I could scarcely credit my own senses as the words fell from his lips. But he assured me, in a manner that left no doubt of the sincerity of his intention, that if his life was spared until spring, he should certainly undertake the journey.
“I have lived in this region long enough,” he continued; “I may as well be in one place as another. For a long time I have been thinking of going back once more to the place where I was born. I’m tired of slavery as well as you. If I can succeed in getting you away from here, it will be a good act that I shall like to think of all my life. And I shall succeed, Platt; I’m bound to do it. Now let me tell you what I want. Epps will be up soon, and it won’t do to be caught here. Think of a great many men at Saratoga and Sandy Hill, and in that neighborhood, who once knew you. I shall make excuse to come here again in the course of the winter, when I will write down their names. I will then know who to call on when I go north. Think of all you can. Cheer up! Don’t be discouraged. I’m with you, life or death. Goodbye. God bless you,” and saying this he left the cabin quickly, and entered the great house.
It was Christmas morning—the happiest day in the whole year for the slave. That morning he need not hurry to the field, with his gourd and cotton-bag. Happiness sparkled in the eyes and overspread the countenances of all. The time of feasting and dancing had come. The cane and cotton fields were deserted. That day the clean dress was to be donned—the red ribbon displayed; there were to be reunions, and joy and laughter, and hurrying to and fro. It was to be a day of liberty among the children of slavery. Wherefore they were happy, and rejoiced.
After breakfast Epps and Bass sauntered about the yard, conversing upon the price of cotton, and various other topics.
“Where do your niggers hold Christmas?” Bass inquired.
“Platt is going to Tanners today. His fiddle is in great demand. They want him at Marshall’s Monday, and Miss Mary McCoy, on the old Norwood plantation, writes me a note that she wants him to play for her niggers Tuesday.”
“He is rather a smart boy, ain’t he?” said Bass. “Come here, Platt,” he added, looking at me as I walked up to them, as if he had never thought before to take any special notice of me.
“Yes,” replied Epps, taking hold of my arm and feeling it, “there isn’t a bad joint in him. There ain’t a boy on the bayou worth more than he is—perfectly sound, and no bad tricks. D⸺n him, he isn’t like other niggers; doesn’t look like ’em—don’t act like ’em. I was offered seventeen hundred dollars for him last week.”
“And didn’t take it?” Bass inquired, with an air of surprise.
“Take it—no; devilish clear of it. Why, he’s a reg’lar genius; can make a plough beam, wagon tongue—anything, as well as you can. Marshall wanted to put up one of his niggers agin him and raffle for them, but I told him I would see the devil have him first.”
“I don’t see anything remarkable about him,” Bass observed.
“Why, just feel of him, now,” Epps rejoined. “You don’t see a boy very often put together any closer than he is. He’s a thin-skin’d cuss, and won’t bear as much whipping as some; but he’s got the muscle in him, and no mistake.”
Bass felt of me, turned me round, and made a thorough examination, Epps all the while dwelling on my good points. But his visitor seemed to take but little interest finally in the subject, and consequently it was dropped. Bass soon departed, giving me another sly look of recognition and significance, as he trotted out of the yard.
When he was gone I obtained a pass, and started for Tanner’s—not Peter Tanner’s, of whom mention has previously been made, but a relative of his. I played during the day and most of the night, spending the next day, Sunday, in my cabin. Monday I crossed the bayou to Douglas Marshall’s, all Epps’ slaves accompanying me, and on Tuesday went to the old Norwood place, which is the third plantation above Marshall’s, on the same side of the water.
This estate is now owned by Miss Mary McCoy, a lovely girl, some twenty years of age. She is the beauty and the glory of Bayou Boeuf. She owns about a hundred working hands, besides a great many house servants, yard boys, and young children. Her brother-in-law, who resides on the adjoining estate, is her general agent. She is beloved by all her slaves, and good reason indeed have they to be thankful that they have fallen into such gentle hands. Nowhere on the bayou are there such feasts, such merrymaking, as at young Madam McCoy’s. Thither, more than to any other place, do the old and the young for miles around love to repair in the time of the Christmas holidays; for nowhere else can they find such delicious repasts; nowhere else can they hear a voice speaking to them so pleasantly. No one is so well beloved—no one fills so large a space in the hearts of a thousand slaves, as young Madam McCoy, the orphan mistress of the old Norwood estate.
On my arrival at her place, I found two or three hundred had assembled. The table was prepared in a long building, which she had erected expressly for her slaves to dance in. It was covered with every variety of food the country afforded, and was pronounced by general acclamation to be the rarest of dinners. Roast turkey, pig, chicken, duck, and all kinds of meat, baked, boiled, and broiled, formed a line the whole length of the extended table, while the vacant spaces were
