'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'

CHAPTER XIX.

The moon and the stars were out, and the tall, dark pines cast long, gloomy shadows over the little rows of negro houses which formed the rearguard to Preston's mansion. They were nearly deserted. Not a solitary fire slumbered on the bare clay hearths, and not a single darky stood sentry over the loose pork and neglected hoecakes, or kept at bay the army of huge rats and prowling opossums which beleaguered the quarters. Silence—death's music—was over and around them. The noisy revelry of the dancers had died away in the distance, and even the hoarse song of the great trees had sunk to a low moan as they stood, motionless and abashed, in the presence of the grim giant who knocks alike at the palace and the cottage gate.

A stray light glimmered through the logs of a low hut, far off in the woods, and, making our way to it, we entered. A bright fire lit up the interior, and on a rude cot, in one corner, lay the old preacher. His eyes were closed; a cold, clammy sweat was on his forehead—he was dying. One of his skeleton hands rested on the tattered coverlet, and his weazened face was half buried in a dilapidated pillow, whose ragged casing and protruding plumage bespoke it a relic of some departed white sleeper.

An old negress, with gray hair and haggard visage, sat at the foot of the bed, wailing piteously; and Joe and half a dozen aged saints stood around, singing a hymn, doleful enough to have made even a sinner weep.

Not heeding our entrance, Joe took the dying man by the hand, and, in a slow, solemn voice, said:

'Brudder Jack, you'm dyin'; you'm gwine ter dat lan' whence no trabeller returns; you'm settin' out fur dat country which'm lit by de smile ob de Lord; whar dar ain't no sickness, no pain, no sorrer, no dyin'; fur dat kingdom whar de Lord reigns; whar trufh flows on like a riber; whar righteousness springs up like de grass, an' lub draps down like de dew, an' cobers de face ob de groun'; whar you woan't gwo 'bout wid no crutch; whar you woan't lib in no ole cabin like dis, an' eat hoecake an' salt pork in sorrer an' heabiness ob soul; but whar you'll run an' not be weary, an' walk an' not be faint; whar you'll hab a hous'n builded ob de Lord, an' sit at His table—you' meat an' drink de bread an' de water ob life!

'I knows you's a sinner, Jack; I knows you's lub'd de hot water too much, an' dat it make you forgit you' duty sometime, an' set a bad 'zample ter dem as looked up ter you fur better tings; but dar am mercy wid de Lord, Jack; dar am forgibness wid Him; an' I hopes you'm ready an' willin' ter gwo.'

Old Jack opened his eyes, and, in a low, peevish tone, said:

'Joe, none ob you' nonsense ter me! I'se h'ard you talk dis way afore. You can't preach—you neber could. You jess knows I ain't fit ter trabble, an' I ain't willin' ter gwo, nowhar.'

Joe mildly rebuked him, and again commenced expatiating on the 'upper kingdom,' and on the glories of 'the house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens;' but the old darky cut him short, with—

'Shet up, Joe! no more ob dat. I doan't want no oder hous'n but dis—dis ole cabin am good 'nuff fur me.'

Joe was about to reply, when Preston stepped to the bedside, and, taking the aged preacher's hand, said:

'My good Jack, master Robert has come to see you.'

The dying man turned his eyes toward his master, and, in a weak, tremulous voice, exclaimed:

'Oh! massa Robert, has you come? has you come ter see ole Jack? Bress you, massa Robert, bress you! Jack know'd you'd neber leab him yere ter die alone.'

'No, my good Jack; I would save you if I could.'

'But you can't sabe me, massa Robert; I'se b'yond dat. I'se dyin', massa Robert. I'se gwine ter de good missus. She tell'd me ter get ready ter foller har, an' I is. I'se gwine ter har now, massa Robert!'

'I know you are, Jack. I feel sure you are.'

'Tank you, massa Robert—tank you fur sayin' dat. An' woan't you pray fur me, massa Robert—jess a little pray? De good man's prayer am h'ard, you knows, massa Robert.'

All kneeling down on the rough floor, Preston prayed—a short, simple, fervent prayer. At its close, he rose, and, bending over the old negro, said:

'The Lord is good, Jack; His mercy is everlasting.'

'I knows dat; I feels dat,' gasped the dying man. 'I lubs you, massa Robert; I allers lub'd you; but I'se gwine ter leab you now. Bress you! de Lord bress you, massa Robert' I'll tell de good missus'—

He clutched convulsively at his master's hand; a wild light came out of his eyes; a sudden spasm passed over his face, and—he was 'gone whar de good darkies go.'

CHAPTER XX.

On the following day Frank and I were to resume our journey; and, in the morning, I suggested that we should visit Colonel Dawsey, with whom, though he had for many years been a correspondent of the house in which I was a partner, I had no personal acquaintance.

His plantation adjoined Preston's, and his house was only a short half mile from my friend's. After breakfast, we set out for it through the woods. The day was cold for the season, with a sharp, nipping air, and our overcoats were not at all uncomfortable.

As we walked along I said to Preston:

'Dawsey's 'account' is a good one. He never draws against shipments, but holds on, and sells sight drafts, thus making the exchange.'

'Yes, I know; he's a close calculator.'

'Does he continue to manage his negroes as formerly?'

'In much the same way, I reckon.'

'Then he can't stand remarkably well with his neighbors.'

'Oh! people round here don't mind such things. Many of them do as badly as he. Besides, Dawsey is a gentleman of good family. He inherited his plantation and two hundred hands.'

'Indeed! How, then, did he become reduced to his present number?'

'He was a wild young fellow, and, before he was twenty-five, had squandered and gambled away everything but his land and some thirty negroes. Then he turned square round, and, from being prodigal and careless, became mean and cruel. He has a hundred now, and more ready money than any planter in the district.'

A half hour's walk took us to Dawsey's negro quarters—a collection of about thirty low huts in the rear of his house. They were not so poor as some I had seen on cotton and rice plantations, but they seemed unfit for the habitation of any animal but the hog. Their floors were the bare ground, hardened by being moistened with water and pounded with mauls; and worn, as they were, several inches lower in the centre than at the sides, they must have formed, in rainy weather, the beds of small lakes. So much water would have been objectionable to white tenants; but negroes, like their friends the alligators, are amphibious animals; and Dawsey's were never known to make complaint. The chimneys were often merely vent-holes in the roof, though a few were tumble-down structures of sticks and clay; and not a window, nor an opening which courtesy could have christened a window, was to be seen in the entire collection. And, for that matter, windows were useless, for the wide crevices in the logs, which let in the air and rain, at the same time might admit the light. Two or three low beds at one end, a small pine bench, which held half a dozen wooden plates and spoons, and a large iron pot, resting on four stones, over a low fire, and serving for both washtub and cook-kettle, composed the furniture of each interior.

No one of the cabins was over sixteen feet square, but each was 'home' and 'shelter' for three or four human beings. Walking on a short distance, we came to a larger hovel, in front of which about a dozen young chattels were playing. Seven or eight more, too young to walk, were crawling about on the ground inside. They had only one garment apiece—a long shirt of coarse linsey—and their heads and feet were bare. An old negress was seated in the doorway, knitting. Approaching her, I said:

'Aunty, are not these children cold?'

'Oh! no, massa; dey'm use' ter de wedder.'

'Do you take care of all of them?'

'In de daytime I does, massa. In de night dar mudders takes de small 'uns.'

'But some of them are white. Those two are as white as I am!'

'No, massa; dey'm brack. Ef you looks at dar eyes an' dar finger nails, you'll see dat.'

'They're black, to be sure they are,' said young Preston, laughing; 'but they're about as white as Dawsey, and look wonderfully like him—eh, aunty Sue?'

'I reckons, massa Joe!' replied the woman, running her hand through her wool, and grinning widely.

'What does he ask for them, aunty?'

'Doan't know, massa, but 'spect dey'm pooty high. Dem kine am hard ter raise.'

'Yes,' said Joe; 'white blood—even Dawsey's—don't take naturally to mud.'

'I reckons not, massa Joe!' said the old negress, with another grin.

Joe gave her a half-dollar piece, and, amid an avalanche of blessings, we passed on to Dawsey's 'mansion'—if mansion it could be called—a story-and-a-half shanty, about thirty feet square, covered with rough, unpainted boards, and lit by two small, dingy windows. It was approached by a sandy walk, and the ground around its front entrance was littered with apple peelings, potato parings, and the refuse of the culinary department.

Joe rapped at the door, and, in a moment, it opened, and a middle-aged mulatto woman appeared. As soon as she perceived Preston, she grasped his two hands, and exclaimed:

'Oh! massa Robert, do buy har! Massa'll kill har, ef you doan't.'

'But I can't, Dinah. Your master refuses my note, and I haven't the money now.'

'Oh! oh! He'll kill har; he say he will. She woan't gib in ter him, an' he'll kill har, shore. Oh! oh!' cried the woman, wringing her hands, and bursting into tears.

'Is it 'Spasia?' asked Joe.

'Yas, massa Joe; it'm 'Spasia. Massa hab sole yaller Tom 'way from har, an' he swar he'll kill har 'case she woan't gib in ter him. Oh! oh!'

'Where is your master?'

'He'm 'way wid har an' Black Cale. I reckon dey'm down ter de branch. I reckon dey'm whippin' on har now!'

'Come, Frank,' cried Joe, starting off at a rapid pace; 'let's see that performance.'

'Hold on, Joe; wait for us. You'll get into trouble!' shouted his father, hurrying after him. The rest of us caught up with them in a few moments, and then all walked rapidly on in the direction of the small run which borders the two plantations.

Before we had gone far, we heard loud screams, mingled with oaths and the heavy blows of a whip. Quickening our pace, we soon reached the bank of the little stream, which there was lined with thick underbrush. We could see no one, and the sounds had subsided. In a moment, however, a rough voice called out from behind the bushes:

'Have you had enough? Will you give up?'

'Oh! no, good massa; I can't do dat!' was the half-sobbing, half-moaning reply.

'Give it to her again, Cale!' cried the first voice; and again the whip descended, and again the piercing cries: 'O Lord!' 'Oh, pray doan't!' 'O Lord, hab mercy!' 'Oh! good massa, hab mercy!' mingled with the falling blows.

'This way!' shouted Joe, pressing through the bushes, and bounding down the bank toward the actors in this nineteenth-century tournament, wherein an armed knight and a doughty squire were set against a weak, defenceless woman.

Leaning against a pine at a few feet from the edge of the run, was a tall, bony man of about fifty. His hair was coarse and black, and his skin the color of tobacco-juice. He wore the ordinary homespun of the district; and long, deep lines about his mouth and under his eyes told the story of a dissipated life. His entire appearance was anything but prepossessing.

At the distance of three or four rods, and bound to the charred trunk of an old tree, was a woman, several shades lighter than the man. Her feet were secured by stout cords, and her arms were clasped around the blackened stump, and tied in that position. Her back was bare to the loins, and, as she hung there, moaning with agony, and shivering with cold, it seemed one mass of streaming gore.

The brawny black, whom Boss Joe had so eccentrically addressed at the negro meeting, years before, was in the act of whipping the woman; but with one bound, young Preston was on him. Wrenching the whip from his hand, he turned on his master, crying out:

'Untie her, you white-livered devil, or I'll plough your back as you've ploughed hers!'

'Don't interfere here, you d—d whelp!' shouted Dawsey, livid with rage, and drawing his revolver.

'I'll give you enough of that, you cowardly hound!' cried Joe, taking a small Derringer from his pocket, and coolly advancing upon Dawsey.

The latter levelled his pistol, but, before he could fire, by a dexterous movement of my cane, I struck it from his hand. Drawing instantly a large knife, he rushed on me. The knife was descending—in another instant I should have 'tasted Southern steel,' had not Frank caught his arm, wrenched the weapon from his grasp, and with the fury of an aroused tiger, sprung on him and borne him to the ground. Planting his knee firmly on Dawsey's breast, and twisting his neckcloth tightly about his throat, Frank yelled out:

'Stand back. Let me deal with him!'

'But you will kill him.'

'Well, he would have killed you!' he cried, tightening his hold on Dawsey's throat.

'Let him up, Frank. Let the devil have fair play,' said Joe; 'I'll give him a chance at ten paces.'

'Yes, let him up, my son; he is unarmed.'

Frank slowly and reluctantly released his hold, and the woman-whipper rose. Looking at us for a moment—a mingled look of rage and defiance—he turned, without speaking, and took some rapid strides up the bank.

'Hold on, Colonel Dawsey!' cried Joe, elevating his Derringer; 'take another step, and I'll let daylight through you. You've just got to promise you won't whip this woman, or take your chance at ten paces.'

[I afterward learned that Joe was deadly sure with the pistol.]

Dawsey turned slowly round, and, in a sullen tone, asked:

'Who are you, gentlemen, that interfere with my private affairs?'

'My name, sir, is Kirke, of New York; and this young man is my son.'

'Not Mr. Kirke, my factor?'

'The same, sir.'

'Well, Mr. Kirke, I'm sorry to say you're just now in d—d pore business.'

'I have been, sir. I've done yours for some years, and I'm heartily ashamed of it. I'll try to mend in that particular, however.'

'Well, no more words, Colonel Dawsey,' said Joe. 'Here's a Derringer, if you'd like a pop at me.'

'Tain't an even chance,' replied Dawsey; 'you know it.'

'Take it, or promise not to whip the woman. I won't waste more time on such a sneaking coward as you are.'

Dawsey hesitated, but finally, in a dogged way, made the required promise, and took himself off.

While this conversation was going on, Preston and the negro man had untied the woman. Her back was bleeding profusely, and she was unable to stand. Lifting her in their arms, the two conveyed her to the top of the bank, and then, making a bed of their coats, laid her on the ground. We remained there until the negro returned from the house with a turpentine wagon, and conveyed the woman 'home.' We then returned to the plantation, and that afternoon, accompanied by Frank and Joe, I resumed my journey.

By way of episode, I will mention that the slave woman, after being confined to her bed several weeks, recovered. Then Dawsey renewed his attack upon her, and, from the effects of a second whipping, she died.

CHAPTER XXI.

Returning from the South a few weeks after the events narrated in the previous chapter, Frank and I were met at Goldsboro by Preston and Selma, when the latter accompanied us to the North, and once more resumed her place in David's family.

On the first of February following, Frank, then not quite twenty-one, was admitted a partner in the house of Russell, Rollins, & Co., and, in the succeeding summer, was sent to Europe on business of the firm. Shortly after his return, in the following spring, he came on from Boston with a proposal from Cragin that I should embark with them and young Preston in an extensive speculation. Deeming any business in which Cragin was willing to engage worthy of careful consideration, I listened to Frank's exposition of the plan of operations. He had originated the project, and in it he displayed the comprehensive business mind and rare blending of caution and boldness which characterized his father. As the result of this transaction had an important influence on the future of some of the actors in my story, I will detail its programme.

It was during the Crimean war. The Russian ports were closed, and Great Britain and the Continent of Europe were dependent entirely on the Southern States for their supply of resinous articles. The rivers at the South were low, and it was not supposed they would rise sufficiently to float produce to market before the occurrence of the spring freshets, in the following April or May. Only forty thousand barrels of common rosin were held in Wilmington—the largest naval-store port in the world; and it was estimated that not more than two hundred thousand were on hand in the other ports of Savannah, Ga., Georgetown, S. C., Newbern and Washington, N. C., and in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. Very little was for sale in London, Liverpool, or Glasgow, the largest foreign markets for the article; and Frank thought that a hundred and fifty thousand barrels could be purchased. That quantity, taken at once out of market, would probably so much enhance the value of the article, that the operation would realize a large profit before the new crop came forward. The purchases were to be made simultaneously in the various markets, and about two hundred thousand dollars were required to carry through the transaction. One hundred thousand of this was to be furnished in equal proportions by the parties interested; the other hundred thousand would be realized by Joseph Preston's negotiating 'long exchange' on Russell, Rollins & Co.

I declined to embark in the speculation, but the others carried it out as laid down in the programme; the only deviation being that, at Frank's suggestion, Mr. Robert Preston was apprised of the intended movement, and allowed to purchase, on his own account, as much produce as could be secured in Newbern. He bought about seven thousand barrels, paid for them by drawing at ninety days on Russell, Rollins, & Co., and held them for sale at Newbern, agreeing to satisfy his drafts with the proceeds. These drafts amounted to a trifle over eighty-two hundred dollars.

About a month after this transaction was entered into, our firm received the following letter from Preston:

'Gentlemen: An unfortunate difference with my son prevents my longer using him as my indorser. I have not, as yet, been able to secure another; and, our banks requiring two home names on time drafts, I have to beg you to honor a small bill at one day's sight. I have drawn for one thousand dollars. Please honor.'