Cudjo's Cave

by J. T. Trowbridge

"There is a God," answered Mr. Villars, with a beaming light in his unterrified countenance, "who is not prejudiced against color; who loves equally his black and his white children; and who, by means of this war that seems so needless and so cruel, is working out the redemption, not of the misguided white masters only, but also of the slave. Whether you will or not, this war concerns the black man, and he cannot long keep out of it. Then will you side with your avowed enemies, or with those who are already fighting in your cause without knowing it?"

These words probed the deep convictions of Pomp's breast. He had from the first believed that the war meant death to slavery; although of late the persistent and almost universal cry of Union men for the "Union as it was,"—the Union with the injustice of slavery at its core,—had somewhat wearied his patience and weakened his faith.

"Here, Cudjo! help get this horse up—we can find a path for him."

Reluctantly Cudjo obeyed; and almost by main strength the two athletic blacks lifted and pulled the animal up the bank, and out of the chasm.

Penn assisted his old friend to remount, then took leave of him.

"I will be with you again soon!" he cried, hopefully, as the negroes urged the horse forward into the thickets.

Then the young Quaker, left alone, turned to look at the dead rebel. For a moment horrible nausea and faintness made him lean against the tree for support. It was the first violent death of which he had ever been an eye-witness. He had known this man,—who was indeed the same Griffin, who had assisted the unwilling Pepperill to bring the tar-kettle to the wood-side on a certain memorable evening; ignorant, intemperate, too proud to work in a region where slavery made industry a disgrace, and yet a fierce champion of the system which was his greatest curse. Now there he lay, in his dirt, and rags, and blood, his neck shot through; the same expression of ferocious hate with which he had rushed to bayonet the schoolmaster still distorting his visage;—an object of horror and loathing. Was it not assuming a terrible responsibility to send this rampant sinner to his long account? Yet the choice was between his life and Penn's; and had not Pomp done well? Still Penn could not help feeling remorse and commiseration for the wretch.

"Poor Griffin! I have no murderous hatred for such as you! But if you come in the way of my country's safety, or of the welfare of my friends, you must take the penalty!"

He picked up the musket that had fallen at his feet where he stood bound. Then, stifling his disgust, he felt in the dead man's pockets for ammunition. Cartridges there were none; but in their place he found some bullets and a powder-flask. Then putting in practice the lessons he had learned of Pomp when they hunted together on the mountain, he loaded the gun, resolutely setting his teeth and drawing his breath hard when he thought of the different kind of game it might now be his duty to shoot.

While thus occupied he heard footsteps that gave him a sudden start. He turned quickly, catching up the gun. To his immense relief he saw Pomp, approaching with a smile.