• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

George didn’t really realize the full gravity of what had almost happened in Charleston until, after another two weeks—despite Uncle Mingo’s warning—he found himself unable to resist any longer the temptation to slip out for a visit with one of his girl-friends. Impulsively, he decided to favor Charity this time, swayed by memories of what a tigress she always was with him. After waiting to hear Uncle Mingo’s snoring, he went loping for nearly an hour across the fields until he reached the concealing pecan grove from which he always whistled his whippoorwill call to her. When he’d whistled four times without seeing the familiar “come ahead” signal of a lighted candle waved briefly in Charity’s window, he began to worry. Just when he was about to leave his hiding place and sneak on in anyway, he saw movement in the trees ahead of him. It was Charity. George rushed forward to embrace her, but she permitted him only the briefest hug and kiss before pushing him away.

“What’sa matter, baby?” he demanded, so aroused by her musky body aroma that he hardly heard the quavering in her voice.

“You de bigges’ fool, slippin’ roun’ now, many niggers as gittin’ shot by paterollers!”

“Well, le’s git on in yo’ cabin, den!” said George, throwing an arm around her waist. But she moved away again.

“You act like you ain’t even heared ’bout no uprisin’!”

“I know was one, dat’s all—”

“I tell you ’bout it, den” and Charity said she overheard her massa and missis saying that the ringleader, a Bible-reading free black Charleston carpenter named Denmark Vesey, had spent years in planning before confiding in four close friends who helped him to recruit and organize hundreds of the city’s free and slave blacks. Four heavily armed groups of them had only awaited the signal to seize arsenals and other key buildings, while others would burn all they could of the city and kill every white they saw. Even a horse company of black drivers would go dashing wildly about in drays, carts, and wagons to confuse and obstruct white people from assembling. “But dat Sunday mornin’ some scairt nigger tol’ his massa what s’posed to happen dat midnight, den white mens was all over, catchin’, beatin’, an’ torturin’ niggers to tell who was de uprisers. Dey’s done hung over thirty of ’em by now, an’ ever’where dey’s throwin’ de fear o’ Gawd into niggers, jes’ like dey’s doin’ roun’ here now, but ’specially in South Ca’liny. Done run out Charleston’s free niggers an ’burnt dey houses, de nigger preachers, too, an’ locked up dey churches, claimin’ dat ’stid o’ preachin’, dey’s been teachin’ niggers to read an’ write—”

George had renewed his efforts to start her moving toward the cabin. “Ain’t you been listenin’ to me?” she said, highly agitated. “You git home fo’ you’s seed an’ shot by some dese paterollers!”

George protested that inside her cabin was safety from any paterollers, as well as relief of his passion for her, which had caused him to risk being shot already.

“Done tol’ you, NAW!”

Exasperated, George finally shoved her roughly backward. “Well, g’wan, den!” And bitterly he went loping back the way he had come, wishing furiously that he had gone to Beulah’s instead, because it was too late to go there now.

In the morning, George said to Mingo, “Went up to see my mammy las’ night, an’ Miss Malizy was tellin’ me what she been hearin’ massa tellin’ missis ’bout dat uprisin’—” Unsure if Mingo would believe that story, he went on anyway, telling what Charity had said, and the old man listened intently. Finishing, George asked, “How come niggers herebouts gittin’ shot at ’bout sump’n clear in South Ca’liny, Uncle Mingo?”

Uncle Mingo thought awhile before he said, “All white folks scairt us niggers sometime gwine organize an’ rise up together—” He snorted derisively. “But niggers ain’t gwine never do nothin’ together.” He reflected for another moment. “But dis here shootin’ an’ killin’ you talk ’bout gwine ease up like it always do, soon’s dey’s kilt