Another case that seemed more threatening than the last mentioned, occurred soon after in the county of G——. I was on my way to meet a Sabbath appointment. About two o’clock I came to a river which was much swollen by the late rains. The man who kept the ferry-boat lived on the opposite side of the river, where some four or five men were pitching quoits and making a great noise. I called a number of times before they even condescended to answer me; and when they did answer, it was with curses, telling me they would come when they were ready. I had then sixteen miles to go to B——, the place where I expected to lodge. They kept me waiting two hours before they came with the boat, consequently it was late when I got over. They were drunk and very profane, charged me four prices, and cursed me for troubling them. I gave them some tracts, and the best advice I could.

Soon after I met two women: one seemed to be about thirty, and the other sixty years old. I offered them some tracts, which they at first declined, for fear I might be the sheriff. Neither knew a letter, or could tell who was the Saviour of sinners.

Soon after I passed them a terrible rain came on, and the roads were so deep my horse could scarcely draw my buggy. I saw night would soon overtake me, and the prospect of lodging looked unfavorable. I stopped at a cabin by the roadside to inquire the way, and leave some tracts. A man came out who looked as if he was ready for any crime, and came right up to my buggy, and began to look in with a scrutinizing eye. He either could not or would not give me any satisfaction about the road. After an earnest exhortation about his soul, I gave him Baxter’s Call. All the conduct of the man was of a very suspicious character.

It was now late, and raining hard, and in a little time would be very dark. I drove on as fast as possible, until it began to get quite dark, when I met a man on the road walking; whether he was a white man or not, I could not tell. I stopped him to inquire if there was any place near where I could lodge. He immediately began to examine the inside of my buggy as fully as the darkness would permit. He told me there was a man on the other bank of the creek, about half a mile ahead of me, who kept lodgers, and that it was a good place to stop. I handed him a book and thanked him, and drove on, he following a short distance, asking me questions which were not calculated to allay my anxiety.

I soon reached the creek, which seemed to be very high and rapid, and it was so dark I could see no object on the other side of it. The road entered by a narrow ravine, and there was no way to back out. I lifted my heart to God for protection, and drove in. In a moment the water was up in my buggy, but thanks to God, I got through safely, and in a few moments my horse was standing by the door of a miserable cabin.

I called, and a man came out with a torch of pine-knots in his hand. He was both dirty and ragged. I asked him where the man lived that kept lodgers. “Oh,” said he, “I am the man that keeps tavern here.” My prospects were bad, but I could get no further. I asked him to put up my tired horse and feed him. He had no stable but a rail-pen, no feed but some sheaves of green wheat. He took me to another cabin about fifty yards distant, that was as dark as a dungeon, except so far as his torch gave us light. Although it was warm, I requested him to make me a fire, which he did with reluctance.

After some time I was invited to the first cabin to supper. The man and his wife and children, as well as the supper, were all dirty in the extreme. I attempted to eat, but in vain. As soon as the man finished his meal, we returned to the other cabin, where I conversed with him. He was a total stranger to the simplest truths of the Bible.

I asked him if he knew any thing of the celebrated Lucas family of that county. “Oh yes,” said he, “they live all round here. Did you not meet a man as you came along to-night about the top of the hill over the creek?” I said yes. “Well, that was one of them, and I wonder they let you pass so late in the evening. That one, and the one that lived in the house you last passed were the two implicated in killing the man for which one of their uncles was hung at Giles court-house, and if I had given in my testimony, they would have been hung too; and I am afraid they will kill me, because I know all about it.”

By this time I was considerably alarmed. The conclusion I came to was that they were all linked together, and that I was in the slaughter-house.

I then inquired all about old Randal Lucas, who was the father of two that had been hung, and some others that were in prison, and was the grandfather of the two he had just been telling me about. He gave me a full history of the old man, much of which cannot be told. “But,” said he, “such a man you never saw. He is ninety years old. When he puts on a suit of clothes, he never takes it off till it is worn out. In the winter he lies in the ashes, and in the summer he lies down in the mire like a hog.” This is confirmed in Howe’s History of Virginia, which relates how he sat under the gallows eating gingerbread while his sons were hung. I refer the reader to that history for an account of this wonderful man and his family.

The manner in which he told the whole story was any thing but pleasant to me. He began to get sleepy, and told me he would hold the pine-light while I got into bed up on the loft, as he called it. The only way to get up was by a ladder made of a pole split in two, with rounds put into it. I climbed up, and he followed me with the torch. As soon as I got to the bed over the loose boards that covered the floor, and found an old split-bottom chair, which I expected to use in self-defence before morning, I told him to withdraw.

I lay down without undressing, after committing my soul, family, and all my interests to God, without much hope of seeing the light of another day. No one occupied the house but myself as a bedroom. I kept watch till morning, and when any unpleasant sound was heard, I made noise enough to let any one approaching know that I was awake.

As soon as it was light I was up to see to my poor horse, which was standing in mud and water six inches deep, without food. After getting him some more green wheat in the sheaf, and a little corn bread for myself, and talking and praying with the family, I left them. I cannot say whether there was any intention to rob me or take my life. I hope there was not.

When I was about two miles on my way, and was rising a mountain where the road was scarcely six inches wider than my buggy, a man met me, riding a poor old horse without a saddle, all in rags and dirt, with nothing on him but remnants of a torn shirt and pants, with a rope tied round his waist, and a bottle of whiskey in his bosom. Such a looking piece of humanity I had never seen before. In a moment I concluded this is certainly old Randal Lucas. I saw he could not pass me on that narrow road, and I determined to have a full talk with him. When we met he tried to keep the upper side of the road, and get between my horse and the steep bank.

“Good morning, sir,” said I. “Good morning,” said he, in a very unnatural tone of voice. “Don’t you want some good books to read this morning?” “No, I don’t want any; I can’t read.” “Do you go to church?” “No, I don’t care about church.” “Well, sir,” said I, “you are an old man and must soon go to the other world.” “Yes, I am ninety years old.” “Is it possible,” said I, “you are so old?” “Yes, I can prove it.” “You would find but few witnesses to prove that by.” “Well, I can swear it then.” “Well, sir,” said I, “what do you think will become of you when you die?” “O well, I doesn’t care any thing about that.” “Can you tell me who is the Saviour of sinners?” “I don’t know any thing of them things.” “Well, sir, who made you?” “Why, I suppose it was God Almighty.” “What is your name, sir?” “Randal Lucas.” “Well,” said I, “I thought so,” straightening myself with a determined look. “Well, sir, you say you don’t go to church, and I must tell you in the name of my Master, that if you don’t repent you will soon be in hell. I have read and heard of you, sir, for years, and you stand on the brink of eternal burnings, and your soul stained with every crime that a man could commit.” He began to look frightened, and tried to pass me; but I kept my position, and for some minutes laid down the terrors of the law in the strongest language I could use, and then gave him some little books and tracts. He trembled like an aspen leaf.

A few weeks afterwards he took up the idea that he was soon to die, got a coffin made, tried it to see if it would fit, paid for it, and set it up in his cabin—sent for a preacher, told him he was going to die and did not know what would become of him, and asked him to pray for him; offered him fifty cents, and said, “Pray on till my money is done.” The money was of course refused. In a few days the poor wretch died as he had lived, leaving a host of children the descendants of unnatural and brutal connection.