Chapter IV: A Queer Character

The impression produced upon me by this encounter was far from agreeable. It was, in truth, of the very opposite character. There was something in the style of the man we had met--both in his speech and demeanor--that provoked a feeling of indignation, as almost necessary to self-respect; and I had felt this from the moment of meeting him. Though neither word nor nod had passed between us, there was that in his regard which told me of an instinctive antagonism in our natures, and that he also felt it as I. I could see that he was what, in the Southern States, is termed a "bully." Its broad arrow was upon him--unmistakably impressed on his countenance, as well as in the way in which he carried himself. There was a swagger that seemed intended to conceal the award. For all that, there was something in the rounded stoop of his shoulders, and the short, thick neck, that bespoke a courage sufficient for crime, and it did not require the butt of a pistol, protruding from his breast pocket, nor the hilt of a bowie-knife, shining among his shirt-ruffles, to tell that he was ready to use either weapon upon slight provocation, or perhaps without any at all.

It was the sight of these ugly _insignia_, carried so ostentatiously, that had produced my first feeling of aversion--soon strengthened, however, by the bantering tone in which he talked to my young companion, who appeared to treat him with more civility than he deserved.

More than all, the free, familiar way in which he spoke of the young planter's sister--which the latter did not appear to relish--this and the glances given to myself, had prepared me for a very surly conversation, had one been commenced between us. Indeed, had the interview lasted much longer, with the interchange of a few more such looks, the bad blood between us would have found expression in speech. As it was, we parted in mutual dislike, on both sides as clearly understood as though it had been spoken.

"Who is your swearing friend?" I asked, knowing that the question so put was not likely to give offense.

"Not much friend of mine."

"Nor of your father's, I should say?"

"Father can't bear the sight of him."

"An old acquaintance, I suppose? He appears to be familiar with your affairs."

I was thinking more of the mode in which he had spoken of Miss Woodley than of any thing else. The remark made about not having seen her, had jarred upon my ear. Why should he have said this at all? And why had the brother appeared to dislike it?

"Oh, yes. He is an old acquaintance," replied the young planter; "and ought to know a good deal of our affairs--at least until lately. I may say we were brought up together. His plantation adjoined ours--what once was his. That's what he meant by saying he was out to have a look at the old place."

"It is no longer his, you say?"

"No, the land now belongs to us."

"Oh, indeed!"

"Yes. Nat has been what in Tennessee we call a "wild blood," if not something worse. He never would keep straight, nor stay among his own sort. He was always given to queer company--among the poor white trash, and what between spending money at their cock-fights, 'quarter-races,' and 'candy-pullings,' he soon went through what was left of his father's plantation. It wasn't much, as his father before him was a good deal given the same way. The place came to the hammer; and, as it adjoined ours, my father bought it, along with some of the niggers. They tell queer stories about Nat, these same darkies. If only half be true, the less one knows of him the better. I only wonder that my brother gives him the encouragement he does."

"Your brother?"

"Yes. His plantation in Mississippi is not far from that you've heard Bradley speak of, where he can grow such crops of cotton. He appears to be getting rich again. My brother says so in his letters. Nearly a hundred niggers, and always a pocket full of money. How he got the start nobody can tell; but I think one might find out if they were to frequent the gambling-houses of New Orleans. Brother says he goes down there every winter, stays only a short time, and comes back to his plantation loaded down with dollars. Last year he bought no less than fifty field hands for his plantation. You've been to Orleans, you say?"

"I have."

"A terrible place for gambling, ain't it?"

"You are quite right."

"No doubt that explains how Mr. Nat Bradley started his new plantation. If it's 'poker' they play, there's not many will stand a chance with him. He had the name here when a boy, of beating even his father's own niggers at it."

"What! was he accustomed to play with them?"

"With any one who had a 'bit' to bet upon the game. That was before he went away. He was poor enough then, for he hung about here long after he had lost the plantation--cock-fighting, drinking, quarreling--some say worse. So, stranger, after what I've told you, you won't wonder at my being a little cool with Nat Bradley, though he has been my school-fellow."

"On the contrary, I think you act very properly in keeping him at a distance."

"I wish brother Henry would do the same."

"What reason have you for thinking he does not?"

"Oh! plenty of reason. Henry receives him at his house, and he has even the impudence to talk to 'Corneel,' as you have heard him call my sister. Down in Mississippi State they have queer ways. As you may know, most of the Choctaw lands there, were settled by 'speculators,' and they're not very particular as to what a man is, so long as he makes money. Brother's an easy sort of fellow, and don't much mind what kind he goes with, if he can only get his fill of hunting. It was nothing else he moved to the Mississippi for; though he don't like to own to it. We see only a stray bear upon Duck, and deer are getting scarce, while both are still plenty in the canebrakes of the Mississippi bottom. But come, sir, you'll no doubt think me an inhospitable traveling companion; and our horses will have a sorry opinion of both of us. Here's old Spicer's tavern, where we stand some chance of getting a dinner, and in the cool of the evening we can ride on to Columbia."

We dismounted under the swing sign of the "Lafayette Hotel;" and, after a little "sweetening," prevailed upon _Major_ Spicer--a Tennessee tavern-keeper would not be of inferior grade--to consent that one of his darkies should take care of our horses, and that we ourselves might partake of the hospitality of the Lafayette Hotel--consisting of sweet potatoes and "pone" bread--fried pork and apple "sass," with a stirrup cup of peach-brandy, to strengthen us for continuing our journey.