A few evenings after this conversation between Robert and Linda, a prayer-meeting was held. Under the cover of night a few dusky figures met by stealth in McCullough’s woods.

“Howdy,” said Robert, approaching Uncle Daniel, the leader of the prayer-meeting, who had preceded him but a few minutes.

“Thanks and praise; I’se all right. How is you, chile?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” said Robert, smiling, and grasping Uncle Daniel’s hand.

“What’s de news?” exclaimed several, as they turned their faces eagerly towards Robert.

“I hear,” said Robert, “that they are done sending the runaways back to their masters.”

“Is dat so?” said a half dozen earnest voices. “How did you yere it?”

“I read it in the papers. And Tom told me he heard them talking about it last night, at his house. How did you hear it, Tom? Come, tell us all about it.”

Tom Anderson hesitated a moment, and then said:—

“Now, boys, I’ll tell you all ’bout it. But you’s got to be mighty mum ’bout it. It won’t do to let de cat outer de bag.”

“Dat’s so! But tell us wat you yered. We ain’t gwine to say nuffin to nobody.”

“Well,” said Tom, “las’ night ole Marster had company. Two big ginerals, and dey was hoppin’ mad. One ob dem looked like a turkey gobbler, his face war so red. An’ he sed one ob dem Yankee ginerals, I thinks dey called him Beas’ Butler, sed dat de slaves dat runned away war some big name—I don’t know what he called it. But it meant dat all ob we who com’d to de Yankees should be free.”

“Contraband of war,” said Robert, who enjoyed the distinction of being a good reader, and was pretty well posted about the war. Mrs. Johnson had taught him to read on the same principle she would have taught a pet animal amusing tricks. She had never imagined the time would come when he would use the machinery she had put in his hands to help overthrow the institution to which she was so ardently attached.

“What does it mean? Is it somethin’ good for us?”

“I think,” said Robert, a little vain of his superior knowledge, “it is the best kind of good. It means if two armies are fighting and the horses of one run away, the other has a right to take them. And it is just the same if a slave runs away from the Secesh to the Union lines. He is called a contraband, just the same as if he were an ox or a horse. They wouldn’t send the horses back, and they won’t send us back.”

“Is dat so?” said Uncle Daniel, a dear old father, with a look of saintly patience on his face. “Well, chillen, what do you mean to do?”

“Go, jis’ as soon as we kin git to de army,” said Tom Anderson.

“What else did the generals say? And how did you come to hear them, Tom?” asked Robert Johnson.

“Well, yer see, Marster’s too ole and feeble to go to de war, but his heart’s in it. An’ it makes him feel good all ober when dem big ginerals comes an’ tells him all ’bout it. Well, I war laying out on de porch fas’ asleep an’ snorin’ drefful hard. Oh, I war so soun’ asleep dat wen Marster wanted some ice-water he had to shake me drefful hard to wake me up. An’ all de time I war wide ’wake as he war.”

“What did they say?” asked Robert, who was always on the lookout for news from the battlefield.

“One ob dem said, dem Yankees war talkin’ of puttin’ guns in our han’s and settin’ us all free. An’ de oder said, ‘Oh, sho! ef dey puts guns in dere hands dey’ll soon be in our’n; and ef dey sets em free dey wouldn’t know how to take keer ob demselves.’ ”

“Only let ’em try it,” chorused a half dozen voices, “an’ dey’ll soon see who’ll git de bes’ ob de guns; an’ as to taking keer ob ourselves, I specs we kin take keer ob ourselves as well as take keer ob dem.”

“Yes,” said Tom, “who plants de cotton and raises all de crops?”

“ ‘They eat the meat and give us the bones,
Eat the cherries and give us the stones,’

“And I’m getting tired of the whole business,” said Robert.

“But, Bob,” said Uncle Daniel, “you’ve got a good owner. You don’t hab to run away from bad times and wuss a comin’.”

“It isn’t so good, but it might be better. I ain’t got nothing ’gainst my ole Miss, except she sold my mother from me. And a boy ain’t nothin’ without his mother. I forgive her, but I never forget her, and never expect to. But if she were the best woman on earth I would rather have my freedom than belong to her. Well, boys, here’s a chance for us just as soon as the Union army gets in sight. What will you do?”

“I’se a goin,” said Tom Anderson, “jis’ as soon as dem Linkum soldiers gits in sight.”

“An’ I’se a gwine wid you, Tom,” said another. “I specs my ole Marster’ll feel right smart lonesome when I’se gone, but I don’t keer ’bout stayin’ for company’s sake.”

“My ole Marster’s room’s a heap better’n his company,” said Tom Anderson, “an’ I’se a goner too. Dis yer freedom’s too good to be lef’ behind, wen you’s got a chance to git it. I won’t stop to bid ole Marse goodbye.”

“What do you think,” said Robert, turning to Uncle Daniel; “won’t you go with us?”

“No, chillen, I don’t blame you for gwine; but I’se gwine to stay. Slavery’s done got all de marrow out ob dese poor ole bones. Ef freedom comes it won’t do me much good; we ole one’s will die out, but it will set you youngsters all up.”

“But, Uncle Daniel, you’re not too old to want your freedom?”

“I knows dat. I lubs de bery name of freedom. I’se been praying and hoping for it dese many years. An’ ef I warn’t boun’, I would go wid you ter-morrer. I won’t put a straw in your way. You boys go, and my prayers will go wid you. I can’t go, it’s no use. I’se gwine to stay on de ole place till Marse Robert comes back, or is brought back.”

“But, Uncle Daniel,” said Robert, “what’s the use of praying for a thing if, when it comes, you won’t take it? As much as you have been praying and talking about freedom, I thought that when the chance came you would have been one of the first to take it. Now, do tell us why you won’t go with us. Ain’t you willing?”

“Why, Robbie, my whole heart is wid you. But when Marse Robert went to de war, he called me into his room and said to me, ‘Uncle Dan’el, I’se gwine to de war, an’ I want you to look arter my wife an’ chillen, an’ see dat eberything goes right on de place’. An’ I promised him I’d do it, an’ I mus’ be as good as my word. ’Cept de overseer, dere isn’t a white man on de plantation, an’ I hear he has to report ter-morrer or be treated as a deserter. An’ der’s nobody here to look arter Miss Mary an’ de chillen, but myself, an’ to see dat eberything goes right. I promised Marse Robert I would do it, an’ I mus’ be as good as my word.”

“Well, what should you keer?” said Tom Anderson. “Who looked arter you when you war sole from your farder and mudder, an’ neber seed dem any more, and wouldn’t know dem today ef you met dem in your dish?”

“Well, dats neither yere nor dere. Marse Robert couldn’t help what his father did. He war an orful mean man. But he’s dead now, and gone to see ’bout it. But his wife war the nicest, sweetest lady dat eber I did see. She war no more like him dan chalk’s like cheese. She used to visit de cabins, an’ listen to de pore women when de overseer used to cruelize dem so bad, an’ drive dem to work late and early. An’ she used to sen’ dem nice things when they war sick, and hab der cabins whitewashed an’ lookin’ like new pins, an’ look arter dere chillen. Sometimes she’d try to git ole Marse to take dere part when de oberseer got too mean. But she might as well a sung hymns to a dead horse. All her putty talk war like porin water on a goose’s back. He’d jis’ bluff her off, an’ tell her she didn’t run dat plantation, and not for her to bring him any nigger news. I never thought ole Marster war good to her. I often ketched her crying, an’ she’d say she had de headache, but I thought it war de heartache. ’Fore ole Marster died, she got so thin an’ peaked I war ’fraid she war gwine to die; but she seed him out. He war killed by a tree fallin’ on him, an’ ef eber de debil got his own he got him. I seed him in a vision arter he war gone. He war hangin’ up in a pit, sayin’ ‘Oh! oh!’ wid no close on. He war allers blusterin’, cussin’, and swearin’ at somebody. Marse Robert ain’t a bit like him. He takes right arter his mother. Bad as ole Marster war, I think she jis’ lob’d de groun’ he walked on. Well, women’s mighty curious kind of folks anyhow. I sometimes thinks de wuss you treats dem de better dey likes you.”

“Well,” said Tom, a little impatiently, “what’s yer gwine to do? Is yer gwine wid us, ef yer gits a chance?”

“Now, jes’ you hole on till I gits a chance to tell yer why I’se gwine to stay.”

“Well, Uncle Daniel, let’s hear it,” said Robert.

“I was jes’ gwine to tell yer when Tom put me out. Ole Marster died when Marse Robert war two years ole, and his pore mother when he war four. When he died, Miss Anna used to keep me ’bout her jes’ like I war her shadder. I used to nuss Marse Robert jes’ de same as ef I were his own fadder. I used to fix his milk, rock him to sleep, ride him on my back, an’ nothin’ pleased him better’n fer Uncle Dan’el to ride him piggyback.”

“Well, Uncle Daniel,” said Robert, “what has that got to do with your going with us and getting your freedom?”

“Now, jes’ wait a bit, and don’t frustrate my mine. I seed day arter day Miss Anna war gettin’ weaker and thinner, an’ she looked so sweet and talked so putty, I thinks to myself, ‘you ain’t long for dis worl’.’ And she said to me one day, ‘Uncle Dan’el, when I’se gone, I want you to be good to your Marster Robert.’ An’ she looked so pale and weak I war almost ready to cry. I couldn’t help it. She hed allers bin mighty good to me. An’ I beliebs in praisin’ de bridge dat carries me ober. She said, ‘Uncle Dan’el, I wish you war free. Ef I had my way you shouldn’t serve anyone when I’m gone; but Mr. Thurston had eberything in his power when he made his will. I war tied hand and foot, and I couldn’t help it.’ In a little while she war gone—jis’ faded away like a flower. I belieb ef dere’s a saint in glory, Miss Anna’s dere.”

“Oh, I don’t take much stock in white folks’ religion,” said Robert, laughing carelessly.

“The way,” said Tom Anderson, “dat some of dese folks cut their cards yere, I think dey’ll be as sceece in hebben as hen’s teeth. I think wen some of dem preachers brings de Bible ’round an’ tells us ’bout mindin our marsters and not stealin’ dere tings, dat dey preach to please de white folks, an’ dey frows coleness ober de meetin’.”

“An’ I,” said Aunt Linda, “neber did belieb in dem Bible preachers. I yered one ob dem sayin’ wen he war dyin’, it war all dark wid him. An’ de way he treated his house-girl, pore thing, I don’t wonder dat it war dark wid him.”

“O, I guess,” said Robert, “that the Bible is all right, but some of these church folks don’t get the right hang of it.”

“May be dat’s so,” said Aunt Linda. “But I allers wanted to learn how to read. I once had a book, and tried to make out what war in it, but ebery time my mistus caught me wid a book in my hand, she used to whip my fingers. An’ I couldn’t see ef it war good for white folks, why it warn’t good for cullud folks.”

“Well,” said Tom Anderson, “I belieb in de good ole-time religion. But arter dese white folks is done fussin’ and beatin’ de cullud folks, I don’t want ’em to come talking religion to me. We used to hab on our place a real Guinea man, an’ once he made ole Marse mad, an’ he had him whipped. Old Marse war trying to break him in, but dat fellow war spunk to de backbone, an’ when he ’gin talkin’ to him ’bout savin’ his soul an’ gittin’ to hebbin, he tole him ef he went to hebbin an’ foun’ he war dare, he wouldn’t go in. He wouldn’t stay wid any such rascal as he war.”

“What became of him?” asked Robert.

“Oh, he died. But he had some quare notions ’bout religion. He thought dat when he died he would go back to his ole country. He allers kep’ his ole Guinea name.”

“What was it?”

“Potobombra. Do you know what he wanted Marster to do ’fore he died?” continued Anderson.

“No.”

“He wanted him to gib him his free papers.”

“Did he do it?”

“Ob course he did. As de poor fellow war dying an’ he couldn’t sell him in de oder world, he jis’ wrote him de papers to yumor him. He didn’t want to go back to Africa a slave. He thought if he did, his people would look down on him, an’ he wanted to go back a free man. He war orful weak when Marster brought him de free papers. He jis’ ris up in de bed, clutched dem in his han’s, smiled, an’ gasped out, ‘I’se free at las’; an’ fell back on de pillar, an’ he war gone. Oh, but he war spunky. De oberseers, arter dey foun’ out who he war, gin’rally gabe him a wide birth. I specs his father war some ole Guinea king.”

“Well, chillen,” said Uncle Daniel, “we’s kept up dis meeting long enough. We’d better go home, and not all go one way, cause de patrollers might git us all inter trouble, an’ we must try to slip home by hook or crook.”

“An’ when we meet again, Uncle Daniel can finish his story, an’ be ready to go with us,” said Robert.

“I wish,” said Tom Anderson, “he would go wid us, de wuss kind.”