Then, in a moment, it seemed to me that I could hear some faint, monotonous singsong rising above all the rest. At first I thought it was the croaking of a monster frog, but as we plodded on and the sound grew more distinct, I knew it could not be that. At last, in sheer perplexity, I stopped and motioned Long to listen.
"Do you hear it?" I asked. "Do you know what it is?"
"Yes, I have heard it for the last ten minutes, Mr. Stewart," he answered quietly. "It is old Polete preaching to the niggers. I have often heard their so-called witch men preach. It is always in a singsong just like that."
As we drew nearer, I perceived that this was true, for I could catch the tones of the speaker's voice, and in a few minutes could distinguish his words. Some years before, when the river had been in flood, its current had been thrown against this bank by a landslide on the other side, and had washed away trees and underbrush for some distance. The underbrush had soon sprung up again, but the clearing still remained, and as we stopped in the shadow of the trees and looked across it, we saw a singular sight. Negroes to the number of at least a hundred and fifty were gathered about a pile of logs on which Polete was mounted. He was shouting in a monotone, his voice rising and falling in regular cadence, his eyes closed, his head tilted back, his face turned toward the moon, whose light silvered his hair and beard and gave a certain majesty to his appearance. His hearers were seemingly much affected, and interrupted him from time to time with shouts and groans and loud amens.
"Dis is d' promise' lan'!" cried old Polete, waving his arms above his head in a wild ecstasy. "All we hab t' do is t' raise up an' take it from ouh 'pressahs. Ef we stays hyah slaves, it's ouh own fault. Now's d' 'pinted time. D' French is ma'chin' obah d' mountings t' holp us. Dee'll drib d' English into d' sea, and wese t' hab ouh freedom,—ouh freedom an' plenty lan' t' lib on."
"Dat's it," shouted some one, "an' we gwine t' holp, suah!"
The negroes were so intent upon their speaker that they did not perceive us until we were right among them, and even then for a few minutes, as we forced our way through the mob, no one knew us.
"It's Mas' Tom!" yelled one big fellow, as my hat was knocked from my head. And, as if by instinct, they crowded back on either side, and a path was opened before us to the pile of logs where Polete stood. He gaped at us amazedly as we clambered up toward him, and I saw that he was licking his lips convulsively. A yell from the crowd greeted us as we appeared beside him,—a menacing yell, which died away into a low growling, and foretold an approaching storm.
"Now, boys," I cried, "I want you to listen to me for a minute. That is a lie about the French coming over the mountains,—every word of it. If Polete here, who, you know, is only a laborer like most of you, says he has seen them coming in a vision, why he's simply lying to you, or he doesn't know what he's talking about. There are not three hundred Frenchmen the other side of the mountains, in the first place, and it will be winter before they can get any more there. So if you fight, you will have to fight alone, and you can guess how much chance of success you have. You know the penalty for insurrection. It's death, and not an easy death, either,—death by fire! If you go ahead with this thing, no power on earth can save every one of you from the stake."
"It's a lie!" yelled Polete. "I did hab d' vision. I did see d' French a-comin'—millions o' dem—all a-ma'chin' t'rough d' forest. Dee's almost hyah. Dee want us t' holp."