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