Situated on the sandy, undulating chain of low, wooded hills which separated the waters of two tributaries of the Roanoke, at the point where the "big road" from the West crossed the country road which ran northward along the crest of the ridge, as if in search of dry footing between the rich valleys on either hand, was the place known as Red Wing. The "big road" had been a thoroughfare from the West in the old days before steam diverted the ways of traffic from the trails which the wild beasts had pursued. It led through the mountain gaps, by devious ways but by easy grades, along the banks of the water-courses and across the shallowest fords down to the rich lowlands of the East. It was said that the buffalo, in forgotten ages, had marked out this way to the ever-verdant reed-pastures of the then unwooded East; that afterward the Indians had followed his lead, and, as the season served, had fished upon the waters of Currituck or hunted amid the romantic ruggedness of the Blue Appalachians. It was known that the earlier settlers along the Smoky Range and on the Piedmont foot-hills had used this thoroughfare to take the stock and produce of their farms down to the great plantations of the East, where cotton was king, and to the turpentine orchards of the South Atlantic shore line.
At the crossing of these roads was situated a single house, which had been known for generations, far and near, as the Red Wing Ordinary. In the old colonial days it had no doubt been a house of entertainment for man and beast. Tradition, very well based and universally accepted, declared that along these roads had marched and countermarched the hostile forces of the Revolutionary period. Greene and Cornwallis had dragged their weary columns over the tenacious clay of this region, past the very door of the low-eaved house, built up of heavy logs at first and covered afterward with fat-pine siding, which had itself grown brown and dark with age. It was said that the British regulars had stacked their arms around the trunk of the monster white-oak that stretched its great arms out over the low dark house, which seemed to be creeping nearer and nearer to its mighty trunk for protection, until of late years the spreading branches had dropped their store of glossy acorns and embossed cups even on the farther slope of its mossy roof, a good twenty yards away from the scarred and rugged bole. "Two decks and a passage"—two moderate-sized rooms with a wide open pass-way between, and a low dark porch running along the front—constituted all that was left of a once well-known place of public refreshment. At each end a stone chimney, yellowish gray and of a massiveness now wonderful to behold, rose above the gable like a shattered tower above the salient of some old fortress. The windows still retained the little square panes and curious glazing of a century ago. Below it, fifty yards away to the eastward, a bold spring burst out of the granite rock, spread deep and still and cool over its white sandy bottom, in the stone-walled inclosure where it was confined (over half of which stood the ample milk-house), and then gurgling along the stony outlet ran away over the ripple-marked sands of its worn channel, to join the waters of the creek a mile away.
It was said that in the olden time there had been sheds and out-buildings, and perhaps some tributary houses for the use of lodgers, all of which belonged to and constituted a part of the Ordinary. Two things had deprived it of its former glory. The mart-way had changed even before the iron horse charged across the old routes, scorning their pretty curves and dashing in an almost direct line from mountain to sea. Increasing population had opened new routes, which diverted the traffic and were preferred to the old way by travelers. Besides this, there had been a feud between the owner of the Ordinary and the rich proprietor whose outspread acres encircled on every side the few thin roods which were attached to the hostel, and when the owner thereof died and the property, in the course of administration, was put upon the market, the rich neighbor bought it, despoiled it of all its accessories, and left only the one building of two rooms below and two above, a kitchen and a log stable, with crib attached, upon the site of the Ordinary which had vexed him so long. The others were all cleared away, and even the little opening around the Ordinary was turned out to grow up in pines and black-jacks, all but an acre or two of garden-plot behind the house. The sign was removed, and the overseer of Colonel Walter Greer, the new owner, was installed in the house, which thenceforth lost entirely its character as an inn.
In the old days, before the use of artificial heat in the curing of tobacco, the heavy, coarse fibre which grew upon rich, loamy bottom lands or on dark clayey hillsides was chiefly prized by the grower and purchaser of that staple. The light sandy uplands, thin and gray, bearing only stunted pines or a light growth of chestnut and clustering chinquapins, interspersed with sour-wood, while here and there a dogwood or a white-coated, white-hearted hickory grew, stubborn and lone, were not at all valued as tobacco lands. The light silky variety of that staple was entirely unknown, and even after its discovery was for a longtime unprized, and its habitat and peculiar characteristics little understood. It is only since the war of Rebellion that its excellence has been fully appreciated and its superiority established. The timber on this land was of no value except as wood and for house-logs. Of the standard timber tree of the region, the oak, there was barely enough to fence it, should that ever be thought desirable. Corn, the great staple of the region next to tobacco, could hardly be "hired" to grow upon the "droughty" soil of the ridge, and its yield of the smaller grains, though much better, was not sufficient to tempt the owner of the rich lands adjacent to undertake its cultivation. This land itself, he thought, was only good "to hold the world together" or make a "wet-weather road" between the rich tracts on either hand. Indeed, it was a common saying in that region that it was "too poor even to raise a disturbance upon."
To the westward of the road running north and south there had once been an open field of some thirty or forty acres, where the wagoners were wont to camp and the drovers to picket their stock in the halcyon days of the old hostelry. It had been the muster-ground of the militia too, and there were men yet alive, at the time of which we write, whose fathers had mustered with the county forces on that ground. When it was "turned out," however, and the Ordinary ceased to be a place of entertainment, the pines shot up, almost as thick as grass-blades in a meadow, over its whole expanse. It is strange how they came there. Only black-jacks and the lighter decidua which cover such sandy ridges had grown there before, but after these were cleared away by the hand of man and the plow for a few years had tickled the thin soil, when nature again resumed her sway, she sent a countless army of evergreens, of mysterious origin, to take and hold this desecrated portion of her domain. They sprang up between the corn-rows before the stalks had disappeared from sight; they shot through the charred embers of the deserted camp-fire; everywhere, under the shade of each deciduous bush, protected by the shadow of the rank weeds which sprang up where the stock had fed, the young pines grew, and protected others, and shot slimly up, until their dense growth shut out the sunlight and choked the lately protecting shrubbery. Then they grew larger, and the weaker ones were overtopped by the stronger and shut out from the sunlight and starved to death, and their mouldering fragments mingled with the carpet of cones and needles which became thicker and thicker under their shade, until at the beginning of the war a solid, dark mass of pines fit for house-logs, and many even larger, stood upon the old muster-field, and constituted the chief value of the tract of two hundred acres which lay along the west side of the plantation of which it formed a part. It was this tract that Nimbus selected as the most advantageous location for himself and his friend which he could find in that region. He rightly judged that the general estimate of its poverty would incline the owner to part with a considerable tract at a very moderate price, especially if he were in need of ready money, as Colonel Desmit was then reputed to be, on account of the losses he had sustained by the results of the war. His own idea of its value differed materially from this, and he was thoroughly convinced that, in the near future, it would be justified. He was cautious about stating the grounds of this belief even to Eliab, having the natural fear of one unaccustomed to business that some other person would get wind of his idea and step into his Bethesda while he, himself, waited for the troubling of the waters.
He felt himself quite incompetent to conduct the purchase, even with Eliab's assistance, and in casting about for some white man whom they could trust to act as their agent, they could think of no one but Hesden Le Moyne. It was agreed, therefore, that Eliab should broach the matter to him, but he was expressly cautioned by Nimbus to give him no hint of the particular reasons which led them to prefer this particular tract or of their means of payment, until he had thoroughly sounded him in regard to the plan itself. This Eliab did, and that gentleman, while approving the plan of buying a plantation, if they were able, utterly condemned the idea of purchasing a tract so notoriously worthless, and refused to have anything to do with so wild a scheme. Eliab, greatly discouraged, reported this fact to his friend and urged the abandonment of the plan. Nimbus, however, was stubborn and declared that "if Marse Hesden would not act for him he would go to Louisburg and buy it of Marse Desmit himself."
"Dar ain't no use o' talkin', 'Liab," said he. "You an' Marse Hesden knows a heap more'n I does 'bout most things; dar ain't no doubt 'bout dat 'an nobody knows it better'n I does. But what Nimbus knows, heknows, an' dat's de eend on't. Nobody don't know it any better. Now, I don't know nuffin' 'bout books an' de scripter an' sech-like, only what I gits second-hand—no more'n you does 'bout sojerin', fer instance. But I tell ye what, 'Liab, I does know 'bout terbacker, an' I knowsallabout it, too. I kin jes' gib you an' Marse Hesden, an' aheap mo' jes like you uns, odds on dat, an' beat ye all holler ebbery time. What I don't know 'bout dat ar' crap dar ain't no sort ob use a tryin' to tell me. I got what I knows de reg'lar ole-fashioned way, like small-pox, jes by 'sposure, an' I tell yer 'Liab, hit beats any sort ob 'noculation all ter rags. Now, I tellyou, 'Liab Hill, dat ar' trac' ob lan' 'bout dat ole Or'nery is jes' de berry place we wants, an' I'm boun' ter hev it, ef it takes a leg. Now you heah dat, don't yer?"
Eliab saw that it was useless for him to combat this determination. He knew the ruggedness of his friend's character and had long ago learned, that he could only be turned from a course, once fixed upon in his own mind, by presenting some view of the matter which had not occurred to him before. He had great confidence in Mr. Le Moyne's judgment—almost as much as in Nimbus', despite his admiration for his herculean comrade—so he induced his friend to promise that nothing more should be done about the matter until he could have an opportunity to examine the premises, with which he was not as familiar as he would like to be, before it was altogether decided. To this Nimbus readily consented, and soon afterwards he borrowed a wagon and took Eliab, one pleasant day in the early fall, to spy out their new Canaan. When they had driven around and seen as much of it as they could well examine from the vehicle, Nimbus drove to a point on the east-and-west road just opposite the western part of the pine growth, where a sandy hill sloped gradually to the northward and a little spring burst out of it and trickled across the road.
"Dar," he said, waving his hand toward the slope; "dar is whar I wants my house, right 'longside ob dat ar spring, wid a good terbacker barn up on de hill dar."
"Why, what do yer want ter lib dar fer?" asked the other in surprise, as he peered over the side of the wagon, in which he sat upon a thick bed of fodder which Nimbus had spread over the bottom for his comfort.
"Kase dat ar side-hill am twenty-five acres ob de best terbacker groun' in Ho'sford County."
"Yer don't say so, Nimbus?"
"Dat's jes what I do say, 'Liab, an' dat's de main reason what's made me so stubborn 'bout buyin' dis berry track of lan'. Pears ter me it's jes made fer us. It's all good terbacker lan', most on't de berry best. It's easy clar'd off an' easy wukked. De 'backer growed on dis yer lan' an' cured wid coal made outen dem ar pines will be jes es yaller ez gold an' as fine ez silk, 'Liab. I knows; I'se been a watchin' right smart, an' long ago, when I used ter pass by here, when dey fust begun ter vally de yaller terbacker, I used ter wonder dat some pore white man like Marse War', dat knowed how ter raise an' cure terbacker, didn't buy de ole place an' wuk for demselves, 'stead ob overseein' fer somebody else. It's quar dey nebber t'ought on't. It allers seemed ter me dat I wouldn't ax fer nothin' better."
"But what yer gwine ter do wid de ole house?" asked Eliab.
"Wal, Bre'er Liab," said Nimbus with a queer grimace, "I kinder 'llowed dat I'd ler you hab dat ar ter do wid jes 'bout ez yer like."
"Oh, Bre'er Nimbus, yer don't mean dat now?"
"Don't I? wal, you jes see ef I don't. I'se gwine ter lib right h'yer, an' ef yer don't occupy dat ole Red Wing Or'nery I'm durned ef it don't rot down. Yer heah dat man? Dar don't nobody else lib in it, shuah."
Eliab was very thoughtful and silent, listening to Nimbus' comments and plans until finally, as they sat on the porch of the old house eating their "snack," he said,
"Nimbus, dar's a heap ob cullud folks libbin' jes one way an' anudder from dis yer Red Wing cross-roads."
"Co'se dey is, an' dat's de berry reason I'se sot my heart on yer habbin' a shop right h'yer. Yer shore ter git de wuk ob de whole country roun', an' der's mo' cullud folks right up an' down de creek an' de ribber h'yer dan ennywhar hereabouts dat I knows on."
"But, Nimbus—" said he, hesitatingly.
"Yis, 'Liab, I hears ye."
"Couldn't we hab a church here?"
"Now yer'stalkin'," exclaimed Nimbus. "Swar ter God, it's quare I nebber tink ob dat, now. An' you de minister? Now yeristalkin', shuah! Why de debble I nebber tink ob dat afo'? Yer see dem big pines dar, straight ez a arrer an' nigh 'bout de same size from top ter bottom? What yer s'pose dem fer, 'Liab? Dunno? I should tink not. House logs fer de church, 'Liab. Make it jes ez big ez yer wants. Dar 'tis. Only gib me some few shingles an' a flo', an' dar yer hev jes ez good a church ez de 'postles ebber hed ter preach in."
"An' de school, Nimbus?" timidly.
"Shuah 'nough. Why I nebber tink ob dat afo'? An' you de teacher! Now you is talkin', 'Liab,certainshuah! Dat's jes de ting, jes what we wants an' hez got ter hev. Plenty o' scholars h'yer-abouts, an' de church fer a school-house an' Bre'er 'Liab fer de teacher! 'Clar fer it, Bre'er'Liab, you hez got ahead-piece, dat's a fac'. Now I nebber tink of all dat togedder. Mout hev come bimeby, little to a time, but not all to wonst like, as 'tis wid you. Lord, how plain I sees it all now! De church an' school-house up dar on de knoll; Nimbus' house jes about a hundred yards furder on, 'cross de road; an' on de side ob de hill de 'backer-barn; you a teachin' an' a preachin' an' Nimbus makin' terbacker, an' Gena a-takin' comfort on de porch, an' de young uns gittin' larnin'! Wh-o-o-p! Bre'er 'Liab, yer's a great man, shuah!"
Nimbus caught him in his strong arms and whirled him about in a frenzy of joy. When he sat him down Eliab said quietly:
"We must get somebody else to teach for a while. 'Liab don't know 'nough ter do dat ar. I'll go to school wid de chillen an' learn 'nough ter do it bimeby. P'raps dis what dey call de 'Bureau' mout start a school here ef you should ax 'em, Nimbus. Yer know dey'd be mighty willin' ter 'blige a soldier, who'd been a fightin' fer 'em, ez you hev."
"I don't a know about dat ar, Bre'er'Liab, but leastaways we can't do no more'n make de trial, anyhow."
After this visit, Eliab withdrew all opposition, not without doubt, but hoping for the best, and trusting, prayerfully, that his friend's sanguine expectations might be justified by the result. So it was determined that Nimbus should make the purchase, if possible, and that the old Ordinary, which had been abandoned as a hostel on the highway to the Eastern market, be made a New Inn upon the road which the Freedman must now take, and which should lead to liberty and light.
Colonel Desmit's devotion to the idea that slave property was more profitable than any other, and the system by which he had counted on almost limitless gain thereby, was not only overthrown by the universal emancipation which attended the issue of the war, but certain unlocked for contingencies placed him upon the very verge of bankruptcy. The location of his interests in different places, which he had been accustomed, during the struggle, to look upon as a most fortunate prevision, resulted most disastrously. As the war progressed, it came about that those regions which were at first generally regarded as the most secure from hostile invasion became the scene of the most devastating operations.
The military foresight of the Confederate leaders long before led them to believe that the struggle would be concluded, or would at least reach its climax, in the Piedmont region. From the coast to the mountains the Confederacy spanned, at this point, only two hundred miles. The country was open, accessible from three points upon the coast, at which lodgment was early made or might have been obtained, and only one flank of the forces marching thence toward the heart of the Confederacy could be assailed. It was early apprehended by them that armies marching from the coast of North Carolina, one column along the course of the Cape Fear and another from Newberne, within fair supporting distance and converging toward the center of the State, would constitute the most dangerous movement that could be made against the Confederacy, since it would cut it in twain if successful; and, in order to defeat it, the Army of Virginia would have to be withdrawn from its field of operations and a force advancing in its track from the James would be enabled to co-operate with the columns previously mentioned. It is instructive to note that, upon the other side, the untrained instinct of President Lincoln was always turning in the same direction. In perusing the field of operations his finger would always stray to the eastern coast of North Carolina as the vital point, and no persuasions could induce him to give up the apparently useless foothold which we kept there for more than three years without material advantage. It was a matter of constant surprise to the Confederate military authorities that this course was not adopted, and the final result showed the wisdom of their premonition.
Among others, Colonel Desmit had obtained an inkling of this idea, and instead of concentrating all his destructible property in the region of his home, where, as it resulted, it would have been comparatively secure, he pitched upon the "piney-woods" region to the south-eastward, as the place of greatest safety.
He had rightly estimated that cotton and naval stores would, on account of the rigorous blockade and their limited production in other countries, be the most valuable products to hold when the period of war should end. With these ideas he had invested largely in both, and in and about a great factory at the falls of a chief tributary of the Pedee, he had stored his cotton; and in the heart of that sombre-shadowed stretch of soughing pines which lies between the Cape Fear and the Yadkin he had hidden his vast accumulation of pitch, turpentine, and resin. Both were in the very track of Sherman's ruthless legions. First the factory and the thousands of bales carefully placed in store near by were given to the flames. Potestatem Desmit had heard of their danger, and had ridden post-haste across the rugged region to the northward in the vain hope that his presence might somehow avert disaster. From the top of a rocky mountain twenty miles away he had witnessed the conflagration, and needed not to be told of his loss. Turning his horse's head to the eastward, at a country-crossing near at hand, he struck out with unabated resolution to reach the depot of his naval stores before the arrival of the troops, in order that he might interpose for their preservation. He had quite determined to risk the consequences of capture in their behalf, being now fully convinced of the downfall of the Confederacy.
During the ensuing night he arrived at his destination, where he found everything in confusion and affright. It was a vast collection of most valuable stores. For two years they had been accumulating. It was one of the sheet-anchors which the prudent and far-seeing Potestatem Desmit had thrown out to windward in anticipation of a coming storm. For half a mile along the bank of the little stream which was just wide enough to float a loaded batteau, the barrels of resin and pitch and turpentine were piled, tier upon tier, hundreds and thousands upon thousands of them. Potestatem Desmit looked at them and shuddered at the desolation which a single torch would produce in an instant. He felt that the chances were desperate, and he had half a mind to apply the torch himself and at least deprive the approaching horde of the savage pleasure of destroying his substance. But he had great confidence in himself, his own powers of persuasion and diplomacy. He would try them once more, and would not fail to make them serve for all they might be worth, to save this hoarded treasure.
It was barely daylight the next morning when he was awakened by the cry, "The Yanks are coming!" He had but a moment to question the frightened messenger, who pressed on, terror-stricken, in the very road which he might have known would be the path of the advancing enemy, instead of riding two miles into the heart of the boundless pine forest which stretched on either hand, where he would have been as safe from capture as if he had been in the center of the pyramid of Cheops.
Potestatem Desmit had his carriage geared up, and went coolly forth to meet the invaders. He had heard much of their savage ferocity, and was by no means ignorant of the danger which he ran in thus going voluntarily into their clutches. Nevertheless he did not falter. He had great reliance in his personal presence. So he dressed with care, and arrayed in clean linen and a suit of the finest broadcloth, then exceedingly rare in the Confederacy, and with his snowy hair and beard, his high hat, his hands crossed over a gold-headed cane, and gold-mounted glasses upon his nose, he set out upon his mission. The night before he had prudently removed from the place every drop of spirits except a small demi-john of old peach-brandy, which he put under the seat of his carriage, intending therewith to regale the highest official whom he should succeed in approaching, even though it should be the dreaded Sherman himself.
He had proceeded perhaps half a mile, when his carriage was all at once surrounded by a motley crew of curiously dressed but well-armed ruffians, whose very appearance disgusted and alarmed him. With oaths and threats the lumbering chariot, which represented in itself no little of respectability, was stopped. The appearance of such a vehicle upon the sandy road of the pine woods coming directly toward the advancing column struck the "bummers" with surprise. They made a thousand inquiries of the frightened driver, and were about to remove and appropriate the sleek span of carriage-horses when the occupant of the carriage, opening the window, thrust out his head, and with a face flaming with indignation ordered them to desist, bestowing upon them a volley of epithets, beginning with "rascals" and running as far into the language of abuse as his somewhat heated imagination could carry him.
"Hello, Bill," said the bummer who was unfastening the right-wheeler, as he looked back and saw the red face framed in a circlet of white hair and beard. "Just look at this old sunflower, will you? I guess the old bird must think he commands this brigade. Ha! ha! ha! I say, old fellow, when did you leave the ark?"
"And was Noah and his family well when you bid 'em good-by?" queried another.
This levity and ridicule were too much for Colonel P. Desmit to endure. He leaned out of the carriage window, and shaking his gold-headed cane at the mirthful marauders denounced them in language fearful in its impotent wrath.
"Take me to General Sherman, you rascals! I want to see the general!" he yelled over and over again.
"The hell you do! Well, now, mister, don't you know that the General is too nervous to see company to-day? He's just sent us on ahead a bit to say to strangers that he's compelled to refuse all visitors to-day. He gits that way sometimes, does 'Old Bill,' so ye mustn't think hard of him, at all."
"Take me to the general, you plundering pirates!" vociferated the enraged Colonel. "I'll see if a country gentleman travelling in his own carriage along the highway is to be robbed and abused in this manner!" "Robbed, did he say?" queried one, with the unmistakable brogue of an Irishman. "Faith, it must be the gintleman has somethin' very important along wid him in the carriage, that he's gittin' so excited about; and its meself that'll not see the gintleman imposed upon, sure." This with a wink at his comrades. Then to the occupant of the carriage: "What did yer honor say might be yer name, now? It's very partickler the General is about insthructin' us ter ax the names of thim that's wantin' an' inthroduction to him, ye know?"
The solemnity of this address half deceived the irate Southron, and he answered with dignity, "Desmit—Colonel Potestatem Desmit, of Horsford County, sir."
"Ah, d'ye hear that, b'ys? Faith, it's a kurnel it is ye've been a shtoppin' here upon the highway! Shure it may be he's a goin' to the Gineral wid a flag of thruce, belike."
"I do wish to treat with the General," said Desmit, thinking he saw a chance to put in a favorable word.
"An' d'ye hear that, b'ys? Shure the gintleman wants to thrate the Gineral. Faith it'll be right glad the auld b'y'll be of a dhrap of somethin' good down here in the pine woods."
"Can I see the General, gentlemen?" asked Desmit, with a growing feeling that he had taken the wrong course to accomplish his end. The crowd of "bummers" constantly grew larger. They were mounted upon horses and mules, jacks and jennets, and one of them had put a "McClellan saddle" and a gag-bit upon one of the black polled cattle which abound in that region, and which ambled easily and briskly along with his rider's feet just brushing the low "poverty-pines" which grew by the roadside. They wore all sorts of clothing. The blue and the gray were already peacefully intermixed in the garments of most of them. The most grotesque variety prevailed especially in their head-gear, which culminated in the case of one who wore a long, barrel-shaped, slatted sun-bonnet made out of spotted calico. They were boisterous and even amusing, had they not been well armed and apparently without fear or reverence for any authority or individual. For the present, the Irishman was evidently in command, by virtue of his witty tongue.
"Can ye see the Gineral, Kurnel?" said he, with the utmost apparent deference; "av coorse ye can, sir, only it'll be necessary for you to lave your carriage an' the horses and the nagur here in the care of these gintlemen, while I takes ye to the Gineral mesilf."
"Why can I not drive on?"
"Why can't ye dhrive? Is it a Kurnel ye is, an' don't know that? Shure the cavalry an' the arthillery an' the caysons an' one thing an' another of that kind would soon crush a chayriot like that to flinders, ye know."
"I cannot leave my carriage," said Desmit.
"Mein Gott, shust hear him now I" said a voice on the other side, which caused Desmit to turn with a start. A bearded German, with a pair of myoptic glasses adding their glare to the peculiar intensity of the short-sighted gaze, had climbed upon the opposite wheel during his conversation with Pat, and leaning half through the window was scanning carefully the inside of the carriage. He had already one hand on the demijohn of peach-brandy upon which the owner's hopes so much depended. Potetsatem Desmit was no coward, and his gold-headed cane made the acquaintance of the Dutchman's poll before he had time to utter a word of protestation.
It was all over in a minute, then. There was a rush and a scramble. The old man was dragged out of his carriage, fighting manfully but vainly. Twenty hands laid hold upon him. The gold-headed cane vanished; the gold-mounted glasses disappeared; his watch leaped from his pocket, and the chain was soon dangling at the fob of one of the still laughing marauders. Then one insisted that his hat was unbecoming for a colonel, and a battered and dirty infantry cap with a half-obliterated corps badge and regimental number was jammed down on his gray hairs; he was required to remove his coat, and then another took a fancy to his vest. The one who took his coat gave him in exchange a very ragged, greasy, and altogether disgusting cavalry jacket, much too short, and not large enough to button. The carriage was almost torn in pieces in the search for treasure. Swords and bayonets were thrust through the panelling; the cushions were ripped open, the cover torn off, and every possible hiding-place examined. Then thinking it must be about his person, they compelled him to take off his boots and stockings. In their stead a pair of almost soleless shoes were thrown him by one who appropriated the boots.
Meantime the Irishman had distributed the contents of the demijohn, after having filled his own canteen. Then there was great hilarity. The taste of the "colonel" was loudly applauded; his health was drunk, and it was finally decided to move on with him in charge. The "bummer" who rode the polled ox had, in the mean time, shifted his saddle to one of the carriage-horses, and kindly offered the steer to the "colonel." One who had come upon foot had already mounted the other horse. The driver performed a last service for his master, now pale, trembling, and tearful at the insults and atrocities he was called on to undergo, by spreading one of the carriage cushions over the animal's back and helping the queerly-habited potentate to mount his insignificant steed. It was better than marching through the hot sand on foot, however.
When they reached the little hamlet which had grown up around his collection of turpentine distilleries they saw a strange sight. The road which bore still further to the southward was full of blue-coated soldiers, who marched along with the peculiar swinging gait which marked the army that "went down to the sea." Beyond the low bridge, under a clump of pines which had been spared for shade, stood a group of horsemen, one of whom read a slip of paper, or rather shouted its contents to the soldiery as they passed, while he flourished the paper above his head. Instantly the column was in an uproar. Caps were thrown into the air, voices grew hoarse with shouting; frantic gesticulation, tearful eyes and laughter, yells, inane antics, queer combinations of sacrilegious oaths and absurd embraces were everywhere to be seen and heard.
"Who is that?" asked Desmit of the Irishman, near whom he had kept, pointing to the leading man of the group under the tree.
"Faith, Kurnel, that is Gineral——-. Would ye like an inthroduction,Kurnel?"
"Yes, yes," said Desmit impatiently.
"Thin come wid me. Shure I'll give ye one, an' tell him ye sint him a dhrink of auld pache to cilebrate the good news with. Come along, thin!"
Just as they stepped upon the bridge Desmit heard a lank Hoosier ask,
"What is in them bar'ls?"
And some one answered,
"Turpentine."
"Hooray!" said the first. "A bonfire!" "Hurry! hurry!" Desmit cried to his guide.
"Come on thin, auld gintleman. It's mesilf that'll not go back on a man that furnishes a good dhram for so joyful an occasion."
They dismounted, and, pressing their way through the surging mass on the bridge, approached the group under the pines.
"Gineral," said the Irishman, taking off the silk hat which Desmit had worn and waving it in the air; "Gineral, I have the honor to inthroduce to ye anl auld gintleman—one av the vera furst families—that's come out to mate ye, an' begs that ye'll taste jest a dhrap av the finest auld pache that ivver ran over yer tongue, jist ter cilebrate this vera joyful occasion,"
He waved his hat toward Desmit, and handed up his canteen at once. The act was full of the audacity of his race, but the news had overthrown all sense of discipline. The officer even lifted the canteen to his lips, and no doubt finding Pat's assertion as to its quality to be true allowed a reasonable quantity of its aromatic contents to glide down his throat, and then handed it to one of his companions.
"General! General!" shrieked Desmit in desperation, as he rushed forward.
"What do you want, sir?" said the officer sternly.
There was a rush, a crackle, and a still louder shout.
Both turned and saw a tongue of red flame with a black, sooty tip leap suddenly skyward. The great mass of naval stores was fired, and no power on earth could save a barrel of them now. Desmit staggered to the nearest tree, and faint and trembling watched the flame. How it raged! How the barrels burst and the liquid flame poured over the ground and into the river! Still it burned! The whole earth seemed aflame! How the black billows of heavy smoke poured upward, hiding the day! The wind shifted and swept the smoke-wave over above the crowding, hustling, shouting column. It began to rain, but under the mass of heavy smoke the group at the pines stood dry.
And still, out of the two openings in the dark pines upon the other side of the stream, poured the two blue-clad, steel-crowned columns! Still the staff officer shouted the glad tidings, "Lee—surrendered—unconditionally.'" Still waved aloft the dispatch! Still the boundless forests rang with shouts! Still the fierce flame raged, and from the column which had gone into the forest beyond came back the solemn chant, which sounded at that moment like the fateful voice of an avenging angel;
"John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave; His soul is marching on!"
One who looked upon the scene thinks of it always when he reads of the last great day—the boundless flame—the fervent heat—the shouts—the thousands like the sands of the sea—all are not to be forgotten until the likeness merges into the dread reality!
The Irishman touched Desmit as he leaned against the pine.
"War that yours, misther?" he asked, not unkindly.
Desmit nodded affirmatively.
"Here," said the other, extending his canteen. "There's a drink left. Take it."
Desmit took it with a trembling hand, and drained it to the last drop.
"That's right," said the Irishman sympathetically. "I'm right sorry for ye, misther, that I am; but don't ye nivver give up heart. There's more turpentine where that come from, and this thing's over now. I couldn't find yer bull for ye, mister, but here's a mule. Ye'd better jest take him and git away from here before this row's over. Nobody'll miss ye now."
Two weeks afterward a queerly clad figure rode up to the elegant mansion of Colonel Potestatem Desmit, overlooking the pleasant town of Louisburg in the county of Horsford, and found a party of Federal officers lounging upon his wide porches and making merry after war's alarums!
Not only did Colonel Desmit lose his cotton and naval stores; but the funds which he had invested, with cautious foresight, in the bonds of the State and the issues of its banks, were also made worthless by the result of the war. Contrary to the expectations of the most prudent and far-seeing, the bonds issued by the States in rebellion during the period of war, were declared to be attaint with treason, and by the supreme power of the land were forbidden to be paid. In addition to this he found himself what was properly termed "land-poor." The numerous small plantations which he had acquired in different parts of the country, in pursuance of his original and inherited design of acquiring wealth by slave-culture, though intrinsically very valuable, were just at this time in the highest degree unavailable. All lands had depreciated to a considerable extent, but the high price of cotton had tempted many Northern settlers and capitalists into that belt of country where this staple had been most successfully raised, and their purchases, as well as the continued high price of the staple, had kept up the prices of cotton-lands far beyond all others.
Then, too, the lack of ready money throughout the country and the general indebtedness made an absolute dearth of buyers. In the four years of war there had been no collections. The courts had been debarred from judgment and execution. The sheriff had been without process, the lawyer without fees, the creditor without his money. Few indeed had taken advantage of this state of affairs to pay debts. Money had been as plenty as the forest leaves in autumn, and almost as valueless. The creditor had not desired to realize on his securities, and few debtors had cared to relieve themselves. There had come to be a sort of general belief that when the war ended there would be a jubilee for all debtors—that each one would hold what he had, and that a promise to pay would no more trouble or make afraid even the most timid soul. So that when the courts came to be unchained and the torrent of judgments and executions poured forth under their seals, the whole country was flooded with bankruptcy. Almost nobody could pay. A few, by deft use of present advantages, gathered means to discharge their own liabilities and take advantage of the failure of others to do so. Yet they were few indeed. On every court-house the advertisements of sale covered the panels of the door and overflowed upon the walls. Thousands of homesteads, aye, hundreds of thousands of homes—millions of acres—were sold almost for a song—frequently less than a shilling an acre, generally less than a dollar.
Colonel Desmit had not been an exception to these rules. He had not paid the obligations maturing during the war simply because he knew he could not be compelled to do so. Instead of that, he had invested his surplus in lands, cotton, and naval stores. Now the evil day was not far off, as he knew, and he had little to meet it. Nevertheless he made a brave effort. The ruggedness of the disowned family of Smiths and the chicanery inherited from the gnarly-headed and subtle-minded old judge came to his rescue, and he determined not to fail without a fight. He shingled himself with deeds of trust and sales under fraudulent judgments or friendly liens, to delay if they did not avert calamity. Then he set himself at work to effect sales. He soon swallowed his wrath and appealed to the North—the enemy to whom he owed all his calamities, as he thought. He sent flaming circulars to bleak New England health-exhibits to the smitten of consumption, painting the advantages of climate, soil, and society—did all in his power to induce immigrants to come and buy, in order that he might beat off poverty and failure and open disgrace. He made a brave fight, but it had never occurred to him to sell an acre to a colored man when he was accosted by Nimbus, who, still wearing some part of his uniform, came, over to negotiate with him for the purchase of Red Wing.
All these untoward events had not made the master of Knapp-of-Reeds peculiarly amiable, or kindly disposed toward any whom he deemed in the remotest manner responsible for his loss. For two classes he could not find words sufficient to express his loathing—namely, Yankees and Secessionists. To the former directly and to the latter indirectly he attributed all his ills. The colored man he hated as a man, as bitterly as he had before highly prized him as a slave. At the outset of the war he had been openly blamed for his coolness toward the cause of the Confederacy. Then, for a time, he had acquiesced in what was done—had "gone with his State," as it was then expressed—and still later, when convinced of the hopelessness of the struggle, he had advocated peace measures; to save his property at all hazards, some said; because he was at heart a Unionist, others declared So, he had come to regard himself as well disposed toward the Union, and even had convinced himself that he had suffered persecution for righteousness' sake, when, in truth, his "Unionism" was only an investment made to avoid loss.
These things, however, tended to embitter him all the more against all those persons and events in any manner connected with his misfortunes. It was in such a mood and under such circumstances, that word was brought to Mr. Desmit in his private library, that "a nigger" wanted to see him. The servant did not know his name, what he wanted, or where he came from. She could only say that he had ridden there on a "right peart mule" and was a "right smart-looking boy." She was ordered to bring him in, and Nimbus stood before his master for the first time since he had been sent down the country to work on fortifications intended to prevent the realization of his race's long-delayed vision of freedom. He came with his hat in his hand, saying respectfully,
"How d'ye, Marse Desmit?"
"Is that you, Nimbus? Get right out of here! I don't want any such grand rascal nigger in my house."
"But, Marse Desrnit," began the colored man, greatly flurried by this rude greeting.
"I don't want any 'buts.' Damn you, I've had enough of all such cattle. What are you here for, anyhow? Why don't you go back to the Yankees that you ran away to? I suppose you want I should feed you, clothe you, support you, as I've been doing for your lazy wife and children ever since the surrender. I shan't do it a day longer—not a day! D'ye hear? Get off from my land before the sun goes down to-morrow or I'll have the overseer set his dogs on you."
"All right," said Nimbus coolly; "jes yer pay my wife what's due her and we'll leave ez soon ez yer please."
"Due her? You damned black rascal, do you stand there and tell meI owe her anything?"
Strangely enough, the colored man did not quail. His army life had taught him to stand his ground, even against a white man, and he had not yet learned how necessary it was to unlearn the lesson of liberty and assume again the role of the slave. The white man was astounded. Here was a "sassy nigger" indeed! This was what freedom did for them!
"Her papers dat you gib her at de hirin', Marse Potem," said Nimbus, "says dat yer shall pay her fo' dollars a month an' rations. She's hed de rations all reg'lar, Marse Desrnit; dat's all right, but not a dollar ob de money."
"You lie, you black rascal!" said Desmit excitedly; "she's drawn every cent of it!"
"Wal," said Nimbus, "ef dat's what yer say, we'll hev ter let de'Bureau' settle it."
"What, sir? You rascal, do you threaten me with the 'Bureau'?" shouted Desmit, starting toward him in a rage, and aiming a blow at him with the heavy walking-stick he carried.
"Don't do dat, Marse Desmit," cried the colored man; "don't do dat!"
There was a dangerous gleam in his eye, but the white man did not heed the warning. His blow fell not on the colored man's head, but on his upraised arm, and the next moment the cane was wrested from his hands, and the recent slave stood over his former master as he lay upon the floor, where he had fallen or been thrown, and said:
"Don't yer try dat, Marse Desmit; I won't bar it—dat I won't, from no man, black ner white. I'se been a sojer sence I was a slave, an' ther don't no man hit me a lick jes cos I'm black enny mo'. Yer's an' ole man, Marse Desmit, an' yer wuz a good 'nough marster ter me in the ole times, but yer mustn't try ter beat a free man. I don't want ter hurt yer, but yer mustn't do dat!"
"Then get out of here instantly," said Desmit, rising and pointing toward the door.
"All right, Marse," said Nimbus, stooping for his hat; "'tain't no use fer ye to be so mad, though. I jes come fer to make a trade wid ye."
"Get out of here, you damned, treacherous, ungrateful, black rascal.I wish every one of your whole race had the small-pox! Get out!"
As Nimbus turned to go, he continued:
"And get your damned lazy tribe off from my plantation before to-morrow night, if you don't want the dogs put on them, too!"
"I ain't afeard o' yer dogs," said Nimbus, as he went down the hall, and, mounting his mule, rode away.
With every step his wrath increased. It was well for Potestatem Desmit that he was not present to feel the anger of the black giant whom he had enraged. Once or twice he turned back, gesticulating fiercely and trembling with rage. Then he seemed to think better of it, and, turning his mule into the town a mile off his road, he lodged a complaint against his old master, with the officer of the "Bureau," and then rode quietly home, satisfied to "let de law take its course," as he said. He was glad that there was a law for him—a law that put him on the level with his old master—and meditated gratefully, as he rode home, on what the nation had wrought in his behalf since the time when "Marse Desmit" had sent him along that very road with an order to "Marse Ware" to give him "twenty lashes well laid on." The silly fellow thought that thenceforth he was going to have a "white man's chance in life." He did not know that in our free American Government, while the Federal power can lawfully and properly ordain and establish the theoretical rights of its citizens, it has no legal power to support and maintain those rights against the encroachment of any of the States, since in those matters the State is sovereign, and the part is greater than the whole.
Perhaps there was never any more galling and hated badge of defeat imposed upon a conquered people than the "Bureau of Freedmen, Refugees, and Abandoned Lands," a branch of the Federal executive power which grew out of the necessities of the struggle to put down rebellion, and to which, little by little, came to be referred very many of those matters which could by no means be neglected, but which did not properly fall within the purview of any other branch of military administration. It is known, in these latter days, simply as the Freedmen's Bureau, and thought to have been a terrible engine of oppression and terror and infamy, because of the denunciations which the former slave-owners heaped upon it, and the usually accepted idea that the mismanaged and malodorous Freedmen's Savings Bank was, somehow or other, an outgrowth and exponent of this institution. The poor thing is dead now, and, like dead humanity, the good it did has been interred with its bones. It has been buried, with curses deep and bitter for its funeral obsequies. Its officers have been loaded with infamy. Even its wonderful results have been hidden from the sight of man, and its history blackened with shame and hate. It is one of the curious indices of public feeling that the North listened, at first, with good-natured indifference to the virulent diatribes of the recently conquered people in regard to this institution; after a time wonder succeeded to indifference; until finally, while it was still an active branch of the public service, wondering credulity succeeded, and its name became synonymous with disgrace; so that now there is hardly a corner of the land in which a man can be found brave enough to confess that he wore the uniform and performed the duties of an agent of the "Freedmen's Bureau." The thorough subserviency of Northern sentiment to the domination of that masterly will which characterized "the South" of the old regime was never better illustrated. "Curse me this people!" said the Southern Balak—of the Abolitionist first, of the Bureau-Officer next, and then of the Carpet-Bagger. The Northern Balaam hemmed and paltered, and then—cursed the children of his loins!
Of the freedmen, our recent allies in war, the grateful and devoted friends, of the nation which had opened for them the gateway of the future, not one of the whole four millions had a word to utter in reproach of this branch of the service, in which they were particularly interested. Strangely enough, too, none of those Union men of the South, who had been refugees during the war or friends of that Union after its close, joined in the complaints and denunciations which were visited on this institution and its agents. Neither did the teachers of colored schools, nor the officers and agents of those charitable and missionary associations of the North, whose especial work and purpose was the elevation and enlightenment of the colored man, see fit to unite in that torrent of detraction which swept over the country in regard to the "Bureau" and its agents. But then, it may be that none of these classes were able to judge truly and impartially of its character and works! They may have been prepossessed in its favor to an extent which prevented a fair and honest determination in regard to it.
Certain it is that those who stood upon the other side—those who instituted and carried on rebellion, or the greater part of them, and every one of those who opposed reconstruction, who fought to the last moment the enfranchisement of the black; every one who denied the right of the nation to emancipate the slave; every one who clamored for the payment of the State debts contracted during the war; all of those who proposed and imposed the famous "black codes,"—every one of these classes and every man of each class avowed himself unable to find words to express the infamy, corruption, and oppression which characterized the administration of that climacteric outrage upon a brave, generous, overwhelmed but unconquered —forgiving but not to be forgiven, people.
They felt themselves to have been in all things utterly innocent and guileless. The luck of war had been terribly against them, they considered, but the right remained with them. They were virtuous. Their opponents had not only been the aggressors at the outset, but had shown themselves little better than savages by the manner in which they had conducted the war; and, to crown the infamy of their character, had imposed upon "the South" at its close that most nefarious of all detestable forms of oppressive degradation, "the Bureau." Their orators grew magniloquent over its tyrannical oppression; the Southern press overflowed with that marvellous exuberance of diatribe of which they are the acknowledged masters—to all of which the complaisant North gave a ready and subservient concurrence, until the very name reeked in the public mind with infamous associations and degrading ideas.
A few men tried to stem the torrent. Some who had been in its service even dared to insist that they had not thereby rendered themselves infamous and unworthy. The nation listened for a time with kindly pity to their indignant protests, and then buried the troublesome and persistent clamorers in the silence of calm but considerate disbelief. They were quietly allowed to sink into the charitable grave of unquestioning oblivion. It was not any personal attaint which befouled their names and blasted their public prospects, but simply the fact that they had obeyed the nation's behest and done a work assigned to them by the country's rulers. Thus it came to pass that in one third of the country it was an ineffaceable brand of shame to have been at any time an agent or officer of this Bureau, and throughout the rest of the country it was accounted a fair ground for suspicion. In it all, the conquering element was simply the obedient indicator which recorded and proclaimed the sentiment and wish of the conquered. The words of the enemy were always regarded as being stamped with the mint-mark of truth and verity, while the declarations of our allies accounted so apparently false and spurious as to be unworthy of consideration, even when attested by svvorn witnesses and written in blood upon a page of history tear blotted and stained with savage deeds. All this was perfectly natural, however, and arose, almost unavoidably, from the circumstances under which the institution was created and the duties which it was called upon to discharge. It may not be amiss to consider again the circumstances under which it came to exist.
This is how this institution had its origin: As the war to put down rebellion progressed and our armies advanced farther and farther into the heart of the Confederacy, the most devoted and malignant adherents of the Confederate cause abandoned their homes and all that they could not easily take with them, and fled within the Confederate lines. Those white people who were adverse to the Confederate cause, or at least lukewarm in its support, spurred by the rigors of conscription and the dangers of proscription and imprisonment, took their lives in their hands, left their homes, and fled by every available road to the shelter of the Federal forces. Those who had no homes—the slaves—either deserted by their owners or fancying they saw in that direction a glimmer of possible freedom, swarmed in flank and rear of every blue-clad column which invaded the Confederacy, by thousands and tens of thousands. They fled as the Israelites did from the bondage of Egypt, with that sort of instinctive terror which has in all ages led individuals, peoples, and races to flee from the scene of oppression. The whites who came to us were called "refugees," and the blacks at first "contrabands," and after January 1, 1863, "freedmen." Of course they had to be taken care of. The "refugee" brought nothing with him; the freedrnan had nothing to bring. The abandoned lands of the Confederates were, in many cases, susceptible of being used to employ and supply these needy classes who came to us for aid and sustenance. It was to do this that the Freedmen's Bureau was created.
Its mission was twofold—to extend the helping hand to the needy who without such aid must have perished by disease and want, and to reduce the expenses of such charity by the cultivation and utilization of abandoned lands. It was both a business and a missionary enterprise. This was its work and mission until the war ended. Its "agents" were chosen from among the wounded veteran officers of our army, or were detached from active service by reason of their supposed fitness on account of character or attainments. Almost every one of them had won honor with the loss of limb or of health; all had the indorsement and earnest approval of men high in command of our armies, who had personal knowledge of their character and believed in their fitness. This renders it all the more remarkable that these men should so soon and so universally, as was stoutly alleged and weakly believed, have become thieves and vagabonds —corrupters of the blacks and oppressors of the whites. It only shows how altogether impossible it is to foresee the consequences of any important social or political movement upon the lives and characters of those exposed to its influences.
When the war ended there were four millions of men, women, and children without homes, houses, lands, money, food, knowledge, law, right, family, friends, or possibility for self-support. All these the Bureau adopted. They constituted a vast family of foundlings, whose care was a most difficult and delicate matter, but there was not one among them all who complained of the treatment they received.
It is somewhat strange, too, that the officers of this Branch of the service should have all misbehaved in exactly the same manner. Their acts of oppression and outrage were always perpetrated in defence of some supposed right of a defenceless and friendless race, overwhelmed with poverty—the bondmen of ignorance—who had no money with which to corrupt, no art with which to beguile, and no power with which to overawe these representatives of authority. For the first time in the history of mankind, the corrupt and unprincipled agents of undefined power became the servants, friends, protectors, agents, and promoters of the poor and weak and the oppressors of the rich, the strong, the learned, and the astute.
It may be said that this view cannot be true; that thousands of men selected from the officers of our citizen-soldiery by the unanswerable certificate of disabling wounds and the added prestige of their commander's recommendation, a class of men in physical, intellectual and moral power and attainments far superior to the average of the American people—it may be said that such could not have become all at once infamously bad; and, if they did suffer such transformation, would have oppressed the blacks at the instigation of the whites, who were willing and able to pay well for such subversion of authority, and not the reverse. This would seem to be true, but we are not now dealing with speculations, but with facts! We know that they did become such a pest because at the South they were likened to the plagues of Egypt, and the North reiterated and affirmed this cry and condoled with the victims of the oppression with much show of penitence, and an unappeasable wrath toward the instruments of the iniquity. Thus the voice of the people—that voice which is but another form of the voice of God—proclaimed these facts to the world, so that they must thenceforth be held indisputable and true beyond the utmost temerity of scepticism. Thefactsremain. The puzzlingwhy, let whosoever will endeavor to elucidate.
Perhaps the most outrageous and debasing of all the acts of the Bureau, in the eyes of those who love to term themselves "the South," was the fact that its officers and agents, first of all, allowed the colored man to be sworn in opposition to and in contradiction of the word of a white man.
That this should be exasperating and degrading to the Southern white man was most natural and reasonable. The very corner-stone of Southern legislation and jurisprudence for more than a hundred years was based upon this idea: the negro can have no rights, and can testify as to no rights or wrongs, as against a white man. So that the master might take his slave with him when he committed murder or did any other act in contravention of law or right, and that slave was like the mute eunuch of the seraglio, silent and voiceless before the law. Indeed, the law had done for the slave-owner, with infinitely more of mercy and kindness, what the mutilators of the upper Nile were wont to do for the keepers of the harems of Cairo and Constantinople—provided them with slaves who should see and hear and serve, but should never testify of what they saw and knew. To reverse this rule, grown ancient and venerable by the practice of generations, to open the mouths which had so long been sealed, was only less infamous and dangerous than to accord credence to the words they might utter. To do both was to "turn back the tide of time," indeed, and it passed the power of language to portray the anger, disgust, and degradation which it produced in the Southern mind. To be summoned before the officer of the Bureau, confronted with a negro who denied his most solemn averments, and was protected in doing so by the officer who, perhaps, showed the bias of the oppressor by believing the negro instead of the gentleman, was unquestionably, to the Southerner, the most degrading ordeal he could by any possibility be called upon to pass through.
From this it will be understood that Colonel Desmit passed a most uneasy night after Nimbus had left his house. He had been summoned before the Bureau! He had expected it. Hardly had he given way to his petulant anger when he recognized the folly of his course. The demeanor of the colored man had been so "sassy" and aggravating, however, that no one could have resisted his wrath, he was sure. Indeed, now that he came to look back at it, he wondered that he had been so considerate. He was amazed that he had not shot the impudent rascal on the spot instead of striking him with his walking-stick, which he was very confident was the worst that could be urged against him. However, that was enough, for he remembered with horror that, not long before, this same Bureau officer had actually imprisoned a most respectable and correct man for having whipped a "nigger" at work in his crop, who had been "too sassy" to be tolerated by any gentleman.
So it was with much trepidation that the old man went into the town the next morning, secured the services of a lawyer, and prepared for his trial before the "Bureau." Nimbus was intercepted as he came into town with his wife, and an attempt made to induce him to withdraw the prosecution, but that high-minded litigant would hear nothing of the proposed compromise. He had put his hand to the plow and would not look back. He had appealed to the law—"the Bureau" and only "the Bureau" should decide it. So Colonel Desmit and his lawyer asked a few hours' delay and prepared themselves to resist and disprove the charge of assault upon Nimbus. The lawyer once proposed to examine the papers in the case, but Desmit said that was useless—the boy was no liar, though they must make him out one if they could. So, at the time appointed, with his lawyer and train of witnesses, he went before "the Bureau," and there met Nimbus and his wife, Lugena.
"The Bureau" wore the uniform of a captain of United States infantry, and was a man about forty-five years of age, grave and serious of look, with an empty sleeve folded decorously over his breast. His calm blue eyes, pale, refined face, and serious air gave him the appearance of a minister rather than a ruthless oppressor, but his reputation for cruelty among certain people was as well established as that of Jeffreys. He greeted Mr. Desmit and his attorney with somewhat constrained politeness, and when they were seated proceeded to read the complaint, which simply recited that Colonel Desmit, having employed Lugena, the wife of complainant, at a given rate per month, had failed to make payment, and had finally, without cause, ordered her off his premises.
"Is that all?" asked the lawyer.
"That is all," answered the officer.
"Has no other complaint been lodged against Colonel Desmit?"
"None."
"We cannot—that is—we did not expect this," said the attorney, and then after a whispered consultation with his client, he added, "We are quite willing to make this matter right. We had entirely misunderstood the nature of the complaint."
"Have you any further complaint to make against Colonel Desmit?" asked the officer, of Nimbus.
"No," said that worthy, doubtfully. "He was pretty brash wid me, an' 'llowed ter hit me wid a stick; but he didn't—at least not ter speak on—so I don't make no 'count ob dat. 'Twas jes dis matter ob Lugeny's wuk dat made me bring him h'yer—nuffin' else."
"When did this matter of the stick occur?" asked the officer.
"On'y jes yeste'day, sah."
"Where was it?"
"Up ter Marse Potem's, sah. In his house."
"How did it happen?"
"Wal, you see, sah, I went up dar ter see ef I could buy a track ob lan" from him, an'—"
"What!" exclaimed Desmit, in astonishment. "You didn't say a word to me about land."
"No more I didn't," answered Nimbus, "kase yer didn't gib me no chance ter say a word 'bout it. 'Peared like de fus sight on me made yer mad, an' den yer jes feathered away on me, spite ob all I could do er say. Yer see, sah," to the officer, "I'd made a bit ob money in de wah, an' wanted ter see ef I could buy a bit ob pore lan' ob Marse Desmit—a track jes good fer nothin on'y fer a nigga ter starve on—but afore I could git to dat Marse Desmit got so uproarous-like dat I clean fergot what'twas I cum fer."
"There was evidently a misunderstanding," said the attorney.
"I should think so," said the officer, dryly. "You say you have no complaint to make about that affair?" he added to Nimbus. "No," said he; "'twan't a tingob any 'count, nohow. I can't make out what'twas made Marse Potem so fractious anyhow. I reckon, as he says, dar must hev ben some mistake about it. Ef he'll fix up dis matter wid Lugena, I hain't no mo' complaint, an' I'se mighty sorry 'bout dat, kase Marse Desmit hab allus been mighty kin' ter me—all 'cept dis time an' once afo'."
"There's the money for the woman," said the attorney, laying some bills on the officer's table; "and I may say that my client greatly regrets the unfortunate misunderstanding with one of the best of his old slaves. He desires me to say that the woman's services have been entirely satisfactory, and that she can keep right on under the contract, if she desires."
So that was settled. The officer discharged Colonel Desmit, commended Nimbus for the sensible view he had taken of the quarrel, and the parties gave way for other matters which awaited the officer's attention.
This would not seem to have been so very oppressive, but anything growing out of the war which had resulted so disastrously for him was hateful to Colonel Desmit, and we should not wonder if his grandchildren told over, with burning cheeks, the story of the affront which was offered to their ancestor in haling him before that infamous tribunal, "the Bureau," to answer a charge preferred by a "nigger."
After leaving the office of "the Bureau," the parties repaired to that of the lawyer, and the trade for the land which had been so inopportunely forestalled by Colonel Desmit's hasty temper was entered upon in earnest. That gentleman's financial condition was such as to render the three or four hundred dollars of ready money which Nimbus could pay by no means undesirable, while the property itself seemed of so little value as to be regarded almost as an incumbrance to the plantation of which it was a part. Such was its well-established reputation for poverty of soil that Desmit had no idea that the purchaser would ever be able to meet one of his notes for the balance of the purchase money, and he looked forward to resuming the control of the property at no distant day, somewhat improved by the betterments which occupancy and attempted use would compel the purchaser to make. He regarded the cash to be paid in hand as just so much money accidentally found in his pathway, for which, in no event, was he to render anyquid pro quo. But of this he said nothing. It was not his business to look after the interests of a "sassy nigger." In fact, he felt that the money was in a sense due to him on account of the scurvy trick that Nimbus had played him, in deserting to the Yankees after agreeing to look after his "niggers" on the breast-works, although, as the event proved, his master would have gained nothing by his remaining. So the former master and slave met on the level of barter and sale, and gave and took in the conflict of trade.
Except the small tract just about the old hostel, which has already been mentioned, the plantation, which included Red Wing, was descended from an ancestor of the Richards family, who had come from the North about the close of the Revolution and "entered" an immense tract in this section. It had, however, passed out of the family by purchase, and about the beginning of the war of Rebellion a life estate therein was held by its occupant, while the reversion belonged to certain parties in Indiana by virtue of the will of a common ancestor. This life-tenant's necessities compelled him to relinquish his estate, which was bought by Colonel Desmit, during the second year of the war, together with the fee which he had acquired in the tract belonging to the old Ordinary, not because he wanted the land about Red Wing, but because the plantation to which it was attached was a good one, and he could buy it on reasonable terms for Confederate currency. He expected to treat with the Indiana heirs and obtain their respective interests in the fee, which no doubt he would have been able to acquire very cheaply but for the intevening accident of war, as the life-tenant was yet of middle age and the succession consequently of little probable value to living reversioners. This, however, he had not done; but as his deed from the life-tenant was in form an exclusive and unlimited conveyance, it had been quite forgotten that the will of his grandfather limited it to a life estate. So when Nimbus and his friend and counsellor, Eliab Hill, sought to negotiate the purchase of Red Wing, no mention was made of that fact; neither was it alluded to when they came again to conclude the purchase, nor when instructions were given to Colonel Desmit's lawyer to prepare the necessary papers.
The trade was soon brought to an apparently happy conclusion. Nimbus bought two hundred acres at a price of eight hundred dollars, paying one half the price agreed upon in cash, and for the balance gave three notes of equal amounts, one maturing each year thereafter, and received from Colonel Uesmit a bond for title to the whole tract, with full covenants of warranty and seizin. Colonel Desmit accounted the notes of little value; Nimbus prized the bond for title above any patent of nobility. Before the first note fell due all had been discharged, and the bond for title was exchanged for a deed in fee, duly executed. So the recent slave, who had but lately been the subject of barter and sale, was clothed with the rights of a proprietor.
According to the former law, the slave was a sort of chattel-real. Without being attached to the land, he was transferable from one owner to another only by deed or will. In some States he descended as realty, in others as personalty, while in others still, he constituted a separate kind of heritable estate, which was especially provided for in the canons of descent and statutes regulating administration. There was even then of record in the county of Horsford a deed of sale, bearing the hand and seal of P, Desmit, and executed little more than a year previously, conveying to one Peyton Winburn "all the right, title, and interest of said Desmit, in and to a certain runaway negro boy named Nimbus." The said Winburn was a speculator in slaves who had long been the agent of Desmit in marketing his human crop, and who, in the very last hours of the Confederacy, was willing to risk a few dollars on the result. As he well stated it to himself, it was only staking one form of loss against another. He paid Confederate money for a runaway negro. If the Confederacy failed, the negro would be free; but then, too, the money would be worthless. So with grim humor he said to himself that he was only changing the form of his risk and could not possibly lose by the result. Thus, by implication of law, the recentsubjectof transfer by deed was elevated to the dignity of being apartythereto. The very instrument of his bondage became thereby the sceptre of his power. It was only an incident of freedom, but the difference it measured was infinite. No wonder the former slave tiembled with elation as he received this emblem of autonomy, or that there was a look of gloom on the face of the former master as he delivered the carefully-enrolled deed, made complete by his hand and seal, and attested by his attorney. It was the first time the one had felt the dignity of proprietorship, or the other had known the shame of fraud. The one thought of the bright future which lay before his children, to whom he dedicated Red Wing at that moment in his heart, in terms more solemn than the legal phrases in which Potestatem Desmit had guaranteed to them the estate in fee therein. The other thought of the far-away Indiana reversioners, of whose rights none knew aught save himself—himself and Walter Greer, who had gone away to the wilds of Texas, and might never be heard of any more. It was the first time he had ever committed a deliberate fraud, and when he handed the freedman the deed and said sadly, "I never expected to come down to this," those who heard him thought he meant his low estate, and pitied his misfortunes. He smiled meaningly and turned hastily away, when Nimbus, forgetting his own elation, said, in tones of earnest feeling: