which had been brought by the devoted
negro in tribute to her charms. Up to this point, the story had assumed
none but a ludicrous aspect in the sight of the young
planter. The petty appropriations of his property of which Mingo
had been guilty, did not awaken any very great degree of indignation,
and, with the levity of youth, he did not seem to regard
in the serious light which it merited, the wanton pursuit and lascivious
purposes of the driver. But as the woman quietly proceeded
in her narrative, and described the violence which had
destroyed her pottery, the countenance of the master darkened.
This act seemed one of such determined malignity, that he inly
determined to punish it severely. The next statement of Caloya
led him to do more justice to virtue, and make a darker estimate
yet of the doings of his driver. She did not tell him that her husband
was jealous, but she unfolded the solemn requisition which
he had last made of her to secure the arms of Mingo in her embrace,
while he revenged himself for the insults to which he had
been subjected with the sharp edge of the hatchet. The young
planter started as he heard the statement. His eye was fixed intently
and inquiringly upon the calm, resolute, and seemingly
frozen features of the speaker. She ceased to speak, and the
pause of a few seconds followed ere Gillison replied:
“But you and your husband surely mean not to murder the
fellow, my good woman? He has done wrong and I will have
him punished; but you must not think to use knife and hatchet
upon him.”
“When Enefisto says `strike' to Caloya—Caloya will strike!
Caloya is the woman of Enefisto. Let not Mingo come into the
wigwam of the Indian.”
Gillison could not doubt her resolution as he heard the deliberate
and subdued accents of her voice, and surveyed the composed
features of her countenance. The determination to do the
bidding of her husband was there expressed in language the least
equivocal. His own countenance was troubled; he had not
resolved what course to pursue, and the woman, having fulfilled
stolen coat, though, with the proper tenderness of a wife, she
omitted to say that it had been stolen. According to her story
Mingo had left it behind him on the myrtles. Her second object
had been to save the driver from his fate, and no more effectual
mode suggested itself to her mind than by revealing the whole
truth to the master. This had been done and she had no further
cause to stay. The young planter, after he had instituted a series
of inquiries from which he ascertained what were the usual
periods when Mingo visited the encampment, how he made his
approaches, and in what manner the hovel was built, and where
it lay, did not seek to delay her longer. His own knowledge of
the “Red Gulley”—a knowledge obtained in boyhood—enabled
him to form a very correct notion of all the circumstances of the
place; and to determine upon the particulars of a plan which
had risen in his mind, by which to save his driver from the
danger which threatened him. This done, he begged her to await
for a few moments his return, while he ascended to an upper
chamber, from whence he brought and offered her a piece of
bright calico, such as he well knew would be apt to provoke the
admiration of an Indian woman; but she declined it, shaking her
head mournfully as she did so, and moving off hurriedly as if to
lose the temptation from her sight as quickly as possible. Gillison
fancied there was quite as much of despondency as pride in
her manner of refusing the gift. It seemed to say that she had
no heart for such attractions now. Such indeed was the true
exposition of her feelings. What pride could she have in gorgeous
apparel, allied to one so brutal, so cruel, so worthless as
her husband; and why should she care for such display, when,
by his jealous policy, she was withdrawn from all connection
with her people, in whose eyes alone she might desire to appear
attractive. But the young planter was not to be refused. He
would have forced the gift upon her, and when she suffered it to
drop at her feet, he expressed himself in words of remonstrance,
the tones of which were, perhaps, of more influence than the sense.
“Why not take the stuff, my good woman? You have well
deserved it, and much more at my hands. If you do not take it,
I will think you believe me to be as bad as Mingo.”
She looked at him with some earnestness for a few seconds,
then stooping, picked up the bundle, and immediately placed it
beneath her arm.
“No, no!” she said, “white man is good. Black man is bad.
Does the master remember? Let not Mingo come into the wigwam
of Enefisto.”
Colonel Gillison promised that he would endeavour to prevent
any further mischief, and, with a sad smile of gratitude upon her
countenance, the woman retired from his presence as stealthily as
she came. He had enjoined her, if possible, to avoid being seen
on leaving the settlement, and it was not hard for one of Catawba
birth to obey so easy an injunction. She succeeded in gaining
the “Red Gulley” undiscovered, but there, to her consternation,
who should she encounter, at the very first glance, but the impudent
and formidable Mingo, sitting, cheek-by-jowl, with her
jealous husband, each, seemingly, in a perfect mood of equal
and christian amity. It was a sight to gratify the credulous, but
Caloya was not one of these.
11. CHAPTER XI.
Meanwhile, the youthful master of the veteran Mingo, meditated
in the silence of his hall, the mode by which to save that
amorous personage from the threatened consequences of his
impertinence. Not that he felt any desire to screen the fellow
from chastisement. Had he been told that husband and wife had
simply resolved to scourge him with many stripes, he would have
struck hands and cried “cheer” as loudly as any more indifferent
spectator. But the vengeance of the Catawba Othello, promised
to be of a character far too extreme, and, the inferior moral sense
and sensibility of both Indian and negro considered, too greatly disproportioned
to the offence. It was therefore necessary that what
he proposed to do should be done quickly; and, taking his hat,
Colonel Gillison sallied forth to the negro quarter, in the centre
of which stood the superior habitation of the Driver. His object
was simply to declare to the unfaithful servant that his evil
designs and deeds were discovered, as well by himself as by the
Catawba—to promise him the due consequences of his falsehood
to himself, and to warn him of what he had to fear, in the event
of his again obtruding upon the privacy of the squatters. To
those who insist that the working classes in the South should enjoy
the good things of this world in as bountiful a measure as the
wealthy proprietors of the soil, it would be very shocking to see
that they lived poorly, in dwellings which, though rather better than
those of the Russian boor, are yet very mean in comparison with
those built by Stephen Girard, John Jacob Astor, and persons of that
calibre. Nay, it would be monstrous painful to perceive that the
poor negroes are constantly subjected to the danger of ophthalmic
and other diseases, from the continued smokes in which they live,
the fruit of those liberal fires which they keep up at all seasons, and
which the more fortunate condition of the poor in the free States,
does not often compel them to endure at any. It would not
greatly lessen the evil of this cruel destiny, to know that each
plat around it, and that his cabbages, turnips, corn and potatoes,
not to speak of his celery, his salad, &c., are, in half the number
of cases, quite as fine as those which appear on his master's
table. Then, his poultry-yard, and pig-pen—are they not there
also?—but then, it must be confessed that his stock is not quite
so large as his owner's, and there, of course, the parallel must
fail. He has one immunity, however, which is denied to the
owner. The hawk, (to whose unhappy door most disasters of the
poultry yard are referred,) seldom troubles his chickens—his
hens lay more numerously than his master's, and the dogs always
prefer to suck the eggs of a white rather than those of a black
proprietor. These, it is confessed, are very curious facts, inscrutable,
of course, to the uninitiated; and, in which the irreverent
and sceptical alone refuse to perceive any legitimate cause of
wonder. You may see in his hovel and about it, many little
additaments which, among the poor of the South, are vulgarly considered
comforts; with the poor of other countries, however, as
they are seldom known to possess them, they are no doubt
regarded as burthens, which it might be annoying to take care of
and oppressive to endure. A negro slave not only has his own
dwelling, but he keeps a plentiful fire within it for which he pays
no taxes. That he lives upon the fat of the land you may readily
believe, since he is proverbially much fatter himself than the
people of any other class. He has his own grounds for cultivation,
and, having a taste for field sports, he keeps his own dog for
the chase—an animal always of very peculiar characteristics,
some of which we shall endeavour one day to analyse and develope.
He is as hardy and cheerful as he is fat, and, but for one
thing, it might be concluded safely that his condition was very
far before that of the North American Indian—his race is more
prolific, and, by increasing rather than diminishing, multiply
necessarily, and unhappily the great sinfulness of mankind.
This, it is true, is sometimes urged as a proof of improving civilization,
but then, every justly-minded person must agree with
Miss Martineau, that it is dreadfully immoral. We suspect we
have been digressing.
Col. Gillison soon reached the negro quarter, and tapping at the
by the legitimate spouse of that gallant. Mingo had been
married to Diana, by the Reverend Jonathan Buckthorn, a
preacher of the Methodist persuasion, who rode a large circuit,
and had travelled, with praiseworthy charity, all the way from
Savannah River, in all weathers, and on a hard going nag, simply
to unite this worthy couple in the holy bonds of wedlock. At
that time, both the parties were devout members of the Church,
but they suffered from frequent lapses; and Mingo, having been
engaged in sundry liaisons—which, however creditable to, and
frequent among the French, Italian and English nobility, are
highly censurable in a slave population, and a decisive proof of
the demoralizing tendency of such an institution—was, at the
formal complaint of the wife, “suspended” from the enjoyment
of the Communion Table, and finally, on a continuance of this
foreign and fashionable practice, fully expelled from all the privileges
of the brotherhood. Diana had been something of a
termagant, but Mingo had succeeded in outstorming her. For
the first six months after marriage, the issue was considered
very doubtful; but a decisive battle took place at the close of
that period, in which the vigorous woman was compelled to give
in and Mingo remained undisputed master of the field. But
though overthrown and conquered, she was not quiescent; and
her dissatisfaction at the result, showed itself in repeated struggles,
which, however, were too convulsive and transient, to render
necessary any very decided exercise of the husband's energies.
She growled and grumbled still, without cessation, and though
she did not dare to resent his frequent infidelities, she nevertheless
pursued them with an avidity, and followed the movements
of her treacherous lord with a jealous watchfulness, which proved
that she did not the less keenly feel them. Absolute fear alone
made her restrain the fury which was yet boiling and burning in
her soul. When her master declared his desire to see Mingo,
what was her answer? Not, certainly, that of a very dutiful or
well satisfied spouse.
“Mingo, mossa? Whay him dey? Ha! mossa, you bes'ax
ebbry woman on de plantation 'fore you come to he own wife. I
bin marry to Mingo by Parson Buckthorn, and de Parson bin make
tree day after we bin man and wife. He nebber bin lub 't all;
and as for 'bey,—lor' ha' massy 'pon me, mossa, I speak noting
but de trute when I tell you,—he 'bey ebbry woman from yer to
town 'fore he 'bey he own dear wife. Der's not a woman, mossa,
'pon de tree plantation, he aint lub more dan Di. Sometime he
gone to Misser Jacks place—he hab wife dere! Sometime he
gone to Misser Gabeau—he hab wife dere! Nex' time, he gone
to Squir' Collins,—he hab wife dere! Whay he no hab wife,
mossa? Who can tell? He hab wife ebbry which whay, and
now, he no sacrify, he gone—you aint gwine to bleeb me, mossa,
I know you aint—he gone and look for wife at Indian camp,
whay down by de `Red Gulley.' De trute is, mossa, Mingo is a
mos' powerful black rascal of a nigger as ebber lib on gentleman
plantation.”
It was fortunate for young Gillison that he knew something of
the nature of a termagant wife, and could make allowances for
the injustice of a jealous one. He would otherwise have been
persuaded by what he heard that his driver was one of the most
uncomely of all the crow family. Though yielding no very
credulous faith to the complaints of Diana, he still found it impossible
to refuse to hear them; and all that he could do by dint of
perseverance, was to diminish the long narratives upon which she
was prepared to enter to prove her liege lord to be no better than
he should be. Having exhausted all his efforts and his patience
in the attempt to arrive at some certain intelligence of the husband's
“whereabouts,” without being able to divert the stream of
her volubility from the accustomed channels, he concluded by
exclaiming—
“Well, d—n the fellow, let him take the consequences. He
stands a chance of having his throat cut before twenty-four hours
are over, and you will then be at liberty, Di., to get a husband
who will be more faithful. Should Mingo not see me by ten
o'clock to-morrow, he's a dead man. So, you had better stir
your stumps, my good woman, and see after him, unless you are
willing to be a widow before you have found out a better man for
your husband. Find Mingo and send him to me to-night, or he's
a dead man to-morrow.”
“Le' 'em dead—who care? He d'zarb for dead. I sure he
no care if Di bin dead twenty tousand time. Le' 'em dead!”
Gillison left the hut and proceeded to other parts of the settlement
where he thought it not improbable that the driver might be
found; but a general ignorance was professed by all the negroes
with respect to the particular movements of that worthy; and he
soon discovered that his search was fruitless. He gave it up in
despair, trusting that he should be able to succeed better at an
hour seasonably early in the morning, yet half disposed, from
his full conviction of his roguery, to leave the fellow to his fate.
Strange to say, such was not the determination of the dissatisfied
Diana. Wronged and neglected as she had been, and was,
there was still a portion of the old liking left, which had first
persuaded her to yield her youthful affections to the keeping of
this reckless wooer; and though she had avowed her willingness
to her young master, that the “powerful black rascal of a nigger”
should go to the dogs, and be dog's meat in twenty-four hours,
still, better feelings came back to her, after due reflection, to soften
her resolves. Though not often blessed with his kind words and
pleasant looks, now-a-days, still, “she could not but remember
such things were, and were most percious to her.”
Left to herself, she first began to repeat the numberless conjugal
offences of which he had been guilty; but the memory of
these offences did not return alone. She remembered that these
offences brought with them an equal number of efforts at atonement
on the part of the offender; and when she thought of his
vigorous frame, manly, dashing and graceful carriage, his gorgeous
coat, his jauntily worn cap, his white teeth, and the insinuating
smile of his voluminous lips, she could not endure the idea
of such a man being devoted to a fate so short and sudden as that
which her young master had predicted. She had not been told, it is
true, from what quarter this terrible fate was to approach. She
knew not under what aspect it would come, but the sincerity of her
master was evident in his looks, words, and general air of anxiety,
and she was convinced that there was truth in his assurance. Perhaps,
her own attachment for the faithless husband—disguised as
it was by her continual grumbling and discontent—was sufficiently
strong to bring about this conviction easily. Diana determined
to save her husband, worthless and wicked as he was,—and possibly,
to this resolution, that, gratitude alone, for so great a service,
might effect a return of the false one to that allegiance which
love had hitherto failed to secure. She left her dwelling to seek
him within half an hour after the departure of her master. But
the worst difficulty in her way was the first. She trembled with
the passion of returning jealousy when she reflected that the most
likely place to find him would be at the “Red Gulley” in instant
communion with a hateful rival—a red Indian—a dingy squaw,—
whose colour, neither white nor black, was of that sort, which,
according to Diana in her jealous mood, neither gods nor men
ought to endure. Her husband's admiration she naturally ascribed
to Catawba witchcraft. She doubted—she hesitated—she
almost re-resolved against the endeavour. Fortunately, however,
her better feelings prevailed. She resolved to go forward—to
save her husband—but, raising her extended hands and parted
fingers, as she came to this determination, and gnashing her teeth
with vindictive resolution as she spoke, she declared her equal
resolve to compensate herself for so great a charity, by sinking
her ten claws into the cheeks of any copper coloured damsel
whom she should discover at the Red Gulley in suspicious propinquity
with that gay deceiver whom she called her lord.
Having thus, with due solemnity, registered her oath in Heaven—
and she was not one under such circumstances to “lay perjury upon
her soul”—she hurried away under the equal impulse of a desire
to save Mingo, and to “capper-claw” Caloya. It was not long
after, that young Gillison, who was more troubled about the fate
of his driver than he was willing to acknowledge even to himself,
came to a determination also to visit the “Red Gulley.” A little
quiet reflection, after he had reached home, led him to fear that he
might not be in season to prevent mischief if he waited till the
morning for Mingo's appearance; and a sudden conjecture that,
at that very moment, the audacious negro might be urging his
objects in the wigwam of the squatters, made him fearful that
even his instant interference would prove too late. As soon as
this conjecture filled his mind, he seized his cap, and grasping his
rifle, and calling his favourite dog, set forth with all possible
speed towards the spot, destined to be memorable forever after, in
all local chronicles, in consequence of these events.
12. CHAPTER XII.
The horror and vexation of Caloya may be imagined, when,
on returning from her visit to the master of the impudent Mingo,
she discovered him, cheek-by-jowl, with her husband. The poor
woman was miserable in the extreme from various causes. Resolved
steadfastly and without scruple to do the will of her jealous
spouse, she yet shrank from the idea of perpetrating the bloody
deed which the latter contemplated, and which was so suitable to
the fierce character of Indian vindictiveness. She was, in fact,
a gentle, though a firm, simple, and unaffected woman, and had
not this been the prevailing nature of her heart, the kindness with
which Gillison had received, and the liberality with which he had
treated her, would have been sufficient to make her reluctant to
do any thing which might be injurious to his interests.
But, taught in the severe school of the barbarian those lessons
which insist always upon the entire subordination of the woman,
she had no idea of avoiding, still less of rebelling against, the authority
which prescribed her laws. “To hear was to obey,” and
with a deep sigh she advanced to the wigwam, with a firm resolution
to do as she had been commanded, though, with a prayer
in her mind, not the less fervent because it remained unspoken by
her lips, that the fearful necessity might pass away, and her husband
be prevented, and she be spared, the commission of the
threatened deed.
It was deemed fortunate by Caloya, that, observing the habitual
caution of the Indian, she had kept within the cover of the woods
until the moment when she came within sight of the wigwam.
This caution enabled her still to keep from discovery, and “fetching
a compass” in the covert so as to pass into the rear of the hut,
she succeeded by pulling away some fragments of the bark which
covered it, in entering its narrow precincts without having been
perceived. With a stealthy footstep and a noiseless motion, she
deposited her bundle of calicoes in a corner of the hut, and sinking
bosom, which she fancied, in her fears, might become audible
to the persons without.
To account for the return of Mingo Gillison to the spot where
he had been guilty of so much impertinence, and had done so
much mischief, is not a difficult matter. It will here be seen that
he was a fellow whom too much authority had helped to madden
—that he was afflicted with the disease of intense self-consequence,
and that his passions, accordingly, were not always to be restrained
by prudence or right reason. These qualities necessarily led
to frequent errors of policy and constant repentings. He had not
many moral misgivings, however, and his regrets were solely
yielded to the evil results, in a merely human and temporary
point of view, which followed his excesses of passion and frequent
outbreaks of temper. He had not well gone from the “Red Gulley”
after annihilating the pottery thereof, without feeling what a
fool he had been. He readily conceived that his rashness would
operate greatly, not only against his success with the woman, but
against his future familiarity with the man. It was necessary
that he should heal the breach with the latter if he hoped to win
any favours from the former; and, with this conviction, the rest
of the day was devoted to a calm consideration of the modus operandi
by which he might best succeed in this desire. A rough
investigation of the moral nature of an Indian chief, led Mingo to
the conclusion that the best defence of his conduct, and the happiest
atonement which he could offer, would be one which was addressed
to his appetites rather than to his understanding. Accordingly,
towards nightfall, having secured an adequate supply
of whiskey—that bane equally of negro and Indian—he prepared
with some confidence, to re-appear before the parties whom he
had so grievously offended. He had his doubts, it is true, of the
sort of reception which he should meet;—he was not altogether
sure of the magical effect of the whiskey, in promoting christian
charity, and leading the savage to forgiveness; but none of the
apprehensions of Mingo were of personal danger. He would have
laughed to scorn a suggestion of harm at the hands of so infirm
and insignificant a person as Richard Knuckles; and looking
upon his own stout limbs and manly frame, he would have found
equally irresistible to man and wife. It was with a boldness of
carriage, therefore, that corresponded adequately with the degree
of confidence which he felt in his equal powers of persuasion, and
the whiskey, rather than his personal prowess, that he appeared
that night before the hovel of the squatters. He found Knuckles
alone, and seated a little in advance of his habitation. The Indian
was sober from the necessity of the case. The policy of the
negro had not lately allowed him liquor, and he had not himself
any means for procuring it. He watched the approach of the
enemy without arising from the turf, and without betraying in his
look any of that hostility which was active in his bosom. His
face, indeed, seemed even less grave than usual, and a slight
smile upon his lips, in which it would have tasked a far more
suspicious eye than that of Mingo to have discovered anything
sinister, betrayed, seemingly, a greater portion of good humour
than usually softened his rigid and coarse features. Mingo approached
with a conciliating grin upon his visage, and with hands
extended in amity. As the Indian did not rise to receive him, he
squatted down upon his haunches on the turf opposite, and setting
down the little jug which he brought between them, clapped the
Indian on his shoulders with a hearty salutation, which was meant
to convey to the other a pleasant assurance of his own singular
condescension.
“Knuckles, my boy, how you does? You's bex with me, I
reckons, but there's no needcessity for that. Say I did kick over
the pots and mash the pans?—well! I can pay for 'em, can't I?
When a man has got the coppers he's a right to kick; there's no
use to stand in composition with a fellow that's got the coppers.
He kin throw down and he kin pick up—he kin buy and he kin
sell; he kin break and he kin men'; he kin gib and he kin tak';
he kin kill and he kin eat—dere's no'ting he can't do ef he hab
money—he's mossa to all dem d—d despisable rackrobates, what's
got no coppers. I once bin' ye'r a sarmint from Parson Buckthorn,
and he tink on dis object jis' as you ye'r me tell you. He
tex' is take from de forty-seben chapter—I 'speck it's de forty-seben—which
say, `what he gwine to profit a gempleman what's
mak' de best crop in de world, if he loss he soul,'—which is de
de difference ef Mingo Gillison kick over you' pans and pots, and
bre'k 'em all to smash, and ef he pick 'em, like he pick up eggs,
widout bre'k any, so long as he pay you wha' you ax for 'em.
You sell 'em, you git you money, wha' matter wha' I do wid 'em
arter dat? I bre'k 'em or I men' 'em, jis' de same t'ing to you.
'Spose I eat 'em, wha's de difference? He stick in Mingo stomach,
he no stick in your'n; and all de time de coppers is making
purty jingle in you' pocket. Well, my boy, I come to do de t'ing
now. I bre'k you' pots, I 'tan ye'r to pay you for 'em. But you
mus' be t'irsty, my old fellow, wid so much talking—tak' a drink
'fore we exceed to business.”
The Catawba needed no second invitation. The flavour of the
potent beverage while the negro had been so unprofitably declaiming,
ascended to his nostrils with irresistible influence, in spite of
the stopper of corn cob which imperfectly secured it, and which,
among the negroes of the Southern plantations, makes a more common
than seemly apology for a velvet cork. The aroma of the
beverage soon reconciled Knuckles to the voice of his enemy, and
rendered those arguments irresistible, which no explanations of
Mingo could ever have rendered clear. As he drank, he became
more and more reconciled to the philosophy of his comrade, and,
strengthened by his draughts, his own became equally explicit
and emphatic.
“Ha! Ha! Biskey good too much!” was the long drawn and
fervent exclamation which followed the withdrawal of the reluctant
vessel from his lips.
“You may say dat wid you' own ugly mout', Dick, and tell no
lie nother,” was the cool response. “Any biskey is good 'nough,
but dat's what I calls powerful fine. Dat' fourt' proof, gennywine,
and 'trong like Sampson, de Philistian. Der's no better in
all Jim Hollon's 'stablishment. We gin a mighty great price for
it, so it ought to be good, ef ther's any justice done. But don't
stan', Knuckles—ef you likes it, sup at it again. It's not like
some women's I know—it gives you smack for smack, and holds
on as long as you let it.”
“Huh!—woman's is fool!” responded the savage with an air
of resentment which his protracted draught of the potent beverage
him of his wife, and when he looked upon the speaker he was also
reminded of his presumptuous passions, and of the forward steps
which he had taken for their gratification. But his anger did not
move him to any imprudence so long as the power of reflection was
left him. It was only as his familiarity with the bottle advanced
that his jealous rage began to get the better of his reason and lead
him into ebullitions, which, to a more acute or less conceited person
than Mingo, would have certainly betrayed the proximity of
that precipice in the near neighbourhood of which he stood. The
savage grew gradually eloquent on the subject of woman's worthlessness,
weakness, folly, &c.; and as the vocabulary of broken
and imperfect English which he possessed was any thing but copious,
his resort to the Catawba was natural and ready to give
due expression to his resentment and suspicions.
“Huh! woman is fool—Ingin man spit 'pon woman—ehketee
—boozamogettee!—d—n,—d—n,—damn! tree d—n for woman!—he
make for cuss. Caloya Ganchacha!—he dog,—he
wuss dan dog—romonda!—tree time dog! anaporee, toos-wa-nedah!
Ingin man say to woman, go! fill you mout' wid grass,—
woman is dog for cuss!”
The English portion of this blackguardism is amply sufficient
to show the spirit of the speaker, without making necessary any
translation of that part of the speech, which, in his own dialect,
conceals matter far more atrocious. Enough was understood by
Mingo, as well from the action and look of the Catawba, as from
the vulgar English oath which he employed in connection with
his wife's sex and name, to convince the negro that Caloya was an
object rather of hate than of suspicion to her worthless husband.
As this notion filled his sagacious cranium, new hopes and fancies
followed it, and it was with some difficulty that he could suppress
the eager and precipitate utterance of a scheme, which grew out
of this very grateful conjecture.
“You no lub woman, Knuckles,—eh?”
“Huh! woman is dog. Ingin man say to dog—go! and he
go!—say to dog, come, and he come! Dog hunt for meat, woman's
put meat in de pot! Woman is dog and dog is woman.
time d—n!”
“Well, Knuckles, old boy! take a drink! You don't seem to
defections womans no how!”
“Heh?”—inquiringly.
“Prehaps you don't altogether know what I mean by defections?
Well, I'll tell you. Defections means a sort of chicken-lub;
as if you only had it now and then, and something leetler
than common. It aint a pow'rful attack,—it don't take a body
about de middle as I may say, and gib 'em an up and down h'ist.
It's a sort of lub that lets you go off when you chooses, and come
back when you wants to, and don't keep you berry long about it.
That's to say, it's a sort of defections.”
A monosyllable from the Indian, like the last, attested any thing
but his mental illumination in consequence of the very elaborate
metaphysical distinctions which Mingo had undertaken. But
the latter was satisfied that Knuckles should have become wiser
if he had not; and he proceeded, making short stages toward the
point which he desired to attain.
“Well, now, Knuckles, if so be you don't affections womans,
what makes you keeps her 'bout you? Ef she's only a dog in
your sight, why don't you sen' her a-packing? Ingin man kin
find somebody, I 'speck, to take care ob he dog for 'em.”
“Heh? Dog—wha' dog?”
“Dat is to say—but take a drink, old fellow! Take a long
pull—dat jug's got a long body, an' you may turn it upside
down heap o' times 'fore you'll git all the life out of it. It
gin my arm a smart tire, I kin tell you, to tote it all the way
here! Dat is to say—but sup at it agin, Knuckles,—please de
pigs, you don't know much about what's good, or you would'nt
put it down, tell the red water begins to come into you' eyes.”
“Aw—yaw—yaw! Biskey good too much!”
Was the exclamation, accompanied with a long drawn, hissing
sound, of equal delight and difficulty, which issued spontaneously
from the Indian's mouth, as he withdrew the jug from his lips.
The negro looked at him with manifest satisfaction. His eyes
were suffused with water, and exhibited a hideous stare of excitement
and imbecility. A fixed glaze was overspreading them
the last fleeting gleams of consciousness in the glassy gaze of
the dying. Portions of the liquor which, in his feebleness he had
failed to swallow, ran from the corners of his mouth; and his
fingers, which still clutched the handle of the jug, were contracted
about it like the claws of a vulture in the spasms of a mortal
agony. His head, as if the neck were utterly unsinewed, swung
from side to side in his repeated efforts to raise it to the usual Indian
erectness, and, failing in this attempt, his chin sunk at last
and settled down heavily upon his breast. He was evidently in
prime condition for making a bargain, and, apprehensive that he
might have overdone the matter, and that the fellow might be too
stupid even for the purposes of deception, Mingo hastened with
due rapidity to make the proposition which he had conceived,
and which was of a character with the audacity of his previous
designs.
“Well, Knuckles, my frien', what's to hender us from a trade?
Ef so be you hates woman's and loves Biskey—ef woman's is
a d—n dog, and biskey is de only ting dat you most defections
in dis life,—den gib me you d—n dog, and I'll gib you 'nough
and plenty of de ting you lub. You yerry me?”
“Aw, yaw, yaw, yaw! Biskey berry good!” A torrent of
hiccoughs concluded the reply of the Indian, and for a brief
space rendered the farther accents of the negro inaudible even
to himself.
“To be sure,—da's trute! Biskey is berry good, and da's
wha' I'm sayin' to you, ef you'd only pay some detention. I'm
a offering you, Knuckles—I'm offering to buy you dog from you.
I'll gib you plenty biskey for you dog. Wha' you say, man?
eh?”
“Aw, yaw! Black man want Ingin dog!” The question was
concluded by a faint attempt to whistle. Drunkenness had made
the Catawba more literal than usual, and Mingo's apprehensions
increased as he began to apprehend that he should fail entirely in
reaching the understanding of his companion.
“Psho! git out, Knuckles, I no want you' four-legged dog—
it's you' two-legged dog I day arter. Enty you bin call you
dog?”
“Ya-ou! ramonda yau-ee, Caloya! woman is tree time d—n
dog!”
“To be sure he is. Da's wha we bin say. Now, I want dog,
Knuckles; and you hab dog wha's jis suit me. You call him
Caloya—you dog! You sell me Caloya, I gie you one whole
barrel biskey for da same dog, Caloya.”
“Hah!” was the sudden exclamation of the Indian, as this impudent
but liberal offer reached his senses; but, whether in approbation
or in anger, it was impossible, in the idiot inexpressiveness
of his drunken glance, for the negro to determine. He
renewed his offer with certain additional inducements in the
shape of pipes and tobacco, and concluded with a glowing eulogy
upon the quality of his “powerful, fine, gennywine, fourt'
proof,” the best in Holland's establishment, and a disparaging reference
to the small value of the dog that he was prepared to buy
with it. When he finished, the Indian evidently comprehended
him better, and laboured under considerable excitement. He
strove to speak, but his words were swallowed up in hiccoughs,
which had been increasing all the while. What were his sentiments,
or in what mind he received the offer, the negro vainly strove,
by the most solicitous watchfulness, to ascertain; but he had too
completely overdosed his victim, and the power of speech seemed
entirely departed. This paralysis did not, however, extend entirely
to his limbs. He struggled to rise, and, by the aid of a hickory
twig which grew beside him, he succeeded in obtaining a doubtful
equilibrium, which he did not, however, very long preserve.
His hand clutched at the knife within his belt, but whether the
movement was designed to vindicate his insulted honour, or was
simply spasmodic, and the result of his condition, could not be
said. Muttering incoherently at those intervals which his continual
hiccoughing allowed, he wheeled about and rushed incontinently
towards the hovel, as if moved by some desperate design.
He probably knew nothing definitely at that moment, and had no
precise object. A vague and flickering memory of the instructions
he had given to his wife, may have mingled in with his
thoughts in his drunken mood, and probably prompted him to the
answer, but, having heard in her place of concealment the offensive
proposition which the negro had made her husband, she now
crouched doubly closely and cautious, lest the latter, under this
novel form of provocation, might be moved to vent his wrath
upon her head. Perhaps, too, she fancied, that by remaining
quiet, she might escape the necessity of contributing in any wise
to the execution of the bloody plot in which his commands had
engaged her. Whatever may have been her fear, or the purposes
of the husband, Caloya remained silent. She moved not
from the corner in which she lay, apprehensively waiting events,
and resolved not to move or show herself unless her duty obviously
compelled her.
Mingo, meanwhile, utterly blinded by his prodigious self-esteem,
construed all the movements of the Catawba into favourable
appearances in behalf of his desires; and when Knuckles
entered the hovel calling upon his wife, he took it for granted
that the summons had no other object than to deliver the precious
commodity into his own hands. This conviction warmed
his imagination to so great a degree, that he forgot all his prudence,
and following Knuckles into the wigwam, he prepared to
take possession of his prize, with that unctuous delight and devotedness
which should convince her that she too had made an
excellent bargain by the trade. But when he entered the hovel,
he was encountered by the savage with uplifted hatchet.
“Hello, Knuckles, wha' you gwine to do wid you' hatchet?
You wouldn't knock you bes' frien' 'pon de head, eh?”
“Nigger is d—n dog!” cried the savage, his hiccoughs sufficiently
overcome by his rage to allow him a tolerable clear utterance
at last. As he spoke the blow was given full at the head
of the driver. Mingo threw up his left hand to ward off the
stroke, but was only partially successful in doing so. The keen
steel smote the hand, divided the tendon between the fore-finger
and thumb, and fell with considerable force upon the forehead.
“Oh you d—n black red-skin, you kill mossa best nigger!”
shrieked the driver, who fancied, in the first moment of
his pain, that his accounts were finally closed with the world.
The blood, streaming freely from the wound, though it lessened
his terrors. He felt persuaded that no surgeon could do him
service now, and bitterly did he reproach himself for those amorous
tendencies which had brought him to a fate so unexpected
and sudden. It was the very moment when the exhortations of
the Rev. Jonathan Buckthorn would have found him in a blessed
state of susceptibility and saving grace. The evil one had not
suffered so severe a rebuke in his present habitation for a very
long season. But as the Reverend Jonathan was not nigh to take
advantage of the circumstance, and as the hapless Mingo felt the
continued though impotent struggle of his enemy at his feet, his
earthly passions resumed their sway, and, still believing that he
had not many hours to live, he determined to die game and have
his revenge in his last moments. The Catawba had thrown his
whole remaining strength into the blow, and the impetus had carried
him forward. He fell upon his face, and vainly striving and
striking at the legs of his opponent, lay entirely at his mercy;
his efforts betraying his equal feebleness and fury. At first
Mingo doubted his ability to do anything. Though still standing,
he was for some time incapable of perceiving in that circumstance
any strong reason for believing that he had any considerable portion
of vitality left, and most certainly doubted his possession of
a sufficient degree of strength to take his enemy by the throat.
But with his rage came back his resolution
his vigour.
“Ef I don't stop your kicking arter dis, you red sarpent,
my name's Blind Buzzard. Ef Mingo mus' dead, you shall
dead too, you d—n crooked, little, old, red rascal. I'll squeeze
you t'roat, tell you aint got breat' 'nough in you body to scar'
'way musquito from peeping down your gullet. Lor' ha' massey!—to
'tink Mingo mus' dead 'cause he git knock on de head
by a poor, little, shrinkle up Injun, dat he could eat up wid he
eyes and no make tree bite ob he carcass.”
This reflection increased the wrath of the negro, who prepared
with the most solemn deliberation to take the Indian's life by
strangling him. With this design he let his knee drop upon the
body of the prostrate Knuckles, while his hand was extended in
order to secure an efficient grasp upon his throat. But his movements
corner where she crouched, who, springing forward at the perilous
moment, drew the hatchet from the hand of the sprawling
and unconscious savage and took an attitude of threatening
which effectually diverted the anger of the negro. Surprised at
her appearance, rather than alarmed at her hostility, he began to
conjecture, in consequence of the returning passion which he felt,
that his danger was not so great as he had at first fancied. The
sight of those charms which had led him into the danger, seemed
to induce a pleasant forgetfulness of the hurts which had been
the result of his rashness; and with that tenacity of purpose
which distinguishes a veteran among the sex, the only thought of
Mingo was the renewal of his practices of evil. He thought no
more of dying, and of the Reverend Jonathan Buckthorn, but
with a voice duly softened to the gentler ears which he was preparing
to address, he prefaced his overtures by a denunciation of
the “dead-drunk dog what was a-lying at his foot.” A wretch,
as he loudly declared, who was no more worthy of such a woman
than he was worthy of life.
“But der's a man wha's ready to tak' you, my lubly one, and
tak' care ob you, and treat you as you d'zarb. He's a gempleman—he's
no slouch, nor no sneak. He's always dress in de
bes'—he's always hab plenty for eat and plenty for drink—der's
no scarcity where he hab de mismanagement; and nebber you'll
hab needcessity for work, making mud pot and pan, ef he tak' you
into his defections. I reckon, Caloya, you's want for know who
is dat pusson I tell you 'bout. Who is dat gempleman wha's ready
for do you so much benefactions? Well! look a' yer, Caloya,
and I reckon you'll set eye on de very pusson in perticklar.”
The woman gave him no answer, but still, with weapon uplifted,
kept her place, and maintained a watch of the utmost steadfastness
upon all his movements.
“Wha'! you won't say not'ing? Can't be you care someting
for dis bag of feaders, wha's lie at my foot!”
With these words the irreverent negro stirred the body of
Knuckles with his foot, and Caloya sprang upon him in the same
instant, and with as determined a hand as ever her husband's had
been, struck as truly, though less successfully, at the forehead of
from a feebler arm than his own. His eye detected her design
the moment she moved, and he darted aside in season to avoid the
blow. With equal swiftness he attempted to seize her in his arms
the instant after, but, eluding his grasp, she backed towards the
entrance of the wigwam, keeping her weapon uplifted, and evidently
resolved to use it to the best advantage as soon as an opportunity
offered. Mingo was not to be baffled in this fashion—the
difficulties in the way of his pursuit seemed now reduced to a single
issue—the husband was hors de combat, and the wife—she certainly
held out only because she was still in his presence. To
this moment, Mingo never doubted that his personal prowess and
pretensions had long since impressed Caloya with the most indulgent
and accessible emotions. He advanced, talking all the while
in the most persuasive accents, but without inducing any relaxation
of watchfulness or resolution on the part of the woman. He was
prepared to rush upon, and wrest the hatchet from her hand—and
farther ideas of brutality were gathering in his mind—when he
was arrested by the presence of a new and annoying object which
suddenly showed itself at the entrance and over the shoulder of
the Indian woman. This was no other than his lawful spouse,
Diana.
“Hello, Di! what de dibble you come for, eh?”
“I come for you, to be sure. Wha' de dibble you is doing yer,
wid Injun woman?”
Surprised at the strange voice, and feeling herself somewhat
secure in the presence of a third person, Caloya ventured to look
round upon the new comer. The sight of her comely features
was a signal of battle to the jealous wife, who, instantly, with a
fearful shriek, struck her talons into the cheeks of her innocent rival,
and followed up the assault by dashing her head into her face.
The hatchet fell involuntary upon the assailant, but the latter had
too successfully closed in, to receive much injury from the blow,
which, however, descended upon her back, between the shoulders,
and made itself moderately felt. Diana, more vigorous than the
Indian woman, bore her to the earth, and, doubtlessly, under her
ideas of provocation, would have torn her eyes from their sockets,
but for the prompt interposition of her husband, who, familiar with
to the earth with a single blow of his fist. He might have followed
up this violence to a far less justifiable extent, for the audacity
which his wife had shown had shocked all his ideas of domestic
propriety, but that he was interrupted before he could proceed
further by a hand which grasped tightly his neckcloth from behind,
and giving it a sudden twist, curtailed his powers of respiration
to a most annoying degree. He turned furiously though
with difficulty upon the new assailant, to encounter the severe
eyes of his young master.
Here was an explosion! Never was an unfaithful steward more
thoroughly confounded. But the native impudence of Mingo did
not desert him. He had one of the fairest stories in the world to
tell. He accounted for every thing in the most rational and innocent
manner—but in vain. Young Gillison had the eye of a
hawk when his suspicions were awakened, and he had already
heard the testimony of the Indian woman, whom he could not
doubt. Mingo was degraded from his trust, and a younger negro
put over him. To compensate the Indian woman for the injuries
which she received, was the first care of the planter as he came
upon the ground. He felt for her with increased interest as she
did not complain. He himself assisted her from the ground and
conducted her into the wigwam. There, they found Knuckles
almost entirely insensible. The liquor with which the negro had
saturated him, was productive of effects far more powerful than
he had contemplated. Fit had succeeded to fit, and paralysis
was the consequence. When Gillison looked upon him, he saw
that he was a dying man. By his orders, he was conveyed that
night to the settlement, where he died the next day.
Caloya exhibited but little emotion, but she omitted no attention.
She observed the decorum and performed all the duties of a wife.
The young planter had already learned to esteem her, and when,
the day after the funeral, she prepared to return to her people,
who were upon the Edisto, he gave her many presents which she
received thankfully, though with reluctance.
A year after, at the same season, the “Red Gulley” was occupied
by the whole tribe, and the evening following their arrival,
Col. Gillison, sitting within the hall of his family mansion, was
younger than before, comelier, and far more happy. She was
followed by a tall and manly looking hunter, whom she introduced
as her husband, and who proved to be the famous Chickawa, of
whom poor old Knuckles had been so jealous. The grateful Caloya
came to bring to the young planter a pair of moccasins and
leggins, neatly made and fancifully decorated with beads, which,
with her own hands, she had wrought for him. He received them
with a sentiment of pleasure, more purely and more enduringly
sweet than young men are often apt to feel; and, esteeming her
justly, there were few articles of ordinary value in his possession
with which he would not sooner have parted, than the simple
present of that Catawba woman.
| The wigwam and the cabin | |