Chapter X: The Island Plantation

On the subject of the Bradley plantation--suggested no doubt by its proximity--my skiffman became communicative; and, during the long pull up-stream made me acquainted with some facts relating to the place, and its proprietor, that were, to say the least, a little curious.

Mr. Bradley's clearing was upon a large island, formed by a "shute" of the river on one side, and by an old channel, which the stream had long since abandoned. There was nothing singular about this. I had become already aware that there are several plantations so situated on the South-western rivers--where the house can only be reached by a ferry-boat, kept to communicate with the mainland.

For hundreds of miles on both banks of the river--more especially on the right--the bottom lands are scarred and seamed by a labyrinthine network of creeks, bayous, and lagoons, all old channels of the river, which the current in its caprice has long since forsaken, leaving them in deep, dark stagnation, or only moving sluggishly to and fro, during the season of floods.

On one of the tracts of land so insulated Mr. Bradley had "located," and there was nothing strange in it. What did seem strange to my informant was that "Mass' Bradley had come dar wif only two or t'ree darky at fuss; an' now he had amoss as many niggas as de old Squire Woodley in Tennessee; an' all dat in less'n no time. He was always a-buyin' new hands from de nigga dealers dat fetch 'em from up de country, tho' he nebba bo't any jess about dar. He bo't de wuss kind o' cusses, 's nobody else ked manage. _He_ manage 'em, _he_ do, dat same bossy Bradley. He nebba 'low'd one o' 'em to go off dat 'ere plantashun, cep'in' when he hab bizness; an' if dey 'teal off to any odder house, which dey sometime do by swimin' crosst de bayou in de night, den dey cotch it. Not offen dey try; dar's no odder place nearer dan Mass' Woodley's, an' dat's ten mile by de ribba, an' most twenty through de bottom! If dey ebba come dar, don't he fotch dem back, an' don't he larrup 'em! Gollys! he do make de darky squrm! He got an obaseeah who flog wuss dan de bery debbil hisself. Whugh!"

From what I had myself seen, I could believe all this of Nathaniel Bradley; and some other things equally to his discredit, of which the black skiffman forthwith informed me.

But I wanted to know of something that interested me much more--the relations that existed between this insulated cotton-planter and Jake's own master. I had learnt enough to know that they were intimate. I wished also to know why.

I knew enough of Mississippi planter society to know that character had little to do with social standing. The "chivalry" that had settled down on the late Choctaw lands was far from being without reproach. With it, riches, and a ready use of the revolver, were often the chief titles to respect; and Nat Bradley, bully as he was, would be just the man to "shine" in the society of Vicksburg and its environs--a town which only a few years before had actually been taken possession of by a score of ruffian "sportsmen." They had for weeks held carnival in its streets, insulting every citizen who dared to gainsay them.

It is true these "sportsmen" were in the end punished; but the old leaven still stayed; and at the time I write of, was almost rife as ever. What I had heard of Bradley, both in Tennessee and since, made him by no means an exceptional character--only a type of the Mississippian of that time.

It was the character of Henry Woodley that caused me to feel surprise at the association; for the latter so far from being of the bully class was altogether the opposite. Though living a life that might be almost termed rough, and associating in the chase with rough men, he was of a refined and sensitive nature--I might almost say timid. Keen hunter as he was, it may seem a contradiction; but such was in reality the fact.

Why should such a man find congeniality in the company of Nat Bradley?

To talk of my host and his affairs was a delicate subject, especially with his own slave. I should have avoided it, but for the interest I had begun to feel in one nearly related to him.

Thinking of her, I could not restrain myself, from that indirect questioning that might give me satisfaction.

"This Mr. Bradley don't appear to be much of a favorite of yours, Jake?"

"Nor nob'dy ess's, massa. All our darky hate um like de pisen-snake."

"Your white folks, though? They don't hate him?"

"Doan' know, massa. Not so shoo 'bout dat."

"For instance, your own master. He's a great friend of Mr. Bradley--is he not?"

"Ah, young Mass' Henry. He fr'en's wif ebberybody. He no kill a dam 'skeeter, ef it bite um on de nose; though he do like kill de b'ar, an' de painter, an' dem odder big varmint. Daat's diff'rent. Den he 'cited by de chase an' barkin' ob de dogs. Whugh! Don't he go changed when he hear de gowl o' de hown's? He arn't like de same indiwiddle."

"I know he's very fond of hunting, and hunters too; but Mr. Bradley never hunts, and your master appears very fond of _him_?"

"Maybe he am--maybe he ain't."

After making this ambiguous rejoinder, Jake leant industriously to his oars, and for some time remained silent.

Feeling perfectly satisfied that no son of Africa could terminate a dialogue, with such an unsatisfactory conclusion, I waited for him to resume speech.

I had not long to wait. Scarce a dozen strokes of the oar.

"Dar may be a reason, sar, why Mass' Henry show fr'en'ship you 'peak 'bout. Dar am many kewrious thing down hyar in de Massissippy State; an' maybe dat 'ere am one ob dem."

"Ah! you think the friendship is not real? There is something--"

"Behin' de bush. Dat dere is fo' sartin; an' dis nigger know it."

"Some influence, perhaps?"

"Yes, mass' 'tranger. Dar am inflooence."

"Of what kind?"

My heart beat quickly as I asked the question--audibly as I listened for the answer. I expected to hear something of Miss Woodley.

"Wal, massa," replied the skiffman, after a short while, apparently spent in cogitation, "I know you Mass' Henry's fr'end, an' doan' know why I shouldn't tell you all 'bout de bizness 'tween youn' Mass' Henry an' Boss Bradley."

"I _am_ your master's friend," I said, to encourage him. "You may trust me, Jake."

"Wal, sar, it war jess dis: one day dey war out in de woods, on a big deer-drive. Dar war Mass' Henry hisself, an' Mass' Bradley--dat war de only day I ebba know _him_ go huntin'--an dar war sebberal odder ob de planters 'bout hya, all huntin' togedder. De drive war oba, an dey'd all sot down to take a spell ob ress, an' eat de vittle dat de niggas hed brought in de wag'n. Den dey got to playin' cards, an' I's b'lieve it war de Boss Bradley dat fuss proposed dem. You know Mass' Henry nebber play, on de cards--dat am, he nebber play fo' money. But dey'd all been a-drinkin'--de hunters an' de planters--an' dar war mint-julep, an' claret sangaree, an' dat 'ere stuff like ginga-beer dey caa sham-pain. So dey all set too to de card-playin', Mass' Henry among de ress. Dey played poker, an' dey played a French game dey caa yuka, an' staked, golly! dey staked as high as a hundred dollar apiece! Ob coas' Mass' Henry knowin' jess nex to nuffin' 'bout de game--he war boun' to lose. Whugh! he did lose. Two thousan' dollars--ebbery red cent! an' who d'ye s'pose he lose 'em to?"

"Who?"

"Why, dat same Bossy Bradley. Ob coas' Mass' Henry hadn't no money on de groun', for who's agwine to be a-toatin' two thousan' dollars 'bout 'im? So he guv de planter Bradley his writin' fo' de amount--which dem call a purmissory note. Wal, dat 'ere note arn't been paid yet; an' it's de no-payment ob it dat make Mass' Henry 'pear sech fr'en's wi' mass' planter Bradley. Now, sar, ye's got de explication ob de whole sarcumstance."

"I hope it is the true one."

"What, massa! Why for you hope dat? You say you Mass' Henry fr'en'? Sure you no wish 'im two thousan' dollar debt to Bossy Bradley?"

It was not strange the negro should express surprise at my speech. I had answered mechanically, and without thought of the interpretation he might put upon it--thinking only of myself, and the relief his explanation had caused me.

It was now my turn to explain. I could not leave Jake in the belief that I was gratified to hear of his master's indebtedness.

"No, no!" I responded, endeavoring to explain away what I had said. "I merely meant that I hoped it was no worse. Two thousand dollars is not much--for a rich planter to pay."

"Lor', massa! It am a big heap, two thousan' dollar! Great big heap fo' young Mass' Henry. He nebba pay dat hisseff, till de ole squire die, an' leab um some ob dat 'ere plantashun in Tennessee. He no make money hyar like Bossy Bradley. Ah, Mass' Henry 'pend more'n he make. Dat dis chile am sure ob. Cuss dem cards, anyhow! Dey's de ruin ob ebberybody dat teches um, 'ceptin' de gammelin' sportsmen themselves. T'ank de Lor'! I hear Mass' Henry sw'a he nebba tech dem no more. Dat's one bit o' sattafacshun, it is."

Notwithstanding that I feared being thought too inquisitive, the intelligence displayed by my sable companion tempted me to inquire further.

"Does Mr. Bradley often visit your master?"

"Well, sar, dat depend--"

"On what?"

"On de seezun ob de y'ar."

"On the season of the year! You mean he comes at one time more than another?"

"Yes, sar; jess so."

Jake had ceased to be communicative, and required drawing.

"I suppose there are times when business requires him to be at your master's plantation?"

"Wal, ye see, dar's de summer seezun, he doan' come much den. I b'lieve him been only twice dis summer, an' de once you see um you'seff, sar. An dar's de winter seezun. Den Mass' Bradley go good deal down to de grand city--Orleans. So de folks say."

"That would leave him no time to visit your master's plantation."

"Ah, he find time fo' dat."

"But when?"

"Wal, sar, I tell _you_ when; when mass'r's sister--Miss Corneel--come down to 'tay on de plantashun. Dat am de troof."

More than half prepared for the communication, it did not come with such a surprise. To conceal my thoughts from him who had made it, I said, with an air of carelessness--which cost me an effort:

"Perhaps he is Miss Woodley's sweetheart?"

"May be so, sar; may be so."

Though Jake's answer was not conclusive, I forbore to question him further. I had started a subject that was causing me pain; and further disclosures could only increase it.

After all, what was Miss Woodley to me? The interest I felt in her--was it more than friendship? Why should I interfere in an affair that did not concern me? Cornelia Woodley was no child; but an accomplished lady of several seasons' experience. If she chose to throw herself away upon this worthless man, why should I care? And if I did, what could I do to prevent it? Both she and her brother were strangers to me. I had no right to give counsel; nor would they be likely to accept it.

My best way would be to avoid even the desire for interference; and to do this I _must_ forsake the society into which chance had accidentally thrown me. It was only to take horse, and continue my travels. It would be a complete change of programme; but the circumstances required it. The prospect of seeing Miss Woodley again, so pleasant on leaving Tennessee, I could now only contemplate with pain. The promise I had made could be easily broken. She would scarce care for my keeping it.

From these gloomy reflections I was startled by the voice of the skiffman.

"Talk ob de debbil," said he, "an' dat genlum shoo to be clost by. Dis time, howeber, we wa' talkin' ob de angel."

"An angel! What do you mean, Jake?"

"Look yonda, sar! What you see yonda?"

"I see a steamboat."

"Ya--jess so. An' in dat 'teamboat dar am a angel! Sartin shoo dar am."

"I don't understand you."

"Golly, mass'r! Doan' ye see dat de boat go stop at Mass' Woodley landin'?"

"Yes; I see that."

"Wal, what she go dar for but put some'dy 'shore. She take no freight from dar, kase we hab none to gub her. We make no cotton, nor no corn to spare from de plantashun. Shoo, den, she land some passager; an' sartin shoo dat passager am de young missa come down from ole Tennessee. Tole ye so, sar. Look! de boat shove off 'gin, an' you see 't am de Cherokee, one ob dem Cumberlan' boats dat run up to Nashville."

About the boat he was right. In ten minutes after she came booming past, almost swamping our eggshell of a skiff. I read upon her side the lettering "Cherokee."

I could not help looking with interest upon that splendid craft in whose gilded saloon had lately sat the woman then occupying my thoughts. But it was an interest clouded with apprehension.

* * * * *

On reaching Henry Woodley's house, I learned that his sister had arrived by the Cherokee, and Nat Bradley _along with her_!