“You see, mahster, thar a’n’t no chance fo’ people o’ my color in the country I come from.”
“Where is that?”
“Dinwiddie County.”
“You have walked all the way from Dinwiddie County?” “Yes, mahster; I’se walked over fo’ty mile. But I don’t mind that.”
“You’re very old, uncle.”
“Yes, I’ve a right good age, mahster. It’s hard fo’ a man o’ my years to be turned out of his home. I don’t know what I shall do; but I reckon the Lord will take keer of me.”
The tone of patience and cheerfulness in which he spoke was very touching. I leaned on the bridge beside him, and drew out from him by degrees his story. His late master refused to give wages to the freedmen on his lands, and the result was that all the able-bodied men and women left him. Enraged at this, he had sworn that the rest should go too, and had accordingly driven off the aged and the sick, this old man among them.
“He said he’d no use fo’ old wore-out niggers. I knowed I was old and wore-out, but I growed so in his service. I served him and his father befo’e nigh on to sixty year; and he never give me a dollar. He’s had my life, and now I’m old and wore-out I must leave. It’s right hard, mahster!”
“Not all the planters in your county are like him, I hope?”
“Some of ’em is very good to their people, I believe. But none of ’em is will’n’ to pay wages a man can live by. Them that pays at all, offers only five dollars a month, and we must pay fo’ ou’ own clothes and doctor’s bills, and suppo’t ou’ families.’