“Well, I ’spose how der’s no help for it, Miss Nellie; fur ef I don’t guv um up, dem are white niggers bust open ebery singly door in the house,” said Hapzibah.
“Yes, and set it on fire afterward, and throw you in to feed the flames!” was the comforting reply.
“I ’fies ’em for to do it—white herrin’s!—who’s afeard?—’sides which, I don’t believe I’d blaze for ’em!”
“No; you’d blow up like a skin of gunpowder. But hand over the keys, and go call your brother, old Euripedes, to take charge of them and wait on the gentlemen. You’ll have to come upstairs with the ladies.”
“Me go hide ’long o’ de ladies, jes’ as ef I was feared o’ dem white niggers! Me leabe my poor, ole, innocen’ brudder ’lone, to be put upon by dem debbils! I like to see myself a doin’ of it! I’d see ole Hempseed Island sunk inter de bottom o’ de sea wid all aboard fust—dat’s me. Yer all hear me good, don’t yer?”
“They’ll certainly throw you in the fire if you talk in that way,” said Nellie, laughing, in despite of her secret fears and anxieties.
“I wouldn’t burn to save dere precious libes! I’d see ’em all blasted fust! I’d see it good! Dat’s me! But I begs yer pardon, Miss Nellie, chile! I doesn’t mean no ’fence, nor likewise no disrespect to you, honey—’deed no! But yer see de werry sight ’o one ’o dem dere b’iled crabs makes me crawl all ober—an’ de sight o’ one o’ dere scarlet-coats drives me ravin’ mad as ef I war a she-bull!—dat’s me! ’Cause yer see, chile, de werry fust time one o’ dem dere debbils put his fut on ter de islan’ he done fetch death an’ ’struction long ob him! An’ now dat debbil done gone an’ fetch forty more debbils more worse nor hisself. An’ I wish, I does, how I could bore a hole in de islan’ an’ sink it wid all aboard, I do—dat’s me. An’ now I’ll go arter my brudder You-Rip.”
“Stay a moment,” said Mrs. Houston. “You can tell us—is there much wine and liquor in the cellar?—for if those wretches are permitted to drink themselves to madness, even the word of their commanding officer is no security for their good behavior!”
“Wine an’ likker! No, thanks be to my ’Vine Marster dere ain’t a singly drap to cool dere parchy tongues, no more’n dere is in Aberyham’s buzzum! Marse Fillup done ship it all away to camp, for he an’ Marse Wrath to treat dere brudder ossifers wid, to keep dere couridge when dey goes inter battle. Wish it was me goin’! I wouldn’t ’quire no sich. ’Sides which, I’d shoot somefin harder at ’em nor grapeshot inter ’em, as dey talk so much about, which it stands to reason shootin’ grapes is nuffin but chile’s play, and can’t hurt nobody, much less dem dere hardened b’iled crabs, ’less deys ’stilled into likker an’ drank too much of, ’sides bein’ a waste o’ de fruit; which dey do say as how ‘willful waste make woeful want.’”
“My goodness alive, Happy, how you do run on. You make my head go round and round like a water-wheel. Do go now and send Euripedes to me,” said Mrs. Houston.