The Dan River in Virginia. Photo by Mark Davis. About the photograph
Dan River at this place is a wide, shallow stream, with a swift current, perfectly safe to cross if one is acquainted with the ford. There were piles of stones placed at intervals across it, to guide the traveler, but it was difficult to see them by starlight, and when I got to the middle of the river I lost sight of them.
I thought I had got into deep water and that my mare was swimming — I seemed to go so swiftly and easily — but I soon discovered it was my head that was swimming, and that the animal was standing still. I had involuntarily checked her by my tight hold on the reins. Casting my eye across the river I pushed ahead, and in a few moments was below the ford and in deep water. My animal swam out with me nicely, but I got a good wetting.
Reaching the opposite shore, I alighted, and pulling off my shoes, wrung the water from my stockings and pantaloons as well as I could. I then rubbed the limbs of the mare, and after giving her some oats on a smooth stone, and partaking of some food from my store in the saddle-bags, I mounted again, and set off at greater speed. Now and then I drew rein in front of a house by the wayside, and calling somebody out of bed, inquired the road to Patrick Court-House. After receiving directions, I rode on before the people had time to question me.
Just at daybreak I came to a log-house with a tavern sign. Calling the man out, I inquired about the road and found I had traveled forty-seven miles. The man told me if I would stop an hour or two, I would have company on my journey, a gentleman who had stopped with him that night and was going the same road, adding:
“He is in pursuit of some movers who have one of his negroes with them.”
I made some excuse and pushed on. I knew that it was Osborne and that I was now ahead of him, but the next thought was — can I keep ahead of him? I was satisfied that I could not; I had traveled all night and my animal was tired, while his had rested through the night and would be fresh for the journey. I had taken good care of my mare, giving her a light feed of oats several times during the night and rubbing her legs frequently; she seemed in good condition, but I did not think it would be possible to push ahead and reach my uncle’s wagon before Osborne overtook me.
Many anxious thoughts passed through my excited mind, and finally I fixed on a plan. I would stop at the next tavern, which was a few miles ahead, feed my mare, get breakfast and rest a few hours, thus allowing Osborne to overtake me. I knew him by sight but did not think he knew me, as we had never had any acquaintance. I intended to travel awhile in his company and find out his plans, then make an excuse for taking another road, and fall back while he went on, then pass him in the night when he was at some tavern.
Public houses were scarce in that poor and thinly settled part of Virginia, and private houses would not take in travelers, because the law of the State did not allow them to charge for entertainment without obtaining license. It was half past eight o’clock when I halted at the next tavern, and called for breakfast, and food for my horse. About nine o’clock Osborne rode up and stopped for the same purpose. It was the custom then, in traveling on horseback, to make an early start, and stop about nine o’clock for breakfast.
Osborne went to the bar and called for liquor and invited me to drink with him — though I was a stranger to him — but I declined. After breakfast he inquired which way I was traveling. I told him that I was going west, would cross the mountain at Maberry’s Gap, then take the left-hand road, leading to Burk’s Forks. At that place my Uncle Samuel Stanley had a stock farm where he kept a number of cattle through the winter, allowing them to fatten on the range during the summer. I said:
“Last fall I went over there and helped my Cousin Jessie Stanley drive a drove of beef cattle home to Guilford County, then we crossed the mountain at Bell Spur, but I thought I would cross this time at Maberry’s Gap.”
Osborne inquired: “Is your name Stanley?”
“No, it is Coffin.”
“Are you any relation to old Mr. Bethuel Coffin?”
“Yes, he is my uncle.”
“Well, I am in pursuit of him.”
“What is the matter?”
“Why, he has one of my niggers with him, taking him to Indiana, I suppose.”
“How is that?” I asked, assuming great surprise; “how did he get the negro? I saw him start and there was none with him then.”
“Oh, I don’t think he stole the nigger,” said Osborne; then he went on to relate the story that has been told before, how he supposed his negro had got free papers, and imposed on my uncle.
Osborne now supposed my only business was the journey to Burk’s Fork; I had certainly deceived him, but told no untruth. He had taken several drinks, and now became very jovial and familiar with me, expressing great satisfaction that I was going the same road; it was lonesome traveling through that rough, thinly settled country, and he was glad to have my company. His pocket-bottle was filled with whisky; then our horses were brought to the door, and we started off together.
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