# In the Shadow/Chapter 20

PART III
CAROLINA

### CHAPTER XX
#### LIVE OAK PLANTATION

THE Moultrie plantation, bounded on one side by salt inlets from the sea, on the other by the great Caw Caw Swamp, is said to have been laid out in the days of the buccaneers. No one at the time of the present Moultrie's grandfather could remember when was built the first great dike' which still holds the miles and miles of backwater of the closed reserve from the broad expanse of rice lands which stretch almost to the bayou. During the boyhood of Manning's grandfather huge "loblollys" rose straight from the middle of the long, low mound, and it is not probable that anyone would be so foolish as to build a dike around a growing tree.
Although the greater part of the seven thousand broad acres of the Moultrie estate stretched away toward the swamp in square after square of cultivated marshland, there was a great deal in timbered "high land," which, in the rice belt, means land well above the reach of swamp and tide water; ground having an elevation of perhaps ten feet above the rice dikes.
On such an eminence, surrounded by a park of venerable live oaks, stood the ancestral home of Manning Moultrie. The antiquity of the plantation house itself ranked far beneath that of its environment, the structure having been erected only a little over a hundred years. ​The "old house," so called to distinguish it from the present centenarian dwelling which was always known as the "new house," had been situated on another part of the plantation, since abandoned as a residential site, owing to its remoteness, and the higher and healthier land, which had come later into the estate as the dowry of a daughter of the Rutledge family and bride of one of the early Moultries, was chosen in its place.
Under the old régime the rice planters of South Carolina were surpassed by none in the new world in the magnificent style in which they lived. Even in the present era of extravagance it is doubtful if there is any one class that is able to enjoy the same independent ease and elegance as did these people. The peculiar conditions then extant, by which a household might live surrounded by all of the luxury which the arts of the epoch produced and enjoy the regal setting of a monarch, without his care and obligation, have passed away forever.
To these people belonged that ranking wealth which so few of our modern plutocrats can boast; their time was all their own. At any moment that might suit his inclination the planter could turn over the care of the estate to his steward, and with his wife or perhaps his entire family, depart to spend the season in London or in Paris, where he would doubtless find as many of his set as in the city of Charleston itself.
Little of this early grandeur survives the passing of the caste. Traveling to-day along the Carolina coast; winding among the bayous from Georgetown to Beaufort, one may see many sad relics of this golden era. While in threading up some little winding stream, oozing sluggishly from forest and primeval swamp, one will ​come upon the footprints of a long-forgotten occupation. Sometimes it is still possible to trace the washed-out rooty banks of ancient rice dikes and to separate from the venerable woods of pine and live oak the squarely defined blocks of second growth springing from a tangled morass once cleared and fruitful.
Here one may realize the problem that confronted the earlier settlers, and marvel at the minds that conceived the plan of redeeming those miles and miles of submerged jungle, with no other tools than the African slave and the black-snake whip!
Where the ground is higher the careful eye may discover a cluster of ancient live oaks buried under the pines. These trees take systematic order, then align, to form a broad, straight avenue, all but lost in the later growth of pines and gums.
The moss hangs low in funereal festoons; beneath, the avenue is choked with underbrush, seedlings and saplings, palmetto and scrub oaks. The vista is obscured, but here and there where the open spaces coincide one may see far through and catch a glimpse of a solitary column clothed in cypress, or the black background beneath a marble arch.
Sometimes the outlines of the ancient mansion may be traced; by rooting, as have the wild hogs, under the carpet of leaves and mold, one may unearth the long English bricks, brought by shiploads long ago from far across the western ocean. Tombs there are of men who fought against the buccaneers—perhaps, who knows, beside them!
There are many such ruins, not of a single house and of its environments, but of acres and acres of what ​was once the garden spot of North America. One views the ruins of a noble habitation with sadness; of the broad lands that nourished the inhabitants, with despair.
Strange as it may seem in this country of progress, there is probably less land in a state of cultivation in that section to-day than there was fifty years ago.
Live Oak Plantation, the home of Manning Moultrie, was one of the few rice plantations the organization and operation of which had not been thrown out of balance by the shock of the Civil War. The family fortunes were too securely rooted to be shaken by even such a cataclysm. Manning's father had simply laid down his sword to resume his operation of the broad acres, fertile as ever, but worked by paid in the place of slave labor.
The death of the master had made changes which the deaths of thousands could not. In the hands of an able and honest manager the plantation had become simply a great workshop; the old life was dead. Most of the former slaves remained, some drifted away.
Virginia had not visited Carolina since, immediately after the death of the husband and father, the widow had taken the children to Europe. This was when Virginia was ten years of age. Her recollections of the place were still accurate; of the life and customs, vague and uncertain. She had expected, of course, to be kindly received by the old friends of her family, but she was little prepared for the warmth of the reception which she found upon her arrival in Charleston during the last week in October.
Giles had reached New York late in September; he had spent a month at the Cromwell's in Manchester, ​where Manning joined them, and the three proceeded together to Carolina.
Virginia found the city charming, interesting, the kindness of the people whose names alone were familiar affected her deeply. They had spent a week in the city, as Manning knew the danger of sleeping near rice lands too early in the autumn, and was anxious to wait until a frost had rendered malarial plasmodia inert.
It was the plan to spend November on the plantation and sail for England the first week in December, in order to be at Fenwick for Christmas. The wedding of Giles and Virginia was to take place the week after New Year's.
The plantation was eighteen miles from the city. Early in the morning of the first day in November they rode out on the old Savannah turnpike, crossed the long bridge over the arm of the bay, cantered along the marshes past rice fields, now dry stubble and quite free from the nauseous reek of a few weeks before. To Virginia the ride was of absorbing interest, the refreshment of a dream; the low country with its miles of marsh and lonely desolation impressed her strangely. Now and then they would pass groups of chattering negroes who would draw aside to wish them a polite and friendly greeting as they passed.
The ride stirred her; the fresh, balmy air, sweet with the resinous, piney perfumes, summoned hosts of long-forgotten memories; she noted the quality of the sunshine, so different from that of England; in the swampy meadows flocks of snipe, plover, larks, and myriad other flute-voiced birds sent rippling choruses heavenward as they circled in search of the rice grains spilled by the ​gleaners. A rattlesnake crossed the road to coil by the edge of the ditch. Manning dismounted and fearlessly killed it with his riding whip. The incident impressed Virginia. Where the road wound along the edge of the marsh, full-grown families of summer ducks splashed noisily from the rushes and cannoned for the distant woods. Soon the road plunged into the pine forest, and for miles the shoeless hoofs of their horses fell noiselessly upon the aromatic blanket of pine straw.
As they neared the plantation gates there were signs of occupation; far to the left they heard the ringing blows of an ax and with the measured beat a full, rich voice chanting a plantation melody. In the distance an unseen driver apostrophized a team of mules. "Whoa, mewl! Min' yo'se'f dah, mewl!" To Virginia the language was foreign, unintelligible.
These mingled cadences with their sylvan setting recalled to Virginia a scene from an opera; impressed her powerfully. She began to understand why it was that a person who had once inhaled the soft scented breath of a Carolina forest would always desire to return. There was little to describe in the surroundings; everything to feel. She could see why all of Manning's descriptions had sounded so colorless, also why he was always so ready to return.
When they reached the gate Virginia was strongly moved; on either side there was a group of the plantation negroes, men and women, all in their holiday finery, all chattering and capering with joy. Although she could not understand the words there was no mistaking their welcome. Virginia put both hands to her lips and threw them an armful of kisses. Her eyes grew dim.
​Up the drive they cantered, under the giant, spreading, live oaks whose branches seemed to intertwine in loving embrace born of two centuries of comradeship. As they neared the house the hounds discovered them and a mellow, baying chorus rose in welcome.
The great house had been swept and garnished; a group of servants, among them some of the old slaves, was clustered on the steps of the broad veranda. These laughed, chattered, wept in the exuberance of delight. The younger generation had never known a mistress on the plantation; the older remembered Virginia's mother and were loud and joyful in their recognition. A very old woman rushed to Virginia as she drew rein at the house.
"Bless de Lawd! Glory be foh dis yeah day! Hit ole missis done come back! Hit Miss Ma'a'gry foh sho!" She buried her face in Virginia's skirt. The girl raised streaming eyes to her brother.
"I—I—don't understand what they say, but—but—they make me cry!" she faltered.
A fortnight passed happily on Live Oak Plantation. They rode; they hunted; they shot deer, turkey, and innumerable snipe. Neighbors dropped in for an afternoon call and spent three days. Giles was delighted with the place, the life, the people, the delicious informality. He wanted to buy a plantation and plant rice.
One day while at luncheon Manning, opening his mail, uttered an exclamation of pleasure.
"Who do you think is coming?" he asked.
"Leyden?" asked Virginia and Giles in eager chorus.
"How did you know?" queried Manning.
​"I felt it," said Virginia.
"Because he said he might go to Mexico by way of Charleston so as to see us," said Giles. "Told me so when I saw him in New York,—what?"
"When is he coming?" asked Virginia.
"His steamer's due in Charleston the day after to-morrow."
"Speaking of Leyden reminds me of Dessalines," observed Giles. "I wonder how the old chap's made out. One never sees anything much about Hayti; surprising, too, so near the States."
"The last account I saw," said Manning, whose face had slightly darkened at Giles's reference to the negro, "it appeared as if a man called Alexis Nord had the best chance; the whole thing's been the most absurd opéra bouffe. I haven't seen Dessalines' name mentioned."
"Perhaps he's lying low until some one does the work for him," suggested Giles.
"We will hear from him yet, you may depend upon it," replied Virginia with conviction.
"I'm not so sure," said Manning. "You can't depend upon a negro unless you are right behind him. He seems to lack something; imagination I fancy. A negro mixes his trails like a mongrel hound. He can't resist the temptation to reach for the nearest and easiest object at hand. He will follow the line of least resistance every time."
"But see how steadily Dessalines kept at his work of preparation," said Virginia. "You are biased, Manning."
"Possibly, but that was all a talking part; they are ​great at that—anything which entails words; a lot of words, manner, gestures. They make fair professional men, but did you ever hear of a negro financier? promoter? or anything else which required long foresight, patience, and hard work? I tell you they haven't got it in them!"
"They've never really had a fair chance, have they?" asked Giles.
"They've ruled their own country, Hayti, for almost a century; Leyden says it's a fine, fertile island which, properly cultivated, might supply the coffee market of the world; yet the average American, right next door, knows less of Hayti than he does of Iceland. We can't even find out what's going on there."
"But consider the French influence," began Giles defensively.
"I think an influence which laid out all of the plantations and established trade and schools and religion can't have done them much harm. Leyden tells me that in St. Marc, a port where one may see half a dozen European vessels loading coffee, cacao, cotton, dyewood, and mahogany, there isn't even a landing jetty, and that anyone wishing to go ashore must be carried through the surf by the natives. Oh, bother the negro!" concluded Manning, with his usual intolerance of the subject.
Leyden arrived in Charleston two days later. Giles drove in to meet him.
"My dear boy!" cried the naturalist, who had arrived early and was at the hotel, "I am delighted to see you! And Miss Moultrie? She is well?"
"Never better!" answered Giles heartily. "Man​ning, too. I say, jolly place, this,—what? Went out last Saturday and each of us got a turkey; magnificent birds, turkeys,—what?"
Leyden laughed. "They are the true American birds and far more admirable than the eagle. And so you like Carolina! I cannot blame you, considering the conditions of your visit."
They lunched together. As they were sitting down Leyden exclaimed:
"By the way, I dislike intensely to be the bearer of bad news, but our friend Dessalines has met with serious reverses. In fact I am not sure that he is at liberty—or alive, for that matter."
"No!" exclaimed Giles, startled. "What has happened to him?"
"I will tell you all I know. There is a curious hostelry in New York, much frequented by South Americans and West Indians. I usually call there when in town, to look up old acquaintances. There are a great many people south of the tropic in both hemispheres to whom I am under obligation, and one wishes to pay one's debts, both good and ill. The day before sailing for Charleston I dropped in there and among others, whom should I meet but my old acquaintance, Rosenthal; a Jew, a man whose talents and qualities I respect. I know that he is courageous; I believe that he is as honest as most of us. When I saw him last, eight years ago, he was selling supplies to the Cuban Insurrectos and transporting refugees to Jamaica.
"‘And where are you from now?' I inquired, when we had exchanged greetings.
​"‘From a green corner of hell called Hayti,' he answered with a grin, 'where I have just failed in an attempt to place an acquaintance of yours in power.'
"‘Dessalines?' I asked.
"‘Yes; it was a wretched business! Deliver me from meddling again with the politics of the simple African! One might as well attempt to found a dynasty of children. You know Dessalines well?'
"‘As well as was necessary to understand him,' I answered.
"‘And what was your understanding?'
"‘Simply that like most negroes who are honest and of good principles his nature was something between that of a little child and a good dog.'
"‘He had other qualities—but no matter! He wished to be emperor of Hayti. He had plenty of money and with that, little else is needed to rule Hayti; but the dear Comte was lacking in the little else—discretion. I mustered him a following at no small personal risk; then I bought him a steamer and equipped her for a campaign. Dessalines spent his time praying and paying the bills. But that was not, all. You know the Fouchères?'
"'Yes; too well.'
"‘The one necessitates the other. If Dessalines had told me that he had made a confidante of La Fouchère I could have saved him a great deal of money. Did you ever meet a Captain Oliver?'
"‘I do not recall him.'
"‘You are to be congratulated. Mallock, you know Mallock?' I nodded, 'secured him to take command of our vessel. We landed Dessalines at St. Marc, whence ​he was to proceed overland to Port au Prince to see to the muster of his troops at that place and march on the capital at a word from me. I was to collect and arm the rest of our army, the recruits for which were at several different points. In the meantime Dessalines was the guest of the Fouchères.'
"‘At La Coupe?'
"‘At La Coupe. There madam must have wormed out the balance of his plans. Fouchère was secretly a Firminist. He came belly to earth to Petit Goâve, where he bribed our captain to take the ship to Gonaïves and deliver her to Jean Jumeau.'
"‘And you?'
"‘When I awoke I was under guard in my room. As yet we had taken no troops aboard. I had previously prepared for treachery, however, and had run wires from my room to a keg of gunpowder laid against the garboard strake on the port quarter. My room, you see, was on the starboard bow; on deck. Ha! ha!'
"‘I admire you,' said I; 'go on.'
"‘When I saw that we were not too far from shore I pressed a button! Of course they had not wit enough to accredit it to me. It was sauve qui peut. She sank in twenty minutes, in thirty fathoms. When the others were gone—there were plenty of boats, for you see we had planned to land troops at Port au Prince—I lowered one of them and ventured forth alone. The Dutch steamer picked me up next day on her way into Port au Prince northward bound. I managed to send a message to Dessalines. Perhaps it never reached him; I have not heard from him since. A good man, Dessalines, but lacking the qualities of a king!' and that, ​Giles," concluded Dr. Leyden, "is all that there was to be learned from my acquaintance, Rosenthal."
"What a wretched fiasco!" exclaimed Giles.
"It is a country, a people, a race of absurdities. I hope that our friend has not got himself into trouble. And now tell me of your plans."
In a few words Giles told him. "You are going to Mexico?" he asked.
"Yes, I have a commission to dig up a little Aztec rubbishery. But first I must go to Florida, as I have another commission to pass an expert opinion on a bonanza orange grove. You had better go down with me; you can make the trip in three days."
"Right!" exclaimed Giles. "It does seem a shame to be so near and not see the place. Believe I'll go with you if Virginia and Manning will let me. Besides I've always rather fancied the idea of having an orange grove myself and it might not be a bad plan to look it over."
"No," said Leyden meditatively, "not as long as you are with me. Don't try it alone, however; it is a very popular English vice, buying orange groves. However, if you insist I fancy you can buy the one I am going to inspect at a very low rate when I've finished. I have strong views on orange plantations."
"Ever been bitten?"
"No; but I have dressed the wounds of others. Well—I am impatient to be off, if you are not."
Giles ordered his buckboard and a few minutes later, behind one of Manning's Kentuckians, they were rapidly leaving the city.
Halfway to the plantation they traversed a district known as "Red Top," a place of bad repute by virtue ​of the congregation there of the rice-field laborers, a class of negroes lower than those found in the cotton lands, many of the latter of whom were unable to live in the rice belt owing to the fever. It is possible that these rice-field negroes were originally brought from the fever coast and were the nearest that could be got to malarial immunes; as a matter of fact many always have and no doubt always will die of the fever.
Suddenly Leyden raised his hand warningly. "Listen! ah, dogs,—and riders!"
Giles reined in and listened. "I do not hear anything," he observed.
"Nor I, this moment … there! Did you not hear it when the wind freshened?"
Giles shook his head. "I can't say that I did. Hello, there's a bell!"
Leyden laughed. "Or a bloodhound," he added. "Not a pleasant sound in this country and tinged with unhallowed memories. They are coming this way. Let us drive on."
Again, this time above the gritting of their wheels through the deep sand, there boomed out a deep, knell-like note. The sound was new to Giles; the bay of a foxhound was music in his ears. This also was music, but of a sort which made the hair bristle at the nape of his neck. Their horse pricked up his ears and snorted.
"They are not on the road," said Leyden, "they are going through the woods; let us wait. Perhaps you had better stand by the horse's head; he seems inclined to turn and bolt."
Giles stepped down and took the animal by the bridle. ​The horse stood quietly, but his neck began to sweat, despite the coolness of the air; his flanks quivered.
Again the deep-throated bay tolled through the piney woods. A ringing yell followed it; a wicked sound; the rebel yell. A moment later there came the thud of many hoofs on the soft turf and a troop of horsemen broke into the road. They were a savage group; tall, lean, saddle colored, with fierce, cruel eyes, drooping mustaches, and goatees. Some were full bearded, some smooth shaven; all savage, felt hatted, booted, spurred upon one heel, and carrying rifles, not slung as do the cowboys, but loose in the hand, resting on the saddle bow. The leader held in leash a single huge bloodhound.
As he struck the highway the hound paused and with wrinkled brow studied the mixed trails. He swung his great head, drooping eyes troubled, seeking to cast about for the lost trail, but the leash held him. The riders were examining Giles and Leyden. Strangers in that section were a curiosity.
"Evenin'," observed the leader. He was younger than the others, less ragged.
"Good evening," replied Dr. Leyden.
"Y' all ain't seen a loose nigger 'long the road?"
"No," replied Leyden, and Giles glancing at him was surprised to see him draw out a cigar, light it slowly, and drop the match, still burning, into the dry grass beside the road. He knew that Leyden never smoked at that time of day.
"What do you want the negro for?" asked Leyden, taking a puff of his cigar.
The men regarded him suspiciously. "What we allers want niggers for," snarled the leader half defiantly.
​"Wait a moment, friends." Leyden stepped from the wagon, drew out his kit bag, opened it——
"Look out, stranger!" called one of the "crackers," "y' all done set the grass afire!"
"Ah, so I did," said Leyden indifferently. He drew a bottle of whisky from his kit bag. Giles watched him wondering.
"My friend and I were just about to have a drink," observed Leyden. "You gentlemen look heated; won't you join us?" he advanced toward them, bottle in hand, a smile on his handsome face which would have beguiled St. Peter.
The mounted men looked puzzled—still, whisky was whisky. The leader looked yearningly at the bottle, hesitated, spat out his tobacco, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
"Seein' as you're so perlite," he began, when one of the others observed:
"Say, brother, this yere blaze is spreadin' right smart. Fust thing you know the hull woods 'll be afire."
"I believe you're right," said Leyden. "Here, my friend," he handed the bottle to the leader, retraced his steps, and proceeded to tread out the growing conflagration while Giles led the horse forward. Meantime the bottle passed from. hand to hand. Leyden retraced his steps, still stamping out the flickering flames which had burned almost to the feet of the cavalcade.
"That's the right stuff!" observed the leader with a smack of his thin, cruel lips. "Boys, I reck'n we'd best be gettin' on."
"What's your nigger done?" asked Leyden.
"Same ole story … white woman! We'll git 'im ​… wus'n that, he done tore up a pair o' my best dawgs."
"What!"
"Tew o' my dawgs come up on 'im an' he jes' natchully tore 'em to pieces! Man dear, he jes' made a swipe an' ripped 'em to pieces with his naked han's. He shore mus' be a honey!"
"Do you know who he is?"
"Not sartinly, but there was a big buck nigger seen on this yeah turnpike yesterday pintin' out fer Savannah. We seen his tracks back yonder by the branch and they shore were mons'trous. Come on, boys. Evenin', stranger; thank'ee kindly. Yip—yip—hoo-ee!"
The dog studied the ground earnestly, turned this way and that, worked toward the burnt patch, began to circle. For several minutes he moved slowly about, while Leyden and Giles watched. He reached the other side of the spot where Leyden had burned the grass; sniffed hungrily, then raised his grand head and gave voice to a deep and glorious bay.
"Wh-hoop-ee—ya-ya—yoo-ee—yip-yip!" shouted the men. The leader turned to Leyden and waved his arm.
"He's on!—that 'ere burned spot bothered 'im some. So long!"
"As I intended that it should," muttered Leyden.
"You knew that the man had passed that way?" gasped Giles.
"Certainly," snapped Leyden, for once curt with his favorite. "There were his tracks, large as life; almost large enough, in fact, to have been made by our unfortunate friend—Dessalines."