Iola Leroy - Shadows Uplifted | Page 6

on earth I would rather have
my freedom than belong to her. Well, boys, here's a chance for us just
as soon as the Union army gets in sight. What will you do?"
"I'se a goin," said Tom Anderson, "jis' as soon as dem Linkum soldiers
gits in sight."
"An' I'se a gwine wid you, Tom," said another. "I specs my ole
Marster'll feel right smart lonesome when I'se gone, but I don't keer
'bout stayin' for company's sake."
"My ole Marster's room's a heap better'n his company," said Tom
Anderson, "an' I'se a goner too. Dis yer freedom's too good to be lef'
behind, wen you's got a chance to git it. I won't stop to bid ole Marse
good bye."
"What do you think," said Robert, turning to Uncle Daniel; "won't you
go with us?"

"No, chillen, I don't blame you for gwine; but I'se gwine to stay.
Slavery's done got all de marrow out ob dese poor ole bones. Ef
freedom comes it won't do me much good; we ole one's will die out,
but it will set you youngsters all up."
"But, Uncle Daniel, you're not too old to want your freedom?"
"I knows dat. I lubs de bery name of freedom. I'se been praying and
hoping for it dese many years. An' ef I warn't boun', I would go wid
you ter-morrer. I won't put a straw in your way. You boys go, and my
prayers will go wid you. I can't go, it's no use. I'se gwine to stay on de
ole place till Marse Robert comes back, or is brought back."
"But, Uncle Daniel," said Robert, "what's the use of praying for a thing
if, when it comes, you won't take it? As much as you have been praying
and talking about freedom, I thought that when the chance came you
would have been one of the first to take it. Now, do tell us why you
won't go with us. Ain't you willing?"
"Why, Robbie, my whole heart is wid you. But when Marse Robert
went to de war, he called me into his room and said to me, 'Uncle
Dan'el, I'se gwine to de war, an' I want you to look arter my wife an'
chillen, an' see dat eberything goes right on de place'. An' I promised
him I'd do it, an' I mus' be as good as my word. 'Cept de overseer, dere
isn't a white man on de plantation, an' I hear he has to report ter-morrer
or be treated as a deserter. An' der's nobody here to look arter Miss
Mary an' de chillen, but myself, an' to see dat eberything goes right. I
promised Marse Robert I would do it, an' I mus' be as good as my
word."
"Well, what should you keer?" said Tom Anderson. "Who looked arter
you when you war sole from your farder and mudder, an' neber seed
dem any more, and wouldn't know dem to-day ef you met dem in your
dish?"
"Well, dats neither yere nor dere. Marse Robert couldn't help what his
father did. He war an orful mean man. But he's dead now, and gone to
see 'bout it. But his wife war the nicest, sweetest lady dat eber I did see.

She war no more like him dan chalk's like cheese. She used to visit de
cabins, an' listen to de pore women when de overseer used to cruelize
dem so bad, an' drive dem to work late and early. An' she used to sen'
dem nice things when they war sick, and hab der cabins whitewashed
an' lookin' like new pins, an' look arter dere chillen. Sometimes she'd
try to git ole Marse to take dere part when de oberseer got too mean.
But she might as well a sung hymns to a dead horse. All her putty talk
war like porin water on a goose's back. He'd jis' bluff her off, an' tell
her she didn't run dat plantation, and not for her to bring him any nigger
news. I never thought ole Marster war good to her. I often ketched her
crying, an' she'd say she had de headache, but I thought it war de
heartache. 'Fore ole Marster died, she got so thin an' peaked I war 'fraid
she war gwine to die; but she seed him out. He war killed by a tree
fallin' on him, an' ef eber de debil got his own he got him. I seed him in
a vision arter he war gone. He war hangin' up in a pit, sayin' 'Oh! oh!'
wid no close on. He war allers blusterin', cussin', and swearin' at
somebody. Marse Robert ain't a bit like him. He takes right arter his
mother. Bad as ole Marster war, I think she jis' lob'd