“Will somebody make a pra’r?” she said, feebly, as she felt her life fast ebbing away. “Abel, you pray for poor Chloe,” and her glassy eyes turned beseechingly towards her husband, who was noted at camp-meetings for praying the loudest and longest of any one.
But his strength had left him now, and kissing the shrivelled face of his dying wife, he said, “’Scuse me, Chloe; de sperrit is willin’, but de flesh part is mighty weak and shaky like. Miss Jessie, you pray!” he continued, as the child came to his side.
“Yes, honey, pray,” gasped Chloe; and, kneeling down, the little girl began the Lord’s Prayer, occasionally interspersing it with a petition that “God would take the departing soul to heaven.”
“Yes, dat’s it,” whispered Chloe; “dat’s better dan all dem fine words ’bout kingdom come and daily bread; dey’ll do for white folks, but God bress old Chloe, de thing for niggers to die on.”
“Sing, honey, sing,” she said, at last; and, mingled with the lamentations of the blacks, there arose on the evening air the soft notes of the Happy Land, which Jessie sang, bending low towards Chloe, who, when the song was ended, clasped her in her arms, and calling her “a shining angel,” went, we trust, to the better land, where bondage is unknown, and the slave is equal to his master.
Loud and shrill rose the wail of the negroes, increasing in violence when it was known that into another cabin the pestilence had entered, prostrating a boy, who, in his agony, called for Jessie and mas’r Richard, thinking they could save him. Late as it was, Mrs. Lansing, Ada, and Lina, were still upon the piazza, which was far more comfortable than their sleeping-room, where they supposed both Halbert and Jessie were safely in bed. They were just thinking of retiring, when suddenly the midnight stillness was broken by a cry so shrill that Mrs. Lansing started to her feet, asking what it was.
From her couch by the open door, Aunt Dinah arose, and going out a few rods, listened to the sound, which seemed to come from the negro quarters, whither, at her mistress’s command, she bent her steps. But a short time elapsed ere she returned with the startling news that, “the cholera was thar—that Chloe was dead, and another one had got it and was vomucking all over the night dress of Miss Jessie, who was holdin’ his head.”
Wholly overcome with fright, Mrs. Lansing fainted, and was borne to her room, where, for a time, she remained unconscious, forgetful of Jessie, who stayed at the quarters long after midnight, ministering to the wants of the sick, of which, before morning, there were five, while others showed symptoms of the rapidly spreading disease. As soon as Mrs. Lansing returned to consciousness, she sent for Jessie, who came reluctantly, receiving her mother’s reproof in silence, and falling away to sleep as calmly as if she had not just been looking upon death, whose shadow was over and around her.
Early the next morning, a man was sent in haste to Cedar Grove, which he never reached, for the destroyer met him on the road, and in one of the cabins of a neighboring plantation, he died, forgetting, in the intensity of his sufferings, the errand on which he had been sent; and as those who attended him knew nothing of Mrs. Lansing’s being at the Pines, it was not until the second day after the appearance of the cholera that she learned the fate of her servant. In a state bordering almost upon distraction, she waited for her brother, shuddering with fear whenever a new case was reported to her, and refusing to visit the sufferers, although among them were some who had played with her in childhood; and one, an old grey-haired man, who had saved her from a watery grave, when on the Savannah River she had fallen overboard. But there was no place for gratitude in her selfish heart, and the miserable creatures were left to die alone, uncheered by the presence of a pale face, save little Jessie, who won her mother’s reluctant consent to be with them, and who, all the day long, went from cabin to cabin, soothing the sick and dying by her presence, and emboldening others by her own intrepidity.
Towards sunset, Mrs. Lansing herself was seized with the malady, and with a wild shriek, she called on Ada to help her; but that young lady was herself too much intimidated to heed the call, and in an adjoining room she sat with camphor at her nose and brandy at her side, until a fierce, darting pain warned her that she, too, was a victim. No longer afraid of Mrs. Lansing, she made no resistance when borne to the same apartment, where for hours they lay, bemoaning the fate which had brought them there, and trembling as they thought of the probable result.