The night was dark, the rain descended in torrents from the black and overhanging clouds, and the thunder, accompanied with vivid flashes of lightning, resounded fearfully, as I entered a negro cabin in South Carolina. The room was filled with blacks, a group of whom surrounded a rough board table, and at it sat an old man holding in his hand a watch, at which all were intently gazing. A stout negro boy held a torch which lighted up the cabin, and near him stood a Yankee soldier, in the Union blue, reading the President’s Proclamation of Freedom.

As it neared the hour of twelve, a dead silence prevailed, and the holder of the time-piece said,—“By de time I counts ten, it will be midnight an’ de lan’ will be free. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,—” just then a loud strain of music came from the banjo, hanging upon the wall, and at its sound the whole company, as if by previous arrangement, threw themselves upon their knees, and the old man exclaimed,—“O, God, de watch was a minit’ too slow, but dy promises an’ dy mercy is allers in time; dou did promise dat one of dy angels should come an’ give us de sign, an’ shore ’nuff de sign did come. We’s grateful, O, we’s grateful, O, Lord, send dy angel once moe to give dat sweet sound.”

At this point another strain from the banjo was heard, and a sharp flash of lightning was followed by a clap of thunder, such as is only heard in the tropics. The negroes simultaneously rose to their feet and began singing; finishing only one verse, they all fell on their knees, and Uncle Ben, the old white-haired man, again led in prayer, and such a prayer as but few outside of this injured race could have given. Rising to their feet, the leader commenced singing:—

One more short prayer from Uncle Ben, and they arose, clasped each other around the neck, kissed, and commenced shouting, “Glory to God, we’s free.”

Another sweet strain from the musical instrument was followed by breathless silence, and then Uncle Ben said, “De angels of de Lord is wid us still, an’ dey is watching ober us, fer ole Sandy tole us moe dan a mont ago dat dey would.”

I was satisfied when the first musical strain came, that it was merely a vibration of the strings, caused by the rushing wind through the aperture between the logs behind the banjo. Fearing that the blacks would ascribe the music to some mysterious Providence, I plainly told them of the cause.

“Oh, no ser,” said Uncle Ben, quickly, his eyes brightening as he spoke, “dat come fum de angels. We been specken it all de time. We know the angels struck the strings of de banjo.”

The news of the music from the instrument without the touch of human hands soon spread through the entire neighborhood, and in a short time the cabin was jammed with visitors, who at once turned their attention to the banjo upon the wall.

All sorts of stories were soon introduced to prove that angelic visits were common, especially to those who were fortunate enough to carry “de witness.”

“De speret of de Lord come to me lass night in my sleep an’ tole me dat I were gwine to be free, an’ sed dat de Lord would sen’ one of His angels down to give me de warnin’. An’ when de banjo sounded, I knowed dat my bressed Marster were a’ keepin’ His word,” said Uncle Ben.

An elderly woman amongst the visitors, drew a long breath, and declared that she had been lifted out of her bed three times on the previous night; “I knowed,” she continued, “dat de angelic hoss was hoverin’ round about us.”

“I dropped a fork to-day,” said another, “an’ it stuck up in de floo’, right afore my face, an’ dat is allers good luck fer me.”

“De mule kicked at me three times dis mornin’ an’ he never did dat afore in his life,” said another, “an’ I knowed good luck would come fum dat.”

“A rabbit run across my path twice as I come fum de branch lass Saturday, an’ I felt shor’ dat somethin’ mighty was gwine to happen,” remarked Uncle Ben’s wife.

“I had a sign that showed me plainly that all of you would be free,” said the Yankee soldier, who had been silent since reading the proclamation. All eyes were instantly turned to the white man from the North, and half a dozen voices cried out simultaneously, “O, Mr. Solger, what was it? what was it? what was it?”

“Well,” said the man in blue, “I saw something on a large white sheet—”

“Was it a goos?” cried Uncle Ben, before the sentence was finished by the soldier. Uncle Ben’s question about a ghost, started quite a number to their feet, and many trembled as they looked each other in the face, and upon the soldier, who appeared to feel the importance of his position.

Ned, the boy who was holding the torch, began to tell a ghost story, but he was at once stopped by Uncle Ben, who said, “Shet your mouf, don’t you see de gentmun ain’t told us what he see in de ‘white sheet?’”

“Well,” commenced the soldier, again, “I saw on a large sheet of paper, a printed Proclamation from President Lincoln, like the one I’ve just read, and that satisfied me that you’d all be free to-day.”

Every one was disappointed at this, for all were prepared for a ghost story, from the first remark about the “white sheet” of paper. Uncle Ben smiled, looked a little wise, and said, “I speck dat’s a Yankee trick you’s given us, Mr. Solger.”

The laugh of the man in blue was only stopped by Uncle Ben’s striking up the following hymn, in which the whole company joined:—

However, there was in this company, a man some forty years old, who, like a large number of the slaves, had been separated in early life from his relatives, and was now following in the wake of the Union army, hoping to meet some of those dear ones.

This was Mark Myers. At the age of twenty he fled from Winchester, Va., and although pursued by bloodhounds, succeeded in making good his escape. The pursuers returned and reported that Mark had been killed. This story was believed by all.

Now the war had opened the way, Mark had come from Michigan, as a servant for one of the officers; Mark followed the army to Harper’s Ferry, and then went up to Winchester. Twenty years had caused a vast change, and although born and brought up there, he found but few that could tell him anything about the old inhabitants.

“Go to an ole cabin at de edge of de town, an’ darh you’ll find ole Unkel Bob Smart, an’ he know ebbrybody, man an boy, dat’s lived here for forty years,” said an old woman of whom he inquired. With haste Mark proceeded to the “ole cabin,” and there he found “Unkel Bob.”

“Yer say yer name is Mark Myers, an’ yer mamma’s name is Nancy,” responded the old man to the inquiries put to him by Mark.

“Yes,” was the reply.

“Well, sonney,” continued Uncle Bob, “de Myers niggers was all sold to de traders ’bout de beginnin’ ov de war, septin some ov de ole ones dat dey couldn’t sell, an’ I specks yer mamma is one ov dem dat de traders didn’t want. Now, sonney, yer go over to de Redman place, an’ it ’pers to me dat de oman yer’s lookin’ fer is over darh.”

Thanking Uncle Bob, Mark started for the farm designated by the old man. Arriving there, he was told that “Aunt Nancy lived over yarnder on de wess road.” Proceeding to the low log hut, he entered, and found the woman.

“Is this Aunt Nancy Myers?”

“Yes, sar, dis is me.”

“Had you a son named Mark?”

“Yes, dat I did, an’ a good boy he were, poor feller.” And here the old woman wiped the tears away with the corner of her apron.

“I have come to bring you some good news about him.”

“Good news ’bout who?” eagerly asked the woman.

“Good news about your son Mark.”

“Oh! no; you can’t bring me no good news ’bout my son, septin you bring it from hebben, fer I feel sartin dat he is darh, fer he suffered nuff when de dogs killed him, to go to hebben.”

Mark had already recognized his mother, and being unable to longer conceal the fact, he seized her by the hand and said:

“Mother, don’t you know me? I am your long-lost son Mark.”

Amazed at the sudden news, the woman trembled like a leaf, the tears flowed freely, and she said:

“My son, Mark, had a deep gash across the bottom of his left foot, dat he will take wid him to his grave. Ef you is my son, show me de mark.”

As quick almost as thought, Mark pulled off his boot, threw himself on the floor and held up the foot. The old woman wiped her glasses, put them on, saw the mark of the deep gash; then she fainted, and fell at her son’s side.

Neighbors flocked in from the surrounding huts, and soon the cabin was filled with an eager crowd, who stood in breathless silence to catch every word that should be spoken. As the old woman revived, and opened her eyes, she tremblingly said:

“My son, it is you.”

“Yes, mother,” responded the son, “it is me. When I ran away, old master put the dogs upon my track, but I jumped into the creek, waded down for some distance, and by that means the dogs lost the scent, and I escaped from them.”

“Well,” said the old woman, “in my prayers I axed God to permit me to meet you in hebben, an’ He promised me I should; but He’s bin better den His promise.”

“Now, mother, I have a home for you at the North, and I have come to take you to it.”

The few goods worth bringing away from the slave hut were soon packed up, and ere the darkness had covered the land, mother and son were on their way to the North.