Humble Heroism by M. E. S.

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Feb 28, 1907

Humble Heroism

By M. E. S.

NEGROES frequently exhibit a wonderful heroism in times of danger. An incident of this I witnessed in the spring of 1886, when a great freshet in the Alabama River caused the country on each side to be overflowed by water for many miles around.

The negroes on the river plantations were the greatest sufferers. Their cabins would be under water almost before they knew that danger threatened them, and hundreds of them were sometimes found huddled together on some knoll sufficiently elevated to be above the water. There they often remained two or three days and nights without food, and exposed to the soaking rain. Fortunately the weather was not cold.

Many relief expeditions were sent out from the neighboring towns to rescue them. These consisted of one or more boats, manned by expert oarsmen and swimmers, and filled with cooked provisions, blankets, etc. One day the news came that the negroes on a certain plantation had sought refuge upon a corn barn, around which the water was rapidly rising, and so rendering their condition exceedingly precarious. Two boats started out at once to their assistance. In one of these I went, accompanied by a white man and a negro. Just before dark, we sighted the corn barn, upon which a mass of black humanity clustered like a swarm of bees. A heavy rain was now falling, and daylight was beginning to fade away. Their condition became most distressing, as they sat in perfect silence awaiting our approach.

But we did not appreciate their extreme peril until the boat struck against the frail log building, which was in the

water to the edge of the roof, and visibly shook and tottered. The poor creatures began to climb hurriedly down to the boat.

“Stop!” I cried. “The women and children first.”

The men obediently resumed their seats. We took in first the children, then the women, and were about to push off, telling the men we would hurry back for them as quickly as possible, or send the first boat we met, when a very old woman (I noticed she was the last to get in the boat, and had done so reluctantly) seized the corner of the house, and, looking anxiously into my face, said: “Marster, ain’t you gwine to take my old man?”

“No, auntie,” I answered, “the boat is too full now. He must wait till we come back.”

The words were hardly out of my mouth when, with a sudden spring, she was up, and on the roof again. It shook as she scrambled on it, and took her seat by a little, withered, old black man, whose hand she seized and held, as if she was afraid we would tear her away from him.

“Come, auntie,” I cried, “this won’t do. We can’t leave you here, and we can’t wait any longer for you.”

“Go on, marster,” she answered. “I thanks yer, en I pray de good Lawd to fetch you all safe home; but I’m gwine to stay wid my ole man. Ef Simon got to git drownded, Lyddy gwine git drownded, too. We dun bin togedder too long to part now.” And we had to leave her, after throwing some blankets and a lot of provisions to them.

As we rowed off in the rain and night, a high, falsetto voice, tremulous with age, came across the waters from the crib, where we left the almost certainly doomed group in the blackness of darkness. They dared not have a light for fear of setting fire to their frail support. We stopped our oars to listen to the song. It came clear and distinct. First, Lyddy’s trembling voice, and then a chorus of a dozen or more of the deep bass voices of the men:— > “We’re a clinging to de ark, > Take us in, take us in, > Fur de watah’s deep and dark, > Take us in, take us in, > Do de best is po’ en weak, > Take us in, take us in, > ’Tis de Lawd we gwinter seek, > Take us in, take us in, > Den, Lawd, hole out dy han’, > Take us in, take us in, > Draw de simnahs to de lan’, > Take us in, take us in,”

We could wait and listen no longer to the weird sound, but struck our oars in the water and hurried away.

Most fortunately, we came across a boat bent upon the same errand as ourselves, which went immediately to the barn, and saved all of its living freight. The building had apparently been held down by their weight, for, as the last one left it, it turned over, and floated away to the gulf.

Their rescuers told us afterward that, as they neared it, the first sound they heard was an old woman’s voice singing,— > “De Lawd is hyah’d our cry,” > > Answered by the men:— > > “Take us in, take us in, > En he’ll save us by en by, > Take us in, take us in.”

To this simple-hearted old creature divorce courts and separations were unknown. With her it was “until death do us part.”—M. E. S., in Our Dumb Animals.