The generous heart of my friend and benefactor was touched with pity at the sight of my distress. He endeavored to cheer me up, promising to return the day before Christmas, and if no intelligence was received in the meantime, some further step would be undertaken to effect our design. He exhorted me to keep up my spirits—to rely upon his continued efforts in my behalf, assuring me, in most earnest and impressive language, that my liberation should, from thenceforth, be the chief object of his thoughts.
In his absence the time passed slowly indeed. I looked forward to Christmas with intense anxiety and impatience. I had about given up the expectation of receiving any answer to the letters. They might have miscarried, or might have been misdirected. Perhaps those at Saratoga, to whom they had been addressed, were all dead; perhaps, engaged in their pursuits, they did not consider the fate of an obscure, unhappy black man of sufficient importance to be noticed. My whole reliance was in Bass. The faith I had in him was continually reassuring me, and enabled me to stand up against the tide of disappointment that had overwhelmed me.
So wholly was I absorbed in reflecting upon my situation and prospects, that the hands with whom I labored in the field often observed it. Patsey would ask me if I was sick, and Uncle Abram, and Bob, and Wiley frequently expressed a curiosity to know what I could be thinking about so steadily. But I evaded their inquiries with some light remark, and kept my thoughts locked closely in my breast.
XX
Bass faithful to his word—His arrival on Christmas Eve—The difficulty of obtaining an interview—The meeting in the cabin—Non-arrival of the letter—Bass announces his intention to proceed north—Christmas—Conversation between Epps and Bass—Young mistress M’coy, the beauty of Bayou Boeuf—The “ne plus ultra” of dinners—Music and dancing—Presence of the mistress—Her exceeding beauty—The last slave dance—William Pierce—Oversleep myself—The last whipping—Despondency—The cold morning—Epps’ threats—The passing carriage—Strangers approaching through the cotton-field—Last hour on Bayou Boeuf.
Faithful to his word, the day before Christmas, just at nightfall, Bass came riding into the yard.
“How are you,” said Epps, shaking him by the hand, “glad to see you.”
He would not have been very glad had he known the object of his errand.
“Quite well, quite well,” answered Bass. “Had some business out on the bayou, and concluded to call and see you, and stay over night.”
Epps ordered one of the slaves to take charge of his horse, and with much talk and laughter they passed into the house together; not, however, until Bass had looked at me significantly, as much as to say, “Keep dark, we understand each other.” It was ten o’clock at night before the labors of the day were performed, when I entered the cabin. At that time Uncle Abram and Bob occupied it with me. I laid down upon my board and feigned I was asleep. When my companions had fallen into a profound slumber, I moved stealthily out of the door, and watched, and listened attentively for some sign or sound from Bass. There I stood until long after midnight, but nothing could be seen or heard. As I suspected, he dared not leave the house, through fear of exciting the suspicion of some of the family. I judged, correctly, he would rise earlier than was his custom, and take the opportunity of seeing me before Epps was up. Accordingly I aroused Uncle Abram an hour sooner than usual, and sent him into the house to build a fire, which, at that season of the year, is a part of Uncle Abram’s duties.
I also gave Bob a violent shake, and asked him if he intended to sleep till noon, saying master would be up before the mules were fed. He knew right well the consequence that would follow such an event, and, jumping to his feet, was at the horse-pasture in a twinkling.
Presently, when both were gone, Bass slipped into the cabin.
“No letter yet, Platt,” said he. The announcement fell upon my heart like lead.
“Oh, do write again, Master Bass,” I cried; “I will give you the names of a great many I know. Surely they are not all dead. Surely someone will pity me.”
“No use,” Bass replied, “no use. I have made up my mind to that. I fear the Marksville postmaster will mistrust something, I have inquired so often at his office. Too uncertain—too dangerous.”
“Then it is all over,” I exclaimed. “Oh, my God, how can I end my days here!”
“You’re not going to end them here,” he said, “unless you die very soon. I’ve thought this matter all over, and have come to a determination. There are more ways than one to manage this business, and a better and surer way than writing letters. I have a job or two on hand which can be completed by March or April. By that time I shall have a considerable sum of money, and then,
