“Pooh! Don’t mind him; he won’t talk, I’ll answer for it. He’s lost the taste for chatterin’ in the Jacinto prairie. But Sodoma,” continued Bob, “is in Alabama, man! Columbus in Georgia! They are parted by the Chatahoochie. Ah! that was a jolly life on the Chatahoochie. But nothin’ lasts in this world, as my old schoolmaster used to say. Pooh! They’ve druv the Injuns a step further over the Mississippi now. But it was a glorious life—warn’t it?”
Again he filled his glass and drank.
The information I gathered from this conversation as to the previous life and habits of these two men, had nothing in it very satisfactory or encouraging for me. In the whole of the south-western States there was no place that could boast of being the resort of so many outlaws and bad characters as the town of Sodoma. It is situated, or was situated, at least, a few years previously to the time I speak of, in Alabama, on Indian ground, and was the harbour of refuge for all the murderers and outcasts from the western and south-western parts of the Union. There, under Indian government, they found shelter and security; and frightful were the crimes and cruelties perpetrated at that place. Scarcely a day passed without an assassination, not secretly committed, but in broad sunlight. Bands of these wretches, armed with knives and rifles, used to cross the Chatahoochie, and make inroads into Columbus; break into houses, rob, murder, ill-treat women, and then return in triumph to their dens, laden with booty, and laughing at the laws. It was useless to think of pursuing them, or of obtaining justice, for they were on Indian territory; and many of the chiefs were in league with them. At length General Jackson and the government took it up. The Indians were driven over the Mississippi, the outlaws and murderers fled, Sodoma itself disappeared; and, released from its troublesome neighbours, Columbus is now as nourishing a State as any in the west.
The recollections of their former life and exploits seemed highly interesting to the two comrades; and their communications became more and more confidential. Johnny filled himself a glass, and the conversation soon increased in animation. I could understand little of what they said, for they spoke a sort of thieves’ jargon. After a time, their voices sounded as a confused hum in my ears, the objects in the room got gradually less distinct, and I fell asleep.
I was roused, not very gently, by a mulatto woman, who poured a spoonful of tea into my mouth before I had well opened my eyes. She at first did not attend to me with much apparent good-will; but by the time she had given me half-a-dozen spoonsful, her womanly sympathies were awakened, and her manner was kinder. The tea did me an infinite deal of good, and infused new life into my veins. I finished the cup, and the mulatto laid me down again on my pillow, with far more gentleness than she lifted me up.
“Gor! Gor!” cried she, “what poor young man! Berry weak. Him soon better. One hour, massa, good soup.”
“Soup! What do you want with soup?” grumbled Johnny.
“Him take soup. I cook it,” screamed the woman.