Among the Pines | Page 2

"Colonel" was a highly cultivated and intelligent gentleman, and
during this journey a friendship sprung up between us--afterward kept
alive by a regular correspondence--which led him, with his wife and
daughter, and the man Jim, to my house on his next visit at the North,
one year later. I then promised--if I should ever again travel in South
Carolina--to visit him on his plantation in the extreme north-eastern
part of the state.
In December last, about the time of the passage of the ordinance of
secession, I had occasion to visit Charleston, and, previous to setting
out, dispatched a letter to the Colonel with the information that I was
ready to be led of him "into the wilderness." On arriving at the
head-quarters of secession, I found a missive awaiting me, in which my
friend cordially renewed his previous tender of hospitality, gave me
particular directions how to proceed, and stated that his "man Jim"
would meet me with a carriage at Georgetown, and convey me thence,
seventy miles, to "the plantation."
Having performed the business which led me to Charleston, I set out
for the rendezvous five days before the date fixed for the meeting,
intending to occupy the intervening time in an exploration of the
ancient town and its surroundings.
The little steamer Nina (a cross between a full-grown nautilus and a
half-grown tub), which a few weeks later was enrolled as the first
man-of-war of the Confederate navy, then performed the carrying trade
between the two principal cities of South Carolina. On her, together
with sundry boxes and bales, and certain human merchandise, I
embarked at Charleston, and on a delicious morning, late in December,
landed at Georgetown.
As the embryo war-steamer rounded up to the long, low, rickety dock,
lumbered breast-high with cotton, turpentine, and rosin, not a white
face was to be seen. A few half-clad, shiftless-looking negroes,
lounging idly about, were the only portion of the population in waiting
to witness our landing.
"Are all the people dead?" I inquired of one of them, thinking it strange

that an event so important as the arrival of the Charleston packet should
excite no greater interest in so quiet a town. "Not dead, massa," replied
the black, with a knowing chuckle, "but dey'm gettin' ready for a
fun'ral." "What funeral?" I asked. "Why, dey'm gwine to shoot all de
boblition darkies at de Norf, and hab a brack burying; he! he!" and the
sable gentleman expanded the opening in his countenance to an
enormous extent, doubtless at the brilliancy of his wit.
I asked him to take my portmanteau, and conduct me to the best hotel.
He readily assented, "Yas, yas, massa, I show you whar de big-bugs
stop;" but at once turning to another darky standing near, he accosted
him with, "Here, Jim, you lazy nigga, tote de gemman's tings."
"Why don't you take them yourself?" I asked; "you will then get all the
pay." "No, no, massa; dat nigga and me in partenship; he do de work,
and I keeps de change," was the grinning reply, and it admirably
illustrates a peculiarity I have observed to be universal with the negro.
When left to his own direction, he invariably "goes into partenship"
with some one poorer than himself, and no matter how trivial the task,
shirks all the labor he can.
The silent darky and my portmanteau in the van, and the garrulous old
negro guarding my flank, I wended my way through the principal street
to the hotel. On the route I resumed the conversation:
"So, uncle, you say the people here are getting ready for a black
burying?"
"Yas, massa, gwine to bury all dem mis'able free niggas at de Norf."
"Why? What will you do that for?"
"Why for, massa! you ax why for!" he exclaimed in surprise.
"I don't know," I rejoined; "I'm a stranger here."
"Well, you see, massa, dem boblition niggas up dar hab gone and
'lected a ole darky, dey call Uncle Abe; and Old Abe he'se gwine to

come down Souf, and cut de decent niggas' troats. He'll hab a good
time--he will! My young massa's captin ob de sogers, and he'll cotch de
ole coon, and string him up so high de crows won't scent him; yas, he
will;" and again the old darky's face opened till it looked like the
entrance to the Mammoth Cave. He, evidently, had read the Southern
papers.
Depositing my luggage at the hotel, which I found on a side street--a
dilapidated, unpainted wooden building, with a female landlord--I
started out to explore the town, till the hour for dinner. Retracing my
steps in the direction of the steamboat landing, I found the streets
nearly deserted, although it was the hour when the business of the day
is usually transacted. Soon I