The Tennessean a novel, founded on facts |
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| 13. | CHAPTER XIII. |
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 | CHAPTER XIII. The Tennessean |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
The next morning we all arose well, except Wilson,
who had a violent head-ache, which subjected him to the
raillery of the old gentleman, who declared he would
never do if he could not set out an old fellow like him.
“I doubt Mary will have a poor stick of thee, child,
(going to him and feeling of his pulse.) Oh, thou needn't
let blood, thou artn't so bad, man; why Sambo, how
many bottles did we set?”
“Only five, sir.”
“Humph, that's a pretty thing to lay up a young lark,
just going to be married, too—Go and tell the cook to
make him some chicken broth, and he will soon be well
enough.”
I followed Sambo, and while waiting for some water
to mix the medicine for Wilson, he enquired how his
master come to talk about his mistress and her child.
I replied that I had enquired about them, but that he
began it himself.
“Oh, massa, you shouldn't neber say a word about um,
if you do, massa go crazy.”
“How were they drowned?” said I to Sambo.
“Oh, massa, he go away to Englan'—I 'long to ole
massa, he wife fadda. Dis here massa he stay so long
de nigger rise—kill ebery body, burn house—Ole massa
he lib close to de sea, he talk hout takin ship—Before
dat, by blood! one night here cum great many niggers:
ole misse she tell me, Sambo run tell youn' misse—youn'
misse she run to one house, tay all night—I run all my
might—knock at de doa to tell um da all will be kill'd—
call youn' misse, yerk de chile out out he arms, tell him
run arter me so hard he can.”
In short, that most of the inhabitants were massacred
by the negroes, their houses burned, and that his master's
wife and child, by his assistance, escaped on board
of a vessel; but what vessel he (Sambo) could not tell.—
a view of preventing his master from landing, when he
should arrive, pretending he was on the side of the negroes—that
his master arrived in a few days, and he
succeeded in getting on board, and acquainted him with
the slaughter of the inhabitants, in which his wife's parents
fell victims: also the fate of his mistress and her
child.—That his master hoisted sail, with him on board,
and visited England and France, and almost every part
of Europe; but never heard more of his wife or child;
concluding that they were cast away or murdered by the
negroes, he gave over the search in despair, and settled
in Havanna; but was often seized with fits of grief that
threatened his life.”
“And did you stay with your master ever since?”
“I stay wid she sir.”
“You are a faithful fellow, (said I) and well entitled
to his regard, I hope he will reward thy fidelity.”
“Who massa? Ah, massa lub me he do his life—me
and Dick Jinkin, we dare too.”
When we returned to the cabin I found Wilson laughing
very heartily at something my uncle had said to him.
“Oh, he's well enough—ye needn't be giving him that
stuff.”
“He must take it, (said I) it will cool his fever.”
“Well, thee landsmen knows best what will cure ye—
Come Sambo, let's have breakfast, I think the wind has
shifted. Did thee hear the course?”
“S. S. E. I think, sir.”
“I hates this tacking business.”
After breakfast Sambo produced a back-gammon table;
after directing him to go and see to Wilson's broth,
I sat down to play with the old man; but he beat me every
game. After Wilson drank his broth I told him to
come and try the old colt, for he was too hard for me.—
Wilson proving an overmatch for him,
“Ah, (said the old gentleman) Dick can beat us all—
I'll have him up.”
Thus we passed three more days, which brought us to
Havanna. We contrived to amuse the old man during
the melancholy narrative of his misfortunes.
When we cast anchor my uncle, accompanied by Wilson
and myself, waited upon the Governor, who expressed
great satisfaction at the success of the expedition,
and invited us to dinner. After dinner Wilson,
and I and the deputy Governor, were directed to see the
prisoners and effects landed.
The specie we weighed, not having time to count it.
In gold and silver there were eight hundred and seventy-eight
thousand pounds sterling, besides a great quantity
of unwrought gold and silver in ingots. All this together
with the mules, the prisoners and vessel of the
pirates were delivered to the deputy; only Hunter and
the old woman were retained. Hunter being a citizen
of the United States, my uncle claimed the disposal of
him.
Having delivered a written statement of the prizes we
had made, the governor offered to several of my uncle's
followers liberal presents as some compensation for the
hard service in which they had been engaged. But my
uncle would listen to no offer of the kind. Hunter he retained,
and for the old woman he procured a passport
and sent her to Barbadoes, with something in her pockets.
According to the directions of my uncle, I provided
a passage for her to that island, and going down to
the vessel I saw her safe aboard for the place of her destination.
When we returned, I found the two old cronies in a
pretty high gale.
“Ha!” said he to Wilson, “we are going to have another
spree to-night—do'st think thou can stand the old
colt another bout?—We're going to have all the music
in town—where's Jinkins?”
I said he would attend him directly.
“Oh, God bless you, my dear sir,” said Wilson, “do
excuse me to-night; I am not well; I'll set up and sing
for you to-morrow night.”
“Thou an't well! ah, I knew thou would'st back out
—thou can'st not stand service with a tried old sailor.”
Getting up and going to Wilson, (who I verily believe
hand, addressed him in the most affectionate terms.
“Thou an't sick, child, art thee?”
Wilson could not bring himself to impose upon so
much goodness; he smiled as my uncle was, with a serious
look, endeavouring to ascertain the truth from his
countenance.
“Ah, thou art a grand rogue; no more sick than I
be—we'll all be as merry as grigs—oho, thou shalt sing
old lang syne.”
By this time Jinkins made his appearance.
“Oh, there's my boy—come and take a full bottle—
this is our house to night—we be the masters—but prithee,
Jinkins, be Hunter safe?”
“He is, sir.”
“I think as we be going to ha' music to-night, and
d'ye see, can't do without thee, better put him aboard our
own ship, release the fellows and put a guard over him.”
The company now began to gather. I was glad to
hear that no ladies were to be present, nothing but a
parcel of good hearty souls, as my uncle called them—
my poor head you'll go to pot to-night, thought I, but I
comforted myself in thinking it would be the last time I
should be put to such an alternative. Indeed, I felt more
for Wilson than myself, as he was less able to stand it.
I approached him and in a low voice encouraged his fatigued
spirits by telling him how unmanly it would appear
to shrink from a participation in this general joy;
that the party was given solely in honour of us; that it
would be cruel not to gratify my uncle with hir presence,
and that after he had sung a few songs I would watch an
opportunity of getting him off upon honourable terms.
He said “I would find it very difficult to deceive the
old hero of the isles.”
We were now through politeness, obliged to attend to
the music. There were half a dozen of violins, as many
flutes, flageolets, &c. without number, and two bass
viols. The music was insupportably bad, Sambo and
Jinkins being by far the best performers. Wilson always
sings well, and I perform indifferently on the flute, but
we were borne away with the discordant scraping of
called to partake of a splendid supper, at which no female
appeared. After supper we returned to the heterogeneous
collection of noises—with the exception of a few
tunes they were all new to me; but my uncle who understood
them, I suspect, was delighted. He also could
speak a little French, while Wilson and I endeavoured
to be good company in bad Spanish. I enjoyed myself
much worse than I expected, Wilson was mad, and my
uncle transported. At length on a sudden he became
much affected. Drawing a chair with me I sat down by
him, and throwing my arm carelessly on the back of his
chair, I pressed his hand and asked him if he was ill.
He shook his head and suppressing his feelings,
“that,” said he, “was my dear Eliza's favourite tune:
but I never finished her story.”
“Oh, sir,” said I, “don't enter upon that subject to-night,
I had the whole story from Sambo—make yourself
happy. True your loss can never be repaired, but
as far as it is in my power I shall make it the chief pleasure
of my life to smooth the evening of your age; I
will live with you, and endeavour to fulfil the duties of
a son.”
Wilson now approached us, sat down on the other side
of him, and kindly enquired after his health. Fearing
to disturb the company, I left them together and taking
up my flute, the music ceased, and I struck up Yankee
Doodle. To this succeeded a number of our tunes and
by degrees the music gave way to loud talking and laughter,
which continued till twelve o'clock. Going to my
uncle I told him that it was quite time for him to retire,
that he would injure his health by such late hours. The
old man made no reply, but giving his hand suffered me
to lead him to his room, where Sambo performed the
rest. I returned to the company who were nearly blind,
and taking Wilson's arm retired without more ceremony.
Next morning I waited upon my uncle before he was
out of bed, and found him far from well. I informed him
that Wilson and I must have some clothes made as quick
as possible, that we were almost destitute of any, and
waited on him for directions where to apply for the materials
and some one to make them.
“To besure, my son,” said he—“prithee, Sambo, get
my clothes—heigh-ho, I drank too much o' old Frank's
wine last night—wan't it excellent?—tell me. How be
Hal? I got a plaguey head-ache.”
I informed him of Wilson's health.
“He's a noble fellow, but can't stand service.”
By this time he was dressed, and ordering Sambo to
tell the steward to attend him, we walked out in search
of Wilson.
After finding Wilson, my uncle took the necessary
steps for procuring suits of clothes for us both. This he
accomplished in his usual generous manner, and every
suggestion which our delicacy made, was promptly
obviated by this liberal hearted son of the ocean.
As the time was drawing nigh when we must leave
Havana, I resolved to break the subject of accompanying
Wilson through Tennessee, to my uncle at once.
After breakfast I called Wilson aside and informed
him of my intention, telling him at the same time to go
to the office of entry and engage our passage to New-Orleans
at a venture.
Wilson set out to procure a passage, and I with a
heavy heart sought my uncle. Meeting with him in the
parlour I proposed a walk, to which he cheerfully consented,
and locking my arm in his we proceeded some
distance before I could bring myself to name the matter
to him—I essayed to speak, but the word stuck in my
throat—my uncle in the meantime had commenced a desultory
conversation on other matters quite foreign to
the point. At length summoning my resolution and putting
on a serious look, I addressed him in a faultering
voice.
“I have a disclosure to make to you, sir, that must
distress you, as it certainly does myself.”
He was silent—and I proceeded:
“It is needless to repeat to you, sir, what I have said
already, that the life you have saved, shall be devoted to
you, and most assuredly it shall, and though the request
I have to make cannot lessen me in your esteem, yet I
fear it will give you pain.”
“Oh for God's sake to the point—to the point—what
dos't want?”
“You know, sir, that Wilson is engaged to my sister;
that he is on his way to wed her if she be alive; you
know that his parents live in Tennessee, and he cannot
think of proceeding on to Boston without calling to see
them after three years' absence. It would be”—
“Can'st thou not tell me what thou would have at
once?”
“Briefly then my dear sir, he wants me to go with
him.”
“And be that all?—I thought that thou hadst murdered
somebody, thou began with such gravity. Why as
for Wilson he ought to go and see his parents; but what
dos't want with thee?—can't he go by himself?”
“Sir, if you say so, it shall be so; I will not go
without your consent, nor with it, if it grieves you to
part with me. True I love Wilson, I am bound to him
by a thousand obligations; we have lived together our
life time I may say like brothers. He has saved my life at
the hazard of his own. For my sake he concealed himself
during four long months in the Spanish dominions,
spending most of this time in the woods, and in caves, in
want of every thing, hourly and momently exposed to
the danger of loosing his life, instead of going to visit his
parents, who had at a great expense procured his ransom
from the Spanish dungeon. You are witness yourself,
of his narrow escape from death since that event. It is
for his sake, therefore, that I make this request. The
road is long, lonesome and dangerous.”
“We'll say no more about it, child; thee can go—
thee can go—I should ha' been glad for both o'thee to go
with me, but as it is 'suppose can't go—'twould be a pity
to part ye, and he's a noble youth too. But my son don't
forget to take a little o'thy uncle to bear thy expenses; I
know thou can't ha' much; thy uncle has plenty, and
'twill all be thine and his together.”
“Sir,” said I, pressing his hand, “I never”—it was
some time before I had power to add—“expected such
goodness as this—that you were generous I knew, but
this sacrifice was more than I expected—may heaven reward
thee, thou best of men.”
Our feelings being mutually agitated we spake no
asked him “when he would set sail?”
“To-morrow,” said he faintly.
“Dear uncle,” said I, “keep up your spirits; we
will reach New-York probably before yourself. You
must be aware how anxious I am to know what has become
of my poor sister, and Wilson is almost heart-broken
on her account. I trust we will all meet and be
happy.”
“Poor Mary,” said he sighing deeply, “thou wast a
little prattling thing when I saw thee—but may be thee
wasn't born—I forget almost about her. But thou did'st
wrong in leaving the poor thing so long.”
“Oh sir, you are not more sensible of this than I am;
it is an error I shall deplore to my latest hour; but who
could see these events, or who ever did act up to perfection?
This pleasure (kissing the dear old man's hand)
repays all my sufferings.”
He was greatly agitated—after pressing my hand in
his with a fervour that bespoke every thing, we entered
the house. Wilson entered in the course of an hour; he
knew by my countenance that I had succeeded, and we
were once more happy. In the evening when wine and
good cheer had restored our spirits, my uncle calling
Hal to him—
“Ah,” said he, “thou balked me at last—'thought to
a'had thy company, but thou art a good child to go and
see thy parents—Charles—Charles—he blubbered 'cause
I would not let him go; O, he's as cheery since as a lark;
look to him yonder, how bright his eyes shine, 'spose he's
told thee?”
“He has, sir,” said Wilson.
I drew near them and Wilson continued—
“Your consent has made us both happy, and I trust
we shall soon meet again; I shall just call and stay one
night with my parents and proceed on to”—He could say
no more.
“Well take care o' my poor boy, and see that thou
runs no more fool's errands.”
“Oh bless you, sir, we need no caution on that head I
say will last us to the end of our lives.”
Next morning we waited on my uncle (who was ready
to embark) for the purpose of taking leave of him on our
embarkation for New Orleans. The Governor had taken
care to convey on board our vessel, several articles
of sea stores as a mark of his regard for us; and my uncle
being determined to be generous himself in spite of
our delicacy, insisted that we should accept several presents
in money, which he had prepared for us. He
would listen to no denial.
The boat had now arrived that was to convey us to our
ship, and now came another trial. After a few minutes
silence, during which we all gave way to our feelings:
“Dearest of men,” said I embracing my uncle, “we
wait for your blessing.”
“God bless you, my child,” said he, sobbing aloud as
he pressed me to his bosom. Wilson followed my example.
He walked with us a few paces, observing that “if
it wasn't for shame, he would go with us, but that his
freight was valuable, and the coast dangerous—and I
hates to let the boys go by themselves.”
We squeezed his hand once more and stepped into the
boat. After gaining our own vessel the same boat conveyed
him to his, and whilst the hands were unmooring
our ships, we stood on our respective decks enjoying the
sight of each other as long as possible. The wind, however,
being in favour of my uncle, he was soon borne
from our view—the last I saw, was the old man waiving
his hat, which being returned by us, we hastened to the
cabin to assuage those melancholy feelings which a parting
of this kind generally creates.
| CHAPTER XIII. The Tennessean | |