The
bustle of the day is just commencing, and the half-mantled ships,
lying unmoved at the wharfs, give out signs of activity. The new
comer is about to move on up the wharf, when suddenly he is accosted
by a negro, who, in ragged garb, touches his hat politely, and says,
with a smile, "Yer sarvant, mas'r!"
"Your name, my boy?" returns the man, in a kind tone of voice. The
negro, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his old sack
coat, seems contemplating an answer. He has had several names, both
surname and Christian; names are but of little value to a slave.
"Pompe they once called me, but da' calls me Bill now," he answers,
eyeing the stranger, suspiciously. "Pompe, Pompe! I've heard that
name: how familiar it sounds!" the stranger says to himself.
"One mas'r call me Turtle Tom," rejoins the negro, scratching his
head the while.
"Turtle Tom!" reiterates the stranger. "Had you no other name
coupled with Pompe, when that was the name by which you were
recognised?"
The negro will not wait his finishing the sentence. He says he had
good old mas'r's name; but good old mas'r-"so dey tells"-dead and
gone long time ago. "His name was Marston; and dat war dis child's
name den, God bless 'um!" he answers the stranger.
"Marston, who lived on the banks of the Ashley?" again he enquires,
as his face crimsons with excitement.
"Dat war my mas'r; and dem war good old times when I lived dar,"
returns the negro, significantly nodding his head.
Pages:
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669