“We don’t take in travellers,” was again his answer.
The sick man stated his special claims to kindness, and the planter good-naturedly inquired the particulars, asked how far he had ridden, where he got his horse and his dog, whither he was bound, and so on (did not ask where he was born or what were his politics). The traveller again stated that he was ill, unable to ride further, and begged permission to remain for the night under the planter’s roof, and again the planter carelessly replied that they didn’t take in travellers; anon, asked how crops were looking further west, and talked of guano, the war news, and the prospect for peaches. It became dusk while the traveller lingered, and the negroes came in with their hoes over their shoulders from the fields across the road, but the planter continued chatting and smoking, not even offering the traveller a cigar, till at length the latter said, “If you really cannot keep me to-night, I must go on, sir; I cannot keep my horse much longer, I fear.”
“It is not far to the next house.”
“But I have already called at three houses to-night, sir.”
“Well, you see, since the railroad was done, people here don’t reckon to take in travellers as they once did. So few come along they don’t find their account in being ready for them.”
The traveller asked for a drink of water, which a negro brought in a calabash, bade good night to the planter, and rode on through the woods. Night presently set in; the road crossed a swamp and was difficult to follow, and for more than an hour he rode on—seeing no house—without stopping. Then crossing water, he deliberated whether he should not bivouac for the night where he was. He had with him a few biscuits and some dried figs. He had not eaten hitherto, hoping constantly to come to a habitation where it might happen he could get a cup of tea, of which he felt more particularly in need. He stopped, took some nourishment, the first he had tasted in fifteen hours, and taking also a little brandy, gained strength and courage to continue his journey. A bright light soon cheered him, and after a time he made his way to a large white house, in the rear of which was an old negro woman stirring the contents of a caldron which stood over the fire, by which he had been guided. The old woman had the appearance of a house servant, and he requested her to ask her master if he would favour him with lodging for the night.
“Her master did not take in travellers,” she said, “besides, he was gone to bed;” and she stirred on, hardly looking at the traveller till he put his hand in his pocket, and, holding forth silver, said—
“Now, aunty, mind what I tell you. Do you go in to your master, and say to him, ‘There is a gentleman outside who says he is sick, and that his horse is tired and has had nothing to eat to-day; that he is a stranger and has been benighted, don’t know the roads, is not well enough to ride further, and wants to know if you won’t be so kind as to let him stay here to-night.’”
“Yes, massa, I’ll tell him; ’twon’t do no good, though, and he’ll be almighty cross.”
She went in, returned after a few minutes, seized her paddle, and began stirring before she uttered the words—