Peculiar: A Tale of the Great Transition

“Allow slavery to be ever so humane. Grant that the man who owns me is ever so kind. The wrong of him who presumes to talk of owning me is too unmeasured to be softened by kindness.”

Laura Tremaine had just come in from a drive with her invalid mother, and stood in the drawing-room looking out on a company of soldiers. There was a knock at the door. A servant brought in a card. It said, “Will Laura see Darling?” The arrival, concurring so directly with Laura’s wishes, caused a pleasurable shock. “Show her in,” she said; and the next moment the maidens were locked in each other’s embrace.

“O, you dear little good-for-nothing Darling,” said Laura, after there had been a conflux of kisses. “Could anything be more apropos? What’s the meaning of all this? Have you really absconded? Is it a love affair? Tell me all about it. Rely on my secrecy. I’ll be close as bark to a tree.”

“Will you solemnly promise,” said Clara, “on your honor as a lady, not to reveal what I tell you?”

“As I hope to be saved, I promise,” replied Laura.

“Then I will tell you the cause of my leaving Mrs. Gentry’s. ’T was only day before yesterday she told me,—look at me, Laura, and say if I look like it!—she told me I was a slave.”

“A slave? Impossible! Why, Darling, you’ve a complexion whiter than mine.”

“So have many slaves. The hue of my skin will not invalidate a claim.”

“That’s true. But who presumes to claim you?”

“Mr. Carberry Ratcliff.”

“A friend of my father’s! He’s very rich. I’ll ask him to give you up. Let me go to him at once.”

“No, Laura, I’ve seen the man. ’T would be hopeless to try to melt him. You must help me to get away.”

“But you do not mean,—surely you do not mean to—to—”

“To what, Laura? You seem gasping with horror at some frightful supposition. What is it?”

“You’d not think of running off, would you? You wouldn’t ask me to harbor a fugitive slave?”

Clara looked at the door. The color flew to her cheek,—flamed up to her forehead. Her bosom heaved. Emotions of unutterable detestation and disgust struggled for expression. But had she not learnt the slave’s first lesson, duplicity? Her secret had been confided to one who had forthwith showed herself untrustworthy. Bred in the heartless fanaticism which slavery engenders, Laura might give the alarm and have her stopped, should she rise suddenly to go. Farewell, then, white-robed Candor, and welcome Dissimulation!

After a pause, “What do you advise?” said Clara.

“Well, Darling, stay with me a week or two, then go quietly back to Mrs. Gentry’s, and play the penitent.”

“Hadn’t I better go at once?” asked Clara, simulating meekness.

“O no, Darling! I can’t possibly permit that. Now I’ve got you, I shall hold on till I’ve done with you. Then we’ll see if we can’t persuade Mr. Ratcliff to free you. Who’d have thought of this little Darling being a slave!”

“But hadn’t I better write to Mrs. Gentry and tell her where I am?”

“No, no. She’ll only be forcing you back. You shall do nothing but stay here till I tell you you may go. You shall play the lady for one week, at least. There’s a Mr. Vance in the house, to whom I’ve spoken of your singing. He’s wild to hear you. I’ve promised him he shall. I wouldn’t disappoint him on any account.”

Clara saw that, could she but command courage to fall in with Laura’s selfish plans, it might, after all, be safer to come thus into the very focus of the city’s life, than to seek some corner, penetrable to police-officers and slave-hunters.

“How will you manage?” asked Clara.

“What more simple?” replied Laura. “I’ll take you right into my sleeping-room; you shall be my schoolmate, Miss Brown, come to pass a few days with me before going to St. Louis. Papa will never think of questioning my story.”

“But I’ve no dresses with me.”

“No matter. I’ve a plenty I’ve outgrown. They’ll fit you beautifully. Come here into my sleeping-room. It adjoins, you see. There! We’re about of a height, though I’m a little stouter.”

“It will not be safe for me to appear at the public table.”

“Well, you shall be an invalid, and I’ll send your meals from the table when I send mother’s. Miss Brown from St. Louis! Let me see. What shall be your first name?”

“Let it be Perdita.”

“Perdita? The lost one! Good. How quick you are! Perdita Brown! It does not sound badly. Mr. Onslow,—Miss Brown,—Miss Perdita Brown from St. Louis! Then you’ll courtesy, and look so demure! Won’t it be fun?”

Between grief and anger, Clara found disguise a terrible effort. So! Her fate so dark, so tragic, was to be Laura’s pastime, not the subject of her grave and tender consideration!

Already had some of the traits, congenital with slavery, begun to develop themselves in Clara. Strategy now seemed to her as justifiable under the circumstances as it would be in escaping from a murderer, a lunatic, or a wild beast. Was not every pro-slavery man or woman her deadly foe,—to be cheated, circumvented, robbed, nay, if need be, slain, in defence of her own inalienable right of liberty? The thought that Laura was such a foe made Clara look on her with precisely the same feelings that the exposed sentinel might have toward the lurking picket-shooter.

An expression so strange flitted over Clara’s face, that Laura asked: “What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”

Checking the exasperation surging in her heart, Clara affected frivolity. “O, I feel well enough,” she replied. “A little tired,—that’s all. What if this Mr. Onslow should fall in love with me?”

“O, but that would be too good!” exclaimed Laura. Between you and me, I owe him a spite. I’ve just heard he once said, speaking of me, ‘Handsome,—but no depth!’ Hang the fellow! I’d like to punish him. He’s proud as Lucifer. Wouldn’t it be a joke to let him fall in love with a poor little slave?”

“So, you don’t mean to fall in love with him yourself?”

“O no! He’s good-looking, but poor. Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I mean to set my cap for Mr. Vance.”

“Possible?”

“Yes, Perdita. He’s fine-looking, of the right age, very rich, and so altogether fascinating! Father learnt yesterday that he pays an enormous tax on real estate.”

“And is he the only string to your bow?”

“O no. But our best young men are in the army. Onslow is a captain. O, I mustn’t forget Charles Kenrick. Onslow is to bring him here. Kenrick’s father owns a whole brigade of slaves. Hark! Dear me! That was two o’clock. Will you have luncheon?”

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“Then I must leave you. I’ve an appointment with my dressmaker. In the lower drawers there you’ll find some of my last year’s dresses. I’ve outgrown them. Amuse yourself with choosing one for to-night. We shall have callers.”

Laura hurried off. Clara, terrified at the wrathfulness of her own emotions, walked the room for a while, then dropped upon her knees in prayer. She prayed to be delivered from her own wild passions and from the toils of her enemies.

With softened heart, she rose and went to the window.

There, on the opposite sidewalk, stood Esha! Crumpling up some paper, Clara threw it out so as to arrest her attention, then beckoned to her to come up. Stifling a cry of surprise, Esha crossed the street, and entered the hotel. The next minute she and Clara had embraced.

“But how did you happen to be there, Esha?”

“Bress de chile, I’ze been stahndin’ dar de last hour, but what for I knowed no more dan de stones. ’T warn’t till I seed de chile hersef it ’curred ter me what for I’d been stahndin’ dar.”

“What happened after I left home?”

“Dar war all sort ob a fuss dat ebber you see, darlin’. Fust de ole woman war all struck ob a heap, like. Den Massa Ratcliff, he come, and he swar like de Debble hisself. He cuss’d de ole woman and set her off cryin’, and den he swar at her all de more. Dar was a gen’ral break-down, darlin’. Massa Ratcliff he’b goin’ ter gib yer fortygraf ter all de policemen, an’ pay five hundred dollar ter dat one as’ll find yer. He sends us niggers all off—me an’ Tarquin an’ de rest—ter hunt yer up. He swar he’ll hab yer, if it takes all he’s wuth. He come agin ter-day an’ trow de ole woman inter de highstrikes. She say he’ll be come up wid, sure, an’ you’ll be come up wid, an’ eberybody else as doesn’t do like she wants ’em ter, am bound to be come up wid. Yah, yah, yah! Who’s afeard?”

“So the hounds are out in pursuit, are they?”

“Yes, darlin’. Look dar at dat man stahndin’ at de corner. He’m one ob ’em.”

“He’s not dressed like a policeman.”

“Bress yer heart, dese ’tektivs go dressed like de best gem’men about. Yer’d nebber suspek dey was doin’ de work ob hounds.”

“Well, Esha, I’m afraid to have you stay longer. I’m here with Miss Tremaine. She may be back any minute. I can’t trust her, and wouldn’t for the world have her see you here.”

“No more would I, darlin’! Nebber liked dat air gal. She’m all fur self. But good by, darlin’! It’s sich a comfort ter hab seed you! Good by!”

Esha slipped into the corridor and out of the hotel. Clara put on her bonnet, threw a thick veil over it, and hurried through St. Charles Street to a well-known cutlery store. “Show me some of your daggers,” said she; “one suitable as a present to a young soldier.”

The shopkeeper displayed several varieties. She selected one with a sheath, and almost took away the breath of the man of iron by paying for it in gold. Dropping her veil, she passed into the street. As she left the shop, she saw a man affecting to look at some patent pistols in the window. He was well dressed, and sported a small cane.

“Hound number one!” thought Clara to herself, and, having walked slowly away in one direction, she suddenly turned, retraced her steps, then took a narrow cross-street that debouched into one of the principal business avenues. The individual had followed her, swinging his cane, and looking in at the shop-windows. But Clara did not let him see he was an object of suspicion. She slackened her pace, and pretended to be looking for an article of muslin, for she would stop and examine the fabrics that hung at the doors.

Suddenly she saw Esha approaching. Moment of peril! Should the old black woman recognize and accost her, she was lost. On came the old slave, her eyes wide open and her thoughts intent on detecting detectives. Suddenly, to her consternation, she saw Clara stop before a “magasin” and take up some muslin on the shelf outside the window; and almost in the same glance, she saw the gentleman of the cane, watching both her and Clara out of the corners of his eyes. A sideway glance, quick as lightning from Clara, and delivered without moving her head, was enough to enlighten Esha. She passed on without a perceptible pause, and soon appeared to stumble, as if by accident, almost into the arms of the detective. He caught her by the shoulder, and said, “Don’t turn, but tell me if you noticed that woman there,—there by Delmar’s, with a green veil over her face?”

“Yes, massa, I seed a woman in a green veil.”

“Well, are you sure she mayn’t be the one?”

“Bress yer, massa, I owt to know de chile I’ze seed grow up from a bebby. Reckon I could tell her widout seem’ her face.”

“Go back and take a look at her. There! she steps into the shop.”

Glad of the opportunity of giving Clara a word of caution, Esha passed into Delmar’s. Beckoning Clara into an alcove, she said: “De veil, darlin’! De veil! Dat ole rat would nebber hab suspek noting if’t hahdn’t been fur de veil. His part ob de play am ter watch eb’ry woman in a veil.”

“I see my mistake, Esha. I’ve been buying a dagger. Look there!”

“De Lord save us!” said Esha, with a shudder, half of horror and half of sympathy. “Don’t be in de street oftener dan yer kin help, darlin’? Remember de fotygrafs. Dar! I mus go.”

Esha joined the detective. “Did you get a good sight of her?” he asked.

“Went right up an’ spoke ter her,” said Esha. “She’s jes as much dat gal as she’s Madame Beauregard.”

The detective, his vision of a $500 douceur melting into thin air, pensively walked off to try fortune on a new beat.

Clara, now that the danger was over, began to tremble. Hitherto she had not quailed. Leaving the shop, she took the nearest way to the hotel. For the last twenty-four hours agitation and excitement had prevented her taking food. Wretchedly faint, she stopped and took hold of an iron lamppost for support.

An officer in the Confederate uniform, seeing she was ill, said, “Mademoiselle, you need help. Allow me to escort you home.”

Dreading lest she should fall, through feebleness, into worse hands, Clara thanked him and took his proffered arm. “To the St. Charles, sir, if you please.”

“I myself stop at the St. Charles. Allow me to introduce myself: Robert Onslow, Captain in Company D, Wigman Regiment. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of assisting?”

“Miss Brown. I’m stopping a few days with my friend, Miss Tremaine.”

“Indeed! I was to call on her this evening. We may renew our acquaintance.”

“Perhaps.”

Clara suddenly put down her veil. Approaching slowly like a fate, rolled on the splendid barouche of Mr. Ratcliff. He sat with arms folded and was smoking a cigar. Clara fancied she saw arrogance, hate, disappointment, rage, all written in his countenance. Without moving his arms, he bowed carelessly to Onslow.

“That’s one of the prime managers of the secession movement.”

“So I should think,” said Clara; but Onslow detected nothing equivocal in the tone of the remark. Having escorted her to the door of Miss Tremaine’s parlor, he bowed his farewell, and Clara went in. Laura had not yet returned.