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"Of course you would. You know that very well. You've too much sense to remember that against me now. Besides, if you are not willing to do this I shall have to sell you South to keep you out of the hands of the Yanks." Mr, Desmit knew how to manage "niggers," and full well understood the terrors of being "sold South."
The said Winburn was a speculator in slaves who had long been the agent of Desmit in marketing his human crop, and who, in the very last hours of the Confederacy, was willing to risk a few dollars on the result. As he well stated it to himself, it was only staking one form of loss against another. He paid Confederate money for a runaway negro.
There were some in the company, it seems, who were disappointed at not finding the black desperado, Nimbus Desmit, who was organizing his depraved followers to burn, kill, and ravish, and proposed to administer a moderate whipping to the fellow Eliab, who was really supposed to be at the bottom of all the other's rascality.
He was glad that there was a law for him a law that put him on the level with his old master and meditated gratefully, as he rode home, on what the nation had wrought in his behalf since the time when "Marse Desmit" had sent him along that very road with an order to "Marse Ware" to give him "twenty lashes well laid on."
"I do wish to treat with the General," said Desmit, thinking he saw a chance to put in a favorable word. "An' d'ye hear that, b'ys? Shure the gintleman wants to thrate the Gineral. Faith it'll be right glad the auld b'y'll be of a dhrap of somethin' good down here in the pine woods."
One who looked upon the scene thinks of it always when he reads of the last great day the boundless flame the fervent heat the shouts the thousands like the sands of the sea all are not to be forgotten until the likeness merges into the dread reality! The Irishman touched Desmit as he leaned against the pine. "War that yours, misther?" he asked, not unkindly. Desmit nodded affirmatively.
He rightly judged that the general estimate of its poverty would incline the owner to part with a considerable tract at a very moderate price, especially if he were in need of ready money, as Colonel Desmit was then reputed to be, on account of the losses he had sustained by the results of the war.
The speakers were the black baby whom Desmit had christened Nimbus, grown straight and strong, and just turning his first score on the scale of life, and Colonel Desmit, grown a little older, a little grayer, a little fuller, and a great deal richer if only the small cloud of war just rising on the horizon would blow over and leave his possessions intact.
Dis yer boy Lone Axylone, Marse Desmit called him, but we calls him Lone for short he's gwine on fo'; dis yer gal Wicey, she's two past; and dis little brack cuss Lugena's a-holdin' on, we call Cap'n, kase he bosses all on us he's nigh 'bout a year; an' dat's all."
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