The Kidnapped And The Ransomed Part 15

Aunt Sally had not been long on the plantation, before she learned the policy pursued by Mr. McKiernan towards his slaves. Their lot was truly hard. Not an article of furniture or clothing did they receive from their master, except, that once a year he gave a coa.r.s.e plantation suit to such as were old enough to work. Even this, however, was sometimes withheld, and then those who had no means of procuring garments for themselves, went to their daily tasks in such a ragged filthy state, that the more respectable of the overseers could not endure their presence. Several of these, at different times, left the plantation, for no other reason than that they could not stay in the field with such a miserable gang of negroes.

Little cared the master for their departure. Others were always ready to be hired, who heeded not such trifles, so that they could have full power over the half-naked wretches that instinctively recoiled at their approach.

But Vina and her children, thanks to Peter's industry and self-denial, had always decent clothing, and their cabin boasted many convenient articles of furniture, such as slaves seldom possess. They had also better food than most of their companions, for to the scant allowance of bacon and corn meal which was doled out to Vina on Sunday mornings, Peter often found means to add a little coffee and sugar, or pounds of flour.

All this Aunt Sally learned during her short stay, and for each kindness thus bestowed upon her child, she rendered thanks to Him, whose hand she recognized in every good.

Too soon the time allotted to this precious visit pa.s.sed away; yet much of hope lingered in the sad farewell. "Dat dar jaunt to Florida," Aunt Sally thought, had cured her master of his thirst for novelty; and now, she trusted, she should never more be widely separated from her daughter.

Vina's eyes were dim, as from her cabin door, she watched her mother's departing form. A heavy sadness oppressed her spirits; and the kind voice of her husband, who stood beside her, could scarce dispel her gloom. But many little motherly duties claimed her thoughts. Young Peter wanted his supper, while little Levin raised his pleading voice to beg for her attendance; and soon the pleasure of contributing to the comfort of those she loved restored her accustomed cheerfulness.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A SLAVE MOTHER'S "GOOD-BYE.".

AUNT SALLY rode briskly homeward. She had not felt so happy in many years as now. Her children were all comfortably situated; even Vina, about whom she had been so anxious, had now so kind a husband, and such fine "peart" children, that she could no longer repine at her lot.

A few weeks glided calmly on. Summer stole noiselessly away, and Autumn came with quiet steps, to cool the parched earth.

The cotton fields grow brown with age, and snowy tufts burst from the ripened bolls. Tremulous they hung--those fleecy ta.s.sels--and the cool breeze, as with mock sympathy it sighed among the withering leaves, lingered to whisper softly to these fair strangers, and toss in amorous sport their dainty tresses.

The crops were all gathered in. Beside the gin-house lay great heaps of h.o.a.ry cotton-seed, and the mighty press had uttered the last creak of the season. Under a shed hard-by, the old-fas.h.i.+oned, tight-laced bales were huddled close together, and yet it was not winter.

The hands upon the place were very proud. There was not another plantation in all the country round, but had great fields, where still in fleecy cl.u.s.ters the precious cotton gleamed.

It is night--and the people are all in their cabins. The smiles of triumph which but a few hours since brightened their faces have departed, and a wail of anguish resounds through all the quarter.

Mr. Peoples has bought a sugar farm away down on the dreadful Gulf Coast, and thither his slaves are all to be conveyed, as soon as they can make the necessary preparations for the journey.

Look! Aunt Sally comes forth alone from her cabin door. Tears are upon her cheeks, and her breast is convulsed with sorrow.

She walks slowly and with drooping head along a narrow footpath leading to the woods. She kneels upon the rustling leaves. Oh!

with what humble trustfulness she offers her agonized pet.i.tions!

Has she heard that it is written, "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him?"

The preparations for emigration were conducted with the bustle and confusion usual on large plantations. There were full three hundred slaves; and their master intended to carry along provisions sufficient for one year's consumption, as well as corn for the horses, mules and cattle. Then all the utensils of the farm were collected and repaired; and each family had to arrange its own little store of clothes and furniture.

During the day, the constant occupation of the slaves prevented the contemplation of their gloomy prospects. At night, however, they had time to think; and then the torrent of their grief broke forth afresh. In every cabin might be heard the voice of weeping; and the rude pallets, on which reposed their weary limbs, were wet with bitter tears.

When all was ready, and the cattle and stores had been conveyed to the river's bank, then came the final leave-taking. Husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, parents and children, who belonged on neighboring plantations, came with sobs and tears to say "farewell"

to those whose hearts were breaking.

Aunt Sally came hurriedly, with a small bundle in her hand, from her empty cabin. Hastily she walked along the road to Courtland, and paused not until she reached the residence of Mr. B--, where dwelt her youngest child.

Poor Quall! henceforth he would be motherless! He saw her form approaching, and ran to meet her. Oh! the tender agony of that last long embrace.

He was her darling boy, how could she leave him? He clung around her neck. She felt his warm breath on her check. O Saviour! pity them! It is their last fond meeting--their last heart-crushed "good bye."

With desperate strength she tore herself from his arms; and with one prayer to Heaven to bless and keep her boy, she thrust the little bundle into his powerless hand, and hastened on to join her gloomy comrades.

The rendezvous was Bainbridge. To this point some came on foot, and others on the boats over the shoals. Here they were obliged to wait till all the boats arrived; and now a faint hope sprang up in Aunt Sally's heart that she might yet see her daughter. She determined at least to make one effort.

A gentleman on horseback was slowly riding by. It was Andrew Gist. Hastily she approached him. He pitied her evident distress, and listened kindly to the recital of her sorrows.

"So your daughter is at McKiernan's. What is her name?"

"Her name Vina, Sir."

"Vina? why that is Peter's wife."

"Yes, Sir, her man name Peter. He belongs to Mars Levi Gist."

"Well, I'll find her myself, and send her down to see you. Come, cheer up, Auntie, you'll have good times yet."

The field where Mr. McKiernan's people were at work was three miles from the landing, but the Kentuckian's fine horse soon bore him there.

"Which of you all has a mother at Peoples'?" said he, as he rode up to a group of women.

"It's Vina's mother whar lives dar, Sir:--yon's Vina," replied a young girl, pointing as she spoke, to the object of his search. She was working alone, at a short distance from her companions, and did not look up till she was addressed.

"Howd'y' Vina, does your mother belong to Peoples?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well, if you go down to the landing, you'll see the last of her, I reckon, for she's going down the river. Peoples is moving down to the coast."

He rode away, and Vina gazed after him in speechless terror. Her mother--the coast--could it be? One moment she started towards the overseer to ask permission to go to the river--the next her courage failed her, and she felt sure he would not let her go. She tried to work, but her limbs seemed palsied, and her eyes were full of blinding tears.

After nearly an hour had pa.s.sed, she summoned all her strength, and left the field. With fearful steps she walked to the house, and fortunately her master and mistress were both at home. She told them what Mr. Gist had said, and touched with pity, they bade her go immediately to the landing and stay with her mother as long as the boats remained.

A strange picture met her eye as she approached the river. Along the bank in the dim twilight, gleamed the blaze of numerous fires, and around these were gathered groups of unhappy slaves. Some were cooking their simple suppers, and others close huddled together, warmed their benumbed limbs, while they bewailed, in low sad tones, their gloomy destiny. Mothers hovered tenderly over the dear little ones that never more might hear their fathers'

voices, and here and there, like a majestic tree by lightning blasted, stood a lone father, who had left all--wife, children, hope, behind.

Vina, paused, and listened, but in the sad murmur that met her ear she heard not her mother's voice. She pa.s.sed on. Four large flat boats were tied to the bank, and one of these she timidly entered.

A great fire was glowing at the further end of the boat, and dark figures were moving slowly about in the uncertain light. She heard no mirthful voices, no gay laugh; but heavy sighs and mournful wailings filled her ears.

On a low stool near the fire sat a female figure. Her bowed head rested on both her hands, and her body swayed to and fro, in unison with the melancholy measure of her thoughts. Vina came very near. She paused. Aunt Sally raised her head, and with a cry, half joy--half anguish, she clasped her daughter to her breast.

"O my chile! I's studyin' 'bout you, whether I's ever gwine see you agin or not," and she sobbed aloud. "Oh! how can I go and leave you, honey? I shan't never come back no more! 'Way down on de sugar farm I shall die, and der wont be no daughter dar to see 'em lay me in de grave!"

Long sat Vina and her mother close together, conversing in low tones, and weeping over their sad doom.

The slaves who had been gathered around the fires upon the bank came in, and wrapping themselves in their blankets, lay down to sleep.

As midnight approached, it was announced that the boats would probably not leave Bainbridge until Monday morning; and Aunt Sally obtained permission of the overseer who had charge, to go home with her daughter, and spend the next day which was Sat.u.r.day, at her cabin. Immediately they left the boat, and hastened home.

The hours of that short Sat.u.r.day pa.s.sed swiftly by, and at night Vina accompanied her mother back to the boat. There she left her, promising to come again in the morning, that they might spend one more day together.