University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER 27 A Night of Anxiety

On Saturday evening, about half past seven, was it that Henry dared again to approach the residence of Colonel Franks. The family had not yet retired, as the lights still burned brilliantly in the great house, when, secreted in the shrubbery contiguous to the hut of Mammy Judy and Daddy Joe, he lay patiently awaiting the withdrawal in the mansion.

“There's no use in talkin,' Andy, he's gittin' suspicious of us all,” said Charles, “as he threatens us all with the traders; an' if Henry don't come soon, I'll have to leave anyhow! But the old people, Andy, I can't think of leavin' them!”

“Do you think da would go if da had a chance, Charles?”

“Go? yes 'ndeed, Andy, they'd go this night if they could git off. Since the sellin' of Maggie, and Henry's talkin' to 'em, and his goin' an' takin' little Joe, and Ailcey, an' Cloe, an' Polly an' all clearin' out, they altered their notion about stayin' with ole Franks.”

“Wish we could know when Henry's comin' back. Wonder what 'e is,” said Andy.

“Here!” was the reply in a voice so cautiously suppressed, and so familiarly distinct that they at once recognized it to be that of their long-absent and most anxiously looked-for friend. Rushing upon him, they mutually embraced, with tears of joy and anxiety.

“How have you been anyhow, Henry?” exclaimed Charles in a suppressed tone. “I's so glad to see yeh, dat I ain't agwine to speak to yeh, so I ain't!” added Andy.

“Come, brethren, to the woods!” said Henry; when the three went directly to the forest, two and half miles from the city.

“Well now, Henry, tell us all about yourself. What you been doin'?” inquired Charles.

“I know of nothing about myself worth telling,” replied he.

“Oh, pshaw! wot saut a way is dat, Henry; yeh wont tell a body nothin'. Pshaw, dats no way,” grumbled Andy.

“Yes, Andy, I've much to tell you; but not of myself; 'tis about our poor oppressed people everywhere I've been! But we have not now time for that.”

“Why, can't you tell us nothin'?”

“Well, Andy, since you must have something, I'll tell you this much: I've been in the Dismal Swamp among the High Conjurors, and saw the heads, old Maudy Ghamus and Gamby Gholar.”

“Hoop! now 'e's a talkin'! Ef 'e wasn't I wouldn't tell yeh so! An' wat da sa to yeh, Henry?”

“They welcomed me as the messenger of their deliverance; and as a test of their gratitude, made me a High Conjuror after their own order.”

“O pshaw, Henry! Da done what? Wy, ole feller, yeh is high sho 'nough!”

“What good does it do, Henry, to be a conjuror?” inquired Charles.

“It makes the more ignorant slaves have greater confidence in, and more respect for, their headmen and leaders.”

“Oh yes, I see now!” Because I couldn't see why you would submit to become a conjuror if it done no good.”

“That's it, Charles! As you know, I'll do anything not morally wrong, to gain our freedom; and to effect this, we must take the slaves, not as we wish them to be, but as we really find them to be.”

“You say it gives power, Henry; is there any reality in the art of conjunction?”

“It only makes the slaves afraid of you if you are called a conjuror, that's all!”

“Oh, I understand it well enough now!” concluded Charles.

“I undehstood well 'nough fuss, but I want to know all I could, dat's all!” added Andy. “Ole Maudy's a high feller, aint 'e, Henry?”

“Oh yes! he's the Head,” replied Charles.

“No,” explained Henry, “he's not now Head, but Gamby Gholar, who has for several years held that important position among them. Their Council consists of Seven, called the `Heads,' and their Chief is called `the Head.' Everything among them, in religion, medicine, laws, or politics, of a public character, is carried before the Head in Council to be settled and disposed of.”

“Now we understan',” said Andy, “but tell us, Henry, how yeh get 'long 'mong de folks whar yeh bin all dis time?”

“Very well; everywhere except Kentucky, and there you can't move them toward a strike!”

“Kentucky!” rejoined Andy. “I all'as thought dat de slaves in dat state was de bes' treated uv any, an' dat da bin all 'long spectin' to be free.”

“That's the very mischief of it, Andy! 'Tis this confounded `good treatment' and expectation of getting freed by their oppressors, that has been the curse of the slave. All shrewd masters, to keep their slaves in check, promise them their freedom at their, the master's death, as though they were certain to die first. This contents the slave, and makes him obedient and willing to serve and toil on, looking forward to the promised redemption. This is just the case precisely now in Kentucky. It was my case. While Franks treated me well, and made promises of freedom to my wife” — and he gave a deep sigh — “I would doubtless have been with him yet; but his bad treatment — his inhuman treatment of my wife — my poor, poor wife! — poor Maggie! was that which gave me courage, and made me determined to throw off the yoke, let it cost me what it would. Talk to me of a good master! A `good master' is the very worst of masters. Were they all cruel and inhuman, or could the slaves be made to see their treatment aright, they would not endure their oppression for a single hour!”

“I sees it, I sees it!” replied Andy.

“An' so do I,” added Charles, “who couldn't see that?”

“I tells yeh, Henry, it was mighty haud for me to make up my mine to leave ole Potteh; but even sence you an' Chaules an' me made de vow togedder, I got mo' an' mo' to hate 'im. I could chop 'is head off sometime, I get so mad. I bleve I could chop off Miss Mary' head; an' I likes hur; she mighty good to we black folks.”

“Pshaw! yes 'ndeed' ole Frank's head would be nothin' for me to

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chop off; I could chop off mistess head, an' you know she's a good woman; but I mus' be mighty mad fus'!” said Charles.

“That's it, you see. There is no danger that a `good' master or mistress will ever be harmed by the slaves. There's neither of you, Andy, could muster up courage enough to injure a `good master' or mistress. And even I now could not have the heart to injure Mrs. Franks,” said Henry.

“Now me,” replied Charles.

“Yes, 'ndeed, dats a fac', case I knows I couldn' hurt Miss Mary Potteh. I bleve I'd almos' chop off anybody's head if I see 'em 'tempt to hurt 'e!” added Andy; when they heartily laughed at each other.

“Just so!” said Henry. “A slave has no just conception of his own wrongs. Had I dealt with Franks as he deserved, for doing that for which he would have taken the life of any man had it been his case — tearing my wife from my bosom! — the most I could take courage directly to do, was to leave him, and take as many from him as I could induce to go. But maturer reflection drove me to the expedient of avenging the general wrongs of our people, by inducing the slave, in his might, to scatter red ruin throughout the region of the South. But still, I cannot find it in my heart to injure an individual, except in personal conflict.”

“An has yeh done it, Henry?” earnestly inquired Andy.

“Yes, Andy; yes, I have done it! and I thank God for it! I have taught the slave that mighty lesson: to strike for Liberty. `Rather to die as freemen, than live as slaves!' ”

“Thang God!” exclaimed Charles.

“Amen!” responded Andy.

“Now, boys, to the most important event of your lives!” said Henry.

“Wat's dat?” asked Andy.

“Why, get ready immediately to leave your oppressors tonight!” replied he.

“Glory to God!” cried Andy.

“Hallelujah!” responded Charles.

“Quietly! Softly! Easy, boys, easy!” admonished Henry, when the party in breathless silence, on tiptoe moved off from the thicket in which they were then seated, toward the city.

It was now one o'clock in the night, and Natchez shrouded in

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darkness and quiet, when the daring and fearless runaway with his companions, entered the enclosure of the great house grounds, and approaced the door of the hut of Daddy Joe and Mammy Judy.

“Who dat! Who dat, I say? Ole man, don' yeh hear some un knockin' at de doh?” with fright said Mammy Judy in a smothered tone, hustling and nudging the old man, who was in a deep sleep, when Henry rapped softly at the door.

“Wat a mautta, ole umin?” after a while inquired the old man, rubbing his eyes.

“Some un at de doh!” she replied.

“Who dar?” inquired Daddy Joe.

“A friend!” replied Henry with suppressed voice.

“Ole man, open de doh quick! I bleve in me soul dat Henry! Open de doh!” said mammy.

On the door being opened, the surprise and joy of the old woman was only equalled by the emotion of her utterance.

“Dar! dar now, ole man! I tole 'em so, but da 'uden bleve me! I tole 'em 'e comin', but da 'uden lis'en to me! Did yeh git 'er, me son? Little Joe cum too? O Laud! whar's my po' chile! What's Margot?”

To evade further inquiry, Henry replied that they were all safe, and hoping to see her and the old man.

“How yeh bin, my chile? I'se glad to see yeh, but mighty sorry eh cum back; case de wite folks say, da once git der hands on yeh da neber let yeh go 'g'in! Potteh, Craig, Denny, and all on 'em, da tryin' to fine whar yeh is, hunny!”

“I am well, mammy, and come now to see what is to be done with you old people,” said Henry.

“We 'ont to be hear long, chile; de gwine sell us all to de traders!” replied mammy with a deep sigh.

“Yes chile,” added Daddy Joe, “we all gwine to de soul-driveh!”

“You'll go to no soul-drivers!” replied Henry, the flash of whose eyes startled Mammy Judy.

“How yeh gwine help it, chile?” kindly asked Daddy Joe.

“I'll show you. Come, come, mammy! You and daddy get ready, as I've come to take you away, and must be at the river before two o'clock,” said Henry, who with a single jerk of a board in the floor of the hut, had reached the hidden treasure of the old people.

“Who gwine wid us, chile?” inquired Mammy Judy.

“Charles, Andy, and his female friend, besides some we shall pick up by the way!” replied Henry.

“Now he's a-talkin'!” jocosely said Charles, looking at Andy with a smile, at the mention of his female friend.

“'E ain' doin' nothin' else!” replied Andy.

“Wat become o' po' little Tony! 'E sleep here tonight case he not berry well. Po' chile!” sighed the old woman.

“We'll take him too, of course; and I would that I could take every slave in Natchez!” replied Henry. “It is now half-past one,” said he, looking at his watch, “and against two we must be at the river. Go Andy, and get your friend, and meet us at the old burnt sycamore stump above the ferry. Come mammy and daddy, not a word for your lives!” admonished Henry, when taking their package on his back, and little Tony by the hand, they left forever the great house premises of Colonel Stephen Franks in Natchez.

On approaching the river a group was seen, which proved to consist of Andy, Clara (to whom his integrity was plighted), and the faithful old stump, their guidepost for the evening. Greeting each other with tears of joy and fearful hearts, they passed down to the water's edge, but a few hundred feet below.

The ferry boat in this instance was a lightly built yawl, commanded by a white man; the ferry one of many such selected along the shore, expressly for such occasions.

“Have you a pass?” demanded the boatman as a ruse, lest he might be watched by a concealed party. “Let me see it!”

“Here, sir,” said Henry, presenting to him by the light of a match which he held in his hand for the purpose, the face of a half eagle.

“Here is seven of you, an' I can't do it for that!” in an humble undertone supplicating manner, said the man. “I axes that for one!”

The weight of seven half eagles dropped into his hand, caused him eagerly to seize the oars, making the quickest possible time to the opposite side of the river.