University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

But Scipio was already gone upon his mission, and
the maiden looked for him in vain. The next fear of
Mellichampe was that he should miss the person he
sought. Scipio, however, though he had left the house,
had not yet passed the enclosure. The line of sentinels
had yet to be gone through; and a task, like that we
have just seen overcome by Witherspoon, had yet to be
performed by the negro, in crossing the avenue. He
had his arts also, and his plan was one after his own

heart and fashion. Creeping along by the fence, which
ran circuitously from the house of the overseer to the
avenue, and which we have seen employed as a screen
to Singleton's riflemen, he reached the entrance of the
avenue, though without being able to cross it at the
point he made. The sentinels in this quarter were too
numerous and close to permit him to attempt it there,
and, keeping along the skirts of the copse, and under its
shade, he moved upwards. The soldiers of Barsfield
were more watchful without than within; and, though but
a few yards separated the negro, in his stealthy progress,
from the pacing sentinel, such was the address of Scipio,
that he occasioned not the slightest apprehension. But
to cross the avenue, and reach the dense wood that lay
on the opposite side, was the work of most difficult
achievement. To accomplish this, it was the aim of
Scipio to pass through a drain which crossed the avenue,
and conducted the waters from the two ditches, when
overflowed, into a third, by means of which they were
carried off into a hollow bay lying some fifty yards distant
in the woods. To penetrate the umbrageous copse
on one side of the avenue,—to watch the moment when
the sentinel's back should be turned,—then, dropping
down silently into the ditch, to crawl into the drain, the
mouth of which was immediately alongside of it, was
the scheme of Scipio. In pursuance of this scheme, he
passed on with all the stealthy adroitness of the wildcat—now
hurrying, as he found himself too much without
the cover of the trees,—now crawling forwards, on
hands and knees, as the clambering vines around him
set a firm barrier against undue uprightness,—and now
lying or standing, motionless, as any warning or occasional
sounds reached his ears, either from the camp
which he had left, or the woods to which he was speeding.
The exceeding brightness of the moonlight rendered
increased precautions necessary, and gave bitter
occasion of complaint to the negro, to whom, like all of
his colour, the darkness of the night was a familiar
thing, and opposed no sort of obstruction to his nocturnal
wanderings when the plantations otherwise were all
fast asleep. He penetrated the copse, and, thrusting
his sable visage through the shrubbery, looked from side
to side upon the two sentinels who paced that portion
of the avenue in sight. He duly noted their distances
and position, and, receding a pace, threw himself flat
upon the bank and crawled downward into the ditch.
The mouth of the drain lay a little above him, conveniently
open and large; and there could have been no
sort of difficulty, when he once reached that point, of
making his way through it into the opposite cover. But
it so happened that Scipio, in his progress, gave more
of his regards to the sentinel, and less to the path immediately
before him, than was either prudent or proper.
He did not perceive a slender and decayed pine-limb
which lay partially over the route he was pursuing.
His hand rested heavily upon it in his progress, and it
gave way beneath the pressure, with a crack which
might have reached the ears of a sentinel at a much
greater distance. With the sound, he turned suddenly
in the direction of the negro. The poor fellow had
his work to begin anew. He had plunged, with the
yielding branch, incontinently into the mire, and in the
first moment of the accident his entire face had been
immersed in its slime. However, there was no time
for regrets, and but little for reflection. The proceeding
of Scipio was that of an instinct rather than a thought.
He heard the fierce challenge of the sentinel, who yet
did not see him. He saw that, in any endeavour at
flight, he must be shot; and to seek to prosecute his
scheme would be idle, as the drain lay between him and
the advancing soldier: he could not reach it in time to
escape his eyes. In boldness alone could he hope to
escape; and, in the moment of sudden peril, audacity is
frequently the truest wisdom. He rose upon his feet
with the utmost composure; and, without seeking to retreat
or advance, exclaimed as he rose, in all the gusto
of a well-fed negro's phraseology, with a degree of impudence
which might have imposed upon a more sagacious
head than that of the sentinel before him—

“Look 'ere, misser sodger,—take care how you
shoot at mossa nigger. Good sarbant berry scarce in
dis country; and, when gempleman hab sarbant like
Scip, he ain't foolish 'nough for sell 'em. No gold—
no silber money guine buy Scip; so take care, I tell you,
how you spile you' pocket.”

“Why, what the hell, Scip, are you doing there?”
demanded the gruff soldier, who knew him well.

“Ki, Mass Booram, wha' for you ax sich foolish
question? Enty you see I tumble in de ditch? Suppose
you tink I guine dare of my own head, and spile
my best breeches? You's wrong. I hold on de branch,
and de branch breck, and so I tumble. Wha' more?
Da's all.”

“And suppose, Scip, that instead of coming up to
you civilly, as I have done, I should have sent a bullet
into you ribs, or poked you a little with this bagnet?”

“You bin do sich ting, Mass Booram, I say you no
gempleman. Nebber gempleman hit nigger if he kin
help it; 'cause a nigger's a 'spectable character wha'
can't help heself. Da's a good reason for udder people
for no hurt 'em. 'Tis only poor buckrah dat does
trouble nigger. Scip has ambition for gempleman; but
a poor buckrah, Mass Booram, he no wuss he tree
copper.”

“All very well, Scipio; but what brought you here,
old fellow? Don't you know you have no business in
this quarter?”

“Who tell you dat, Mass Booram? He's a d—n
fool of a nigger heself if he tell you so. Wha's de reason
I say so?—'cause, you see, I hab business in dis
quarter. Let me ax you few question, Mass Booram,

and talk like a gempleman, 'cause I can't 'spect white
man when he lib 'pon gar-broff.”

“Go on, Scip,” replied the soldier, complacently.

“Fuss, den—you know I hab mossa, enty?”

“Yes, to be sure; if you hadn't, Scip, I'd take you
for myself: I like a good negro mightily.”

“'Speck you does, but da's noting; you hab for ax if
good nigger like you. Mossa want to sell Scip, he gib
um ticket look he owner: da's de business. But da's
not what we hab for talk 'bout. If I b'long to mossa,
wha' he name?”

“Why, Mr. Berkeley, to be sure!”

“Da's a gospel. I b'long to Dick Berkeley,—dis
plantation b'long to Dick Berkeley,—Dick Berkeley
hab he cow, enty, Mass Booram?”

“Yes, cow and calf in plenty, and enough of every
thing besides. I only wish I had half as much, I would
not carry this d—d heavy musket.”

“Ha! you leff off sodger? You right, Mass
Booram; sodger is bad business,—nebber sodger is
good gempleman. He hab for cuss—he hab for drunk:
he hab for hurt udder people wha's jist as good and
much better dan heself. I terra you what, Mass Booram,
Scip wouldn't be sodger for de world and all da's
in it; he radder be poor buckrah—any ting sooner dan
sodger. A sodger is a poor debbil, dat hab no ambition
for 'spectability: I radder be nigger-driber any day, dan
cappin, like Mass Barsfield.”

“You would, would you? you d—d conceited crow
in a corn-field! Why, Scipio, you're the most vainest
flycatcher in the country,” said the other, good-naturedly.
Scipio received the speech as a compliment.

“Tank you, Mass Booram. You's a gempleman,
and can comperhend. But wha' I was telling you?—
ah! Mossa hab cow. Wha' den? Now I guine
show you wha' bring me here. Da's some of you sodger
bin guine tief he milk, and breck down de gate of de

cow-yard. Wha' den?—Brindle gone—Becky gone
—Polly gone. Tree of mossa best cow gone, cause
you sodger lub milk. Wha' Scip for do? Wha' mossa
tell um. It's dat is bring me here. I guine look for
de cow. I no bring um home by daylight, mossa say
driber shall gib me hell.”

“And so you want to pass here, Scipio, in order to
look after the cattle? Suppose now I should not suffer
you to pass—suppose I should send you back to get
your flogging?”

“Suppose you does?” said the other, boldly; “Suppose
you does, you's no gempleman. Da's a mean
buckrah, Mass Booram, wha' kin do so to poor nigga.
Wha' for you guine let mossa gib me hell? I ebber
hurt you, Mass Booram? 'Tis you own sodger guine
for tief de milk, dat's let out Brindle and Becky. Scip
nebber let 'em out. Wha' for you no say—whip de
sodger—wha' for you say whip de nigga?”

“It is a hard case, Scip, and you shall pass, though
it's agin orders. But remember, old boy, when you
bring home the cows, I must have the first milking.
You shall provide me with milk so long as we stay
here for saving you from this flogging.”

“Da's a bargin,” said the negro, preparing to depart:
“da's fair. Mass Booram, I bin always tink you
was a gempleman, dat hab a lub for poor nigga. I kin
speak for you after dis.”

“Thank you, Scipio,” said the other, good-naturedly.

“Take piece of gunja—he berry good, Mass Booram—my
wife make 'em.”

The negro broke his molasses-cake evenly between
himself and the soldier, who did not scruple readily to
receive it. A few more words were exchanged between
them, when, passing the avenue, Scipio hurried forward,
and found himself, his chief difficulties surmounted, in
the deep bosom of the adjoining woods.

Free of all present restraint, the tongue of Scipio,

after a very common fashion among negroes, discoursed
freely to its proprietor, aloud, upon the difficulties
yet before him.

“Well, 'spose I pass one, da's noting. Plenty more,
I speck, scatter 'bout here in dese woods; and, if he
ain't tory—wha' den? Some of dese Marion men jist
as bad. He make noting of shoot poor nigga, if it's
only to git he jacket. Cracky! wha' dat now? I
hear someting. Cha! 'tis de wind only. He hab all
kind of noise in dis wood for frighten people—sometime
he go like a man groan wid a bullet-hole work in
he back. Nodder time he go like a person was laughing;
but I don't see noting here to make person laugh.
Da's a noise now I don't comperhend—like de nocking
ob old dry sticks together; 'spose it's some bird da's
flapping off de moschetus wid his wings. It's a bad
place in dis woods, and I wonder wha' make dat Dick
Wedderspoon lub 'em so. Whay him now,—'tis like a
blind nigga that don't come when you want um. I no
bin look arter um now, I plump jist 'pon um. I no
hab noting to ax um, he sure for answer. I no hab
noting to gib um, he sure for put out he hand for someting.
He's a—”

At that moment a heavy slap upon the cheek from a
ponderous hand saluted the soliloquizing Scipio, and arrested
his complainings. The light flashed from the
negro's eyes as he turned at this rough saluation.

“Cracky! Who da dat—Mass Wedderspoon?”

“Ah, you rascal—you know'd well enough. You
only talked out your impudent stuff for me to hear,
Scipio, 'cause you know'd I was close at hand.”

“I sway to G—d, Mass Wedderspoon, I nebber
b'lieb you been so close. I bin look for you.”

“Why, you numscull, you came a great deal out of
your way, for I was behind you all the time. You managed
that sentinel mighty well, Scip,—I heard the whole

of your palaver, and really did believe at first that the
cows were off, and you were going after them.”

“And how come you no b'lieb now, Mass Wedderspoon?”

“Because, you were no sooner out of his sight fairly,
but you began to go faster than before—much faster
than you ever did go when you went out into the swamp
after cattle.”

“Da's a trute. But you know, Mass Wedderspoon,
wha' I come out for—you know who I looking arter?”

“No—I do not; but I want to know a good deal
that you can tell me, so the sooner you begin the better.
How is Airnest, for the first?”

“He mos' well: but here's de paper—read 'em—he
tell you ebbry ting.”

The scout seized the scrawl, and strove to trace out
its contents by moonlight, but, failing to do so, he drew a
pistol from his belt, and, extracting the load, flashed the
priming in a handful of dry straw which Scipio heaped
together. With some little difficulty he deciphered the
scrawl, while the negro kept plying the fuel to the blaze.
Its contents were soon read and quickly understood.
Witherspoon was overjoyed. The prospect of Mellichampe's
release, even though at the risk of a desperate
fight, was productive to him of the most complete satisfaction.

“Go back,” he said, after a while, to the negro;
“go back and tell Airnest that you've seen me, and that
all's well. Tell him I'll go my death for him, and
do my best to git others, though the time is monstrous
short.”

“You guine git 'em clear, Mass Wedderspoon, from
de d—d hook-nose tory?” asked the negro.

“I'll try, Scip, by the etarnal!”

“Da's a gempleman. But dem little guns—da's jist
what Mass Airnest want. He must hab someting,
Mass Wedderspoon, for hole he own wid dem tory.

Put de marble in de mout' of de pistol,—I'll carry
um.”

“'Spose they find 'em on you, Scip?”

“Enty I fin' um. I pick um up in de path. You
tink dem tory guine catch weasel asleep, when he 'tan'
by Scip. No notion ob such ting, I tell you.”

The scout gave him both pistols, which the negro immediately
lashed about his middle, carefully concealing
them from exposure by the thick waistband of his pantaloons.

“Now go, Scip,—go back to Airnest, and tell him
I've set my teeth to help him, and do what he axes.
I'm guine back now to the boys in camp, and I reckon
it won't be too much to say that Major Singleton will
bring a smart chance of us to do the d—dest, by a
leetle, that ever yet was done to help a friend out of a
hobble.”

They separated—one seeking the camp of Barsfield,
the other that of Marion, which, at this time, a
few miles only divided.