“Don’t you want to go back to St. John?”
“Yankees fotch me here,” repeated the old man, “and I won’t go back widout de Yankees send me back.”
We inquired about his family and his prospects.
“My chil’n ’s out in soldiering. I made corn, peas, and potatoes, I got enough to carry me out de year. I had to bought my own clo’es, besides. Gov’ment don’t help me none.”
He had his forty-acre lot, and would not peril his claim to it by talking about a contract.
In one cabin we found a very old negro lying on the floor, miserably sick with the dropsy. He had been “a faithful old family servant,” as the phrase is; and was accounted a wise head by the planters. When asked if he thought the freedmen could be prevailed upon to contract, he replied:
“What little we do will be sarvice to we-self. We don’t want to work for rest,”—meaning the planters.
Speaking of himself, he said:
“My time is all burnt out.” He said there was a heap of idlers on the island. “Dey’m on a full spree now. Dey got a sort of frolic in de brains.” There had been considerable destitution even among the industrious ones the past year; but many of them had made fair crops, and had corn sufficient to keep them till another harvest. “Dey’m more situated better now.” The small-pox had raged on the island, and “a sight of our people had died.”
We lingered at these cabins, waiting for a guard the officer at head-quarters thought it prudent to send with us. At last he arrived,—a shining black youngster in soldier-clothes, overflowing with vanity and politeness. “I’m waiting on your occupation, gentlemen,” he said; and we started on.