A Girl's Life in Virginia before the War Part 12

"I could not think of it," she replied. "I have determined never to sell one of my servants."

"But," continued the man, "he is anxious to go, and has sent me to beg you."

"It is impossible," said she, "for he is a great favorite with us, and the only child his mother has."

Finding her determined, the man took his leave, and went back to the town, twenty-five miles off; but returned next day accompanied by Robert, who entreated his mother and mistress to let him go.

Said my mother to him: "Would you leave your mother and go with a stranger to a foreign land?"

"Yes, madam. I love my mother, an' you an' all de fambly--you always been so good to me--but I want travel, an' dis gent'man say he give me plenty o' money an' treat me good, too."

Still she refused. But the boy's mother, finally yielding to his entreaty, consented, and persuaded her mistress, saying: "If he is willing to leave me, and so anxious to go, I will give him up."

Knowing how distressed we all would be at parting with him, he went off without coming to say "good-by," and wrote his mother from New York what day he would sail with his new master for Europe.

At first his mother received from him presents and letters, telling her he was very much delighted, and "had as much money as he knew what to do with." But after a few months he ceased to write, and we could hear nothing from him.

At length, when eighteen months had elapsed, we were one day astonished to see him return home, dressed in the best Parisian style.

We were rejoiced to see him again, and his own joy at getting back cannot be described. He ran over the yard and house, examining everything, and said: "Mistess, I aint see no place pretty as yours, an' no lady look to me like you in all de finest places I bin see in Europ', an' no water tas'e good like de water in our ole well. An' I dream 'bout you all, an' 'bout ev'y ole chur an' table in dis house, an' wonder ef uvver I'd see 'um ag'in."

He then gave us a sketch of his life since the "gold-tipped man" had become his master. Arrived in Paris, his master and himself took lodgings, and a teacher was employed to come every day and instruct Robert in French. His master kept him well supplied with money, never giving him less than fifty dollars at a time. His duties were light, and he had ample time to study and amuse himself.

After enjoying such elegant ease for eight or nine months he awoke one morning and found himself deserted and penniless! His master had absconded in the night, leaving no vestige of himself except a gold dressing-case and a few toilet articles of gold, which were seized by the proprietor of the hotel in payment of his bill.

Poor Robert, without money and without a friend in this great city, knew not where to turn. In vain he wished himself back in his old home.

"If I could only find some Virginian to whom I could appeal," said he to himself. And suddenly it occurred to him that the American Minister, Mr. Mason, was a Virginian. When he remembered this, his heart was cheered, and he lost no time in finding Mr. Mason's house.

Presenting himself before the American Minister, he related his story, which was not at first believed. "For," said Mr. Mason, "there are so many impostors in Paris it is impossible to believe you."

Robert protested he had been a slave in Virginia, had been deserted by his owner in Paris, and begged Mr. Mason to keep him at his house, and take care of him.

Then Mr. M. asked many questions about people and places in Virginia, all of which were accurately answered. Finally he said: "I knew well the Virginia gentleman who was, you say, your master. What was the color of his hair?" This was also satisfactorily answered, and Robert began to hope he was believed, when Mr. Mason continued:

"Now, there is one thing which, if you can do, will convince me you came from Virginia. Go in my kitchen and make me some old Virginia beat biscuit, and I will believe everything you have said!"

"I think I kin, sir," said Robert, and, going into the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and set to work.

This was a desperate moment, for he had never made a biscuit in his life, although he had often watched the proceeding as "Black Mammy,"

the cook at home, used to beat, roll, and manipulate the dough on her biscuit-box.

"If I only could make them look like hers!" thought he, as he beat, and rolled, and worked, and finally stuck the dough all over with a fork. Then, cutting them out and putting them to bake, he watched them with nervous anxiety until they resembled those he had often placed on the table at home.

Astonished and delighted with his success, he carried them to the American Minister, who exclaimed: "Now I _know_ you came from old Virginia!"

Robert was immediately installed in Mr. John Y. Mason's house, where he remained a faithful attendant until Mr. Mason's death, when he returned with the family to America.

Arriving at New York, he thought it impossible to get along by himself, and determined to find his master. For this purpose he employed a policeman, and together they succeeded in recovering "the lost master,"--this being a singular instance of a "slave in pursuit of his fugitive master."

The "gold-tipped man" expressed much pleasure at his servant's fidelity, and, handing him a large sum of money, desired him to return to Paris, pay his bill, bring back his gold dressing-box and toilet articles, and, as a reward for his fidelity, take as much money as he wished and travel over the Continent.

Robert obeyed these commands, returned to Paris, paid the bills, traveled over the chief places in Europe, and then came again to New York. Here he was appalled to learn that his master had been arrested for forgery, and imprisoned in Philadelphia. It was ascertained that the forger was an Englishman and connected with an underground forging establishment in Paris. Finding himself about to be detected in Paris, he fled to New York, and, other forgeries having been discovered in Philadelphia, he had been arrested.

Robert lost no time in reporting himself at the prison, and was grieved to find his master in such a place.

Determined to do what he could to relieve the man who had been a good friend to him, he went to a Philadelphia lawyer, and said to him: "Sir, the man who is in prison bought me in Virginia, and has been a kind master to me; I have no money, but if you will do your best to have him acquitted, I will return to the South, sell myself, and send you the money."

"It is a bargain," replied the lawyer. "Send me the money, and I will save your master from the penitentiary."

Robert returned to Baltimore, sold himself to a Jew in that city, and sent the money to the lawyer in Philadelphia. After this he was bought by a distinguished Southern Senator--afterward a general in the Southern army[17]--with whom he remained, and to whom he rendered valuable services during the war.

[17] General Robert Toombs.

Other instances were known of negroes who preferred being sold into slavery rather than take care of themselves. There were some in our immediate neighborhood who, finding themselves emanc.i.p.ated by their master's will, begged the owners of neighboring plantations to buy them, saying they preferred having "white people to take care of them." On the Wheatly plantation, not far from us, there is still living an old negro who sold himself in this way, and cannot be persuaded _now_ to accept his freedom. After the war, when all the negroes were freed by the Federal government, and our people were too much impoverished longer to clothe and feed them, this old man refused to leave the plantation, but clung to his cabin, although his wife and family moved off and begged him to accompany them.

"No," said he, "I nuvver will leave dis plantation, an' go off to starve wid free n.i.g.g.e.rs."

Not even when his wife was very sick and dying could he be persuaded to go off and stay one night with her. He had long been too old to work, but his former owners indulged him by giving him his cabin, and taking care of him through all the poverty which has fallen upon our land since the war.

Many of us remember this old man, Harrison Mitch.e.l.l, who was an unusual character, high-toned and reliable. His father was an Indian and his mother a negress. He resembled the Indian, with straight black hair, brown skin, and high cheek-bones. His great pride was that he had "c.u.m out de Patrick Henry estate an use to run a freight boat wid flour down de Jeemes Ruver fum Lynchbu'g to Richmon' long fo' dar was a sign o' town at Lynch's Ferry." But his great and consuming theme, especially after the war, was the impossibility of the negroes taking care of themselves "bedout no white man," and nothing ever reconciled him to his own freedom. Taking his seat in our back porch, where my mother usually entertained him, we would a.s.semble to hear him talk. I would ask: "Well, Uncle Harrison, what do you think of freedom now after ten years?"

"Lord, mistess, what I t'ink o' freedom? Why, mistess, dese n.i.g.g.e.rs is no mo' kakalate to take kur o' deyselves dan 'possum. An' I tells 'em so. Kase what is a n.i.g.g.e.r bedout white man? He aint nuthin', an' he aint gwine be nuthin' no ways dey fix it. An' dey aint gwine stay free, kase de Lord nuvver 'tends 'um to be nuthin' bedout white folks.

Kase ev'ybody know n.i.g.g.e.r aint got no hade. I nuvver want no n.i.g.g.e.r be takin' kur o' me. I looks to my white folks to take kur o' me. I 'lonks to Mars' Robert an' aint gwine lef his plantation tell I die.

What right Yankees got settin' me free, an' den karn't take kur o' me?

No! n.i.g.g.e.rs is n.i.g.g.e.rs, an' gwine be n.i.g.g.e.rs, an' white folks got to take kur on 'em tell end o' screeation. An' der Lord gwine put ev'y single one on 'em back in slavery jes' as sure as you born."

True to his word, old Harrison refused to wear an article of clothing "ef de white folks didn't give it to him." And his daughter, wis.h.i.+ng to give him a blanket, asked her former young mistress to let him think it was from _her_, or he would not take it.

At last "Mars' Robert" was on his deathbed. Old Harrison went in to see him for the last time.

"Mars' Robert," said he, "I got one reques' to make fo' you die."

"What is it?" asked his master.

"Mars' Robert, I want to be buried right outside de gate o' de garden lot where you an' Miss Lucy is buried, so I kin see you fus' on de mornin' o' de resurrection."

"Harrison, you shall be buried _inside_ the lot with us," replied "Mars' Robert" distinctly, and a lady who heard it told me she never saw such radiant happiness as the old man's face expressed when these words fell on his ear.

CHAPTER XVII.

O bright-winged peace! long didst thou rest o'er the homes of old Virginia; while cheerful wood fires blazed on hearth-stones in parlor and cabin, reflecting contented faces with hearts full of peace and good will toward men! No thought entered there of harm to others; no fear of evil to ourselves. Whatsoever things were honest, whatsoever things were pure, whatsoever things were gentle, whatsoever things were of good report, we were accustomed to hear around these parlor firesides; and often would our grandmothers say:

"Children, ours is a blessed country! There never will be another war!