Our World Or the Slaveholder's Daughter Part 28

THE scenes we have described in the foregoing chapter have not yet been brought to a close. In and about the tavern may be seen groups of men, in the last stage of muddled mellowness, the rank fumes of bad liquor making the very air morbid. Conclaves of grotesque figures are seated in the veranda and drinking-room, breaking the midnight stillness with their stifled songs, their frenzied congratulations, their political jargon; nothing of fatal consequence would seem to have happened.

"Did master send for me? You've risen from a rag shop, my man!"

interrupts the physician.

"Master there-sorry to see him sick-owns me." Harry cast a subdued look on the bed where lay his late purchaser.

Harry's appearance is not the most prepossessing,--he might have been taken for anything else but a minister of the gospel; though the quick eye of the southerner readily detected those frank and manly features which belong to a cla.s.s of very dark men who exhibit uncommon natural genius.

At the sound of Harry's voice, M'Fadden makes an effort to raise himself on his elbow. The loss of blood has so reduced his physical power that his effort is unsuccessful. He sinks back, prostrate,--requests the physician to a.s.sist him in turning over. He will face his preacher. Putting out his hand, he embraces him cordially,--motions him to be seated.

The black preacher, that article of men merchandise, takes a seat at the bed-side, while the man of medicine withdraws to the table. The summons is as acceptable to Harry as it is strange to the physician, who has never before witnessed so strange a scene of familiarity between slave and master. All is silent for several minutes. Harry looks at his master, as if questioning the motive for which he is summoned into his presence; and still he can read the deep anxiety playing upon M'Fadden's distorted countenance. At length, Harry, feeling that his presence may be intrusive, breaks the silence by enquiring if there is anything he can do for master. Mr. M'Fadden whispers something, lays his trembling hand on Harry's, casts a meaning glance at the physician, and seems to swoon. Returning to his bed-side, the physician lays his hand upon the sick man's brow; he will ascertain the state of his system.

"Give-him-his-Bible," mutters the wounded man, pointing languidly to the table. "Give it to him that he may ask G.o.d's blessing for me-for me-for me,--"

The doctor obeys his commands, and the wretch, heart bounding with joy, receives back his inspiring companion. It is dear to him, and with a smile of grat.i.tude invading his countenance he returns thanks. There is pleasure in that little book. "And now, Harry, my boy," says M'Fadden, raising his hand to Harry's shoulder, and looking imploringly in his face as he regains strength; "forgive what I have done. I took from you that which was most dear to your feelings; I took it from you when the wounds of your heart were gus.h.i.+ng with grief-" He makes an effort to say more, but his voice fails; he will wait a few moments.

The kind words touch Harry's feelings; tears glistening in his eyes tell how he struggles to suppress the emotions of his heart. "Did you mean my wife and children, master?" he enquires.

M'Fadden, somewhat regaining strength, replies in the affirmative.

He acknowledges to have seen that the thing "warn't just right." His imagination has been wandering through the regions of heaven, where, he is fully satisfied, there is no objection to a black face. G.o.d has made a great opening in his eyes and heart just now. He sees and believes such things as he neither saw nor believed before; they pa.s.s like clouds before his eyes, never, never to be erased from his memory. Never before has he thought much about repentance; but now that he sees heaven on one side and h.e.l.l on the other, all that once seemed right in bartering and selling the bodies and souls of men, vanishes. There, high above all, is the vengeance of heaven written in letters of blood, execrating such acts, and pointing to the retribution. It is a burning consciousness of all the suffering he has inflicted upon his negroes. Death, awful monitor! stares him in the face; it holds the stern realities of truth and justice before him; it tells him of the wrong,--points him to the right. The unbending mandates of slave law, giving to man power to debase himself with crimes the judicious dare not punish, are being consumed before Omnipotence, the warning voice of which is calling him to his last account.

And now the wounded man is all condescension, hoping forgiveness!

His spirit has yielded to Almighty power; he no longer craves for property in man; no, his coa.r.s.e voice is subdued into softest accents. He whispers "coloured man," as if the merchandise changed as his thoughts are brought in contact with revelations of the future.

"Take the Bible, my good boy-take it, read it to me, before I die.

Read it, that it may convert my soul. If I have neglected myself on earth, forgive me; receive my repentance, and let me be saved from eternal misery. Read, my dear good boy,"-M'Fadden grasps his hand tighter and tighter-"and let your voice be a warning to those who never look beyond earth and earth's enjoyments." The physician thinks his patient will get along until morning, and giving directions to the attendants, leaves him.

Harry has recovered from the surprise which so sudden a change of circ.u.mstances produced, and has drawn from the patient the cause of his suffering. He opens the restored Bible, and reads from it, to Mr. M'Fadden's satisfaction. He reads from Job; the words producing a deep effect upon the patient's mind.

The wretched preacher, whose white soul is concealed beneath black skin, has finished his reading. He will now address himself to his master, in the following simple manner.

"Master, it is one thing to die, and another to die happy. It is one thing to be prepared to die, another to forget that we have to die, to leave the world and its nothingness behind us. But you are not going to die, not now. Master, the Lord will forgive you if you, make your repentance durable. 'Tis only the fear of death that has produced the change on your mind. Do, master! learn the Lord; be just to we poor creatures, for the Lord now tells you it is not right to buy and sell us."

"Buy and sell you!" interrupts the frightened man, making an effort to rise from his pillow; "that I never will, man nor woman. If G.o.d spares my life, my people shall be liberated; I feel different on that subject, now! The difference between the commerce of this world and the glory of heaven brightens before me. I was an ignorant man on all religious matters; I only wanted to be set right in the way of the Lord,--that's all." Again he draws his face under the sheet, writhing with the pain of his wound.

"I wish everybody could see us as master does, about this time; for surely G.o.d can touch the heart of the most hardened. But master ain't going to die so soon as he thinks," mutters Harry, wiping the sweat from his face, as he lays his left hand softly upon master's arm. "G.o.d guide us in all coming time, and make us forget the retribution that awaits our sins!" he concludes, with a smile glowing on his countenance.

The half spoken words catch upon the patient's ear. He starts suddenly from his pillow, as if eager to receive some favourable intelligence. "Don't you think my case dangerous, my boy? Do you know how deep is the wound?" he enquires, his gla.s.sy eyes staring intently at Harry.

"It is all the same, master!" is the reply.

"Give me your hand again"-M'Fadden grasps his hand and seems to revive-"pray for me now; your prayers will be received into heaven, they will serve me there!"

"Ah, master," says Harry, kindly, interrupting him at this juncture, "I feel more than ever like a christian. It does my heart good to hear you talk so true, so kind. How different from yesterday! then I was a poor slave, forced from my children, with n.o.body to speak a kind word for me; everybody to reckon me as a good piece of property only. I forgive you, master-I forgive you; G.o.d is a loving G.o.d, and will forgive you also." The sick man is consoled; and, while his preacher kneels at his bed-side, offering up a prayer imploring forgiveness, he listens to the words as they fall like cooling drops on his burning soul. The earnestness--the fervency and pathos of the words, as they gush forth from the lips of a wretch, produce a still deeper effect upon the wounded man. Nay, there is even a chord loosened in his heart; he sobs audibly. "Live on earth so as to be prepared for heaven; that when death knocks at the door you may receive him as a welcome guest. But, master! you cannot meet our Father in heaven while the sin of selling men clings to your garments. Let your hair grow grey with justice, and G.o.d will reward you," he concludes.

"True, Harry; true!"--he lays his hand on the black man's shoulder, is about to rise--"it is the truth plainly told, and nothing more." He will have a gla.s.s of water to quench his thirst; Harry must bring it to him, for there is consolation in his touch. Seized with another pain, he grasps with his left hand the arm of his consoler, works his fingers through his matted hair, breathes violently, contorts his face haggardly, as if suffering acutely. Harry waits till the spasm has subsided, then calls an attendant to watch the patient while he goes to the well. This done he proceeds into the kitchen to enquire for a vessel. Having entered that department as the clock strikes two, he finds Ellen busily engaged preparing food for Mr.

M'Fadden's property, which is yet fast secured in the pen. Feeling himself a little more at liberty to move about unrestrained, he procures a vessel, fills it at the well, carries it to his master's bed-side, sees him comfortably cared for, and returns to the kitchen, where he will a.s.sist Ellen in her mission of goodness.

The little pen is situated a few yards from the tavern, on the edge of a clump of tall pines.

Ellen has got ready the corn and bacon, and with Harry she proceeds to the pen, where the property are still enjoying that inestimable boon,--a deep sleep.

"Always sleeping," he says, waking them one by one at the announcement of corn and bacon. "Start up and get something good my girl has prepared for you." He shakes them, while Ellen holds the lantern. There is something piercing in the summons-meats are strong arguments with the slave-they start from their slumbers, seize upon the food, and swallow it with great relish. Harry and Ellen stand smiling over the gusto with which they swallow their coa.r.s.e meal.

"You must be good boys to-night. Old master's sick; flat down on e'

back, and 'spects he's going to die, he does." Harry shakes his head as he tells it to the astonished merchandise. "Had a great time at the crossing to-day; killed two or three certain, and almost put master on the plank."

"'Twarn't no matter, nohow: n.o.body lose nofin if old Boss do die: n.i.g.g.e.r on e' plantation don' put e' hat in mournin'," mutters the negro woman, with an air of hatred. She has eaten her share of the meal, shrugs her shoulders, and again stretches her valuable body on the ground.

"Uncle Sparton know'd old Boss warn't gwine t' be whar de debil couldn't cotch 'em, so long as 'e tink. If dat old mas'r debil, what white man talk 'bout so much, don' gib 'em big roasting win 'e git 'e dah, better hab no place wid fireins fo' such folks," speaks up old Uncle Sparton, one of the negroes, whose face s.h.i.+nes like a black-balled boot.

"Neber mind dat, Uncle Sparton; 'taint what ye say 'bout he. Ven mas'r debil cotch old Boss 'e don't cotch no fool. Mas'r debil down yander find old Boss too tuf fo' he business; he jus' like old hoss what neber die," rejoins another.

In a word, M'Fadden had told his negroes what a great democrat he was-how he loved freedom and a free country-until their ideas of freedom became strangely mystified; and they ventured to a.s.sert that he would not find so free a country when the devil became his keeper. "Mas'r tink 'e carry 'e plantation t' t'oder world wid him, reckon," Uncle Sparton grumblingly concludes, joining the motley conclave of property about to resume its repose.

Ellen returns to the house. Harry will remain, and have a few words more with the boys. A few minutes pa.s.s, and Ellen returns with an armful of blankets, with which she covers the people carefully and kindly. How full of goodness-how touching is the act! She has done her part, and she returns to the house in advance of Harry, who stops to take a parting good-night, and whisper a word of consolation in their ears. He looks upon them as dear brothers in distress, objects for whom he has a fellow sympathy. He leaves them for the night; closes the door after him; locks it. He will return to Ellen, and enjoy a mutual exchange of feeling.

Scarcely has he left the door, when three persons, disguised, rush upon him, m.u.f.fle his head with a blanket, bind his hands and feet, throw him bodily into a waggon, and drive away at a rapid speed.

CHAPTER XXVI.

COMPEt.i.tION IN HUMAN THINGS.

IT is enough to inform the reader that Romescos and Mr. M'Fadden were not only rival bidders for this very desirable piece of preaching property, but, being near neighbours, had become inveterate enemies and fierce political opponents. The former, a reckless trader in men, women, and children, was a daring, unprincipled, and revengeful man, whose occupation seldom called him to his plantation; while the latter was notorious as a hard master and a cruel tyrant, who exacted a larger amount of labour from his negroes than his fellow planters, and gave them less to eat. His opinion was, that a peck of corn a week was quite enough for a negro; and this was his systematic allowance;--but he otherwise tempted the appet.i.tes of his property, by driving them, famished, to the utmost verge of necessity. Thus driven to predatory acts in order to sustain life, the advantages offered by Romescos'

swamp-generally well sprinkled with swine-were readily appropriated to a very good use.

Under covert of Romescos' absence, Mr. M'Fadden had no very scrupulous objection to his negroes foraging the amply provided swamp,--provided, however, they did the thing on the sly, were careful whose porker they dispatched, and said nothing to him about the eating. In fact, it was simply a matter of economy with Mr.

M'Fadden; and as Romescos had a great number of the obstinate brutes, it saved the trouble of raising such undignified stock.

Finding, however, that neighbour M'Fadden, or his predatory negroes-such they were called-were laying claim to more than a generous share of their porks.h.i.+ps, Romescos thought it high time to put the thing down by a summary process. But what particularly "riled" Romescos in this affair of the hogs was, that M'Fadden's negroes were not content with catching them in an honourable way, but would do it through the agency of nasty cur-dogs, which he always had despised, and held as unfit even to hunt n.i.g.g.e.rs with.

Several times had he expressed his willingness to permit a small number of his grunters to be captured for the benefit of his neighbour's half-starved negroes, provided, always, they were hunted with honourable hound-dogs. He held such animals in high esteem, while curs he looked upon with utter contempt; he likened the one to the chivalrous old rice-planter, the other to a pettifogging schoolmaster fit for nothing but to be despised and shot. With these feelings he (Romescos) declared his intention to kill the very first negro he caught in his swamp with cur-dogs; and he kept his word.

Lying in ambush, he would await their approach, and, when most engaged in appropriating the porkers, rush from his hiding-place, shoot the dogs, and then take a turn at the more exhilarating business of shooting the negroes. He would, with all possible calmness, command the frightened property to approach and partake of his peculiar mixture, administered from his double-barrel gun.

That the reader may better understand Romescos' process of curing this malady of his neighbour's negroes, we will give it as related by himself. It is a curious mode of dispatching negro property; the reader, however, cannot fail to comprehend it. "Plantin' didn't suit my notions o' gittin' rich, ye see, so I spec'lates in n.i.g.g.e.r property, and makes a better thing on't. But there's philosophy about the thing, and a body's got t' know the hang on't afore he can twist it out profitably; so I keeps a sort of a plantation just to make a swell; cos ye got to make a splash to be anybody down south.

Can't be a gentleman, ye see, 'cept ye plants cotton and rice; and then a feller what's got a plantation in this kind of a way can be a gentleman, and do so many other bits of trade to advantage. The thing works like the handle of a pump; and then it makes a right good place for raising young n.i.g.g.e.rs, and gettin' old uns trimmed up. With me, the worst thing is that old screwdriver, M'Fadden, what don't care no more for the wear and tear of a n.i.g.g.e.r than nothin', and drives 'em like as many steam-engines he thinks he can keep going by feeding on saw-dust. He han't no conception o' n.i.g.g.e.r const.i.tution, and is just the worst sort of a chap that ever c.u.m south to get a fortune. Why, look right at his n.i.g.g.e.rs: they look like crows after corn-shuckin. Don't give 'em no meat, and the critters must steal somethin' t' keep out o' the bone-yard. Well, I argers the case with Mack, tells him how t'll be atween he and me on this thing, and warns him that if he don't chunk more corn and grease into his n.i.g.g.e.rs, there 'll be a ruptous fuss. But he don't stand on honour, as I does, especially when his property makes a haul on my swamp of shoats. I an't home often; so the hogs suffer; and Mack's n.i.g.g.e.rs get the pork. This 'ere kind o'

business"--Romescos maintains the serious dignity of himself the while--"don't go down nohow with me; so Mack and me just has a bit of a good-natured quarrel; and from that we gets at daggers' points, and I swears how I'll kill the first n.i.g.g.e.r o' his'n what steals hogs o' mine. Wouldn't a cared a sous, mark ye, but it c.u.m crossways on a feller's feelins to think how the 'tarnal n.i.g.g.e.rs had no more sense than t' hunt hogs o' mine with cur-dogs: bin hounds, honourable dogs, or respectable dogs what 'll do to hunt n.i.g.g.e.rs with, wouldn't a cared a toss about it; but-when-I-hears-a cur-dog yelp, oh! hang me if it don't set my sensations all on pins, just as somethin' was crucifyin' a feller. I warns and talks, and then pleads like a lawyer what's got a bad case; but all to no end o'

reformin' Mack's morals,--feller han't got no sense o' reform in him.

So I sets my n.i.g.g.e.rs on the scent-it gives 'em some fun-and swears I'll kill a n.i.g.g.e.r for every hog he steals. This I concludes on; and I never backs out when once I fixes a conclusion.

"Hears the infernal cur-dog's yelp, yelp, yelp, down in the swamp; then I creeps through the jungle so sly, lays low till the fellers c.u.m up, all jumpin'-pig ahead, then dogs, n.i.g.g.e.rs follerin', puffin'

and blowin', eyes poppin' out, 'most out o' breath, just as if they tasted the sparerib afore they'd got the critter.