“What! then you are an abolitionist yourself?”
“No, sir. I'm a Southern-born man, raised in Charleston, where my father was raised before me.”
“So much, so good; but just turn that d—d scoundrel ashore as quick as seventy, or we'll tie your vessel up and report you to the Executive Committee, and stop your getting on more freight on the Edisto.”
“That I shall not do. You should have patience to investigate these things, and not allow your feelings to become so excited. If I turn him and his son adrift, I'm answerable for their lives if any accident should occur to them,” rejoined the captain.
“Are you a secessionist, captain, or what are your political principles? You seem determined to protect abolitionists. That scoundrel has been associating with a nigger, and eating at his house ever since he has been here.”
“Yes, yes, and we'll be d—d if he isn't an abolitionist,” joined in a dozen voices, “for he dined at Bill Webster's last Sunday on a wild-turkey. Nobody but an infernal abolitionist would dine with a nigger.”
“As for politics, I never had much to do with them, and care as little about secession as I do about theology; but I like to see men act reasonably. If you want any thing more of me, you will find me at Colonel Whaley's plantation to-morrow.” Thus saying, he stepped into his boat and returned on board of his vessel. Just as he was getting under-weigh again, whiz! whiz! whiz! came three shots, one in quick succession after the other, the last taking effect and piercing the crown of his hat, at which they retired out of sight. Fearing a return, he worked his vessel about two miles farther up and came to anchor on the other side of the channel, where he waited the return of the tide, and had an opportunity to put his affrighted passengers on board a schooner that was passing down, bound to Charleston.
The secret of such an outrage is told in a few words. The man was a timber-getter from the vicinity of New Bedford, Massachusetts, who, with his son, a lad about sixteen years of age, had spent several winters in the vicinity of the Edisto, getting live-oak, what he considered a laudable enterprise. He purchased the timber on the stump of the inhabitants, at a price which left him very little profit, and had also been charged an exorbitant price for every thing he got, whether labor or provisions; and so far had that feeling of South Carolina's self-sufficiency been carried out against him in all its cold repulsiveness, that he found much more honesty and true hospitality under the roof of a poor colored man. This so enraged some of the planters, that they proclaimed against him, and that mad-dog cry of abolitionist was raised against him. His horse and buggy, books and papers were packed up and sent to Charleston-not, however, without some of the most important of the latter being lost. His business was destroyed, and he and his child taken by force, put into a little canoe with one or two carpet-bags, and sent adrift. In this manner they had followed him two miles down the river, he begging to be allowed the privilege of settling his business and leave respectably-they threatening to shoot him if he attempted to near the shore, or was caught in the vicinity. This was his position when the captain found him. He proceeded to Charleston, and laid his case before James L. Petigru, Esq., United States District Attorney, and, upon his advice, returned to the scene of “war on the banks of the Edisto,” to arrange his business; but no sooner had he made his appearance than he was thrown into prison, and there remained when we last heard of him.
This is one of the many cases which afford matter for exciting comment for the editors of the Charleston Mercury and the Courier, and which reflect no honor on a people who thus set law and order at defiance.