TABOR’S CATCH-DOG, “GROWLER.”
These dogs will attack a negro, at their master’s bidding, and cling to him as a bull-dog will cling to a beast. Many are the speculations as to whether the negro will be secured alive or dead, when these dogs get on his track. However, on this occasion, there was not much danger of ill-treatment, for Mr. Wilson was a clergyman, and was of a humane turn, and bargained with Tabor not to injure the slave if he could help it.
The hunters had been in the wood a short time, ere they got on the track of two slaves, one of whom was Jerome. The negroes immediately bent their steps toward the swamp, with the hope that the dogs would, when put upon the scent, be unable to follow them through the water. Nearer and nearer the whimpering pack pressed on; their delusion began to dispel.
All at once the truth flashed upon the minds of the fugitives like a glare of light,—that it was Tabor with his dogs! They at last reached the river, and in the negroes plunged, followed by the catch-dog. Jerome was finally caught, and once more in the hands of his master; while the other man found a watery grave. They returned, and the preacher sent his slave to the city jail for safekeeping.
While the planters would employ Tabor, without hesitation, to hunt down their negroes, they would not receive him into their houses as a visitor any sooner than they would one of their own slaves. Tabor was, however, considered one of the better class of poor whites, a number of whom had a religious society in that neighborhood. The pastor of the poor whites was the Rev. Martin Louder, somewhat of a genius in his own way. The following sermon, preached by him, about the time of which I write, will well illustrate the character of the people for whom he labored.
More than two long, weary hours had now elapsed since the audience had been convened, and the people began to exhibit slight signs of fatigue. Some few scrapings and rasping of cowhide boots on the floor, an audible yawn or two, a little twisting and turning on the narrow, uncomfortable seats, while, in one or two instances, a somnolent soul or two snored outright. These palpable signs were not lost upon our old friend Louder. He cast an eye (emphatically, an eye) over the assemblage, and then—he spoke:—
“My dear breethering, and beloved sistering! You’ve ben a long time a settin’ on your seats. You’re tired, I know, an’ I don’t expect you want to hear the ole daddy preach. Ef you don’t want to hear the ole man, jist give him the least bit of a sign. Cough. Hold up your hand. Ennything, an’ Louder’ll sit rite down. He’ll dry up in a minit.”
At this juncture of affairs, Louder paused for a reply. He glanced furtively over the audience, in search of the individual who might be “tired of settin’ on his seat,” but no sign was made: no such malcontent came within the visual range.
“Go on, Brother Louder!” said a sonorous voice in the “amen corner” of the house. Thus encouraged, the speaker proceeded in his remarks:—
“Well, then, breethering, sense you say so, Louder’ll perceed; but he don’t intend to preach a reg’lar sermon, for it’s a gittin’ late, and our sect which hit don’t believe in eatin’ cold vittles on the Lord’s day. My breethering, ef the ole Louder gits outen the rite track, I want you to call him back. He don’t want to teach you any error. He don’t want’ to preach nuthin’ but what’s found between the leds of this blessed Book.”