The old negro now sat upon the ground in the center of the circle. He was a small, bent up, wiry-looking black, with a physiognomy closely resembling a dog's, which he took pains to cultivate by drawing the plaits of his hair down like the ears of a hound, while he shaped his few straggling strands of beard into the under jaw of the same animal. Three big negroes had led him, blind-folded, into the circle, chanting a peculiar song, the music of which was weird and uncanny. And now as he sat on the ground the others regarded him with the greatest reverence and awe. It was in one of the most dismal portions of the swamp, a hundred yards or two from the road that led to the ferry at the river. Here the old people had been brought from their homes and tied to this spot where the witch council was to be held. Before seating himself the Witch Finder had drawn three rings within a circle on the ground with the thigh bone of a dog. Then, unbuttoning his red flannel shirt, he took from his bosom, suspended around his neck, a kind of purse, made from the raw-hide of a calf, with white hair on one side and red on the other, and from this bag he proceeded to take out things which would have given Shakespeare ideas for his witch scene in Macbeth. A little black ring, made of the legs of the black spider and bound together with black horse hair; a black thimble-like cup, not much longer than the cup of an acorn, made of the black switch of a mule containing the liver of a scorpion. The horny head and neck of the huge black beetle, commonly known to negroes as the black Betsy Bug; the rattle and button of a rattlesnake; the fang-tooth of a cotton-mouth moccasin, the left hind foot of a frog, seeds of the stinging nettle, and pods of peculiar plants, all incased in a little sack made of a mole's hide. These were all given sufficient charm by a small round cotton yarn, in the center of which was a drop of human blood. They were placed on the ground around him, but he held the ball of cotton yarn in his hand, and ordered that the child be brought into the ring. The poor thing was frightened nearly to death at sight of the Witch Finder, and when he began slowly to unwind his ball of cotton thread and chant his monotonous funeral song, she screamed in terror. At a signal from the “Witch Finder,” Aunt Charity was dragged into the ring, her hands tied behind her. The sight of such brutality was too much for the child, and she promptly had another fit. No other evidence was needed, and the Witch Finder declared that Aunt Charity was Queen of Witches. The council retired, and in a few minutes their decision was made: Uncle Bisco was to be beaten to death with hickory flails and his old wife hung to the nearest tree. Their verdict being made, two stout negroes came forward to bind the old man to a tree with his arms around it. At sight of these ruffians the old woman broke out into triumphant song:
“O we mos' to de home whar we all gwi' res',
Cum, dear Lord, cum soon!
An' take de ole weary ones unto yo' bres',
Cum, dear Lord, cum soon!
Fur we ole an' we tired an' we hungry fur yo' sight,
An' our lim's dey am weary, fur we fou't er good fight,
An' we longin' fur de lan' ob lub an' light—
Cum, dear Lord, cum soon.”
And it was well that she sang that song, for it stopped three horsemen just as they forded the creek and turned their horses' heads into the lane that led to the cabin. One who was tall and with square shoulders sat his horse as if born in the saddle. Above, his dark hair was streaked with white, but the face was calm and sad, though lit up now with two keen and kindly eyes which glowed with suppressed excitement. It was the face of splendid resolve and noble purpose, and the horse he rode was John Paul Jones. The other was the village blacksmith. A negro followed them, mounted on a raw-bone pony, and carrying his master's Enfield rifle.
The first horseman was just saying: “Things look mighty natural at the old place, Eph; I wonder if the old folks will know us? It seems to me—”
He pulled up his horse with a jerk. He heard singing just over to his left in the wood. Both horsemen sat listening:
O we mos' to de do' ob our Father's home—
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
An' we'll nurver mo' sorrer an' nurver mo' roam—
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
An' we'll meet wid de lam's dat's gohn on befo'
An' we lie in de shade ob de good shepherd's do',
An' he'll wipe away all ob our tears as dey flow—
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
“Do you know that voice, Eph?” cried the man in front to his body servant. “We must hurry”; and he touched the splendid horse with the heel of his riding boot.
But the young negro had already plunged two spurs into his pony's flanks and was galloping toward the cabin.
It was all over when the white rider came up. Two brutes had been knocked over with the short heavy barrel of an Enfield rifle. There was wild scattering of others through the wood. An old man was clinging in silent prayer to his son's knees and an old woman was clinging around his neck, and saying:
“Praise God—who nurver lies—it's little Ephrum—come home ag'in.”