Such and similar sentiments expressed at the South, and even by Southerners when sojourning in the free States, did much to widen the breach, and to bring on the conflict of arms that soon followed.
CHAPTER XVI.
The night was dark, the rain descended in torrents from the black and overhanging clouds, and the thunder, accompanied with vivid flashes of lightning, resounded fearfully, as I entered a negro cabin in South Carolina. The room was filled with blacks, a group of whom surrounded a rough board table, and at it sat an old man holding in his hand a watch, at which all were intently gazing. A stout negro boy held a torch which lighted up the cabin, and near him stood a Yankee soldier, in the Union blue, reading the President’s Proclamation of Freedom.
As it neared the hour of twelve, a dead silence prevailed, and the holder of the time-piece said,—“By de time I counts ten, it will be midnight an’ de lan’ will be free. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,—” just then a loud strain of music came from the banjo, hanging upon the wall, and at its sound the whole company, as if by previous arrangement, threw themselves upon their knees, and the old man exclaimed,—“O, God, de watch was a minit’ too slow, but dy promises an’ dy mercy is allers in time; dou did promise dat one of dy angels should come an’ give us de sign, an’ shore ’nuff de sign did come. We’s grateful, O, we’s grateful, O, Lord, send dy angel once moe to give dat sweet sound.”
At this point another strain from the banjo was heard, and a sharp flash of lightning was followed by a clap of thunder, such as is only heard in the tropics. The negroes simultaneously rose to their feet and began singing; finishing only one verse, they all fell on their knees, and Uncle Ben, the old white-haired man, again led in prayer, and such a prayer as but few outside of this injured race could have given. Rising to their feet, the leader commenced singing:—
“Oh! breth-er-en, my way, my way’s cloudy, my way,
Go send dem angels down.
Oh! breth-er-en, my way, my way’s cloudy, my way,
Go send dem angels down.
There’s fire in de east an’ fire in de west,
Send dem angels down.
An’ fire among de Methodist,
O, send dem angels down.
Ole Sa-tan’s mad, an’ I am glad,
Send dem angels down.
He missed the soul he thought he had,
O, send dem angels down.
I’ll tell you now as I tole afore,
Send dem angels down.
To de promised lan’ I’m bound to go,
O, send dem angels down.
Dis is de year of Jubilee,
Send dem angels down.
De Lord has come to set us free,
O, send dem angels down.”
One more short prayer from Uncle Ben, and they arose, clasped each other around the neck, kissed, and commenced shouting, “Glory to God, we’s free.”
Another sweet strain from the musical instrument was followed by breathless silence, and then Uncle Ben said, “De angels of de Lord is wid us still, an’ dey is watching ober us, fer ole Sandy tole us moe dan a mont ago dat dey would.”
I was satisfied when the first musical strain came, that it was merely a vibration of the strings, caused by the rushing wind through the aperture between the logs behind the banjo. Fearing that the blacks would ascribe the music to some mysterious Providence, I plainly told them of the cause.