Chapter V: Plantation Life

There are not many chapters in my life's experience that I can look back upon with more satisfaction than that which records my stay upon a Tennessee cotton plantation. With me it has ever been a pleasure to study the ways and sources of production, more especially those relating to the great staples, that not only interest, but influence the conduct of mankind. And perhaps none to a greater extent than that which, when fabricated, forms one of the most important items of our clothing--the plant _Gossypium_, lately relied upon to control a great national revolution.

I was shown its glaucous wool-covered seeds, the mode of sowing it, the way by which its young shoots were kept clear of weeds--the plant as it appeared in its snow-white flower, and afterward, when the bursting capsule displays the equally white staple, giving still greater delight to the planter's eye--then the gathering, the "picking" of those seeds, so tenacious as to require the machinery of the "gin;" and, lastly, the packing and "pressing" of the bales, which makes them ready for the dray, the flat, the steamboat, or the ship--ready for transport to the remotest parts of the earth.

All this I learnt from Walter Woodley, his fair sister supervising the lesson.

I remember it well, though it would be more a wonder if I had forgotten it.

Far was I from thinking it tedious. I could have undergone it twice over; stayed to study its details for a second season, and another crop; but, chance guest that I was, I could no longer intrude even upon Tennesseean hospitality, and I prepared to take my departure.

I had spent ten days on the plantation; and, although in the retrospect I see only sunshine, I can also remember that at the time there was just the suspicion of a shadow.

In the happy house of Squire Woodley, no stranger would have looked for a "skeleton;" and yet I suspected that there was one. It was only a suspicion, but strong enough to give me pain.

I had not forgotten Nat Bradley, or the free and easy fashion in which he had talked of the affairs of the family. I had not forgotten the confident tone in which he had alluded to "Corneel."

Several times during my stay, the name of this gentleman had come up in conversation. With regard to the hostility which his father entertained for him, Walter had spoken the truth. There could be no mistaking that, to judge from the terms the old gentleman employed when speaking of the "scoundrel," as he plainly called Bradley; and it was clear to me that the squire knew something to Nat Bradley's discredit--more than he thought prudent to communicate to the younger members of his family.

Neither of these took any pains to defend their old school fellow; for in childhood's days, according to backwoods custom, he had been the school companion of both. Neither ever attempted to speak a word in his favor. Walter even indorsed the sentiments of his father, while Miss Woodley was silent; but once or twice I fancied I could perceive in that silence some trace of embarrassment, and a desire on her part to escape from discussing the question. Could it be that there was some untold and secret history between this beautiful girl and that bold blackguard, Bradley? The thought pained me as a stranger--it pained me still more as my acquaintance with Miss Woodley assumed the familiarity of friendship.

True, it was only my own imagining; but this was strengthened by an incident that occurred previous to my leaving the plantation, and which in my mind had a sinister signification.

I had been several times down to the creek where the flat-boat was being built--that craft that was to carry the cotton crop more than a thousand miles to market. I could not help taking an interest in this native specimen of naval architecture--a sort of Noah's ark of the Western waters. It was being constructed under the superintendence of a white man, a flat-boat builder by profession.

This person--whose name I had ascertained to be Bill Black--was assisted by a second individual, a white man like himself, who was a regular "Mississippi boatman."

The other "builders" were all black, the carpenters and common hands of the plantation, some of whom were afterward to act as "hands," in the navigation of the craft.

I had taken considerable interest in this ark's construction, though the Tennessee Noah, Mr. Bill Black, seemed anything but inclined to initiate me into the mysteries of his ship-yard. Several times that I had visited it alone, he had treated me with scant civility; and I had set him down as a morose brute. His acolyte, Stinger, was equally uncivil.

The demeanor of these men would have given me a very low opinion of what are called the "white trash" of Tennessee, but I learnt incidentally that neither belonged to the place.

They were, in fact, "boatmen," whose home was here to-day, there to-morrow--wherever a chance of employment might turn up.

One evening Walter Woodley was absent when wanted by his sister for some purpose that required his presence upon the premises. Several messengers had been sent forth to find him.

Fancying he might be down at the creek, where the flat-builders were employed, and having nothing better to do, I sauntered in that direction to summon him. The place was half a mile from the house, and on the land formerly possessed by the Bradleys.

On reaching it, I found no one in the "ship-yard." It was after sunset, and the workmen, both white and black, were gone away for the night. I could see their tools stored in the shed.

As I had come on the wrong track to find the missing man, there was no reason for my hurrying home.

"He has got there by this time," was my reflection; and lighting a cigar, I strolled slowly back toward the house.

I had not gone far before discovering that speed would have been impossible had I wished making it. The path for the most part ran through a tract of woodland--huge trees thickly set--the heavy bottom timber of the creek. The twilight I had left behind me in the cleared space about the boat-yard, was no longer visible. Under the trees it was dark as the inside of a cave, only a little illuminated by the phosphorescent coruscation of the fire-flies, or "lightning-bugs," as the Tennesseeans term them.

Instead of guiding me, these animated torches, with their fitful, unsteady sparkle, only rendered the track more deceptive, and I was compelled to proceed with circumspection, now groping my way among the tree-trunks, and now stooping to make sure of the path, by the glow of my cigar.