Tales of the Home Folks in Peace and War/A Run of Luck
A RUN OF LUCK
It was natural that the war and its results should bring about great changes in the South; but I never fully realized what a wonderful change had been wrought until, a dozen years after the struggle, business, combined with pleasure, led me to visit the old Moreland Place, in middle Georgia. The whole neighborhood for miles around had been familiar to my youth, and was still dear to my memory. Driving along the well-remembered road, I conjured up the brilliant and picturesque spectacle that the Moreland Place presented when I saw it last: a stately house on a wooded hill, the huge, white pillars that supported the porch rising high enough to catch the reflection of a rosy sunset, the porch itself and the beautiful lawn in front filled with a happy crowd of lovely women and gallant men, young and old, the wide avenues lined with carriages, and the whole place lit up (as it were) and alive with the gay commotion of a festival occasion. And such indeed it was—the occasion of the home-coming of Linton Moreland, the master, with a bride he had won in far-off Mississippi.
The contrast that now presented itself would have been pathetic if it had not been amazing. The change that had taken place seemed impossible enough to stagger belief. It had been easier to imagine that some convulsion had swept the Moreland Place from the face of the earth than to believe that in twenty years neglect and decay could work such preposterous ravages. The great house was all but dismantled. One corner of the roof had fallen in. The wide windows were mere holes in the wall. The gable of the porch was twisted and rent—so much so that two of the high pillars had toppled over, while another, following the sinking floor, had parted company with the burden it was intended to support and sustain. The cornices, with their queer ornamentation, had disappeared, and more than one of the chimney-tops had crumbled, leaving a ragged pile of bricks peeping above the edge of the roof. The lawn and avenues leading to it were rankly overgrown with weeds. The grove of magnificent trees that had been one of the features of the Place had not been spared. Some were lying prone upon the ground and others had been cut into cord-wood, while those that had been left standing had been trimmed and topped and shorn of their beauty.
Even the topography of the Place had changed. The bed of the old highway leading to the gate that opened on the main avenue had now become a gully, and a new highway had been seized upon—a highway so little used that it held out small promise to the stranger who desired to reach the house. The surroundings were so strange that I was undecided whether to follow the new road, and my horse, responsive to the indecision of my hand, stopped still. At this an old negro man, whom I had noticed sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree not far from the house, rose and came forward as fast as his age would permit him. I knew him at once as Uncle Primus, who had been the head servant in the Place in Linton Moreland's day—carriage-driver, horse-trainer, foreman, and general factotum. I spoke to him as he came forward, hat in hand and smiling.
He bowed in quite the old fashion. "Howdy, suh! I 'low'd you wuz tryin' fer ter fin' yo' way ter de house, suh. Dat what make I come. De time wuz, suh, when my ole Marster wuz 'live, en long atter dat, dat nobody on top er de groun' hatter ax de way ter dat house up yander. But dey 's been a mighty churnin' up sence dem days, suh, en in de churnin' de whey done got de notion dat it 's more wholesomer dan de butter—en I speck it is, suh, ter dem what like whey."
He paused and looked at me with a shrewd twinkle in his eye, which quickly faded away when, in responding to his remark, I called his name again. He regarded me closely, but not impolitely, and then began to scratch his head in a puzzled way. I was on the point of telling him who I was when he raised his hand, a broad grin of pleasure spreading over his face.
"Wait, suh! des wait! I ain't gwine ter be outdone dataway. Ain't you de same little boy what show'd me whar de buzzud nes' wuz on de two-mile place, en' which he use ter go 'possum-huntin' long wid me?" Assuring Uncle Primus that his identification was complete in all particulars, he brought his two hands together with a resounding clap, exclaiming, "Ah-yi! Primus gittin' ol', suh, but he ain't gwine ter be outdone when it come ter knowin' dem what he use ter know, an' mo' speshually when he know'd 'em endurin' er de farmin' days. You er kind er fleshened up, suh, en you look like you er mo' settled dan what you wuz in dem days. Kaze I dunner how come you 'scaped breakin' yo' neck when you wuz stayin' at de Terrell plantation."
I was as much pleased at Uncle Primus's recognition after these long and fateful years as he seemed to be, and we had much to say to each other as he piloted me along the new road to the new gate. The house and the home place were now owned by a Mr. Yarbrough, who had at one time followed the calling of an overseer. Having bought the house, it was a marvel why he allowed it to go to rack, but he did. Instead of repairing the fine old house and living in it, he built a modest dwelling of his own. There is a psychological explanation of this, into which it is not necessary now to go. At the time I could find small excuse for the man who could use the Moreland house as a storage place for corn, wheat, potatoes, and fodder, and that, too, when there were no locks on the doors, and only boards nailed across the lower windows.
But Mr. Yarbrough gave me a good dinner, as well as a good part of the information I had come in search of, and it would have become me ill to inquire too closely into his motives for abandoning the Moreland dwelling to the elements. After dinner, I walked about the place with Uncle Primus, visiting first the rock-spring, that I remembered well, and the old family burying-ground in the orchard. Here all the marbles were old and weather-beaten, and I had much trouble in making out some of the names and dates. I knew that Linton Moreland had returned home after the war, with some military reputation, which he tried in vain to turn to account in business matters. Farming was such a precarious affair directly after the war that he gave it up in disgust, and moved to Savannah, where he took charge of the general agency of an insurance company. Lacking all business training, and wanting the instinct of economy in all things, great or small, it was no surprise to his friends when he gave up the insurance agency in disgust, and went off to Mississippi.
I had often heard of old family servants attaching themselves to their masters' families, and I wondered why Uncle Primus had not accompanied Linton. The old negro either divined my thoughts, or I expressed my wonder in words not now remembered, for he began to shake his head solemnly, by way of protest.
"Well, suh," he said, after a while, "I come mighty nigh gwine off wid my young marster. I 'speck I 'd 'a' gone ef he 'd 'a' had any chillun, but he ain't had a blessed one. En it look like ter me, suh, dat ef de Lord gwine ter stan' by a man, He gwine ter gi' 'im chillun. But dat ain't all, suh. I done been out dar ter Massysip wid my young marster, en dat one time wuz too much fer me. Fust dar wuz de rippit on de steamboat, en den dar wuz de burnin' er de boat, en den come de swamps, en de canebrakes; en I tell you right now, suh, I dunner which wuz de wuss—de rippit on de boat, er de fier, er de swamps, er de canebrakes. Dat ain't no country like our'n, suh. Dey 's nuff water in de State er Massysip fer ter float Noah's ark. Hit 's in de ve'y lan' what dey plant der cotton in, suh. De groun' is mushy. En black! You may n't b'lieve me, suh, but dey wuz times when I wuz out dar, dat I 'd 'a' paid a sev'mpunce fer ter git a whiff er dish yer red dus' up my nose. When you come to farmin', suh, gi' me de red lan' er de gray. Hit may not make ez much cotton in one season, but it las's longer, en hit 's lots mo' wholesome."
To pass the time away, I asked Uncle Primus about the "rippit" on the boat, as he called it. He shook his head and groaned. Finally he brightened up, and said:—
"You ain't know much about my young marster, suh; you wuz too little; but he had de fam'ly failin', ef you kin call it dat. He wuz up fer whatsomever wuz gwine on, let it be a fight, er let it be a frolic. 'T wuz all de same ter him, suh; yit, ef he had de choosin', 't would 'a' bin a fight mighty nigh all de time. I dunner but what he wuz wuss at dat dan ole marster wuz, en de Lord knows he wuz bad 'nuff.
"Well, suh, nothin 'd do my young marster but he mus' travel, but stidder travelin' up dar in Boston, en Phillimindelphy, whar folks live at, he tuck de notion dat he mus' go out dar in de neighborhoods er Massysip. En I had ter go 'long wid 'im. I kinder hung back, kaze I done hearn tell 'bout de gwines-on dey had out dar; but de mo' I hung back, de mo' my young marster want me ter go. I wuz lots younger den dan what I is now, en lots mo' soopler, en I 'low ter myself dat ef anybody kin stan' fer ter go out dar spectin' ter come back wid breff in um, dat somebody wuz Primus. 'T wuz like de ol' sayin,' suh—start out wid a weak heart ef you want ter come home wid a whole hide. En so we start off. My young marster wuz mighty gayly. He cracked jokes, en went on mighty nigh de whole time; en I 'spicioned den dat dey wuz gwine ter be some devilment cut up 'fo' we got back. En sho nuff dey wuz.
"Well, suh, stidder gwine right straight to'rds Massysip, we tuck de stage en went ter Nashville, en den ter Kaintucky, en den fum dar up ter St. Louis. Hit look like dat wharsomever dey wuz a hoss-race, er a chicken fight, er a game er farrer gwine on, right dar we wuz, en dar we staid twel de light wuz out, ez you may say. En when dey 'd move, we 'd move. Ef it had n't 'a' been fer me, suh, my young marster would 'a' teetotally ruint hisse'f wid gamblin' en gwine on. I seed dat sump'n had ter be done, en dat mighty quick, so I tuck 'im off one side en ax 'im ef he 'd bet on de hoss what I 'd pick out fer 'im de next day. Dat wuz des fun fer my young marster, suh. He tuck me right up, en des vowed he 'd put his las' dollar on 'im.
"'T wa'n't no mo' trouble ter me, suh, ter pick out de winnin' hoss dan 'twuz ter wash my face. Dat night I made my young marster gi' me a tickler full er dram, en den I went 'mong de stables whar dey kep' de race-hosses, en 't w'an't no time 'fo' I know'd eve'y hoss dat wuz gwine ter win de nex' day, en de day arter, en de day arter dat—kaze de nigger boys, what rode de hosses, know'd, en dey tol' me what dey would n't dast ter tell no white man dat ever wuz born'd.
"Well, suh, we sorter belt back on de fust two races, but de nex' un wuz de big un, en my young marster plankt down all he had on de hoss I picked, en we walked 'way fum dar wid mighty nigh 'nuff money ter fill a bedtick. De biggest pile my young marster got, he won'd fum a great big man, wid white whiskers en blue eyes. He look mo' like a preacher dan any hoss-race man I ever is see. De man wid de white whiskers en blue eyes counted out de bills slow, en all de time he wuz doin' it he look hard at me en my young marster. Arter we got back in de tavern, my young marster say, 'Primus!' I say, 'Suh!' He 'low, 'Is you see how dat ol' man look at us whence he wuz countin' out dat money?' I 'low, 'Well, suh, I notice 'im glance at us mo' dan once.' He say, 'You know what dat means?' I say, 'No, suh, less'n hit's kaze he hate ter drap so much good money.' He 'low, 'Dat man got de idee in 'im big ez a mule dat I 'm a swindler. Damn 'im! I 'll put a hole thoo 'im de fust chance I git.' I 'low, 'Better wait twel we git some mo' er his money.' But my young marster tuck it mighty hard. He walk de flo' en walk de flo'. But ez fer me—well, suh, I des set down at de foot er de bed, en de fus news I know'd I wuz done gone ter de land er Nod.
"Well, suh, we went on cross de country twel we come ter St. Louis. We ain't do much dar, 'cept ter spen' money, en bimeby my young marster tuck a notion dat he 'd go ter New 'leans. I 'low, 'Dar now!' but dat ain't do no good. My young marster done make up his min'. So I got ev'rything ready, en terreckly atter dinner we went down en got on de boat. Hit look like ter me, suh, dat she wuz bigger dan a meetin'-house. Mon, she loomed up so high, dat I got sorter skittish, en den on top er dat wuz two great big smoke-stacks, scolloped on de aidge, en painted red roun' de rim. En de smoke dat come a-bilin' out'n um wuz dat black en thick dat it look like you might er cut it wid a kyarvin' knife.
"I followed 'long atter my young marster, I did, en when we got up on top dar whar de balance er de folks wuz, de fust man I laid eyes on wuz dat ar man wid de white whiskers en de blue eyes what my young marster won de big pile er money fum. He look mo' like a preacher man dan ever, kaze he wuz drest up mo' slicker dan what he had been. I ain't blame 'im fer dat when I seed what he had wid 'im. I done laid eyes on lots er purty white ladies, but I ain't seed none no purtier dan de one what dat ar preacher-lookin' man had wid 'im. She walk, suh, like she wuz on springs, en when she laugh it look like she lit up de boat, en her ha'r shine like when de sun strike down thoo de trees whar de water ripple at. When de man 'ud look at her, hit seem like his eyes got mo' bluer, but dey wa'n't no mo' bluer dan what her 'n wuz en not more 'n half ez big. I know'd by de way she hung on de man's arm en projicked wid 'im, dat dey wuz some kin er nudder, en I say ter myse'f, 'Name er de Lord, white man, why n't you drap dis gamblin' business en settle down some'ers en take keer er dat gal?' Bless yo' soul, suh, whiles I wuz sayin' dat de gal wuz pullin' at de man's whiskers; en bimeby, she up en—smack!—she kissed 'im, en den I know'd he wuz her daddy.
"My young marster wuz watchin' all deze motions mo' samer dan what I wuz. He watch de gal so close dat bimeby de man kotch 'im at it, en when my young marster seed he wuz kotched he up en blush wuss 'n de gal did. But de preacher-lookin' man ain't say nothin'. He look at my young marster an grin des nuff fer ter show his tushes. 'T wa'n't no laugh; 't wuz one er deze yer grins like you see on er dog des 'fo' he start ter snap you. Den he hustled de gal off, en I dunner whar dey went.
"Arter supper some er de men what my young marster been talkin' wid said sump'n 'bout gittin' up a little game. Dey talked en smoked, en bimeby my young marster en two mo' 'greed ter try dey han' at poker. Dey went off to'rds a little room what dey had at one een' er de boat, en I went 'long wid um. My fust notion wuz ter go off some'ers en go ter bed, but when I got ter whar dey wuz gwine, dar wuz de preacher-lookin' man settin' in dar by his lone se'f shufflin' a deck er kyards. He look up, he did, when my young marster en de yuthers went in, en den he showed his tushes en bowed. But he kep' on settin' dar shufflin' de kyards, en it look like ter me dat he done been shuffle kyards befo'. I been see lots er men shuffle kyards in my day, but dat ar preacher-lookin' man, he beat my time by de way he handle dat deck. 'T wuz slicker dan sin.
"Right den en dar, suh, I say ter myse'f dat dish yer preacher-lookin' man wuz' one er dem ar river-gamblers, what you hear folks talk 'bout, en dat he wa'n't doin' nothin' in de roun' worl' but layin' fer my young marster. Dey sorter pass de time er day, dey did, en my young marster 'low dat he hope he ain't doin' no intrusion, en de preacher-lookin' man say ef dey 's anybody doin' any intrusion, it 's him, kaze he ain't doin' nothin' but settin' dar projickin' with de kyards waitin' fer bed-time. Den my young marster ax 'im ef he won't jine in de game, en he 'low he don't keer ef he do, but he say it twon't do no good fer ter jine in de game ef my young marster know ez much 'bout kyards ez he do 'bout race-hosses. Wid dat, my young marster 'low dat he never won'd a dollar on any hoss what he pick out hisse'f. Dis make de preacher-lookin' man open his eyes wide, en dey look mo' bluer dan bef o'; en he 'low:—
"'Who does de pickin' fer you?'
"My young marster nod his head to'rds me. 'Dar 's my picker.'
"De man say, 'Who larnt you so much 'bout race-hosses?'
"I make answer, 'Well, suh, hit 's mighty much de same wid hosses ez 't is wid folks. Look at um right close en watch der motions, en you 'll know what dey got in um, but you won't know how you know it.'
"De man say, 'Kin you pick out kyards same ez you does hosses?'
"I 'low, 'Well, suh, I has played sev'm-up on Sundays, en I ken pick out de kyards when I see um.'
"Dis make de man grin mo' samer dan befo', but my young marster looks mighty sollum. He drum on de table wid his fingers like he studyin' 'bout sump'n, en bimeby he say:—
"'Primus, I wus des 'bout ter sen' you off ter bed, but I reckon you better set dar behine me en gi' me good luck.'
"De man look at me, en den he look at my young marster. I 'low:—
"'I 'll set behime you en nod, Marse Lint, ef dat 'll gi' you good luck.'
"Well, suh, dey started in wid de game. Dey had corn fer chips, en er empty seegyar box wuz de bank. I watched um long ez I could, en den I drapt off ter sleep. I dunner how long I sot dar en nodded, but bimeby I hear a shufflin', en dat woke me. De two men what come in wid my young marster had done got tired er playin', en dey draw'd out en went off ter bed. My young marster wuz fer drawin' out too, but de preacher-lookin' man would n't hear ter dat. He say, 'Gi' me er chance ter win my money back,' en I know'd by dat dat my young marster ain't been losin' much.
"Dey played on, en I kinder kep' one eye on de game. My young marster played des like he tryin' ter lose. But 't wa'n't no use. Luck wuz runnin' his way, en she des run'd all over him. She got 'im down en wallered 'im, en den she sot on top un 'im. Dey ain't no use talkin', suh: hit wuz des scanlous. Dey wa'n't no sleep fer me while dat wuz gwine on. I des sot dar wid bofe eyes open, en my mouf too, I speck. De kyards runded so quare, suh, dat dey fair made my flesh crawl, kaze I know'd how it bleedze ter look like swindlin' ter de man what wuz so busy losin' all his money. Ef I had n't er know'd my young marster, nobody could n't er tol' me dat he wa'n't playin' a skin game, kaze I would n't b'lieved um. En dat 's de way 't wuz wid dat ar preacher-lookin' man. He played en played, but bimeby he put his kyards down on de table, en draw'd a long breff, en look at my young marster. Den he 'low:—
"'I seed lots er folks in my day en time, but you en your dam nigger is de slickest pair dat I ever is lay eyes on.'
"My young marster sorter half-way shet his eyes en lean on de table en look at de man. He ax:—
"'What yo' name?'
"Man say, 'Barksdale er Loueeziana.'
"My young marster had his han' on a tum'ler er water, en he 'low, 'Well, Barksdale er Loueeziana, ol' ez you is, I 'll hatter l'arn you some manners.'
"Wid dat, he dash de water in de man's face wid one han' en draw'd his gun wid de yuther. De man wipe de water out er his eyes wid one han' en draw'd his gun wid de yuther. Leas'ways, I speck he draw'd it, kaze de pistol what my young marster had wuz so techous, ez you may say, dat I duckt my head when I seed 'im put his han' on it.
"But 'fo' anybody could do any damage, suh, I heerd a squall dat make my blood run col'. Hit come fum a 'oman, too, kaze dey ain't nothin' ner nobody what kin make dat kinder fuss 'cep' it 's a 'oman er a mad' hoss. I raise my head at dat, en dar stood my young marster en de man wid der han's on der guns en de table 'twix' um. De squall ain't mo' dan die away, 'fo' somebody holler 'Fier!' en time dat word come, I could see de red shadder flashin' on de water, en den hit come 'cross my min' dat dey wuz one nigger man a mighty fur ways from home, en hit make me feel so sorry f er de nigger man dat I could n't skacely keep fum bustin' out en cryin' boo-hoo right den en dar. De man look at my young marster en say:—
"'’Scuze me des one minnit. My daughter'—
"'Certn'y, suh!' sez my young marster, en den he bowed des ez perlite ez ef he 'd a had a fiddle stidder a pistol. De man, he bowed back, en went out, en my young marster follered arter. By dat time de folks in de boat (en dey wuz a pile un um, mon!) come a-rushin' out'n der rooms, en 'fo' you kin wink yo' eyeball dey wuz a-crowdin' en a-pushin' en a-pullin' en a-haulin', en a-cryin' en a-fightin', en a-cussin' en a-prayin'.
"Well, suh, I put it down in my min' den, en I ain't never rub it out, dat ef you take proudness out'n de white folks dey er des ez skeery ez de niggers. En dem white folks on dat boat dat night had all de proudness out'n um, en dey went on wuss 'n a passel er four-footed creeturs. Hit 's de Lord's trufe, suh,—all 'cep'n my young marster en de preacher-lookin' man. Dem two wuz des ez cool ez cowcumbers, en I say ter myse'f, I did, 'I 'll des up en wait twel dey gits skeer'd, en den I 'll show um how skeer'd a nigger kin git when he ain't got nothin' on his min'.'
"Dat ar Mr. Barksdale, he wuz fur shovin' right 'long froo de crowd, but my young marster say dey better stay on de top deck whar dey kin see what gwine on. 'Bout dat time I cotch sight er de young 'oman in de jam right close at us, en I p'int her out ter my young marster. Time he kin say, 'Dar yo' daughter right nex' ter de railin',' de crowd sorter swayed back, de rope railin' give 'way, en inter de water de gal went, wid a lot mo' un um. My young marster han' me his coat en pistol en over he went; I han' um ter Mr. Barksdale, whiles he sayin', 'Oh, Lord! oh, Lordy!' en over I went—kaze in dem days I ain't had no better sense dan ter go whar my young marster went. I hit somebody when I struck de water, en I like ter jolted my gizzard out, en when I riz hit look like de boat had done got a mile away, but she wuz headin' fer de bank, suh, en she flung a broadside er light on de water, en I ain't hit mo'n a dozen licks 'fo' I seed my young marster hol'in' de gal, an' swimmin' 'long easy.
"Well, suh, what should I do but des up en fetch one er dem ar ol'-time fox-huntin' hollers, en I boun' you mought er heerd it two mile. My young marster make answer, en den I know'd de res' wuz easy. Kaze me an' him wuz at home in de water. I holler out, I did, 'Gi' me room, Marse Lint!' en I pulled up 'long side er him same ez a pacin' hoss. My young marster say sump'n, I disremember what, en den he laugh, en when de young 'oman hear dis, she open her eyes, en make some kind er movement. My young marster 'low, 'Don't grab me, please, ma'am,' en she say she ain't skeer'd a bit. 'Bout dat time we come up wid a nigger man in a canoe. Stidder tryin' ter save us, ef we needed any savin', he done his level best ter git away. But he ain't hit two licks wid de paddle 'fo' I had de boat, en I say, 'You dunner who you foolin' wid, nigger!'
"Well, suh, he dez riz up in de boat en light out same ez a bull-frog in a mill-pon'. My young marster say he wuz a runaway nigger, en I speck he wuz, kaze what business he got jumpin' in de water des kaze we want ter git in his boat? Dat zackly what he done; he lipt out same ez er bull-frog. Now, some folks dunner how ter git in a boat fum de water when dey ain't nobody in it, but here's what does. De sides is lots too ticklish. I dez grab de een' en sorter spring up en down twel I got de swing un it, en den I straddle it des like playin' lip-frog. Dat done, dey wa'n't no trouble 't all. I lif' de young 'oman in, en den my young marster he clomb in, en dar we wuz a little chilly in de win', but warm 'nuff fer ter thank de Lord we had life in us. I tuck de paddle, I did, en look at my young marster. He nod his head to'rd de burnin' boat. De young 'oman wuz cryin' en moanin', en gwine on tumble 'bout her daddy, but I des jerk dat canoe along. Her daddy wuz dead, she des know'd it; sump'n done tol' her so; en nobody ner nothin' can't make her b'lieve he 'live, no matter ef day done seed 'im 'live en well. You know how de wimmin folk runs on, suh. But while she gwine on dat a-way, I wuz des makin' dat canoe zoon, pullin' fust on one side en den on t'er.
"By dis time, suh, de burnin' boat done been run on de bank, en, mon, she lit up de worl'. De fier wuz shootin' mos'ly fum de middle, en mos' all de folks wuz at de een' nex' ter de bank, but on de hine een' en way on de top deck dey wuz a man standin'. He wuz wringin' his han's en lookin' out on de water, en be wa'n't no mo' tryin' ter save hisse'f dan de smoke-stacks wuz. De light shined right on 'im, en I know'd de minnit I seed 'im dat 't wus dat ar Mr. Barksdale. So I turn my head en say ter de young 'oman, 'Mistiss, yon' yo' pa now.' She ain't look up 't all. She 'low, 'I don't b'lieve it! I never is ter b'lieve it!' I say, 'Marse Lint, who dat ar gemman on de top deck all by his own 'lone se'f?' My young marster 'low, 'Hit 's Mr. Barksdale.' De young 'oman moan en cry out, 'Oh, it can't be!'
"But I des drove dat ar canoe 'long, en bimeby we wuz right at de hine een', en my young marster sot in ter holler at dat ar Mr. Barksdale. But look like he can't make 'm hear, de folks on de een' wuz makin' sech a racket, en de fier wuz ro'in so. I say, 'Wait, Marse Lint,' en den I back de canoe out in de light, en fetched one er dem ol'-time corn-shuckin' whoops. Dis make de man look down. I holler, 'Here yo' daughter waitin' for you! Climb down—climb down!'
"Well, suh, he sorter rub his han' 'cross his eyes, en den de young 'oman fetched a squall en called 'im by name. Wid dat, he stoop down en pick up my young marster's coat en den he clomb down des ez cool ez a cowcumber. 'T wa'n't long atter dat 'fo' we made a landin'. You may n't b'lieve it, suh, but folks in gettin' off dat burnin' boat, what wid der crowdin' en der pushin', would drown deyse'f in water dat wa n't up ter der chin ef dey'd a stood up. It's de Lord's trufe. Not one here en dar, suh, but a whole drove un um.
"De folks in de neighborhood seed de light en know'd purty much what de matter wuz, en 't wa'n't long 'fo' here dey come wid der buggies, en der carryalls, en der waggins, en by sunup me an' my young marster, en de young 'oman en her daddy, wuz all doin' mighty well at a house not mo'n two mile fum de river. Leas'ways, I know I wuz doin' mighty well, suh, kaze I wuz drinkin' hot coffee en eatin hot biscuits in de kitchen, en I speck de yuthers wuz doin' de same in de house. En what better kin you ax dan dat?
"Atter dinner, whiles I wuz settin' out on de hoss-block sunnin' myse'f—kaze de sun feel mighty good, suh, when you done got yo' fill er vittles—I wuz settin' dar, I wuz, kinder huv'rin' 'twix' sleep en slumber, when I hear my young marster talkin'. I open my eyes,' en dar wuz him en Mr. Barksdale comin' down fum de house. Dey stop not so mighty fur fum whar I wuz, en talk mighty sollum. Bimeby Mr. Barksdale beckon to me. He 'low—
"'Come' yer, boy. You wuz de onliest one what hear what I say ter yo' young marster las' night, en I want you ter hear what I say now, en dat 's dis: I 'm ready ter git on my knees, en 'polergize on account er de insults what passed.'
"I say: 'Yasser, I know'd sump'n n'er had ter be done 'bout dat, kaze my white folks ain't got no stomach fer dat kind er talk, let it come fum who it shill en whence it mought.'
"He look at me right hard, en den he laugh, en 'low: 'Shake han's wid me. Nigger ez you is, you er better dan one half de white folks dat I'm 'quainted wid'.'
"Well, suh, you wuz 'roun' here when my young marster come back wid my young mistiss? Dat wuz de upshot un it. We went home wid Marse Barksdale, en when we come 'way fum dar, Marse Lint brung wid 'im de gal what he pick up in de river.
"Dey ain't but one thing 'bout my young marster dat I can't onkivver en onravel. What in de name er goodness de reason dat he can't stay right here whar he born'd at, stidder gwine out dar in Massysip er Loueeziany, er wharsomever hit is? Dat what I want ter know."
When I last saw him, Uncle Primus was sitting on a log, evidently still trying to solve that problem.