THE FREED BOY IN ALABAMA.

BY ANNE M. MITCHELL, AUTHOR OF “MARTHA’S GIFT.”

“If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature.”

PHILADELPHIA: PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION, 1334 Chestnut Street.

Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by WM. L. HILDEBURN, Treasurer, in trust for the PRESBYTERIAN PUBLICATION COMMITTEE, In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. Westcott & Thomson, Stereotypers, Philada.

[3]

THE FREED BOY IN ALABAMA.

CHAPTER I.

IT was an April day in the South—not windy and blustering, with the remembrances of March still clinging about it, but warm and lovely, mild and balmy, with spring beauty and promise of good over everything. The grass was springing everywhere, and the buds on the trees were bursting into blossom, and one could gather tender leaves and delicate sprays of[4] white and hold them with the tender, caressing touch which we give to all that heralds spring. It was a good day to breathe the soft, mild air, to be among the growing things and dismiss winter from the mind; and, above all, it was one of those days when the restless feeling we all have sometimes returns in full force, and the thought of coming life and energy in the natural world fills the mind with a longing to do something more than sit still and enjoy.

All this—not exactly in this form, but the substance of this—with a restless, unsatisfied feeling, was possessing and fast getting control of Tom Alson, as he sat on a box in front of a store in Huntsville, idly tapping one foot after the other against its wooden sides. He had anything but[5] an ambitious, energetic look, but then Tom never showed his feelings, and any one gazing at him would hardly have imagined that at this very moment he was longing to go out into the world and “do something.”

Certainly the man who came up to him just then had very little idea of the lofty thought in which Tom was indulging, for he gave him only a hasty glance before he addressed him.

“Say, boy, want to hire out?” asked the man.

Tom started and roused himself: “I was not thinking of it, sir,” he replied.

“Well, think of it now, then; I am trying to find boys to work for Mr. Sutherland on his plantation, about twenty miles out. They are growing corn and cotton. I’d be glad to have[6] you go; give you six dollars a month and board.”

“No, sir,” replied Tom; “I think I will not hire out this summer.”

“Oh think again! Six dollars a month is no mean pay, and I’ve a lot of Huntsville niggers going along.”

“No, sir,” replied Tom again, decidedly, and rising as he spoke, as if not wishing to continue the conversation.

“What’s to hinder you?” asked the man.

“I am going to school, sir,” returned the boy, knowing that this would put a stop to the urging; and it was successful, for the man, with a few coarse words about “niggers and education,” turned suddenly and walked away, and Tom, with his hands[7] in his pockets, sauntered off in an opposite direction, whistling.

He came up to his home by and by, and found his sister Martha in a chair outside the door, busied with some sewing. He sat down on a step near and watched her swift-moving hand in silence for some minutes, with his eyes on her work and his thoughts a long way off.

“Has mother come back?” he asked, at length.

“Yes, Tom,” replied Martha, with a little sigh, “but she didn’t succeed in getting any work. I do not see how we are going to get along. I think I shall try to see if I can get something to do.”

“I was thinking of that, too,” said Tom. “There’s a man here to-day who wants hands to go twenty miles[8] out. He wanted me, but I told him ‘No.’”

Martha stitched away in silence.

“I’d go,” said Tom, suddenly, “but there’s the school; I could not give that up.”

“Not for Jesus, Tom?” asked Martha, looking round with a little smile.

“Would it be for Jesus, Martha,” said Tom, earnestly, “to give up school and go to work, neglecting my education meanwhile?”

“Think about it, Tom, and remember what Paul did for Jesus.”

Tom did think. The conversation ceased between them entirely, and the fresh spring breezes came from the South, laden with the breath of flowers, and passed gently by the two seated before the cabin door, one of them so busy with his decision.

[9]When Tom, at length, rose and moved off, Martha could not tell his thought, although she peered anxiously into his face to see if possible what lay there, but it was unmoved, and he did not meet her look of inquiry with any return, but passed out of the gate, swinging it after him, and walking off toward the quarter of the town where his father was at work. He looked very grave when the two came in together at dinner-time, and hurried off toward the school-room before his sister was ready. She watched him a little anxiously all the afternoon, but the grave, intent face did not once relax its gravity, and the lines of soberness remained even after the pleasant afternoon session came to a close. Martha waited for her brother some minutes, with the hope that[10] she might have one of their customary talks on their way home, but he did not come away, so she went on alone.

It was not until an hour later, while she was busily weeding the little garden, that Tom came up and stopped at her side.

“Martha, I’m going,” he said, abruptly.

“Tom! why, Tom—going! when and what for,” she said, starting and turning round toward him.

“Going to-morrow, Martha, and for Jesus,” he replied, quietly.

Martha turned back again suddenly without remark, and industriously weeded the springing grass from around the young plants.

Tom waited several minutes, and then spoke again:

“Are you not glad of this, Martha?”

[11]She dropped the shovel with which she had been working, turned toward him, and lifting her hands to her head in a nervous way, replied, with quivering lips:

“That I am glad, you know, but oh I shall lose my brother!”

Tom’s eyes fell and his mouth twitched.

“I’ve been to see Miss Mason,” he said, after a minute, “to bid her good-bye. She says I must send her a letter. That is a great blessing which we did not always have, Martha—we may write to each other. That is good.”

“Yes.” Martha knew it as well as Tom, and I think it was the thought of this more than almost anything else which served to keep them in some degree of cheerfulness during[12] the remainder of his stay. It was not long, only so many short hours Martha almost counted the minutes. It was like Tom to act in a moment when the question of duty came home to him, and although Martha knew this, yet she had been surprised, after all, at his sudden acting upon her suggestion. What if Tom should sicken or be in any want so far from home?—for to Martha the distance seemed immense. Would she not then be sorry she had ever encouraged him? But those precious letters! How thankful she felt that she could write, and that though miles were between them, yet words could pass from one to the other!

How Tom felt no one knew. He hid his feelings always. Martha was the only one who ever had a glimpse,[13] and she only now and then. He counted the cost at every step, yet still he had gone back to his acquaintance of the morning, and agreed with him to work on the plantation during the summer. His father had listened, too, when he proposed it, and although he would have liked to keep his boy at home, yet work was scarce, and he could not always find means to live; so Tom must go. He had taken leave of his teacher and the school-room quite calmly, to all appearance, and no one knew how hard the struggle was to give up all this for Jesus. Yet it was this thought which kept him up through it all, and watching Martha’s grave face as she bent over his box placing his things together, he longed to tell her his source of comfort. But perhaps he needed it himself more[14] than she did, for to one of his disposition to go from home and mingle among strangers was very hard, very much against his will. Yet as he looked at it, he thought perhaps God had sent him just this trial to make

him better, and that he might have something for him to do for his service in the country. And so his courage did not quite fail.

How his eyes lingered the next morning upon everything about his home, trying as he did to impress each little portion of the house-furnishing upon his memory! It seemed as if he could not lose sight of his sister Martha’s face. His eyes followed her everywhere. It was almost strange, the devoted affection which had sprung up between the two; and it was so hard, just as they were helping[15] one another along the narrow way through the journey of life, to be obliged to part.

But it came, late in the afternoon—the parting—and was over, and Tom found himself in the car looking out at the country, green, and fresh, and beautiful, and trying to realize how long it would be before the familiar faces would be near him again. Of all Tom’s boy friends there was but one who was of this company, and he, although a school-mate, knew Tom only slightly. But he was alone too, and so after a while, seeing the empty seat beside Tom, he came and sat down.

“How do you think you’ll like it out there?” he asked, as Tom turned round.

“I have hardly thought,” replied[16] Tom. “I do not know anything about it.”

“I can tell you a heap then. It’s a big plantation, with quarters for the hands not far from the house. The master lives in a big, white mansion, and has charge of the cotton and cornfields. My brother is there, and he says it’s a pretty good place. Pay is regular, and that’s the most, you know.”

“Where shall we stay? Do you know?” asked Tom.

“No, I don’t. I ’spects likely we’ll be quartered with some old auntie or other. I don’t much care. They have jolly times after hours—breakdowns and dances. Hi! it’s gay fun!”

Tom’s heart sank. He looked out of the window and saw the great trees with their tops just lighted with the rising moon, heard the shrill cry of[17] the mocking-bird, and saw the fireflies lighting up the woods with a thousand tiny lamps. Cool the evening air came across his face, with the motion of the car hurrying on through one of the most glorious countries on which the sun shines. Tom saw it all, and loved it for the sake of Him who made it, but his heart was heavy with the grief of parting, the sting of poverty which sent him away from home, and the prospect before him. Very rebellious, very discontented, his thoughts were for a few minutes, until some old auntie going out with the company, and who had learned with the experience of years to leave her burden of care in His hands “who careth for us,” struck up a hymn, and as the voices one by one joined in with her, until the car was full of the melody[18] which floated out upon the evening air among the moss-laden trees, Tom’s head sank and rested upon the seat in front, and the tears came—tears of

penitence and joy—as he listened:

There was a prayer for help and courage as Tom listened, and after it was finished his head was lifted with new resolve. He was immediately attacked again by the boy at his side.

“You went to see Miss Mason yesterday, did you not?” he demanded.

“Yes,” replied Tom, with a softened remembrance of the words of kindliness and cheer given him by his teacher. “Yes, I did; I went to bid her good-bye. How did you know?”

[19]“Because I went myself, and she told me you were of the company. She said you would help me get along.”

“I will, all that I can,” replied Tom.

“She said you had got religion. Is that so?”

Tom gave an instant’s glance out into the night again. “It is ‘known of me,’ then,” he thought; and finally said, with a little smile which showed more than anything else could have done the value that religion was to him, “I love the Lord Jesus.”

“I don’t think you and I will do for each other,” said the boy, a little mystified by Tom’s smile and moving uneasily in his seat. “I am up to all sorts of shines.”

“I think we’ll do very nicely for one another,” replied Tom, brightly,[20] seeing, with joy, part of the Master’s work already at his hands. “We are school-mates, you know, and both love to study; that ought to make us friends if nothing else does. We will work together in the evenings.”

The boy roused instantly, and they fell into earnest talk of the ways and means for study, the lessons they had already learned, the remembrance of happy school-hours, and a thousand other things which to these boys, who until lately had never known the joys of school-life, were the brightest spots in their existence.

So the miles were passed over, and the beautiful Southern country left behind: the short journey—so long to many—was accomplished, and at a little station-house, within about a mile of the plantation, they were at[21] length set down, fifty souls in all, and took up their line of march. Tom and his friend Jimmy Harrison walked on silently with the rest. The final landing at the station had not been pleasant. The agent who had them in charge was not kind, and the people were feeling very unpleasantly. Tom had rather better control of himself than the rest, for with the first shock and rebellious thoughts, as the words of harshness and anger fell upon his ears, his soul went up to God in a prayer for patience and strength, to keep down any feelings of unkindness. Then turning to Jimmy, whose quick temper had been roused by the rough treatment, with a few gentle kindly words of encouragement he put his arm through his, and led him forward in the line of march.

[22]And long afterward, when the summer breezes would bring to him the cool fragrant breath of plants and growing flowers, he was always reminded of this first night, when the work which he longed to do for Jesus commenced; and knowing the blessed influence which followed all through that long, hard summer, he ever after thanked God and took courage.

CHAPTER II.

TOM and Jimmy were quartered with an old colored woman called Aunt Margaret, one of the family servants, who in her old age had been furnished with a tiny brick house near the mansion, in which she had lived some years by herself. The house contained three rooms, two on the lower floor and one above stairs, and the master, who had dismissed the agent upon their arrival, and superintended the settling of the people[24] himself, placed the two boys, Tom and Jimmy, in this upper room. Tom was greatly pleased on account of the quiet which he thought would result from their removal from the cabins or quarters of the rest of the hands, and pictured to himself many happy hours of study in the room up-stairs.

But he discovered his mistake very soon. Aunt Margaret was very fond of company, and the cabin was the common resort of half the working-people on the place, and study, to say nothing of quiet, was out of the question.

It was on the second evening after his arrival, at the close of the first day’s work in the field, that Tom took out his books. How sadly and mournfully he had missed his school all day, no one knew but himself; and now he[25] took his books and slate with no small degree of pleasure.

“What’s the chile gwine to do?” asked the old woman, peering at him over her spectacles.

“Going to read and study a while by your candle, Aunt Margaret, if I may,” he replied.

“Laws, chile! you may do as you likes, for all me,” she returned with a shake of her head; “but it ’pears like there’ll be mighty little quiet here to-night.”

Tom soon found it so, to his utter dismay. First, Jimmy came in with one or two others, talking loud and making a confusion.

“Are you going to study with me to-night?” asked Tom as he came up to the table and glanced at the books.

[26]“No, I’m not that,” replied the boy; “it’s larks I’m after, and if you wasn’t a stupid, you wouldn’t either.”

Tom was disappointed, and bent his head over his books silently, and tried to work. But there was no study to be had there. The room gradually filled with women and men, and attention to books was impossible. He gave it up at last, but not before he had two or three laughing remarks addressed to him. He closed his book and rested his head wearily on his hand. He concluded he would go up-stairs. “I am not used to such company as this,” he thought with a new feeling creeping into his heart. “I will go away, and just show them all that I am made of a different sort from them.”

Then he suddenly bethought him[27] how wrongly he was acting in thus putting himself above his fellows; so he immediately raised his head and joined in the conversation.

It was no pleasure to him, but he stayed half an hour, and then, seeing he could go without giving offence to any one, he gladly gathered up his books and went off up-stairs. A candle was a luxury not to be indulged in, but as Tom ascended the stairs he saw that the moonlight was pouring in through the one window, so that the room was quite light. He put his books away, and seating himself on the floor under the window, which was very low, he leaned his head on his arm upon the sill and began to think.

It was a long, sober thought. With quick understanding he saw very soon[28] what a battle the summer would be to him, and how hard it would be for him to accomplish his aims. He was resolved upon one thing: study he must and would, if every leisure minute of the noontide hour was given up to it. Then, again, he must do some work for Jesus. The summer must not yet pass without some deed accomplished whereby his Master should be glorified. He realized that to this end he must make himself familiar with the hands about the place—not only with those who came from Huntsville, but also with the old family servants. The dangers, the temptations accompanying such a course, if they occurred to him at all, did not present themselves in their dangerous form—the temptation that while leading others he might himself[29] be led away—that his faith might fail or his courage droop. The whole armor of God was the only thing which could keep him from all the ills and troubles thus presented. He did not know how much trial was before him, but he did know that he needed a stronger arm than his own

to lead him, and he looked above for strength and shelter.

The trial came first in a most unexpected direction. Jimmy, in all good humor, reported that Tom “had got religion,” and to those to whom he told it it was a very bad recommendation, and they held themselves aloof; and not only that, but they would amuse themselves with sundry jokes at his expense. Tom was astonished and wounded. He could not imagine where they could have heard it, and it[30] prevented, for a time, the advancement he wished to make in their regard. He tried his best. By every effort in his power he endeavored to gain friends among this new company, and in a few instances he succeeded immediately; in others not so well; and often it was impossible to have a talk with those whose friendship he wished most to gain, on account of their leisure-time being so much occupied with dances in the great barn.

The studying was scarcely better at first. It was very hard between his bites of corn-bread in the noon-spell to give his attention to looking out words in the dictionary, or mastering what seemed to him such profound problems in arithmetic. There was an hour before supper which was his[31] own, and that was devoted, half to study and half to Bible-reading. It was very hard work to stand firmly by his resolution, and go after his books at the close of a warm, tiresome day, and study so persistently just when the twilight was growing beautiful and the people were all resting before their cabin doors. Sometimes he was quite discouraged, and almost determined to give up.