Among the Pines | Page 4

hurled defiance at the enemy, in the words of Scott (slightly altered to
suit the occasion):
"Come one, come all, these chairs shall fly From their firm base as
soon as I."
My exultation, however, was of short duration. The persistent foe,
scaling my intrenchments, soon returned to the assault with redoubled
vigor, and in utter despair I finally fled. Groping my way through the
hall, and out of the street-door, I departed. The Sable Brother--alias the
Son of Ham--alias the Image of GOD carved in Ebony--alias the
Oppressed Type--alias the Contraband--alias the Irrepressible
Nigger--alias the Chattel--alias the Darky--alias the Cullud Pusson--had
informed me that I should find the Big Bugs at that hotel. I had found
them.
Staying longer in such a place was out of the question, and I
determined to make my way to the up-country without longer waiting
for Jim. With the first streak of day I sallied out to find the means of
locomotion.
The ancient town boasts no public conveyance, except a one-horse gig
that carries the mail in tri-weekly trips to Charleston. That vehicle,
originally used by some New England doctor, in the early part of the
past century, had but one seat, and besides, was not going the way I
intended to take, so I was forced to seek a conveyance at a livery-stable.
At the only livery establishment in the place, kept by a "cullud pusson,"

who, though a slave, owns a stud of horses that might, among a people
more movingly inclined, yield a respectable income, I found what I
wanted--a light Newark buggy, and a spanking gray. Provided with
these, and a darky driver, who was to accompany me to my destination,
and return alone, I started. A trip of seventy miles is something of an
undertaking in that region, and quite a crowd gathered around to
witness our departure, not a soul of whom, I will wager, will ever hear
the rumble of a stage-coach, or the whistle of a steam-car, in those
sandy, deserted streets.
We soon left the village, and struck a broad avenue, lined on either side
by fine old trees, and extending in an air-line for several miles. The
road is skirted by broad rice-fields, and these are dotted here and there
by large antiquated houses, and little collections of negro huts. It was
Christmas week; no hands were busy in the fields, and every thing
wore the aspect of Sunday. We had ridden a few miles when suddenly
the road sunk into a deep, broad stream, called, as the driver told me,
the Black River. No appliance for crossing being at hand, or in sight, I
was about concluding that some modern Moses accommodated
travellers by passing them over its bed dry-shod, when a flat-boat shot
out from the jungle on the opposite bank, and pulled toward us. It was
built of two-inch plank, and manned by two infirm darkies, with frosted
wool, who seemed to need all their strength to sit upright. In that leaky
craft, kept afloat by incessant baling, we succeeded, at the end of an
hour, in crossing the river. And this, be it understood, is travelling in
one of the richest districts of South Carolina!
We soon left the region of the rice-fields, and plunged into dense
forests of the long-leafed pine, where for miles not a house, or any
other evidence of human occupation, is to be seen. Nothing could well
be more dreary than a ride through such a region, and to while away the
tedium of the journey I opened a conversation with the driver, who up
to that time had maintained a respectful silence.
He was a genuine native African, and a most original and interesting
specimen of his race. His thin, close-cut lips, straight nose and
European features contrasted strangely with a skin of ebon blackness,

and the quiet, simple dignity of his manner betokened superior
intelligence. His story was a strange one. When a boy, he was with his
mother, kidnapped by a hostile tribe, and sold to the traders at Cape
Lopez, on the western coast of Africa. There, in the slave-pen, the
mother died, and he, a child of seven years, was sent in the slave-ship
to Cuba. At Havana, when sixteen, he attracted the notice of a
gentleman residing in Charleston, who bought him and took him to "the
States." He lived as house-servant in the family of this gentleman till
1855, when his master died, leaving him a legacy to a daughter. This
lady, a kind, indulgent mistress, had since allowed him to "hire his
time," and he then carried on an "independent business," as porter, and
doer of all work around the wharves and streets of Georgetown. He
thus gained a comfortable living, besides paying to his mistress one