University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER 9 The Runaway

“De Laud's good — bless his name!” exclaimed Mammy Judy wringing her hands as Henry entered their hut. “ 'e heahs de prahs ob 'is chilen. Yeh hab reason t' tang God yeh is heah dis day!”

“Yes Henry, see wat de Laud's done fah yeh. Tis true's I's heah dis day! Tang God fah dat!” added Daddy Joe.

“I think,” replied he, after listening with patience to the old people, “I have reason to thank our Ailcey and Van Winter's Biddy; they, it seems to me, should have some credit in the matter.”

“Sho boy, g'long whah yeh gwine! Yo' backslidin' gwine git yeh in trouble ghin eh reckon?” replied Mammy Judy.

Having heard the conversation between her mistress and Henry, Ailcey, as a secret, informed Van Winter's Derba, who informed her fellow servant Biddy, who imparted it to her acquaintance Nelly, the slave of esquire Potter, Nelly informing her mistress, who told the 'Squire, who led Franks into the secret of the whole matter.

“Mus'n blame me, Henry!” said Ailcey in an undertone. “I did'n mean de wite folks to know wat I tole Derba, nor she di'n mean it nuther, but dat devil, Pottah's Nell! us gals mean da fus time we ketch uh out, to duck uh in da rivah! She's rale wite folk's nigga, dat's jus' wat she is. Nevah mine, we'll ketch her yit!”

“I don't blame you Ailcey, nor either of Mrs. Van Winter's girls, as I know that you are my friends, neither of whom would do anything knowingly to injure me. I know Ailcey that you are a good girl, and believe you would tell me — — ”

“Yes Henry, I is yo' fren' an' come to tell yeh now wat da wite folks goin' to do.”

“What is it Ailcey; what do you know?”

“Wy dat ugly ole devil Dick Crow — God fah gim me! But I hate 'im so, case he nothin' but po' wite man, no how — I know 'im he come from Fagina on — — ”

“Never mind his origin, Ailcey, tell me what you know concerning his visit in the house.”

“I is goin' to, but da ugly ole devil, I hates 'im so! Maus Stephen had 'im in da pahla, an' 'e sole yeh to 'im, dat ugly ole po' wite devil, fah — God knows how much — a hole heap a money; `two' somethin.”

“I know what it was, two thousand dollars, for that was his selling price to Jack Harris.”

“Yes, dat was da sum, Henry.”

“I am satisfied as to how much he can be relied on. Even was I to take the advice of the old people here, and become reconciled to drag out a miserable life of degradation and bondage under them, I would not be permitted to do so by this man, who seeks every opportunity to crush out my lingering manhood, and reduce my free spirit to the submission of a slave. He cannot do it, I will not submit to it, and I defy his power to make me submit.”

“Laus a messy, Henry, yeh free man! huccum yeh not tell me long'o? Sho boy, bettah go long whah yeh gwine, out yandah, an' not fool long wid wite folks!” said Mammy Judy with surprise, “wat bring yeh heah anyhow?”

“That's best known to myself, mammy.”

“Wat make yeh keep heah so long den, dat yeh ain' gone fo' dis?”

“Your questions become rather pressing, mammy; I can't tell you that either.”

“Laud, Laud, Laud! So yeh free man? Well, well, well!”

“Once for all, I now tell you old people what I never told you before, nor never expected to tell you under such circumstances; that I never intend to serve any white man again. I'll die first!”

“De Laud a' messy on my po' soul! An' huccum yeh not gone befo'?”

“Carrying out the principles and advice of you old people `standing still, to see the salvation.' But with me, `now is the accepted time, today is the day of salvation.' ”

“Well, well, well!” sighed Mammy Judy.

“I am satisfied that I am sold, and the wretch who did it seeks to

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conceal his perfidy by deception. Now if ever you old people did anything in your lives, you must do it now.”

“Wat dat yeh want wid us?”

“Why, if you'll go, I'll take you on Saturday night, and make our escape to a free country.”

“Wat place yeh call dat?”

“Canada!” replied Henry, with emotion.

“How fah yeh gwine take me?” earnestly enquired the old woman.

“I can't just now tell the distance, probably some two or three thousand miles from here, the way we'd have to go.”

“De Laus a messy on me! An' wat yeh gwine do wid little Joe; ain gwine leave 'im behine?”

“No, Mammy Judy, I'd bury him in the bottom of the river first! I intend carrying him in a bundle on my back, as the Indians carry their babies.”

“Wat yeh gwine do fah money; yeh ain' gwine rob folks on de road?”

“No mammy, I'll starve first. Have you and Daddy Joe saved nothing from your black-eye peas and poultry selling for many years?”

“Ole man, how much in dat pot undeh de flo' dah; how long since yeh count it?”

“Don'o,” replied Daddy Joe, “las' time ah count it, da wah faughty guinea* uh sich a mauttah, an' ah put in some six-seven guinea mo' since dat.”

“Then you have some two hundred and fifty dollars in money.”

“Dat do yeh?” enquired Mammy Judy.

“Yes, that of itself is enough, but — — ”

“Den take it an' go long whah yeh gwine; we ole folks too ole fah gwine headlong out yandah an' don'o whah we gwine. Sho boy! take de money an' g'long!” decisively replied the old woman after all her inquisitiveness.

“If you don't know, I do, mammy, and that will answer for all.”

“Dat ain' gwine do us. We ole folks ain' politishon an' undestan' de graumma uh dese places, an' w'en we git dah den maybe do'n like it an cahn' git back. Sho chile, so long whah yeh gwine!”

“What do you say, Daddy Joe? Whatever you have to say, must be said quick, as time with me is precious.”

“We is too ole dis time a day, chile, t'go way out yauah de Laud knows whah; bettah whah we is.”

“You'll not be too old to go if these whites once take a notion to sell you. What will you do then?”

“Trus' to de Laud!”

“Yes, the same old slave song — `Trust to the Lord.' Then I must go, and — — ”

“Ain' yeh gwine take de money, Henry?” interrupted the old woman.

“No, mammy, since you will not go, I leave it for you and Daddy Joe, as you may yet have use for it, or those may desire to use it who better understand what use to make of it than you and Daddy Joe seem willing to be instructed in.”

“Den yeh 'ont have de money?”

“I thank you and Daddy most kindly, Mammy Judy, for your offer, and only refuse because I have two hundred guineas about me.”

“Sho boy, yeh got all dat, no call t'want dat little we got. Whah yeh git all dat money? Do'n reckon yeh gwine tell me! Did'n steal from maus Stephen, do'n reckon?”

“No, mammy, I'm incapable of stealing from any one, but I have, from time to time, taken by littles, some of the earnings due me for more than eighteen years' service to this man Franks, which at the low rate of two hundred dollars a year, would amount to sixteen hundred dollars more than I secured, exclusive of the interest, which would have more than supplied my clothing, to say nothing of the injury done me by degrading me as a slave. `Steal' indeed! I would that when I had an opportunity, I had taken fifty thousand instead of two. I am to understand you old people as positively declining to go, am I?”

“No, no, chile, we cahn go! We put ouh trus' in de Laud, he bring us out mo' nah conkah.”

“Then from this time hence, I become a runaway. Take care of my poor boy while he's with you. When I leave the swamps, or where I'll go, will never be known to you. Should my boy be suddenly missed, and you find three notches cut in the bark of the big willow tree, on the side away from your hut, then give yourself no uneasiness; but if you don't find these notches in the tree, then I know nothing about

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him. Goodbye!” And Henry strode directly for the road to Woodville.

“Fahwell me son, fahwell, an' may God a'mighty go wid you! May de Laud guide an' 'tect yeh on de way!”

The child, contrary to his custom, commenced crying, desiring to see Mamma Maggie and Dadda Henry. Every effort to quiet him was unavailing. This brought sorrow to the old people's hearts and tears to their eyes, which they endeavored to soothe in a touching lamentation: